by Jan Watson
Cara’s blood quickened; she could feel her own heartbeat. Clear as day, she saw herself leaning over a shadow-box table, admiring a collection of Indian artifacts in Henry Thomas’s office. She turned to Big Boy. “I know who hurt Ace.”
CHAPTER 30
AFTER THEY CAME DOWN from the mountain, Cara was so excited she ran the two miles to her cabin, praying all the way that the thin length of leather was where she thought it was. She found it in the cupboard innocently curled in the bowl of a cup. She tucked the thong in her pocket and set the cup aside. She would never drink from it again.
A stitch in her side kept her from racing back. She prayed all the way to the Sheltons’. Please, Lord, let the sheriff believe me. I know I’m right. I know it.
A group of folks milled about in the Sheltons’ yard. Jay was in the middle showing off his eagle’s feather. Everyone looked Cara’s way, and she held out the piece of leather triumphantly. If her side didn’t hurt so badly she might have done a little dance.
“Yee haw!” Big Boy shouted. “Let’s go see the sheriff.”
“Hold up, folks,” Elder Foster said. “We need to make a clearheaded plan and not just rush off willy-nilly.”
Everyone quieted and looked at Elder Foster for guidance.
“First let’s get our evidence together.” He put the feather and the leather strip on the very chopping block that had turned the sheriff’s eyes toward Dance.
Dance placed Darcy’s postcard beside the other items. “This is proof of where he’s at.”
Cara’s exultant mood plummeted. The items looked so insignificant laid out that way. What had made her think an old feather and a worn string bore witness to a crime? Henry Thomas’s items probably still lay under glass in his office. Besides, it made no sense that Henry would take Darcy off to Chicago if he had just tried to kill Ace, and Darcy would surely discern that something was wrong. The sheriff would laugh in their faces.
“It’s worth a try,” Big Boy said. “If we go several strong, the law will have to listen.”
Elder Foster wrapped their paltry evidence in a clean white handkerchief. The card he handed back to Dance, who offered it to Cara.
“Do you want to go along?” Cara asked, sticking the card in her pocket.
“I ain’t leaving Ace,” Dance said. “I’ll be all right here with the young’uns.”
“We’ll stay with her,” Ace’s father said.
“I’m going.” Jay jumped into a buggy. “Ain’t nobody stopping me.”
It was late afternoon before Cara, Jay, Big Boy Randall, and Elder and Jean Foster gathered on the sidewalk in front of Henry Thomas’s office door.
The sheriff jimmied a heavy lock. “Have to do every little thing myself since my deputy broke his leg,” he muttered. The door was stuck. The sheriff applied his shoulder. “You folks wait out here. Henry could be in there dead for all we know.”
Not likely, Cara thought but kept her mouth shut. At least the sheriff had responded to her story about the string of leather she’d found the day Ace died and then stuck on a shelf, forgotten until the feather jogged her memory.
“That’s kind of fanciful thinking,” he’d said. “Why would Henry Thomas try to kill Ace Shelton?”
Cara wondered that herself, but the sheriff had come here to look. She had to give him credit for that.
They all rushed the door when they heard a long, low whistle.
The lid to the shadow-box table stood open, and the sheriff leaned over it, fiddling with something. “Well, lookee here.”
Cara ventured closer.
“See that?” The sheriff pointed at the tomahawk. “And right alongside the hatchet is a faint stain. Leather will bleed sometimes, you know.” He positioned the leather thong just so along the marking. “Looks like a match.”
The sheriff carefully placed the eagle’s feather on the handle of the hatchet. With his hands on his bent knees, the sheriff looked up at Cara. “Mighty suspicious. You just might have found the weapon used in the crime.”
Pushing off from his knees, he straightened and opened the door to the back room. They could see a big black safe standing with the door hanging open, empty. “I expect it will be a sight harder to find Henry Thomas.”
