With a nod from Nick, they started off.
Leather shop was dark. They rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Deputy Clark. He reeked of whiskey, not that Francis was anyone to judge.
Clark pulled up and sneered. “What’re you boys doing out after dark?”
“On our way to the saloon,” Nick said. “Where you’ve come from, if I had to guess from your smell.”
Having been shot down by nearly everyone today, Nick was sporting a chip. Francis nudged his arm.
“Thought I told Guthrie I didn’t want you men out at night.” He glanced around, his jaw slack. “It’s long past sundown.”
“You didn’t say anything about sundown, Deputy,” Francis replied in a calm tone. “Just midnight. We plan to be tucked in tight by then. All we want is a quick beer.”
Clearly drunk, Clark drew his revolver. The barrel waved unsteadily between Francis and Nick. Angry, Francis glanced at Nick. They needed a plan to disarm Clark, and they needed it fast.
“Can we buy you a drink?” Nick quickly asked. “No need for you to be rushing back to the office, is there? A minute ago, we noticed Jack Jones at the desk. I’m sure he’s watching the prisoner with a sharp eye.”
“A drink?” The man’s demeanor changed completely. He blinked several times followed by a halfhearted shrug.
Francis smiled. “Have time?”
“Don’t see why not.”
From across the table, Francis and Nick sent a silent message with their gaze.
Deputy Clark was on his fourth whiskey.
Nick and Francis on their second. At this rate, they’d never complete their task tonight.
“Good one, boys,” Clark slurred. He pointed at their half-full glasses as he slumped in his chair. He wobbled precariously to one side.
“And what’s that fella’s name over there?” Nick asked, pointing at a drawing on the wall. “He looks important.”
When the man turned his head, Francis snuck his glass under the table, dumped the remainder on the floor, and covered it with his boot.
“You boys don’t know nothin’,” Hoss chortled happily, slapping a palm on the scarred tabletop. “You’re stupid. That’s Duffalo Dill Cody,” he slurred. “Any fool would recognize him…”
“I sure didn’t.” Francis made a show of draining the last bit of whiskey from his glass. They couldn’t go off and leave Hoss here in case he stumbled out later, catching them as they worked. He’d shoot to kill. They’d need to make sure he was on his way back to the jail before they attempted anything. “Nick, you about ready? Roady’ll be plenty mad we stayed out so long.”
Clark chuckled, his face scarlet from all the whiskey. “Tell him you was with me.” He picked up his half-full shot glass and looked at Nick’s.
“On the count of three?” Nick asked.
Clark nodded.
“One.” Nick lifted his glass. “Two…”
Clark swilled down his drink, but Nick tossed his over his shoulder, no one the wiser since they were in the back of the room.
Francis and Nick stood easily, but the deputy had to struggle to get to his feet. They linked his elbows with theirs.
“This is might nice of you boys,” he said, slobber leaking from the corner of his lips. “Frankly, I’m surprised.”
Outside and rounding the corner, Francis hitched his head to the undertaker’s, the nearest building to the saloon. The deputy stumbled between them, totally unaware of anything. The moment they set him down, he’d be asleep. After checking the street, they scooted around back where two open caskets sat on the back porch of the establishment.
“I sure hated wasting all that good whiskey,” Nick said as they shimmied the deputy’s large frame into the too-small pine box. “Should we nail him in?” He pointed to the hammer and nails on a workbench. “He’ll have a real scare when he wakes up.”
Francis pressed his lips together. “No. He’s so drunk he won’t remember how he got here. He’ll think he stumbled and fell in. I’ll bet we don’t hear a word about this.” He gave a low humorous whistle. “At least we don’t have to worry about him walking the streets tonight.” He hitched his head. “One last thing before we leave.” He went to the end of the coffin, where Clark’s feet rested on the rim and held up his boot to the deputy’s, measuring the size. “Look at that,” Francis exclaimed. “Small feet for such a large man.” He lowered his foot. “Let’s go.”
By the time they hit the alley, the deputy was snoring like a bear.
