The Wayward Heart

by Jill Gregory

  Bryony gazed miserably down at the tombstone.

  “Please tell me what you know about Johnny Blake’s death, Rosita. All of it. I need to know the truth.”

  When Rosita had finished, Bryony had a fairly good picture of the type of life her father had led in Arizona, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. She realized, as the housekeeper spoke, that he must have become obsessed with greed, and that obtaining land and wealth had become his ruling passion—blotting out whatever decency he once had possessed.

  Everything Jim Logan had said about him, she thought with repulsion, had been the truth. He had conspired with Matthew Richards, he had rustled cattle from Samuel Blake and others, and he had known of Johnny Blake’s deliberate murder.

  According to Rosita, her father hadn’t learned of the boy’s death until afterwards, and had quarreled about it with Matt Richards. Bryony remembered that this coincided with what Daisy Winston had told Jim. She felt a stab of pain as she realized also that her father must have killed Daisy, just as Texas Jim Logan had maintained.

  He’d beaten and strangled the girl, then left her to die in the wilderness.

  He and Matt Richards were guilty. Guilty of every horrible crime Jim had accused them of that morning in the mountain cave.

  She passed a trembling hand across her eyes, and lifted her head to stare at the now silent housekeeper.

  “Rosita.” She moistened her dry lips with her tongue. “Did my father hide a paper anywhere in the Circle H—a secret paper? One that might contain proof about all these things you saw and heard?”

  “No, Senorita,” Rosita shook her head wearily. “Senor Richards, he asked me about a missing paper many times after your padre died—and that night when those hombres entered the house and blew open the safe and turned everything upside down, I thought then that it was this paper they looked for. But I never saw any such thing. Today, Senor Logan, too, asked if I knew of it, and now you. But, I know nothing of such a paper. I am sorry.”

  Bryony sighed. “It must be somewhere.”

  She cast about in her mind for a hiding place they all might have overlooked. “Daisy Winston told Jim Logan that my father had written an incriminating letter which would fall into the right hands if anything were to happen to him. But Daisy died before she could tell Jim where it was hidden.”

  “Daisy Winston?” Rosita gave her an odd look. “Si, I remember that one. She came often to the hacienda. Una muy bonita nina. I can remember the last time I saw her, all dressed up in a pink dress and a hat with flowers. She...” Rosita broke off abruptly and fixed bright, excited eyes on Bryony’s face.

  “Senorita, I think I know where that paper is hidden. I remember it now!”

  “Where, Rosita? Please, tell me!”

  “It was two, maybe three days before your padre was killed. That nina, she was at the house. I was scrubbing the floor in the parlor when they came down the stairs in the morning to leave—to drive to town. And your padre, he asked her, ‘Do you have it?’”

  The housekeeper nodded to herself as the memories floated through her mind.

  “And then she took off her hat—not the one with all the flowers, but another one. It had feathers, many feathers, and she showed your padre something that was inside the lining. Something tucked inside the band of that silly hat. Senorita, I think it was a paper, folded to fit inside. He nodded, he was pleased. But I never thought about it again, for I saw many strange things in that house, and I tried to forget them all. Until you said the name of Daisy Winston. But si, I remember it now. ”

  “So Daisy had the paper all the time? And that’s why it was never found on Circle H property?” Bryony’s voice shook. “That’s why it never came to light after my father’s death. He killed Daisy, perhaps because he suspected that she’d betrayed him. Or he thought that one day she would...”

  A shudder went through her.

  Rosita was nodding, her eyes filled with dismay.

  “And then, before my father had a chance to search for it, Jim Logan shot him.” Bryony met Rosita’s eyes, her own large and filling with tears. “Jim Logan told me himself that my father was headed into the saloon when he caught up with him. He guessed that my father went there to buy himself a drink, but actually, he must have intended to find Daisy’s room and retrieve the letter from the hat. But he never had the chance.”

  She took a deep breath and moved toward Rosita. “Please, do you remember anything else about that hat? The one with all the feathers? It’s possible the paper is still there—hidden inside the lining all this time!”

