“That’s easy,” he said. “You’d be married with a passel of kids tugging on your apron strings.”
The picture he drew in her mind was no different from what she had once envisioned for herself. She had been so certain that was God’s plan for her, especially after falling in love with Nathan, but that turned out not to be true.
“I like my job,” she said, “but since the train has reached most major towns, it’s getting harder.”
“Harder how?”
“Outlaws know we can move around quicker, and they’re getting better at hiding their tracks.”
He shifted his weight and crossed his ankles. “I guess we just have to get better at what we do.”
She sighed. Given the rudimentary tools of her trade, it appeared at times that criminals had the upper hand. “What if we don’t find the killer?” It was the first time she expressed that worry out loud.
He covered her hand with his own, and a slow but steady warmth inched up her arm. “If he’s still in town, we’ll find him,” he said.
His confidence stoked her own. “I just hope we do it before he kills again.”
“We will,” he whispered with a squeeze of her hand. “We will.”
That did a lot for her peace of mind but nothing for her heavy eyelids. She stifled a yawn.
“Hope it’s not the company,” he said in a low, soothing voice.
Yes, it was the company. For oddly, she felt safe and secure with him, like a baby in a cradle. Never had she felt like that with anyone. Not even Nathan.
He released her hand and drew her close, his embrace warm and inviting. The battle to stay awake was lost the moment her head landed on his strong, broad shoulder.
Chapter 23
Branch reached the cemetery early that morning and reined in his horse. “Whoa, boy.”
A slight breeze blew across the prairie, and fluffy white clouds played hide-and-seek with a dazzlingly bright sun. He dismounted and tethered his horse to the weathered fence.
Recent talk about Andy’s birthday brought him here today. At least that’s what he wanted to believe. He didn’t want to think that spending the night with Katie—holding her in his arms while she slept—had anything to do with his sudden urge to visit his wife’s grave.
Reaching Hannah’s burial place, he dropped down on one knee and laid a single rose against the headstone. A white rose… her favorite.
Eight years she’d been gone. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday. Today, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
In years past, he had only to kneel by Hannah’s grave for a vision of her to come to mind. Lately, though, the vision had grown dimmer.
Today, another image took her place, an image of pretty red hair, deep, expressive eyes, and a freckled, pert nose.
He shook his head in dismay. It wasn’t right to stand at the grave of his wife while thinking of another woman. Not right at all. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. Nor could he help recalling the feel of Katie’s head on his shoulder. Or forget her sweet, delicate fragrance—a cross between lilacs and freshly mowed grass—and both tantalized his senses like springtime.
He rubbed his forehead. He was tired, and his body ached from sitting on the ground all night. The Harvey cook hadn’t arrived at the house to bake the bread for breakfast until after 5:00 a.m.
The poor man practically had heart failure when Branch approached him in the wee hours of the morn.
After Katie was safely inside, he’d ridden the short distance home but was only able to get three hours of shut-eye before his son woke him and the smell of freshly brewed coffee coaxed him out of bed.
No wonder he wasn’t thinking straight. In his youth he could stay up all night and still put in a good day’s work, but those days were long gone.
A rabbit hopped past, bringing him out of his reverie. With a guilty start, he forced himself to focus on his wife’s headstone.
Our boy’s doing good, Hannah. Real good. Such a handsome fella and smart as a whip. You’d be right proud of him.
He remained on his knee for several minutes before pushing to his feet. Hannah no longer felt close. Worse, he couldn’t bring her face to mind. The loss of a loved one was never about one death, but many.
Today, he had yet another loss to mourn.
He turned to leave, but something made him stop. Though it was still early, he wasn’t the only one visiting the cemetery that day. Normally, he wouldn’t have paid any heed to the stranger. Today he paid close attention to the man who stood in front of the grave of Andy’s real mother.
Normally, he wouldn’t think of disturbing another mourner. People came here to grieve, not socialize, but he was tempted to ask the man what he was doing there. Why so much interest in the grave of a woman who died nearly eight years ago?
Still curious about the stranger, he peered across the grave-studded grass from beneath the lowered brim of his hat. Minutes passed. The man remained in front of Dorothy Clayborn’s grave site, so this was no passing interest.
But who?
The stranger finally donned his hat and stepped back. After a moment he walked away.
“Excuse me, sir!”
The man turned and waited for Branch to catch up to him, an inquisitive expression on his face. He had a full-grown beard that made him look older from a distance than he actually was. In reality, he was probably closer to Branch’s thirty-three years.
He looked vaguely familiar, mostly around the eyes, but Branch couldn’t think where they might have met, if indeed, they had.
“I noticed you at that grave. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but did you know her? Did you know Dorothy Clayborn?”
The man took so long to answer that at first it appeared he wouldn’t. Finally he gave a slight nod. “I knew her,” he said. “She was my wife.”
Shock shot through Branch like a bullet, and his jaw slackened. Hackles rose at the back of his neck, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. God, no! Don’t let it be true.
“Gable?” he asked hoarsely when at last he found his voice. It couldn’t be. He was seeing things. Had to be. “Gable Clayborn?”
