A flash of royal blue ahead that showed starkly through the sycamore and alder, another flash of white bright as a beacon. The rustle of leaves, a soft irritated whinny, the snap of a broken branch underfoot, a feminine murmur to shush.
“Miss Waring.”
He heard a gasp.
“Miss Waring, it’s me, Marshal Yancey. And a coupla my brothers. We’re comin’ closer, so if you got a weapon drawn, I’d take it mighty kindly if you didn’t fire a bullet int’ me.”
“Shush,” she ordered, in a low but carrying voice.
“Whaddya mean, tellin’ me to shush?” demanded Travis, outraged. He had ridden near enough now to catch a glimpse of her, through the trees and shrubbery. “We’re here to rescue you.”
“Rescue me? I don’t need to be rescued, for heaven’s sake. I’m on a mission.”
“Yes, ma’am.” That was Thomas approaching, with Cochinay only a short distance behind. “So we understood from your maw. And your sister.”
With a groan of surrender, Rosamond urged her gray Andalusian forward to join the San Juan group. “I should have known. Livvie squealed, didn’t she?”
“She got worried. So she told Mrs. Waring what you were up to, and Mrs. Waring told us, and we hightailed it on out here t’ find you.”
Displeasure shadowed her sunlit features. “And this is the house that Jack built.”
“Huh?”
“Mother Goose, you addlepate. Who were you after, darlin’?” asked Thomas, lazily leaning forward to rest one forearm upon the saddle horn as if they had all the time in the world to discuss any number of subjects.
“The same men I suspect you’re after, Marshal.” The tart tone of her voice matched the still indignant expression on her face. Even as one hand automatically lifted to shove slipping spectacles back into place atop a pert little nose.
Damn. Travis was entranced, and showed it. What was there about this—
“Travis. Trav. Hey, son, you still here on this earth, or ’ve you gone flittin’ off amongst the planets somewhere?”
He jerked himself back to the moment. “Yeah. Men. After. Uh—you’re talkin’ Harwood and Lawton, I’m assumin’?”
Her gemstone-green gaze, curious and slightly kerflummoxed, shot from each to the other of three mounted men, only to return to the one causing most damage to her innards. Just heartbeat and blood pulse and lung force—minor, insignificant parts that didn’t matter so much. Unless it involved being able to live and breathe.
“Miss Waring?” It was Thomas, grinning like a banshee for some reason.
“Oh. Uh. Yes. Yes, Harwood, my father’s secretary, and Lawton, my father’s ranch manager.”
“Those men,” Cochinay was able to interject. “They’re far enough ahead, Miss Waring, wherever they’re goin’, that we can talk free and easy, without worryin’ they’ll hear.”
The beautiful Andalusian stamped and snorted, shaking his head and swishing his silvery tail at a persistent swarm of flying insects. Calming him with a few neck pats, Rosamond took a deep breath and straightened. “Of course. Thanks to you, my quarry has gotten away, anyway. So, by all means, let’s discuss it.”
“Now, wait just a minute, Missy, we had—”
“Trav.” A few neck pats from his brother might have calmed Travis’ volatile temper, as well. “Some bit o’ restraint, if you please. Miss Waring—”
“—Rose.”
“—Rose,” with a smile and a nod toward the girl, “was just tryin’ to explain. Now, suppose you cool down that temper and let’s listen t’ what she has t’ tell us.”
Her horse stamped again, prompting Rosamond to urge him away from the bug-shrubbed atmosphere and into the open, dappled by sunlight down through a grove of cottonwood and buckeye leaves.
“That’s one sightly animal,” approved Travis, running a survey from head to tail and back again. Which included the girl in the middle, with her shapely legs stuffed into knee-high boots, a split riding skirt in royal blue going above and beyond, and a shirtwaist of her own making, short-sleeved, deep-cut, and filmy. “An Andalusian, yes?”
The green eyes behind the spectacles brightened with appreciation. “He is. A Pure Spanish Horse. This is Rajah, Marshal Yancey. And he’s as sweet-tempered as he is elegant.”
“Travis, Miss—Rose. My name is Travis.”
