A Western Romance: Travis Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking the High Road series Book 5)

by Morris Fenris

  “Pray, do sit down again, Marshal,” urged Mrs. Waring, resuming her seat. “More tea?”

  “Uh—no. No, thanks.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer something else.” She had retreated back to the fuzziness of some other world. “Some nice cool lemonade. Or—well, I could ask cook to prepare coffee, if you like. Even—”

  “Mrs. Waring.” Travis had dragged his chair closer, so that their knees were almost touching as he leaned forward to ask with intensity, “Your daughters, ma’am? They around here somewheres?”

  “Well—um—upstairs, I believe. They weren’t interested in any legal doings, of course, so I—”

  “Mrs. Waring.” Damn, he disliked being so rude as to constantly interrupt the lady; his mama had taught his better manners than that. But time was short, and the lady seemed to be lost in a fog of her own making. “I need t’ speak t’ all three of you, together. I wonder if you could get the girls down here for me?”

  “Certainly.” The bell pull again, a uniformed retainer, a soft-voiced request. “But what will my daughters have to do with your—um—your sister-in-law’s—um—problem?”

  “My—oh. Nothin’ a’tall, Mrs. Waring.” Travis shrugged. “Just needin’ t’ palaver, private-like, without that ol’ coon dog hangin’ around, getting’ suspicious. So, with my apologies t’ Liz, I used her name.”

  “I see. Perfectly understandable. But, if you’ve been given the family background by someone as powerful as President Johnson, Marshal, you must be aware that the girls are my stepdaughters, born to my husband and his first wife.”

  That minor detail had been missing from his tête-à-tête White House conference. “No, ma’am, I wasn’t aware.”

  “I worked for the Warings as governess for quite some time, when the girls were much younger. Then, a year or so after Sylvia died of consumption, I married Henry. And now…now he, too, is gone…”

  “Ahuh. Life can be a mortal coil, all right.” To smooth over his apparent lack of sympathy, Travis moved on into a more personal vein, “And your stepdaughters—how old are they?”

  Martha smiled. “Eighteen, now, and twenty. Quite amiable, both of them. And such a comfort to me.”

  All of this certainly explained the age difference, a fact that had been niggling at the back of Travis’ logical brain. Just one more small detail requiring resolution. As was the obscurity that surrounded the lady herself. Although that, too, had actually been resolved by the Marshal’s simple proximity: Mrs. Waring was a closet drinker.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently, tucking away that information for further reference.

  “Without them, I don’t believe I—ah, here they come now.”

  And thus Travis, rising respectfully, was treated to his first glimpse of Rosamond Waring, first through the door and into the room. His gaze traveled up, from the fanciful black leather embroidered slip-ons to the flouncy skirt of dark green cotton to the cream-colored shirtwaist that, shockingly, bared collarbones and upper arms.

  From there he took in the tumbled mass of sorrel hair (exactly like the matched Belgians now probably cropping grass in the pasture, thought Travis dazedly, suddenly sympathetic toward the brother who had recently made a similar comment about his own future intended), a piquant face full of elfin good humor, and spectacles. Spectacles!

  All during his prolonged, captivated stare, the object of his attention was conversing and giggling with someone behind her.

  “Rosamond, dear, I have the honor to present to you U.S. Marshal Travis Yancey,” Martha Waring interrupted whatever was going on. “He’s come here by order of the president, to help us with—Rose, where is your snood? And, girls, what on earth have you been doing?”

  A younger girl emerged from the hallway to answer. Pretty, in the rather unformed sense of one needing to grow into her own style, she wore her shiny brown hair parted in the middle, to cascade into a wealth of ringlets. “We’ve been experimenting with the Singer machine, Mattie. Rose has cut apart some of her dresses, to see how they can be improved upon. Look!”

  Stepping forward, she spun around to proudly display her sister’s handiwork: a lightweight, gauzy concoction of café au lait, short sleeves, square bodice, splashy full skirt, and all.

  “Why, indeed, it’s lovely, Olivia, though not quite—”

  “Oh, Mattie, don’t you dare say this gown isn’t appropriate,” protested Rosamond, pushing spectacles back into place with one palm.