The man looked momentarily startled before recognition crossed his face. “Branch? Is that you behind that sheriff’s badge?” As if to answer his own question, he broke out in a smile. Grabbing Branch’s hand, he shook it like he was priming water from a pump. “Well, what do you know? Guess you never thought to see me again.”
Withdrawing his hand, Branch’s initial shock gave way to disbelief. “No, never did,” he managed between wooden lips. “Dorothy said you were… dead.”
The smile vanished. “Dottie said that?”
Branch nodded. “Said you died in an accident.” Heard it with his own ears.
Gable sucked in his breath. “You know what they say about a woman’s fury.”
Branch felt his skin crawl. For eight years he’d thought this man—Andy’s true father—dead. Never once in all that time had he imagined that Dorothy had lied. Why would she say he was dead when clearly he wasn’t?
“Why’d you come back?” Why now, after all this time?
“Didn’t know about Dottie or the tornado. Had I known I would have come back sooner. Didn’t know any of that until I arrived in town yesterday.” He rubbed his hand across his bearded chin. “Calico sure does look different. Hardly recognized it. Thought I came to the wrong place by mistake.”
“We pretty much had to rebuild after the tornado,” Branch said, his voice hollow.
Gable shook his head. “Terrible thing.”
“Yes, it was.” Little did he know just how terrible.
“What are you doing here?” Gable asked. He then glanced at the distant grave with the single white rose. “Hannah?”
Branch’s jaw tightened. “She died, too. Eleven people died that day.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Gable said.
Branch didn’t want his sympathy. Didn’t want anything from him. Hannah would still be alive had she not l
eft the house that stormy night to deliver this man’s baby.
“Where you been all these years?” Branch asked.
“Here and there,” Gable said with a shrug. “Done some mining. Montana, Utah. Got me some religion.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “My preacher said I needed to come back and mend fences. That’s why I’m here. Wanted to tell Dottie I was sorry for taking off on her like that.”
“You deserted her?” Is that why Dorothy said her husband was dead? Because she was too ashamed to admit that he’d simply walked off?
Gable shrugged as if it was of little consequence. “I was young and didn’t know any better. Guess I was just doing what my pappy did to me.”
Gable’s cavalier attitude infuriated Branch. He walked out on his expectant wife and then came back years later as if nothing had happened. What kind of man would do such a thing?
“Guess you won’t be staying long now that you know about Dorothy.”
“Haven’t made any definite plans yet, but I’ve got some business to attend to before I leave town.”
“What kind of business?” Branch asked sharply. Any business of Gable’s was suspect. The man didn’t know the meaning of earning an honest living, and his get-rich schemes always led to stay-poor results.
“Some legal stuff.” Gable scratched the side of his neck. “Maybe you can help me. Do you know what happened to the infant?”
Branch stared at him. He wanted Gable gone. The sooner, the better. The blood pumping through his veins felt like ice water one moment and wildfire the next. “What do you think happened?”
“Yeah, well here’s the thing. Before he died, Dottie’s father set aside a substantial sum of money in trust for the child. If something happened to his grandchild, the money reverts to the living parent, which”—he cleared his voice—“is me. The problem is, I need proof of the child’s death before I can claim the money.”
Branch felt his temper rise. The man just found out his wife was dead, and his first thought was for his own gain. No surprise there.
“Don’t see how I can help,” Branch said, hiding his contempt behind a neutral tone.
“I was hoping you’d know how I can get hold of proof of death.”
Branch frowned. “Proof of death?”
“Dottie was carrying our child, and I need something that says the infant died with her.”
Branch tightened his hands into fists by his side. Gable didn’t know the baby arrived before the tornado hit, and Branch had no intention of setting him straight.
“Far as I know no official record exists,” he said. Marriages and deaths were sometimes recorded at the county office, but not always. Following the chaos left by the tornado, he doubted any vital statistics made it into official records.
A look of annoyance crossed Gable’s face. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. But I was hoping I could get a doctor or someone to sign a statement. You know, saying what happened and all.”
“’Fraid you’re out of luck there. Dr. Harris died five years ago.”
“Really? That’s a shame.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe you can sign.”
“What?”
“It’s got to be someone in authority. You’re the sheriff. You knew Dottie. You knew she was carrying a child when she died. Who better than you to sign?”
Branch stiffened. Shock quickly gave way to fury. Suddenly it seemed like there wasn’t enough air to breathe in the whole of Kansas. Sign a statement that Andy was dead? He could no sooner do that than deny God’s existence.
“I can’t talk about this right now.” He nodded at his wife’s grave. “Gotta go. Got work to do.” He turned and stalked away but not quick enough.
“Are you saying you won’t help me?” Gable called after him.
Branch stopped midstep, his back ramrod straight and throat dry as kindling wood. Before him lay Dorothy’s grave. Dorothy, Andy’s real mother. Behind was the resting place of his wife, Hannah, who had in her own special way given Andy life, too.
He turned to the one man in the world he didn’t want to face. Out of respect for the two deceased women, he kept his voice low but made no effort to hide his contempt. “You left her. You left your wife.” Not trusting himself to say more, he walked away with quick, angry steps.