“He’s in Cincinnati, Ohio,” a man said. “I heard him say it not three weeks ago.”
“Say, that’s right,” another said.
Cara looked around. The office was full of folks who had slipped in quiet as mice through the open door, all ogling Henry’s empty safe.
“Hey,” the sheriff said, “you all get on out of here. Anybody talked to Henry meet me at the office.”
The folks were slow to move.
“Go on, get.” When the door was closed, the sheriff said, “Cincinnati’s a right big place. I’ll contact the law there.”
“He’s not in Cincinnati,” Cara replied with alarm. “He’s in Chicago, and he has Darcy with him.”
The sheriff looked at her like she’d sprouted two heads. “You’re a fount of information.”
“We’ve had mail,” she said, handing the postcard to the sheriff.
The sheriff flipped the card from front to back. He rubbed his chin with one hand. “This gal could be in considerable danger. I’d advise you folks to keep everything you’ve seen in this room under your hats for the time being.” Pointedly, he made eye contact with each one.
Cara pulled Jay close, and he tightened his grip on her hand.
“For pete’s sake, Sheriff,” Big Boy said, “half the town was gawking when you laid out that strip of leather.”
The sheriff fingered his badge. “I don’t much like a smart aleck, Mr. Randall. There’s a bunk in the jail that still remembers your hide.”
“I didn’t mean no disrespect,” Big Boy said. “I just want to help out is all.”
“What we need is a reason—a motive, so to speak,” the sheriff said, stepping behind Henry’s wide desk. “What would drive somebody like Henry to do such a thing? The answer could be right in here.” He tugged at the desk drawers. Each was locked.
“Want me to bust them open?” Big Boy asked.
With crossed arms, the sheriff stood back. “Go to it.”
Big Boy took a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. Sliding the blade behind the lock on the middle drawer, he made a swift motion. Soon—pop, pop, pop, pop—all the desk drawers stood open.
The sheriff extracted papers from a manila folder and spread them across the surface of Henry’s desk. He whistled. “Can I trust you folks?”
They all nodded as he turned the papers toward them.
“My word,” Elder Foster said. “Henry was planning to take over all the Whitts’ property. Here would be your motive, Sheriff.”
“Exactly,” the sheriff responded. “Let’s keep this to ourselves. I expect there will be a trial, and this will be strong evidence against one Henry Thomas.”
“But what about Darcy?” Cara asked.
“You’re right to be worried,” the sheriff said, finally sounding like he cared. “I’ll have to get ahold of somebody to deputize. Somebody smart enough to find Chicago.”
Big Boy stepped forward. “I’ll go.”
The sheriff stacked Henry’s papers and placed them back in the manila folder. He gave Big Boy a long, appraising look. “Come by the jail and get a badge. I’ll find someone else to go along. There might be trouble.”
“My son Dylan will go with Big Boy,” Elder Foster said. “He’s always wanted to be a lawman.”
Slapping the folder against his leg, the sheriff replied, “That’s settled then.”
Cara thought she was beyond surprise, but when she got to the Sheltons’ after the visit in the sheriff’s office, she found that was not so. A somber group was sitting over coffee around Dance’s kitchen table. The doctor was holding forth; everyone else was listening intently. She caught the screen door behind her and eased it shut. Ace’s father rose and indicated for her to take his seat. He leaned against the
wall as she sat down.
The gist of what the doctor said was that Ace was stable and that he could be moved. In reply to Mrs. Shelton’s pleading inquiry, he said there was no way of telling how much function Ace would get back. But—and this was an important but—he was pleased at how Ace was doing so far. Just that morning he had turned himself in bed and asked—feebly but he asked—for water.
When the doctor finished, he took his black bag and left. Cara wondered how long Ace would have lived if Dylan had not found that man and brought him over the mountain to care for Ace. The doctor had made the long trip several times since that dreadful day.