Whistling soundlessly, Thomas leaned back in the saddle and swung one leg up to hook over the horn, relaxed and biding his time. Eventually this conversation would run out of steam, and then maybe they could get back to more important topics. Such as solving this case before the miscreants got clean away.
“Hate t’ interrupt,” murmured Cochinay, who was beginning to feel like a chunk of deadwood in a furniture factory where these two were concerned.
Slow deliberate glances, with heat building until the steam was just about visible; an occasional provocative shift of position with certain parts shown to better advantage; the push back of fingers through hair or the brush of fingers over fabric with an effect of plumage being preened.
Thomas was losing patience. Loudly clearing his throat, he said, “Trav? A minute here?”
“Huh? Oh. Sure.”
“Rose, can you please tell us what you know about the secretary and manager? Just on the wildest off-chance we might run into ’em.”
“I eavesdrop,” she announced frankly and simply. Her immediate response meant pulling herself back from the edge of the precipice, which came almost as relief. “I didn’t believe that Father died of natural causes, as Mr. Hotchkiss claimed. I didn’t believe that his heart was weak. And his health certainly wasn’t poor. None of the excuses sounded logical. Nor did I believe I could fully trust anyone who just started working at the Riata a few months ago.”
Thomas was nodding. “Got a good head on your shoulders. And?”
“Too many doubts to merely let things go. So I’ve been listening outside closed doors. I’ve paid attention to what was being said—or not said. I’ve watched how people behave, the movement of their hands, the expression in their eyes.”
“But, Miss—Rose—” Travis was leaning forward, aghast. “You coulda got yourself in real trouble. All they had t’ do was suspect that you suspected, and—”
Rose giggled. She reached up to twiddle a low-hanging curl. She dipped her chin and fluttered her lashes. She tilted one shoulder, then the other, then shimmied like a flamenco dancer.
Travis’ square jaw dropped. Thomas chuckled. Cochinay let out a war whoop.
Finished, she straightened and whisked both palms together as if to clear away dreck. “And that’s how I’ve alleviated suspicions.”
“Damn me,” said Thomas, with an admiring gleam in his eyes. “Sure in hell glad you’re on our side, lady.”
“So, with all this sneakin’ around, didja find out anything worthwhile?” Literal Cochinay was feeling like a fisherman: hook the prize, reel it in, play it out, reel it in…
A frown of puzzlement, mixed with bafflement. “I found out there’s a lot of guilt there somewhere, involving Richard Hotchkiss, Reuben Harwood, and Bentley Lawton. There was talk of money—lots of money—and taking over the Riata, and references now and then to someone named Chief.” Her great green long-lashed eyes, behind the spectacles, moved from one man to the other, seeking validation.
Silence for the moment, while a rising breeze plucked at the tree tops and riffled the prairie grass, and the distant splash at some forested pond brought some waterfowl winging home. Her audience exchanged compelling glances.
“That seems like some important information, all right,” began Thomas. “Especially if—”
“And then I followed them.”
“Beg pardon? What happened that—”
“Both of them were meeting in Father’s study last night,” Rosamond eagerly explained. “Mattie had gone to bed early, because—well, she’d had…I mean, the shock and all…”
“The drinkin’.” No prevaricating; Travis blurted out wha
t he had noticed, to help the girl along. But he did reach across to lay a warm calloused hand upon her bare forearm in sympathy and support. Only to suddenly jerk and pull back, as if zapped by an electric charge.
Another sigh from Cochinay, and another cast and reel of the fishing rod. “So you went t’ check on ’em,” he surmised with patient good humor.
“Uh.” She was still staring down where Thomas’ fingers had rested, as if expecting to see scorch marks on her flesh. Then, with an apparent mental shake—the ploy he, too, often used—she returned to the here and now to respond. “Check. Yes. Yes, I did. They were making plans to leave, early this morning, to get away before the—uh—well, something hit the fan…” Rosamond blushed. The faint color washed up from her delectable cleavage over her collarbones and into her cheeks.
“Ahuh. And then?”
“Well, I slipped upstairs and got my things together, told Livvie what I planned on doing—”
“And she tried t’ stop you,” guessed Travis.
