by Carol Finch
“That doesn’t mean someone didn’t wipe the area clean to conceal his guilt,” Boston interjected.
Hobbs sent her a silencing glance—as if that would shut her up, thought Quin.
“If anything, a wagon wheel or hub gave way at the worst of all possible times,” the marshal continued. “You read my report yourself, Cahill. Your whole family did.”
Quin snorted. “Of course, it would look bad if it turned out you had botched the investigation, wouldn’t it? I can see why you might be reluctant and skeptical.”
Hobbs snapped up his dark head and his brown eyes flashed indignation. “Now see here, Cahill, no one has questioned my ability to do my job in the past. I can understand that you are upset about the loss of your parents. But accidental manslaughter or murder? Why would an informant contact you two years after the fact?”
“That’s what I wanted to know, Hobbs. Which is why I rode out to Phantom Springs, as the note instructed. Unfortunately, the supposed informant was already dead,” Quin replied.
“And you can prove that?” Hobbs challenged doubtfully.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, be sensible,” Boston interjected. “Why would Cahill want to shoot a man who might have vital information about his parents’ deaths?”
Hobbs cut Boston an annoyed glance. “If rumors are to be believed, you and Cahill were involved in a feud. Suddenly you reconciled. Or at least that’s what some folks presumed…until someone burned down the new addition on your house. Now here you are in Cahill’s home and no one knows what to believe.”
“And what does any of that have to do with a dead man at Phantom Springs?” she countered sharply. “Let’s stick to one investigation at a time, shall we?”
“I’m wondering if whoever deliberately set the fire during the party was under orders. Perhaps the mastermind decided to silence the arsonist permanently to avoid being blackmailed.” Hobbs glanced accusingly at Quin.
Quin was tempted to leap off the bed and sock the marshal in the jaw for voicing such ridiculous suspicions. Who was spreading rumors to make him look bad? Quin wondered. Damn it, someone was spreading incriminating explanations for everything he and Boston did these days.
“That is the most ridiculous speculation I ever heard,” Boston sputtered, giving Hobbs another glimpse of her fiery spirit. “Cahill didn’t shoot that poor man to keep him silent about a fire, because it was likely set by a lightning bolt.” She glanced briefly at Quin. “As for the anonymous note that foul play might have been involved in Ruby’s and Earl’s deaths, Cahill had no reason to kill the messenger. He wanted information.”
Quin had to hand it to Boston. She could go toe to toe with the marshal, who had obviously heard all sorts of wild conjectures from the locals.
He was grateful for her assistance because his head hurt like hell and it was difficult to keep up with the rapid-fire conversation when he couldn’t think straight. She distracted Hobbs by coming on like an attack dog, taking the focus off Quin while he was dazed. No one ever protected him like that. Except Boston.
Hobbs smirked and focused directly on Boston. “If you weren’t there you can’t know what was said and what happened. It is possible the supposed informant had nothing to offer and Cahill was furious enough to shoot him for his deception. In fact, considering the scandalous gossip circulating about Leanna during the party, I expect Cahill was in the worst of all possible moods by the time he rode off last night.”
Quin gnashed his teeth. There were so many rumors buzzing about his family that they had become tangled and cast suspicion and unfavorable light on all of them.
“You weren’t there, either,” Boston retaliated, lifting her chin defiantly. “You can’t speculate on what happened, can you? You have Quin’s testimony and since he has no prior record of criminal activity you have no reason to doubt him.”
Hobbs muttered something under his breath, then shot Quin a hard glance. He walked over to the double holsters draped over the back of the chair. He removed both pistols and sniffed the barrels before checking the chambers.
His dark eyes settled accusingly on Quin. “Do you plan to deny this pistol has been fired recently?”
“Not by me it wasn’t,” Quin maintained.
“Then by whom?” Hobbs demanded gruffly. “Cahill, I know you claim to be injured but it is my duty to take you to jail for suspicion of murder.”
“Because of an anonymous tip?” Boston spewed in outrage.