Across the street, a lantern hung from a tree branch outside the livery’s front doors, illuminating the area, and behind that, the abandoned house. “Let’s cut through, see if Pink Kelly’s anywhere around. If anyone were to discover us, the sharp-eyed liveryman would be the one. He watches me every time I go to check on the horses. Pretends he’s working, but I’m never out of his sight.”
“I’ve noticed that too,” Nick whispered back. “Let’s get this done. The longer we stay out, the longer someone is bound to back-shoot us and ask for forgiveness after the fact.”
Francis nodded, feeling twenty years older than his years. “My thoughts, exactly.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Tossing beneath her blanket, Blanche struggled to get comfortable. Nothing she did gave her rest. Her ribs ached mercilessly from the vicious beating she’d taken, and the bruise on her face, although almost completely faded now, was still tender to the touch. Feeling prickly heat on her leg, she reached down and scratched the hives tormenting her. Her skin felt alive. Her nerves shot. She was a mess—the reason only too evident. Did anyone else notice? Were they becoming suspicious?
Frustrated, she let out a disgruntled sigh. She hadn’t slept well since Benson’s last job. He’d wanted to cancel, rearrange the dates so he wouldn’t miss his sister’s wedding, but Blanche had thrown a fit. Work was scarce. The printer in the next town would contract with someone else to move his books, and Benson would lose the agreement completely. The freight business was dying, but Benson needed to milk each client for all they were worth before all his opportunities evaporated into thin air, leaving them paupers.
That wasn’t the first contract she’d pushed him into. There were the dry goods that needed shipping to a tiny village in the Rockies, the barrels packed with china to go up to Canada, and the seed he’d gone all the way to Cheyenne to pick up and take to Soda Springs. And other opportunities too. Her job had been to spur him on. To look for better-paying contracts. She regretted nothing.
A month after she’d been foolish enough to fall for Benson’s handsome smile and marry him, she’d been shocked to learn the pittance he earned each time he actually moved freight. The trips hardly made a profit. As a bachelor, he’d been financially stable in his two-room cabin, or so she’d thought. Everything had appeared so romantic, especially the secret encounters they’d shared in the quiet of his woodland home. As a wife-to-be, she couldn’t wait to turn her teaching position over to Ashley and be rid of those brats tugging on her skirt, asking unanswerable questions and sneezing in her face. But without her salary, they’d scrimped. Gone without. She’d hated poverty and pushed Benson into taking on more and more. Leaving for this last trip, which made him miss Pearl’s wedding, he’d been furious.
Her ambition didn’t make her a horrible person, did it? A wife needed a few nice things. Setting up a suitable home was important. As was presenting a proper picture for others to see. A dress now and then or a fine pair of Italian-made shoes wasn’t asking for the moon. Certainly each season necessitated a new hat. Was that asking so much?
Benson had complied, the best he could, until only a few coins were left from the payments he brought home. Staples became slim, and they relied more and more on his hunting and her baking. How she hated the gamey taste of venison.
Sitting up, she punched her pillow angrily and then settled on her other side, but her head was still tender from falling and striking the floor.
So what if I wasn’t the best wife
in the world? Nothing I can do about that now. I wasn’t the one who came home early. He only wanted to be at the wedding to give Pearl away. I wasn’t the one who panicked and hit him in the head with the fire iron. I’m not to blame. I shouldn’t dwell on what-ifs and whys.
Wide awake now, she had no other option than to get up. She’d not sleep tonight. She flipped back her covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Agitated, she needed a cigarette. That was the only thing that would calm her ragged nerves. If she didn’t make the effort, she’d lie awake all night.
Padding silently across the room, she opened her wardrobe with a shaky hand. She wondered how long Angelia and Ashley would allow her to live there. She’d like to stay forever. Never go back to that wretched cabin in the woods. That would suit her just fine. Angelia cooked meals, and Ashley kept the house nice. What more could she want?