  The gesture seemed, noted the law officer thus far being ignored, as automatic as it was necessary. He found it childish. And endearing.

  “We need clothing that’s lightweight and comfortable. Why should we have to wear anything that requires another person to get us ready for each day? Why be so imprisoned by our garments when so much else awaits us out there in the world?”

  H’mmm. Travis thought he remembered hearing similar sentiments from his first sister-in-law, Cecelia. Or maybe it was Molly. Lord only knew. He had collected enough of the creatures by now—through none of his own efforts—that sometimes it was hard to tell who had said or done what.

  Smiling, shaking her head with rueful dismay—as if this were a typical debate in which she’d been involved many times in the past, and often lost—Martha motioned her stepdaughters forward. “Mind your manners, now, girls, please. Olivia Waring, this is a visitor to our home. Marshal Yancey, may I acquaint you with my headstrong stepdaughters, Rosamond and Olivia.”

  Olivia, the junior and slightly shy with strangers, offered a quick curtsey. But Rosamond, clearly more straightforward and sure of herself, reached out to shake the Marshal’s hand in a no-nonsense way. “Welcome to our fair shores, Mr. Lawman,” she drawled, with a half-smile. “I wasn’t aware that we needed anyone else to be picking over the bones of Father’s estate.”

  “Rose!” hissed Martha, aghast and displeased. “That really is enough. Sit down and join us. The Marshal has asked that we listen to what he has to say.”

  Olivia, shaking out her curls, plopped onto the upholstered settee with a rebellious mutter of, “Rosie’s right. I hope we’ve seen the last of that awful Mr. Hotchkiss.”

  “Marshal, I do apologize for the lack of decorum my stepdaughters have displayed,” said Martha, disapproval oozing from every pore. “It’s just that—well, since Henry passed on, things have been—difficult…”

  “Why, yes, ma’am,” Travis responded. “I reckon you’ve not had an easy time of it.”

  Truth to tell, Travis himself was not having such an easy time of it. Forcibly dragging his attention away from Rosamond Waring, who sat watching him with her head slightly tilted slightly to one side, like an inquisitive parakeet, and back to the widow again, proved difficult at best and annoying at worst.

  He didn’t want to start hashing over all the reasons he’d been sent here. He didn’t want to answer questions and provide reasons. No. He wanted to find out more about the elder Miss Waring, to discover every little foible or quirk of personality, to peer into the enticing eyes behind the spectacles—green, like his own, but more gemstone than moss.

  Jesus! What the hell is wrong with me? Travis gave himself a mental shake and a symbolic smack on the head. Take care of the job at hand, old chum, and save the flirtations for later.

  Leaning forward, with both forearms resting across his thighs, he recounted for the Warings his journey to Washington, his conference with President Johnson, and his subsequent return to the Arizona Territory.

  “And then to here,” he finished up.

  “Because you think Henry did not die a natural death,” said Martha quietly. “You think he was murdered.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sounds that way.”

  “And that the rest of us are at risk,” Rosamond added. She reached for her sister’s hand, as if for comfort, or support.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Travis repeated. The stillness of his position seemed to emphasize his intensity, as he met and held the gazes of the widow, then Olivia, and lastly Rosam
ond.

  Who shivered slightly. “We live here very—comfortably,” she told Travis. “But I never thought of Father being actually wealthy. It’s hard to believe that someone might want to kill all of us, just to get their hands on his fortune. And his land. And his business. It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Believe it, Miss Waring,” said Travis grimly. “That ain’t only possible; it’s probable.”

  With the threat of danger surrounding her and her two chicks, Martha was beginning to recover from her husband’s untimely loss. “And you and your family are here to—well, to prevent that happening and solve the crime?”

  “We are, ma’am. And now, if you have no more questions, I reckon I’d better be headin’ down t’ the overseer’s place, check in on everybody.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Rosamond volunteered abruptly. “Then I can report back to you, Mattie.”

  “Oh, but—well…” Giving up, because apparently trying to win any argument with the strong-minded Miss Waring was a lost cause, Martha flapped an idle hand. “All right. But don’t linger, dear. It’s almost dinner time, and I’m sure our guests would like to enjoy their own meal in privacy.”