  “Si, it was Rosado—pink, you would say. Pink with black feathers.”

  Something clicked inside Bryony’s brain at this description. She remembered such a hat. The copper-haired saloon girl had been wearing a pink feathered hat on the day she accosted Bryony in the street.

  Could it be Daisy’s hat? Had her friends in the saloon divided up her possessions after her death?

  Excitedly, Bryony wondered if the document was still hidden inside the lining. She had to see that letter for herself, read it with her own eyes.

  “Senorita, what are we to do?” Rosita asked tentatively. “It is growing late—have you forgotten the fiesta? What is going to happen?”

  The fiesta. For the first time, Bryony noticed that the sun was dipping low in the western sky. It would set soon. And her guests would begin to arrive, including Matt Richards.

  Her heart jumped with fear at the thought. Yes, Matt had indeed been trying to kill her.

  And tonight he’d be a guest in her home, eating her food, drinking her wine, leading her onto the dance floor. She tried to gather her wits. She needed time to think, for she had no idea what she should do or how to proceed.

  She only knew that she had to get her hands on that paper.

  “Hurry, Rosita, let’s ride back to the ranch. We mustn’t stay out here alone another moment—it isn’t safe.”

  For the first time, Bryony fully realized the extent of her danger. In Matt Richards’s eyes, she must represent a terrible threat. If she came across the incriminating letter before he did, she’d have the power to expose him, to ruin him and see him hanged.

  Judging by his past ruthlessness, he’d go to any lengths to prevent this.

  Anxiously, she peered about her. The countryside was deserted. A stillness had settled over the plains, as if the desert was listening, waiting.

  In the distance, the purple-misted mountains seemed to be brooding. She felt that they watched her, spying upon her thoughts.

  “Let’s go,” she muttered uneasily, hurrying over to where Shadow restlessly pawed the dust, while Rosita clambered onto her aging mare that had been tethered in the shade of a mesquite shrub. They galloped homeward, and both were relieved when they turned their mounts into the Circle H gates.

  “Listen to me, Rosita,” Bryony said quickly, as she dismounted in front of the stable. “Forget everything we talked of this afternoon. Act as if nothing has happened. Tonight, Senor Richards will be at the house. Whatever you do, don’t let on that you’ve told me or anyone else what you know. Please, act normally. Will you do that? It’s terribly important that he not suspect the truth!”

  Rosita’s black eyes flashed. “Si, Senorita, 1 will be careful. He will learn nothing from me.”

  “Gracias.” Bryony squeezed her arm and watched the woman move swiftly toward the ranch house. One of the wranglers came over to Bryony and took the horses, whistling cheerfully, and making a remark about the festivities ahead. She scarcely heard him. Filled with anguish, she walked to the house and sank down upon the broad white steps.

  One thing was firm in her mind. She had to get help. Despite her belief in her own capabilities, she realized that this was not something to be handled alone. There was too much at stake, and besides, several men had already died at the hands of her adversaries.

  She had no desire to join their ranks.

  She needed an ally, someone to confide in and consult. But who?
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  Her first instinct was to send for Judge Hamilton, for surely he’d know how to handle this situation. But what if Judge Hamilton was the third partner? What if he, too, was involved in this plot?

  She found it almost impossible to believe, and yet...

  She hadn’t believed her father or Matt guilty either. She’d trusted in them as firmly as she trusted in the Judge. And that trust had proved utterly baseless. If she was wrong about the Judge too—if she gave him the benefit of the doubt and was betrayed—all would be lost.

  In despair, Bryony ran her fingers through her heavy black hair, casting about in her mind for someone on whom she could rely. It didn’t take her long to reach the answer, the obvious, only answer. Perhaps she’d known all along that it was Jim Logan she must contact. That he was the one she must call upon in this situation.

  She was aware, suddenly, as she sat on the porch steps with her head in her hands, while the wind whistled sharply down from the mountains and a pair of cactus wrens chattered inconsequently overhead, that she was consumed by a sudden, overpowering desire to see him again. To be held in his arms and comforted.