Quivering, she lifted the folded shawl that hid her pouch of tobacco and small rolling papers and went back to her bed. She lit her candle. If she did stay here, she’d make clear she had no intention of hiding her habit any longer. No doubt they already knew. The smell of the smoke only too evident. And Ashley catching her at the window the other night.
Rolling the paper and twisting the end, she was just about to light it when a soft tap sounded on the window behind her. With a violent jerk, she stifled a frightened scream. Had a twig fallen against the glass? Or perhaps a squirrel, out at night, had dropped something from the tree. Her curtains were drawn, but with her lighted candle, if a person was outside, he or she saw her walk across the room.
She swallowed her fear. What should she do? Blow out her candle and cower under her covers? Was the hard-faced ranch foreman back to ask more questions? Or Jack Jones? No, the sheriff wouldn’t sneak up in the night and scare ten years off her life. Was Benson’s ghost so close? She was a believer. Had her loving husband come back to haunt her or to exact revenge?
The tapping sounded again. Louder. More persistent.
Blanche forced herself to lean over and cup the candle with one hand. With a ragged breath, she blew out the flame and then sat motionless in the dark room.
He’s here. Outside.
She’d locked her window every night, worried this might happen. Why would he chance this? If he was seen, they could never explain that away. But was he in a sane mind? Mildred was dead, she reminded herself with a foreboding shiver. Dead! How on earth had that happened? And why?
“Blanche.”
She’d know that deep-throated whisper in her sleep. The stupid fool! What did he want? How dare he put them in such jeopardy! Gooseflesh rose up on her arms. Her scalp prickled. She remembered his expression as he’d landed blow after blow, as if he’d been enjoying himself. She’d not go outside. She’d pretend she hadn’t heard, even if he kept knocking all night. He was deranged to come here.
He tapped again.
They didn’t need to talk. Their blatantly stupid story had worked so far, even if the circumstances were so far-fetched Jack Jones was the only one gullible enough to lock up a McCutcheon. She scoffed at herself. Why hadn’t she recognized McCutcheon? Even under whiskers and rumpled garments.
“Blanche,” he whispered in a raspy voice. “I saw the light. You don’t fool me. I’ve come to tell you to stay calm. If you think to go to the sheriff and blame me, you’ll end up like Mildred. That woman couldn’t stop asking questions. I’ll be watching you.”
Petrified, Blanche eased down to the mattress and rolled into a ball, praying he’d go away. After they hanged McCutcheon and everything calmed down, she’d have to sneak away. Go somewhere where he couldn’t find her. She’d not stay in Priest’s Crossing with him watching her every move. Maybe intending to kill off the only person that could have him hanged later down the road.
He was still out there. She could feel his presence. Her ears hurt from straining. Her heart beat against her sore ribs. The desire for the cigarette all but gone.
What should she do? She wished Ashley’s house was in town, where she could scream for help, but not out here in the sticks. If he got frustrated, this dark, lonely stretch at night could easily hide many sins. Many indeed.
Chapter Forty-Five
Ashley blinked and opened her eyes. What had disturbed her sleep? She held her breath, listening intently. She’d been dreaming about Francis and the kiss they’d shared. After a moment, her eyelids once again drooped. He’d surprised her, so bold in the daylight. The thought tickled her fancy. Her lighthearted peace was chased away by the weight of her responsibility. She must consider her mother, the orchard, and of course the school children too. She couldn’t be led astray by a handsome face.
Francis was an interesting mixture. A tease and a sharp-eyed protector of his boss. She admired his conviction. And his playfulness. He’d been nothing but straightforward with her.
What did her future hold?
There! Again. The noise. Was a mouse burrowing a hole somewhere in the house?
An uneasy feeling slid down her spine. She wished she hadn’t awakened. Wished she could go back to dreaming of things to come. And yet that didn’t sound like a mouse. Or her mother. Gathering all her courage, Ashley scooted to the wall side of her bed and very carefully lifted the corner of her curtains, looking as far down the back side of the house as she could manage.
Nothing. Her heart slowed, and she actually smiled at her runaway imagination.