  IV

  “Well, now, that Miss Rosamond is one interestin’ female,” mused Cochinay.

  Elizabeth, delighted to have full use of an actual kitchen again, after days on the trail, had taken charge of preparing supper with supplies from their own provender augmented by offerings from the Rancho’s storehouse. She was aided in her endeavors by her husband, whose willing hands wandered far too often in realms not approved for general observation. For the most part, he got away with it, until Travis, checking to find out why the meal had been so long delayed, kicked his single-minded brother outside and away from temptation.

  With supper finished and cleared away, the San Juan party had scattered. Like their being here was some goldarned holiday, thought Travis, disgruntled, with this time and this destination arranged expressly for their amusement.

  Not surprisingly, Thomas and his enthusiastic wife had gone for a walk, in early twilight, to explore the grounds. They’d taken a blanket with them. Given romance and privacy, Travis figured they might be back by dawn. Maybe.

  Both John the Pinkerton Man and conscientious Matthew had disappeared in the direction of the stables, wanting to see how the horses were set up. Especially Gus Drayton’s prized Belgians.

  Which left Cochinay, sprawled insouciantly across an oaken settee upholstered in blue check, to keep Travis company while he wrote a list of questions to be asked and suspects to be questioned, areas to be searched and searches to be made. Travis was a champion list-maker.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Huh?” Distracted, Travis turned from the table and his work. “Who?”

  “Miss Waring. The girl who walked over here with you, earlier t’day.”

  “Yeah, I guess she’s all right. She’s got a younger sister, Coch; you’d oughta wait and have a look at her b’fore you decide which is which.”

  “Well, now, I dunno. That girl that’s friends with Star—Raquel, ’member her from Tom’s wedding? Anyway, she was makin’ eyes at me all durin’ the I-do’s.”

  “Was she, now?” Travis sent his friend a slow, knowing smile. “Gonna do anything about it?”

  “I mighta.” A trifle crossly. “’Cept I got pulled away too fast from all the festivities, didn’t get much chance t’ follow up.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” hooted Travis. “Don’t give me any sob story. You were more’n ready t’ break free from routine. B’sides, look how happy she’ll be t’ have you back home again.”

  “That goes for all of us,” said John, entering the room, with Matthew right behind. “Missin’ my family somethin’ fierce, brother.”

  “You gentlemen got yourselves tied up nice and tight, didn’tcha?”

  Grinning, Matthew reached for the coffeepot and a cup. “Wait’ll it happens t’ you, Trav. Then we’ll see if you get your mind changed a’tall.”

  “Toldja b’fore, Matt, that big lightnin’ bolt ain’t gonna hit. I’m damn well insulated. So let’s lay out a plan of action for t’morrow, whaddya say?”

  Gathered around the kitchen table, drinking hot strong coffee and munching on leftover dried-apple pie from supper, the four men were ready to discuss the situation from facts and data collected today.

  “Nice house,” Cochinay commented, before they got down to business. “I like this whitewashed adobe, kinda reminds me of home.”

  “Laid out well, too.” This from John, who had some experience in that field. “Plentya bedrooms. Even got an indoor latrine. Can’t wait t’ sink into that tub later on t’night.”

  “You and me both, Pinkerton Man,” agreed Matthew. “Only it’ll be one at a time.”

  The chandelier of kerosene lamps overhead sent down a soft glow onto scrubbed wooden counter and a cast-iron cook stove whose fire lay prudently banked for the night. Windows stood open to the sights and sounds of a night-time Rancho Riata: muted male voices over by the barn, a horse’s whinny or a dog’s bark farther away, the pound of a hammer on nails for some necessary repair, the slosh of a gardener’s can pouring water onto potted flowers.

  “Pleasant,” murmured John, for whom the twilit evening harkened memories of the home he and Cecelia had built in San Francisco, far to the north. “They got a good place here.”

  “And a good family,” Travis reminded the group. “Y’ notice that Miss Waring came down here, special, just t’ make sure all of us were settled and had plentya blankets and the like, anything we might need. Gotta take care of these people, boys. Gotta make sure nothin’ happens to ’em.”

  “All right, then, son,” Matthew agreed. Ever the quiet, sturdy, elder statesman, he encouraged, “So what all didja find out?”

