Teresa Bodwell

by Loving Miranda

  If someone had killed his brother, that same person might also want to be rid of him. The most likely suspects seemed to be Thad and Mercy Buchanan, but he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that there was someone else behind his brother’s death. Rita was convinced that Mercy was a victim of Arthur’s plot. A small doubt entered Ben’s mind. As he’d traveled across the country, Ben had considered the possibility that his brother had cheated him, that he’d never intended to repay his debt. The possibility that Arthur was dishonest was one thing. But accepting that he was a murderer? Ben shook his head. He did not know Arthur well, but he couldn’t believe his brother was a killer.

  What if Arthur and Mercy were both victims of another plot? It was a possibility Ben needed to rule out.

  He gripped his Colt with his right hand, slipping it out of the holster and letting it drop back in. He’d spent years in his youth training himself to shoot as well with his right hand as his left. He’d taken money from foolish gamblers on more than one occasion, challenging them to a game with pistols and targets and goading them into doubling the bet when he switched to his “bad hand.”

  Little did he suspect how important that skill would become to him one day. Now he could barely grip the gun with his left hand, let alone pull the trigger. Ready for anything, Ben walked into the small livery that was attached to Jock Meier’s blacksmith shop.

  “Morning, Mr. Lansing.” Young George Meier stifled a yawn as he greeted him.

  “Morning, George,” Ben said. “Have my horse ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy led a dappled gray gelding out of a stall. The animal looked as though an afternoon of grazing in the pasture might do him in. Ben wondered if he could carry a full-grown man any distance.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “We call him Lightning.”

  Ben studied the docile creature. Either the beast had been very different in his youth, or the name was intended to be ironic. He led the horse out into the pink light of dawn. The animal didn’t protest, but Ben doubted he could achieve a gallop. He thought about exchanging the horse for one with more spirit, but then remembered he was lucky to have any ride for the price he could afford to pay.

  He mounted Lightning and set off toward his brother’s ranch at a modest pace that would allow him to keep a sharp lookout for danger.

  The first rays of dawn reflected off the rugged peaks, creating a spectacular scene. Ben was impressed anew with the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains as they reached for the crystal-blue sky. The snow-covered crests shone like diamonds in the morning sun, sparkling above the purple granite and bright fall colors of the slopes below. The entire scene sent a shiver up Ben’s spine. Beauty and majesty such as this would be a real challenge to capture on canvas. The knowledge that he would be forced to leave that joy to another artist did not diminish the wonder of the view.

  The morning quiet was broken only by birdsong and some small critter, perhaps a squirrel, chirping excitedly up in one of the trees that forced themselves miraculously out of the rocks above the trail. As he rode away from town, Ben breathed deeply of the clean mountain air. An unaccustomed serenity settled over his shoulders as he rode up and away from town. He shook off the feeling, reminding himself that he must remain vigilant.

  He refused to be fooled into thinking there was real peace available to him here. This place, these mountains, contained no magical cures for his troubles. Just the opposite—this town embodied trouble. His brother had been killed here; his money had disappeared here as well. The loss of the money and his brother’s death could be an unfortunate coincidence, or they could point to a plot of theft and murder. To solve the mystery, Ben must keep a clear and objective mind. He mustn’t allow the beauty of his surroundings to lull him into complacency. That way was for fools—he knew better. No one alive would look out for his interests. That was entirely up to him.

  After thirty minutes of traveling at a steady pace, Ben spotted a group of men, about a hundred yards ahead, knotted together at the side of the trail. He transferred the reins to his left hand, letting his right hand drift close to his revolver. The men glanced up as he approached but paid little attention to him. It was either a very clumsy ambush, or a coincidence that they were gathered in this spot. He slowed the horse to a walk, waiting for some sign of the group’s intentions.

  When they made no move, he took the initiative, reining Lightning to a stop a few yards from the cluster of men. “Morning,” he said, searching the faces to see whether he recognized any of them.