Turning her head, she jerked back so sharply she bit her bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood slicking the inside of her mouth, the pain keeping her from crying out in surprise.
Somebody in the darkness of the orchard trees stood not five feet away at Blanche’s window. Ashley struggled to see. Identify the person. She couldn’t. As she lowered the fabric, moving slower than cold honey, she thought of Francis.
The man tapped again on the window glass.
She strained to hear.
“Blanche,” he whispered in a raspy voice. “I saw the light. You don’t fool me. I’ve come to tell you to stay calm. If you think to go to the sheriff and blame me, you’ll end up like Mildred. That woman couldn’t stop asking questions. I’ll be watching you.”
The murderer!
Francis was right! Fear froze Ashley’s limbs. Blanche and this unknown man had murdered Benson and intended to pin the crime on Luke McCutcheon. And poor Mildred! Ashley grabbed her sheet pulling it up to her chin. The monster had killed her too.
Something had to be done, but what? This might be the only chance to clear Francis’s boss. She had to see who the night visitor was. Moving as if in a dream, she slipped silently out of bed, went to her wardrobe, and swung a black cape over her nightdress, tying the cords under her chin. Finished, she pulled on socks and then her boots, the darkness making it difficult to get them laced.
Only two or three minutes had passed. If she could sneak out the kitchen door and then run down to the road and hide in the bushes, she could identify the man when he went back to town. She felt certain he wouldn’t break in. If that had been his intention, he would have done so already. Probably just wanted to threaten Blanche. As long as her mother stayed asleep, she’d be in no danger.
With her heart wedged in her throat, Ashley pushed quickly out the side kitchen door, pulled it tight behind her, and slipped away into the trees, all the while expecting a hand to reach out and grasp her shoulder.
Before exiting her room, she’d peeked out one more time, confirming his still immobile presence. Her heart thundered, and her hands shook so much she could barely hold together the edges of her cape. Once behind a thick buffalo berry bush, she stopped and listened. Had he come on foot or ridden a horse? All she had to do was get down the slight hill, cross the road, and then wait. But she needed to hurry.
A quarter moon hung in the sky, giving little light. She didn’t dare use the footpath that most everyone in Priest’s Crossing used. He’d most likely come that way himself. She needed to pick her way through the brush, staying low and keepin
g quiet. Almost to the bottom, she breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Now she’d just need to dart across the road and hide on the other side.
Crouching low, she edged closer to the road and was about to examine both ways in the dim moonlight when a twig snapped. She jerked back into cover. To be able to see his face, she’d need to be across the road so he came toward her and not just beside.
The man emerged from the hillside, doing as she’d done, staying off the well-known path. He was dressed in black and was on foot. He was tall with wide shoulders, just like most men in town. He had a cloak or something over his head. He paused, searched his surroundings, crossed the road, and disappeared on the far side, walking in the direction of town.
She’d been so close! She couldn’t let him get away. This was the answer they all were searching for. Once he was gone, if she stayed on the road and ran, at least for some of the way, she might beat him. Going overland, he’d have to move slowly in the dark.
Fear had her mouth dry as parched earth after a drought. She counted, huddling behind her bush. How much time had passed? So much rode on her efforts. She couldn’t worry about getting hurt. That poor family. Luke McCutcheon. She had to make her feet work.
Enough hiding. Seeing the man leave her property was a blessing. She didn’t have to worry over her sleeping mother’s safety. Descending the small rise to the road, Ashley gathered the length of her long nightgown and set off. She’d run this way before, when she’d been late for school or on an errand. The distance to town was only about a quarter mile. She wasn’t afraid of the night—just the killer she knew was out there.
“Strap on the gun belts,” Francis instructed Nick. The weight of the guns felt good on his hips. “We’ll divide up the rifles.” Each man had brought along his Remington as well as his sidearm and bullets. Two saddlebags were heavy with boxes of ammunition.
Montana Promise (McCutcheon Family Series Book 10) Page 20