As soon as the door closed, Mrs. Shelton turned to Dance and asked, “Would you be willing to let us take him home for a while? We have more than enough room for all of you, and there is a hospital nearby.”
Cara was as sure that Dance would say no as she was that her eyes were gray. No way would anyone get Dance off this place. Cara wanted to tell her that they could take care of Ace right here. Instead she kept her place. Who was she to interfere? And Dance was free to go now that the sheriff knew the true culprit. Take her kids and flee this troublesome place.
Later she walked with Dance out by the clothesline as they folded the sheets and pillowcases and towels Mrs. Shelton had washed this morning. “What is in your heart to do, Dance?”
Her friend’s face was etched with worry lines. Cara bet she’d lost ten pounds since this all started. “I’m bone weary. My young’uns deserve better. Ace deserves better. And his parents are so kind.” Dance stood for the longest time, looking off into the distance, holding a folded dish towel against her chest. “I’m going. I reckon it’s time to put Ace first.” She reached out and grabbed Cara’s arm with one thin hand. “We won’t be gone long. Ace will be up to his old rascally self soon. I just know it.”
“What can I do to help?” Cara asked. “Do you want me to keep the children so you can focus on getting him well?”
“Maybe for a couple of weeks. Just the big ones, I couldn’t leave Pauline or Cleve. We’ll see. Jay might not want to go and Wilton won’t go if Jay don’t.”
“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” Cara said, sliding the clothespin bag along the line. “I can move over here and stay with the kids until you get back or take them to my house. Whatever you think best.”
“I’ll think on it.” Dance picked up the full clothes basket and carried it to the house.
Cara stayed under the line for a while. Everything seemed hopeless, beyond her ability to comprehend, until she looked toward the riot of color on the mountain. The fall day was quite beautiful if you stopped to notice. Please, Lord, she prayed, give me strength and show me what I must do to help.
A warm west wind stirred the trees, and a whisper of leaves danced through the air. Laughing, she pulled an errant leaf from her hair. Suddenly she realized what she had sought since Dimmert had been taken from her. She was not alone. She was never alone. God’s comfort and peace were hers for the asking.
“‘Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer,’” she said aloud, Scripture she had memorized just the night before. Memorized but not fully understood until this moment. She spread her arms toward the sky and danced in the shower of God’s blessing. Everything would be all right.
CHAPTER 31
THE GIRLS in Darcy’s lodging house were all atwitter. They flocked around the windows that looked out onto the wide porch as someone knocked at the door. There was some shoving and lots of giggling as they jockeyed for position.
“It’s a man come calling,” one said as the sound of the door knocker continued.
“And he’s got flowers,” another said. “Hope they’re for me.”
“Not likely,” the first said.
Mrs. Oldham crossed the room. “It’s simple enough to open the door and find out, girls.”
“Oh, my,” Darcy said when she finally got a peek. “It’s Henry.” She smoothed her hair and pressed her lips together. There was no need to pinch her cheeks; she could feel them blooming as pink as the rose bouquet Henry held.
Darcy nearly burst; she was that glad to see Henry on the other side of the door.
“I’ve come to see Miss Whitt,” he said, all formal.
“Please come in,” Mrs. Oldham replied.
“If it’s all the same, we’ll visit out here.”
“Of course.” She said in an aside to Darcy, “You know my policy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As if any of the girls could forget. The rules were printed and hung on each bedroom door: No visitors not approved by the house. No kissing. No touching. No lingering. No callers after dark. . . . Among many others. Mrs. Oldham read them aloud to each girl who boarded in her house.
Darcy felt light as air; she might just float away. Henry indicated a seat on the porch swing. She could feel his longing charge the air between them. It’s a wonder we don’t set the porch afire, she thought.
“I’ve sure missed you, Henry.”
“Darcy,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion, “I should never have brought you here.”
That was not what she expected to hear after her weeks of waiting. It most assuredly was not. “What do you mean?”