  A stout man tossed his black hat at one of his colleagues and approached Ben. “Mornin’, Mr. Lansing.” The man walked with a slight limp, his hands hovering near the pair of revolvers that hung from his hips.

  Ben sat taller and gave the man a slight nod to acknowledge the greeting. He kept one eye on the stout fellow, while remaining on guard for any threatening move from the others. There was no point in pulling his revolver against a half-dozen armed men. On the other hand, if any of them pulled a gun, Ben’s only chance would be to see whether Lightning had it in him to live up to his name.

  “And you are?”

  The man favored him with a broad grin. “Name’s O’Reilly, Mr. Lansing. I’m an old friend of your brother’s.”

  “You’ll forgive my skepticism, Mr. O’Reilly, but my brother never mentioned you.” Nor could Ben imagine his brother would befriend an Irishman, unless the man happened to be wealthy. If O’Reilly had money, his clothing and appearance didn’t show it. Arthur was very conscious of class and social standing. Few sat lower on society’s ladder than the Irish.

  O’Reilly laughed. “Very good, Mr. Lansing. You’re a smart one, you are.” He crossed his hands over his large belly and continued laughing for so long that Ben wondered if the man had consumed whiskey for breakfast. “Sadly, I didn’t have a chance to know your brother well before he passed on. But some of my men here worked fer him. They told me the full story of how he was killed and his son cheated out of his rightful inheritance.”

  “What’s your interest in this, O’Reilly?”

  Impossibly, the man’s grin widened. “I hope you’ll be willin’ to pay for my services in setting things to rights. Besides, I have me own reasons for seeing justice is done to the bitch who killed him.”

  “Killed?” Ben’s stomach knotted at the thought of his brother being murdered. “I heard it was an accident.”

  “Come,” O’Reilly said. “Have some breakfast with us and hear the whole story. Decide fer yerself if it were accident, or murder.”

  Ben swallowed. That was exactly what he wanted to do. He nodded and waited for the men to mount their horses and lead the way up into the mountains.

  Even the bright sunshine did not diminish the chill in the air as they climbed up a steep trail that seemed to lead to oblivion. An excellent location if these men intended to kill him and leave his body for the wild animals to consume in the wilderness. Just as Ben was considering how best to escape, the trail widened and he caught sight of a bustling encampment.

  It didn’t take long for Ben to conclude the tent city was a mining settlement. He’d heard of such outposts springing up at the mere rumor of gold. Both sides of the muddy road were lined with canvas tents and lopsided wooden shacks, quick shelters erected with no thought for the future. The group brought the horses to a stop after passing through most of the makeshift village.

  Inside one of the larger tents, O’Reilly introduced Ben to several men who used to work for Arthur. All were dressed in filthy rags. It was hard to say which man was more desperate until he met a skinny little fellow named Jed, who barely looked up as O’Reilly spoke his name.

  “Mr. Lansing here”—O’Reilly raised his voice to get Jed’s attention—“is interested in finding evidence that Mercy Buchanan killed his brother.”

  That comment brought Jed to his feet. “Lansing?” He squinted up at Ben.

  “That’s right. Arthur Lansing was my brother.”

  “Well
, then.” Jed combed his fingers through his greasy hair. “Evidence you want, you come with me.”

  Jed led them outside, behind the row of tents and up a rutted path to a small graveyard.

  “That’s where we laid Luther to rest.” Jed pointed to a wooden marker that sat next to a large chunk of granite. There was no name on the marker, only a primitive cross cut into the wood.

  “Who’s Luther?” Ben was growing impatient. None of the men had said a word that would help him understand his brother’s death.

  Jed sniffled and wiped his shirtsleeve over his nose. “He was workin’ with me and O’Reilly to get the money rightfully belonging to Mr. Lansing, your brother, when Mercy shot him dead.”

  “Mercy Buchanan killed this man?”

  “Damned right, she did,” O’Reilly said. “Folks in Fort Victory say we was tryin’ to rob her. But that ain’t it. As Jed says, the money was rightfully Lansing money. All we was doin’ was tryin’ to make certain that cash made it to your brother.”