  If only he was here with her now, to hold her close in those strong arms, to make her forget all her pain and disillusionment with the fire of his kisses...

  She moaned to herself, pushing away this line of thought. She couldn’t deal with it now. The most important thing at the moment was to get her hands on that letter.

  Pushing herself to her feet, she ran to the corrals in search of Buck, but he was nowhere to be found. Her sense of urgency mounted.

  It was growing late, and the fiesta would begin soon. After leaving word with Pedro to send Buck to her the instant he returned, she hurried back to the ranch house and entered her father’s study. It was there that Buck found her when he arrived a short time later, standing in the doorway with his dusty Stetson in his hand.

  “You looking for me, Bryony?” He stepped into the room as she glanced up from the desk. “I been out at the south waterhole all afternoon, and—”

  “Buck, thank heavens. I need you to ride to town on an errand for me. It’s urgent.” She hurried toward him, holding a folded sheet of paper in her hand.

  “Aw, Bryony,” the young foreman protested. “I gotta get myself spruced up for the fiesta tonight. It’s near sundown already, and those other varmints will be linin’ up for their Saturday night baths! I’ll have to fight my way to that old tub as it is! Tell you what,” he offered suddenly. “I’ll ride to town first thing in the mornin’, rain or shine. I swear to it!”

  “No!” Bryony spoke more sharply than she intended, but the strain of the day was beginning to wear on her. She sighed at Buck’s startled look, and tried to speak more evenly.

  “You must ride to town now. Immediately. And you mustn’t say a word to anyone about this—not to anyone at all. Do you understand?”

  His earnest brown eyes searched her face intently, his attention arrested by the desperation he sensed in her. “Shore, Bryony, whatever you say,” he responded instantly. “I reckon I didn’t know it was that important.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” She returned to the desk and with her back to the wrangler, swiftly scanned the letter she’d written to Jim Logan.

  Dear Jim,

  You must meet me tomorrow in the alley behind the Silver Spur Saloon at eight o’clock in the morning. I can’t explain now, except to tell you that I know where you can find what you’ve been looking for. Meet me—please. I place all my dependence upon you.

  Then she had signed her name. After reading over the message hurriedly, she folded it and handed it to Buck with trembling fingers. “Please, take this to the hotel and hand it personally to Texas Jim Logan.”

  “What? That low-down, no-good—”

  “Please, Buck! Can’t you forget your quarrel for my sake? It’s vital that Jim Logan receive this letter as soon as possible. If he isn’t there, see if you can find him at the Silver Spur. If not...”

  She hesitated. She remembered that Jim spent much of his time at the Silver Spur and that he had mentioned Meg Donahue’s name to her. From what he’d said about the woman, she had sounded kind enough, despite the fact that she was the proprietor of a saloon. She hoped Jim would be at the hotel when Buck reached town, but if not, it seemed that Meg Donahue might be the best person to know how to contact him.

  “If you can’t find him, give this letter to Meg Donahue and tell her to get it to him as soon as possible. And don’t mention this to anyone,” she repeated, pushing him out of the front door.

  “Please, Buck, I’m counting on you.”

  He gave her a long, studying look and then nodded.

  “Don’t you worry none, Bryony. I don’t understand one bit, but I’ll do it. And I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Thank you. Now hurry, please!” She watched him take the ranch house steps in one leap and run toward the corral for his horse. Then, her heart still pounding, she raced upstairs to her own room. As she burst into it, her reflection in the mirror over the dressing table startled her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with frenzy. Her hair cascaded wildly over her shoulders in an unruly tangle.

  Moving to the mirror, she stared at herself in shock. Then she pressed her shaking fingers to her hot cheeks. She had to get hold of herself. She had to still the terrible pounding in her heart, the fear permeating her body. It seemed an impossible task.

  And the knowledge that she would soon be facing Matthew Richards in the parlor did nothing to soothe her. But she knew somehow that if she was to stay alive long enough to see the proof with her own eyes, and to watch Matt Richards hanged for his villainy, she must regain some semblance of poise. Tonight she had to behave as if nothing had happened. She had to keep Matt from becoming suspicious.