  Travis described his gut feelings toward the Waring attorney in no uncertain terms. “Oily,” he opined. “Prob’ly not fit t’ shoot at unless you wanna unload your gun.”

  Another helping of pie, with milk poured over, and Cochinay could ask, “You think he’s got somethin’ t’ do with all this?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me none. Here’s what I know for sure: Henry Waring was found flat-out dead in his bed, peaceful-lookin’ as could be. ’Cept his nose was broken, and there was a few little pieces of feather scattered across his face and chest. Like maybe from the pillow that mighta been used t’ suffocate him.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Mrs. Waring, poor woman. Musta been a horrific shock. She and her stepdaughters had gone visitin’ to one of the neighbors hereabouts, some engagement party or such, and they’d spent a few days there.”

  “Maybe she hired a killer t’ do him in while she was off gallivantin’,” suggested John. A cynical Pinkerton Man, he’d seen his share of betrayed husbands and jilted wives, with larceny and murder strung out in between.

  “Yeah—maybe.” At this point, Travis wasn’t about to rule out any theory. “But, if she wasn’t involved, we gotta make sure she ain’t next on the list t’ be removed. We also need t’ have a look at the will that Waring left, see who gets what from the estate.”

  Matthew shoved back to pour himself another cup of coffee. Standing, leaning against the counter with one long leg crossed over the other, he asked how many other suspects might be roaming about the place.

  “Well, we got the lawyer you already know about.” Travis began to count them off one by one. “Then there’s Henry Waring’s secretary, Reuben Harwood. Gotta meet him t’morrow, too, since he didn’t seem t’ be anywhere about t’day. Last, there’s a ranch manager I wanna consult with, a Bentley Lawton. Lives on the premises, in his own cottage on the other side of the house. And all of ’em hired t’ work for Mr. Waring in the last six months.”

  “Suspicious,” murmured John.

  “S’pose there’s any number of cowboys and hangers-on at this ranch, b’sides, that’ll have t’ be crossed off your lineup,” said Cochinay gloomily.
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  “S’pose you’re right. We just need t’ talk, friendly-like, boys. And get the people here t’ talk t’ us in return. I don’t’ haveta give pointers; you all know how it’s done.”

  Shifting, Matthew resumed his chair and tilted back. “Does Mrs. Waring know anything about her husband’s cattle business?”

  “She claims not.” Travis had pulled his Bowie knife from its sheath to carefully slice away at his stubby pencil, sharpening the graphite to a new point. “Not how many head he ran, nor whom he sold to, nor even the political party he kept sendin’ donations. I got a few words in sideways with her earlier t’day, when nobody was around, t’ find out as much as I could.”

  “Not much,” observed John.

  “No, sir. Not much. Except some cows missin’, and one of the water holes poisoned.”

  A frown deepened Matthew’s heavy brows. “Sounds like an outside job, little brother.”

  “Not homegrown, after all?” came Thomas’ voice from the doorway. He clumped inside, carrying a folded blanket, one arm corkscrewed tight around the slim waist of his wife. Who looked remarkably fetching, with hair tumbled loose, clothing disarranged, and cheeks flushed scarlet.

  “Hmmph.” His twin swept a peevish glance over the pair of lovers. “Figured you two t’ be gone till mawnin’.”

  Grinning, Cochinay unstraddled his chair to swing his lanky self across to his half-sister. “Found yourself a good spot for some spoonin’, didja, Lizzie?” he wanted to know. And reached out to pluck a sprig of grass from behind one ear, and another from the bodice of her shirtwaist.

  She slapped at him. “Oh, stop it, Thunder, you big baboon. We just went for a walk, that’s all.”

  “Ahuh.” He eyed her knowingly, dark eyes alight with teasing. “You never could get away with lyin’, oh, sister of mine. Someday I’ll let on what gives you up every time.”

  “Back off, Coch,” warned Thomas. Sparks were flaring and about to fly; best to nip this in the bud. “Darlin’,” he turned aside to murmur. “Whyncha go make use of that fancy bathtub for a while, and then you can sink your tired bones into that fine-lookin’ bed Miss Waring showed us?”