  Ben stared at O’Reilly. “I heard another story. That my brother tried to kill her—Mercy.”

  “That’s the rumor she started in town. It’s why none of us can show our faces there. They all believe the bitch.” O’Reilly punctuated his remark by spitting on the ground.

  “If you’re truly innocent, why don’t you go to the sheriff?”

  “The bitch is clever and she has friends in that town. Even the judge and the sheriff are friendly with her, if you take my meanin’.” He winked at Ben and shot him a disgusting grin.

  “Look at us, Mr. Lansing,” Jed said. “You think anyone’s gonna listen to our side of the story after she tells ’em we come after her and shot her and all?”

  “Who did shoot her?”

  “I admit I shot the bitch,” O’Reilly said. “Wouldn’t you, in self-defense? You seen what she done to Luther.” He pointed at the grave. “He died slow, too; it took three days. I ended up with a piece of lead in my leg from that cheat Thad Buchanan. He was with her, you see. We didn’t have a chance—with Luther dyin’ and me wounded. By the time we made it to Fort Victory, she had ’em convinced we were the thieves. We couldn’t even get near the town to talk to the sheriff, not with a price on our heads.” He glanced up, but didn’t hold Ben’s gaze. “Then after she gets your brother’s money and ranch, she marries Buchanan. I say the two of ’em were plottin’ together all along.”

  Ben turned away. A man buried in the ground wasn’t proof of anything. And he wasn’t inclined to take the word of this bunch without some real evidence; but he couldn’t just ignore these men, either. Their story was consistent with what his brother had written him.

  Arthur had mentioned an unreasonable neighbor standing in the way of expanding his ranch. Although the letters hadn’t mentioned a name, Ben had no doubt his brother was referring to Mercy. Too bad he hadn’t kept the letters so that he could see the precise words Arthur had used. Ben hadn’t really cared at the time. He’d skimmed the letters for news of when Arthur would repay the loan. Arthur always worded his letters carefully, bragging about how well his ranch was doing and all the money he would be making in the near future. He never mentioned a definite date. There was always one more investment opportunity that Arthur couldn’t miss. Ben considered the men gathered around O’Reilly. If his brother had hired this lot, he was a poor judge of character.

  “I thank you gentlemen for your candor, but I’m afraid it doesn’t help me.” He turned and headed down the hill, his head spinning with possibilities. With all these conflicting stories, he was never going to be able to prove anything.

  “I’ve an idea of how we can set things right, Mr. Lansing.” O’Reilly favored him with a wide grin as they reached the bottom of the hill. “The cattle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ll be roundin’ up the cattle next week. You mark my words—all the new calves will get the Bar Double C brand. Not a one will be left for that poor nephew of yours. They aim to take it all.”

  “You have a plan to prevent it?”

  “With your permission, the men and I will make certain that doesn’t happen. We’ll see the boy gets his fair share and the Buchanans don’t cheat him.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “These boys are the best cattlemen around these parts. You leave everything to us.”

  “Your plan sounds illegal.”

  O’Reilly grinned. “Certainly not. That cattle belongs to the boy, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re preventing an injustice then. That’s all we’re about. Setting things to rights again after those Buchanans have tried to steal from an innocent child.”

  Ben tried to look O’Reilly in the eye, but the man’s eyes never settled long enough. He always seemed to be planning an escape. Ben chose his words carefully. “You’re talking about stealing the cattle.”

  “’Tisn’t theft when it’s the boy’s property, now is it?”

  “I’ll go to the judge and seek an order—”

  “Based on what? The judge’ll believe Mercy as to how much of the cattle is hers and how much is Lansing cattle. She’s had the past year to mix them until no one will be able to tell.”

  “Weren’t the cattle branded?”

  “Not the calves. They’re the real value.”