“Look,” he said, “is there someplace we can go? We need to talk privately.”
“I’ll just take these in,” she said of the roses, “and get my hat.”
Mrs. Oldham took the flowers. “You should take someone along,” she said in answer to Darcy’s request.
Bridgett followed out the door and down the walk. As soon as they were out of sight, she dropped several feet back, allowing privacy.
“There’s a park close by. We can talk there, Henry.”
He took Darcy’s hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. Her skin responded to his tender touch as if it had lain dormant until that moment. She never felt so alive.
“I do love you, Darcy Mae. Just remember that.”
“You’re scaring me a little,” she said.
The slatted-wood park bench where they chose to sit was painted dark green. A boy ran past chasing a hoop, and a man called out for his dog. Bridgett sat a few benches over. Her back was turned.
Henry leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees. He cleared his throat, took off his hat, and put it beside him. She watched his hair, dark as a crow’s wing, fall across his fine forehead. She longed to brush it back.
“I’ve done a terrible thing.”
“Don’t tell me yet,” she said. “Give me a minute.”
A minute—that was all it took to change the world.
“You said you love me, Henry.”
“I do, but that doesn’t amend what has happened.”
Darcy watched his face and saw it was true. Something was woefully wrong. One tear slipped down his cheek. She reached to wipe it off.
He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “If I had only listened to my heart,” he said with a groan. “You were all I needed all along.”
“Whatever has happened can surely be fixed,” she said. “I’ll stand by you.”
Henry swallowed hard. She could see the jut of his Adam’s apple working. “Listen before you make promises you can’t keep,” he said and then started the whole terrible story.
When the tomahawk met with Ace’s skull, she jumped up and ran to the fountain that sat in the middle of a brick-floored square bounded by the benches. Water splashed merrily over the rims of the three-tiered fountain and drowned out the sound of her sobs. He didn’t follow. She knew he wouldn’t try to stop her if she walked right out of the park. Her family was waiting at home probably worried to death about her. Henry sat disconsolate on the bench. The choice was hers. She sat back down but kept her distance. “Tell me the rest,” she said.
When Henry was finished, they were both crying.
“I have to go back,” he said. “They’ll send me to prison, and I deserve it.”
“How could you?�
� she said around a clot of tears. “How could you do such a thing?”
“I got so mad,” Henry said. “Please believe I went there with no intent to hurt Ace. It just happened—I don’t understand it myself.”
Despite herself she cupped his face and kissed him like a woman would kiss a man she’s sending to a place where she could not follow, with love and heartbreak and yearning all mixed up together.
“Don’t you hate me?” he asked.
Darcy felt she’d aged ten years between the time of leaving the lodging house and now. Sorrow washed over her. Poor Dance. Poor Ace—he had been good to her. How could she still feel love for the man who sat weeping beside her on the park bench? He had hurt her sister’s husband. Still, all she wanted to do was offer him the comfort of her arms. “I don’t hate you. I love you.”
“How could you after what I’ve done?”
“I don’t rightly know. But I can’t just turn my love off like I was turning down the wick on a kerosene lantern.” She dabbed at her nose with a delicately embroidered hankie. “We’ll go home and face the music together.”
“Oh no,” Henry said. “I’ll not take you down with me.”
“You don’t have a choice in that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m your wife, and if my suspicions stand correct, I’m carrying your child.”
He gasped and placed his hand on hers. “Oh, Darcy.”
She moved her hand away. “I’m not ready for your touch yet. I might touch you, but you aren’t to touch me.”
“A baby,” he said. “How could this have happened?”
“Surely you can figure that out,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry,” he said, twirling his hat in his hands. “I’d take it all back if I could.”
“Stop that. There’ll be no sorrow over this baby.” She spread her hand over her belly. “Think about it this way—at least I’ll have this much.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Henry Thomas, if you say that again, I’m going to pinch your head off. Sorry doesn’t count right now.”