This time Gable let him go without comment.
Mounting his horse, Branch gripped the reins until his fingers turned white. From atop his saddle he could still see Gable watching him, their gazes colliding like sabers over the graves of their wives.
What a nightmare! One moment everything was fine and the next… It was like living through the tornado all over again.
Pressing his legs against his horse’s side, Branch rode away. God, why did You let this happen? Why now, God, why now?
Where money was concerned Gable was like a hound dog. He wouldn’t give up until he got what he came for. The only way to get rid of him was to sign the statement he asked for claiming Andy was dead. That meant the money would go to Andy’s ne’er-do-well father. Dorothy would no doubt turn over in her grave.
Still, he was tempted to do what Gable asked of him. Once the man had the money in hand, he would no doubt leave and never come back. Oh, yes, he was tempted.
But how in good conscience could he do such a thing? How in the name of Sam Hill could he not?
Chapter 24
Katie was assigned to work the counter that morning, and the first customer of the day was an old woman with a cane. She was a regular, but this was the first Katie had served her. The woman seemed to have difficulty seating herself on a stool.
“Would you be more comfortable at a table?” Katie asked.
“That’s all right, dearie. I like sitting here at the counter. If my Harry was alive today, this is where he would sit. And he’d want what I want.”
“Starting with a cup of hot coffee, the stronger, the better. Am I right?”
The woman laughed. She wore her age like a shawl, hugging her years to her with a frown and throwing them off with a smile. “Indeed you are. How did you know?”
“Only serious coffee drinkers sit at the counter.” Katie hadn’t been on the job long, but already she’d observed certain behavior patterns among some of the customers.
The widow stretched her hand across the counter. “You can call me Mrs. Bracegirdle.”
Katie took the small, parched hand in her own and gave it a gentle shake before releasing it. “My name is Katie.”
“Nice meeting you, Katie.”
“You, too. You’re all dressed up. It must be a special occasion.”
Mrs. Bracegirdle’s bright purple dress was an eye-opener, as was her matching boat-shaped hat. The feathers bowed with each nod of her head like actors on a stage.
The worn face caved in with a near toothless smile. “Dearie, when you’re my age, every day is special.”
Katie laughed as she turned to the coffee urn. After filling a cup, she placed it on the counter. “You’re here early.”
Mrs. Bracegirdle laid her cane on the empty stool next to her. “Well, who can sleep with all that racket?”
“Racket?”
Mrs. Bracegirdle leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “There’s this cat who sings opera. Rigoletto, I think, though I’m no expert. My husband and I traveled abroad before the war, and we saw several operas, but it’s been years. All I can tell you is that the cat is a soprano.”
“It’s probably not a tomcat, then,” Katie said.
Mrs. Bracegirdle laughed. “Probably not.”
The woman might be off her rocker, but Katie couldn’t help but like her. “We have a cat problem, too. His name is Spook Cat, and he sneaks in at night and eats pie. He also locked me out.”
“Is that so? Hmm. Maybe we should get your cat and mine together.”
“Only if your cat promises not to teach ours opera.”
Mrs. Bracegirdle’s thin shoulders shook with girlish giggles and the feathers curtsied. She picked up the bill of fare
and perused it. “I told Branch about the cat, but I don’t think he believes me.”
At mention of Branch’s name Katie’s heart took an unexpected leap. Oh no you don’t. You’re not going to read more into last night than was there. Branch stayed with her simply because he didn’t want another murder to solve. That was the reason. The only reason.
The thought did little to relieve her mind. Twice she’d fallen in love with men who didn’t seem to know she was alive. One ended up with her best friend and the other married her more attractive sister. Not only did that bring her more heartache than she thought possible, it made her question her own worth. At least as a Pinkerton detective she was judged on merit and not appearances.
Mrs. Bracegirdle closed the menu. “I think I’ll have my usual flapjacks with sausage,” she said.
Katie called the order to the kitchen and turned back to her customer.
Mrs. Bracegirdle took a sip of her coffee, her rheumy eyes studying Katie. “I’ve known him all his life, you know.”
“I’m sorry. Who have you known?”
“Why, Branch, of course.”
“Oh.” This time Katie’s heart stayed in place, but her breath caught in her throat.
“Darling boy, he was. Always had a big smile. And so polite. Terrible thing what happened.”
“What happened?” Katie hated herself for asking, but her detective instincts wouldn’t let a statement like that go unchallenged. Nor would her womanly curiosity.
“The tornado. Ripped this town in two and killed almost a dozen people, including Branch’s wife.”
“How awful,” Katie murmured, not letting on that she knew about his wife. Better to let the old woman talk. Branch had seemed reluctant to go into details. Apparently, it still hurt.
“Awful doesn’t begin to describe it. It happened in ’70 or ’71.” She thought a moment. “No, it has to be ’72. Come to think of it, Friday will be the eight-year anniversary.”
She shook her head. “My, where does the time go? I swear, when you get to be my age the days go by in twos and threes.”
Calico Spy Page 13