  Without knowing the cattle business, Ben couldn’t be sure whether O’Reilly’s accusations made sense. “I’ll go to the Buchanans, they have been willing to talk—”

  “And you think it likely they’ll admit they’ve stolen the boy’s cattle.” O’Reilly laughed. “You’re a trusting soul, Mr. Lansing.”

  Ben glared at the man. His instinct was not to trust anyone—not the Buchanans, and certainly not O’Reilly. “What exactly do you propose, then?”

  “We find the herd and take out those with the Lansing brand and half of the unbranded calves.”

  “You’ll want a share of any cattle you salvage, naturally.”

  “Yes, I should think half—”

  “Half?” Ben nearly shouted it.

  “We’re taking all the risks. And if we don’t act, the boy will have nothing.”

  He clamped his teeth together and forced himself to appear calm. “I can’t agree to half.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Lansing. Same as your brother.” O’Reilly smirked. “The boy will have two head for every one we take. And we’ll be wantin’ some cash for our trouble.”

  “Cash?”

  “I assume you will want to remunerate us for lookin’ out for your nephew’s interest.”

  “One third of the cattle would be compensation enough for returning Jonathan’s own cattle to him.” Ben shook his head. “No, I’m not interested in recovering the cattle. What interests me is the question of whether or not the Buchanans have treated the boy fairly. I’ll pay fifty dollars for real proof that the Buchanans stole from him. And I want a promise that you won’t violate the law. No theft.”

  “Goes without sayin’, Mr. Lansing. We’re law-abiding men.” O’Reilly shoved a cigar between his teeth. “You count on us, sir.” He pulled the cigar out and showed his crooked teeth again. “We’ll get you your evidence.”

  Ben nodded and shook hands with O’Reilly. He had a peculiar sensation deep in his gut that he’d made a pact with the devil, but it was getting very difficult to tell who was right and who was wrong in this matter. All he wanted was to get to the root of it, sort it all out and find his money. If there was any money left to find.

  He reminded himself that his money was the most important thing. Without cash he wouldn’t be able to move on to the new life he had planned far away from a certain pair of blue eyes—sweet innocence attached to temptation. He had to get out of Colorado Territory and soon. If that meant taking the boy with him, so be it.

  He’d take Jonathan to Boston. Surely one of his married brothers would take responsibility for their nephew. They weren’t entirely heartless. The image of Jonathan looking
up at Mercy gave Ben a slight twinge of doubt, but he couldn’t rely on the judgment of a six-year-old boy. Children became attached to any adult who looked after them. His own childhood was proof enough of that. Ben had adored his father, even though his father had always treated him like a bad investment—the son who was destined to be a failure. Ironically, his father’s prediction had come true.

  Ben would make his own determination of what was best for his nephew, then he could get on with his life. Greece, the Caribbean or perhaps the Sandwich Islands. Somewhere warm, tropical, and far away.

  He mounted Lightning, wondering briefly whether the animal could run downhill, but then thought better of trying. He allowed the horse to meander down the mountain while Ben sorted through the alleged plots of theft and murder. Mercy Buchanan did not seem capable of murder. She’d been far too gentle with Jonathan. Miranda had said her sister had raised her. Ben could believe that, seeing the natural way she had with his nephew. It seemed unlikely that such a woman would plot to kill an innocent man, not even for the substantial fortune that Arthur had. Her husband might well be the real culprit.

  He decided to turn toward the Lansing ranch. It was time he looked at the rubble himself, to see whether there was anything left that could point to what had happened the day of the fire. There was little chance that anything remained there after a year, but he needed to see for himself.

  He glanced back over his shoulder at the mining camp. He’d forgotten to ask the men gathered there whether any of them had been present the day of the fire. If not, where had all the hired hands been? Now he knew where to find them, he’d be back. There were many questions he needed answered. They might be more likely to talk if he could get them away from O’Reilly. Today, he’d look around his brother’s property before he headed over to the Bar Double C ranch to check on his nephew.

  It was his nephew that drew him, not Miranda. Damn! It was a sad thing when a man lied to himself. And worse when he couldn’t succeed.