  She had to get through this evening.

  Somehow.

  ***

  When Buck shouldered his way through the swinging double doors of the Silver Spur Saloon a short time later, he saw that the place was uncommonly empty for that time of day.

  Most of the cowpokes in town were getting themselves gussied up for the big fiesta at the Circle H, and only a scattered handful of gamblers and drifters remained.

  Meg Donahue was enjoying a beer with a tall, slender, slate-eyed gambler in black when Buck arrived, and after glancing about for any sight of Jim Logan, he strode directly over to the red-haired woman, gazing down at her as she drained her beer mug and then grinned coquettishly at her companion.

  “Meg, I got to talk to you.”

  She stared up at the cowhand’s tall, lanky form.

  “Well, talk, cowboy,” she returned good-naturedly, patting her flaming hair with one bejeweled hand. She winked broadly at the gambler, whose soft white hands rested unmoving upon the table.

  “Alone, Meg.” Buck’s tone was firm. He nodded at the man in black and just barely tipped his Stetson. “If you’ll excuse the lady, pardner, I’d be obliged.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Buck pulled Meg out of her chair and walked her over to the bar, which was empty of customers at the moment.

  Instead of being angry at this rough-shod treatment, though, Meg threw back her head and laughed.

  “All right, Buck, honey,” she declared. “Now why don’t you tell me what’s so all-fired important that you had to take me away from my friend over there? I’m listening.”

  With his back to the occupants of the saloon so that they couldn’t see what he was doing, Buck handed her the letter Bryony had given him.

  “This here is for Texas Jim Logan,” he said quietly. “It’s from my boss, Miss Bryony Hill.”

  Meg’s eyes widened, and a wicked smile curved her painted lips.

  “You don’t say, cowboy! Could it be a love note from that pretty boss-lady of yours to the feller who shot her pa? And here I reckoned she’d hate the sight of him. Now, won’t this make Ginger madder’n a skunk?” she mused.

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nbsp; “Listen, Meg.” Buck gripped her arm. “I don’t know what’s in this letter, but whatever it is, it’s secret and it’s important. So don’t blab to anyone about it. Just keep quiet and give it to Logan when he shows up. You expectin’ him tonight?”

  “Sure. He usually comes in for a few drinks, though he don’t hang around here the way he used to. I think Ginger gets on his nerves.” She laughed again, and nimbly folded the letter into a small square, then tucked it in the bosom of her dress, winking mischievously at Buck.

  “Don’t worry, cowboy, I’ll keep it safe till Texas comes. When he shows up, I’ll deliver it pronto.”

  “Thanks, Meg—and remember, not a word to anyone.”

  “Whatever you say, honey.”

  As Buck started to hurry off, she called out to him.

  “Hey, handsome, aren’t you goin’ to that fancy fiesta tonight? You’d best hurry home, and get yourself a bath!”

  Buck grinned. Now that his errand was discharged, he felt light-hearted, and he was looking forward more than ever to this evening, when he would dance with Bryony and actually hold her in his arms.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he retorted, “I’m gonna have to throw all those other coyotes out of that old tub, but I reckon it’ll be worth the scuffle when every lady in the room comes beggin’ me to dance with her!”

  And with these brash words and a gleam in his eyes, he was gone.

  Meg ordered the bartender to serve another drink to the gambler in black. She waved to him with a friendly smile.

  “Hey, mister, don’t go away. I’ll be back quicker than you can shuffle a pack of aces!” she called.

  The gambler leaned lazily back in his chair to wait.

  Meg strolled up the stairs to her private rooms above. She was gone some little while, during which time the piano player arrived and began to play loudly, as if to fill up the empty space with noise, and when she returned, the gambler had apparently grown bored with waiting, and had become involved in a poker game with some prospectors who were passing through town.

  A few of the saloon girls had come downstairs and were pouting over the lack of business. Meg quickly spotted Texas Jim Logan exchanging a few words with Lila. There was a half-filled whisky glass on the table before him as Meg made her way to his side.