“Stop me?” The girl’s eyes rounded. “Of course not. She was wishing she could come along, too. But I told her one of us needed to stay home, in case the other of us—well, me…got—um—in some trouble, and needed help.”
“Which you by God did,” Travis reminded her grimly. “And what a damn fool thing you—”
“Trav,” said his brother. “Put it on ice till later, son. Right at the moment, we got work t’ do. So, Rose.” He returned his attention to the tale being told, and its daring, gallant teller. “You watched these two leave, and then you got your own hawse saddled and you followed ’em. And they never caught on?”
“Those two?” Scorn edged into her sharp voice. “They are, veritably, babes in the wood. Reuben is afraid of his own shadow; he about jumped out of his skin every time a bird cawed. As for Bentley—ranch manager, ha! You’d think being out on the range all day would have gotten him used to travel through unfamiliar territory. But no such thing. Instead of looking after cattle and his supposed responsibilities, I think he’s been spending all his time at Zuma Ridge’s saloon.”
“Or the sheriff’s office,” murmured Chochinay.
Travis pulled off his hat to thrust impetuous fingers through his hair, always the habit when under stress. “Then why, Rose, didjure paw hire the two of ’em?”
Rosamond barely gave him a glance. Self-defense, perhaps. But a shrug of both shoulders gave him far more: the glimpse of what lay under that clingy white fabric which served to outline so many fascinating possibilities. Distracted, the Marshal once again went spinning off into fantasy.
“Oh, well, as to that—Mr. Hotchkiss provided them with glowing references. And Father immediately took them on—just temporarily, he informed me later, until he could see how things worked out. And since our former manager and secretary had unexpectedly left, without even giving notice—well…”
Clearly helped out the door by whoever was running this operation, to eliminate rivals by intimidation or by foul play, and put his own men in place.
Another exchange of looks. The Marshals and their guide had worked together as a team long enough that seldom were words needed when silent communication could work so well instead.
Travis gathered up his reins. “All right. Let’s all get back to the Riata, check in with the rest of the family and let your maw know you’ve been brought back, without a mark. Then we can see what’s next on the list.”
As the cavalcade began making its way homeward, through the fresh scent of pine and the dry scent of dust and dead leaves underfoot, briefly the brothers rode side by side, with Rosamond trailing behind and Cochinay safely guarding the rear flank.
That was when Thomas sent his twin an impish, teasing flash, more leer than look, to murmur,
“So, Trav. Seen any good lightnin’ bolts out here t’day?”
VI
Upon returning to the Riata, the rest of the Yancey family was found at their headquarters in the overseer’s comfortable adobe house. But not lounging at their leisure, as might be expected in late afternoon close to supper time.
“Welcome back, boys,” John greeted them, when the search party, towing along the object of their search—who had already reported in to her much relieved stepmother—clattered inside. “See you had some success.”
From halfway across the room, Travis removed his hat and sailed it directly onto a wooden rack behind the door. Showing off, his twin observed with a sideways grin, for the girl whose eyes widened in admiration.
“Yeah, we caught us a live one, all right,” said Cochinay smugly. He found the rocker already chosen as his own favorite and plopped down with a sigh. “Lizzie Beth, you got any nice hot coffee around for a tired ol’ soldier?”
“We caught us a live one, too,” Matthew grinned. “And not as docile as yours.”
His step aside revealed the live one: a young cowboy, pressed onto a wooden kitchen chair and fastened tight in place by a pair of well-worn handcuffs.
“Marty!” gasped Rosamond in shock. Twisting, she appealed to the Pinkerton Man for an explanation. “Martin Elliott works here. Why have you—what have you—and he’s been hurt!” she accused, twisting back for another incredulous glimpse of the battered face and torn shirt.
“Well, now.” Unmoved, John was flexing his right fist, whose bruised and bleeding knuckle contours might have matched the marks left behind on their captive. “Not bad, Miss Waring. We were just wantin’ t’ have us a little conference, man t’ man, and there seemed to be some problems with communication.”
“But we got everything cleared up,” put in Matthew calmly, “once we’d reached an understandin’ ’bout a few things.”
“Yes, indeed. As to whether he would cooperate and save his own neck,” was Elizabeth’s cool contribution, “or continue to stay closemouthed and go to jail with the rest of his gang.”
“Soooo…after a little persuasion…he ratted out his buddies,” John finished up. “Who’da figured?”
“I didn’t rat out nobody!” protested their prisoner, vehemently. “You make sure you tell ’em, when you find ’em, I didn’t rat out nobody. Ain’t about to be murdered in my bed, nosirree!”
A kick at the chair leg from Matthew’s big boot sent it rocking and Elliott’s head lolling. “Shut up,” he said affably. “And don’t speak again ’less you’re asked a question. Got it, you polecat?”
One quick nod, then silence. Feeling his injuries and mulling over his fate, no doubt.
With all parties concerned having said their piece, so that all new parties could swallow and digest the information, Elizabeth swept on in aid of her brother-in-law. At the sink, she worked its pump handle for a gush of cool water onto a cloth, wrung out the excess, and proceeded to wrap its comforting folds around John’s wounded hand.
“Ah. Thanks, Lizzie.”
“The rest of you, coffee pot’s brewing on the stove if you want some. Help yourselves,” she directed. Then, in an aside, “Rose, are you all right? Did you have any problems or run into any trouble?”
“No. No, I’m fine, really.” Distressed as she was, the fine eyes behind the spectacles had glazed over with a suspicious moisture. “Then you think my father—my father really was—murdered—? And that Martin was somehow involved with those who did it—?”
If ever a moment called for support, it was this one. Travis moved in before anyone else could offer. Near enough, his fingers sought hers behind a fold of her skirt and twined gently together. “Looks that way, Rose. But I reckon we all need t’ take a breath, sit down, and hear what’s been happenin’ this afternoon.”
At mid-foreday, the trio remaining had dutifully followed orders from their commander. Elizabeth betook herself off to the Victorian, where, with the blessing of Henry Waring’s widow, she proceeded to sort through, arrange, and make sense of the paperwork left behind by his passing. He was not given to tidiness, she discovered, nor to organization. Desk drawers were crammed full of invoices, paid and unpaid; file box
es overflowed with folders; and a cavernous steel safe held the spillover of ledgers and checkbooks.
However, Elizabeth was past master at such a task. Almost since her age of reason, she had taken charge of business affairs for her father, who loathed setting pencil to parchment and happily relinquished the responsibility.
“And didja find anything important?” Travis wanted to know. Deliberately choosing to perch on a stool across the room from Rosamond’s chair by the window, he could glance over occasionally to see the late afternoon sunlight gilding her crown of unruly, unbound hair. “Any notes, or such?”
“It took a good deal of time, but I managed to classify and correlate a lot of it.”
“Then you managed to do more than I ever could,” said Rosamond with patent admiration. “Father would never let any of us know the inner workings of that office, and, after he d-d-d-died…” She paused, gathered resolve, carried on, “…none of us felt up to—well, to invading his sanctuary. We thought that Reuben was taking care of whatever was necessary.”
“Obviously not,” returned Elizabeth crisply. “Quite a mess, I’m afraid.”
“Well, so…find out anything interestin’?”
“Some check stubs that seemed—well, curious, to say the least. You can have a look at them later, and give me your opinion.”
While she was busy fighting her way through the jumble, John and Matthew had taken a stroll around the perimeter of the ranch. Just sightseeing. Just observing. Just chatting with this wrangler or that. Eventually little bits of information had led them to one Martin Elliott, recently hired compadre of Bentley Lawton.
“That pissant sheriff,” muttered Travis.
Matthew looked his question.
“Visited Zuma Ridge earlier,” explained Thomas.
Comfortably settled beside his wife, he was fondling and nuzzling as if he’d been gone for weeks or months instead of mere hours. And darned if Elizabeth wasn’t responding the same way, noticed Travis sourly. They couldn’t keep their fool hands off each other. From here, in the front parlor, it was but a few short steps to the bedroom. He figured that was next. And probably casting off bits of clothing along the way.
A Western Romance: Travis Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking the High Road series Book 5) Page 6