Hobbs held up the six-shooter. “This is a possible murder weapon found in Cahill’s possession, ma’am. I can’t disregard the possibility of Cahill’s involvement in the death just because he runs the largest spread in the area. If he is innocent, my investigation will clear him.”
He spun on his heels, then halted at the door. “I’ll wait for you downstairs, Cahill. I expect you are as anxious to follow proper protocol as I am. Otherwise, the locals will speculate that you bribed me to dismiss any charges of wrongdoing. Time will tell if you are innocent.”
“Of course he’s innocent,” Boston burst out angrily. “A stint in jail will only invite more offensive rumors about this absurd curse the spiteful locals delight in nurturing.”
Hobbs waved the pistol in her fuming face and said, “Best not to argue with a smoking gun, ma’am. You might want to consider the possibility that Cahill is trying to use you to corroborate his story so he can go free.”
When Hobbs walked out, Boston lurched toward Quin. “This is outrageous! I am going to tell Hobbs that I was on hand and that I heard—”
“No,” he interrupted sharply, then winced when his raised voice sent a stab of pain rippling through his tender skull. “Stay out of this, Boston. We will sort it out without involving you. After I convince Hobbs to see reason, we’ll investigate discreetly to disprove these infuriating rumors that put a negative slant on everything we say or do.”
She blew out an agitated breath, then dashed over to assist Quin when he tried to sit up on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to consult a lawyer. There is a reputable one in town, isn’t there? If not, I’ll send Butler to Wolf Grove to fetch one,” she insisted. “You are not going to spend unnecessary time in jail and invite another avalanche of damaging gossip!”
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her—and negated his claim by wobbling when he stood.
“You are nowhere near fine, Cahill,” she grumbled as she handed him a clean shirt. “Now sit down so I can help you with your boots.”
Dutifully, he sat down. Quin was not looking forward to the horseback ride to town. However, he was anxious to clear up the misunderstanding about what happened at Phantom Springs and convince Hobbs to reopen the investigation deemed an accident two years earlier. Quin was convinced his parents’ wreck was more than an accident. Naturally, Hobbs wasn’t enthusiastic about reviewing the case and risking speculation that he hadn’t done his job right the first time.
Quin wondered if the guilty party responsible for the deaths of his parents might have consisted of four outlaws who wiped away their tracks after the wagon plummeted over the edge of the cliff. They might have stolen money and supplies without the Cahills being aware. Quin had no clue how much money his parents had carried with them to Wolf Grove. Plus, Quin had never itemized the supplies to determine if the receipt of purchased goods matched the items carted away from the wreckage.
Quin had been too busy planning a double funeral and suffering from overwhelming grief, guilt and torment. Not to mention the distraction and anguish he had suffered when his family walked out when he had needed them most. He had been too upset to ask the right questions about the accident.
Quin glanced down at Boston, who knelt in front of him to help him with his boots. Only one person had stood up for him, with him and because of him in the past two years, he reminded himself again. It was this feisty, quick-minded firebrand who he was desperate to protect from involvement in this recent murder. If something happened to Boston, Quin could never forgive himself.
Hell, he was having enough trouble forgiving himself for failing his parents, especially now that he suspected they had been victims of an attack he might have prevented if he’d been home as he should have been.
Same as his brothers should have been around to lend a hand that fateful day, he thought resentfully. They were as guilty of neglect as he was and they had been a helluva lot closer to home.
When Boston stood in front of him, Quin’s tormented thoughts trailed off and he grasped her hand to detain her. “Promise me you’ll keep quiet about following me to the springs last night,” he demanded.
“I am not letting you rot in jail,” she stated resolutely. “You need to be home recuperating.”
He squeezed her hand and managed a faint smile as he rose slowly to his feet, then waited for the room to stop spinning around him. “Promise me,” he repeated emphatically. “I’ll never ask anything else of you if you’ll do this, Boston.”
She exhaled audibly, then regarded him from beneath a long fringe of black lashes. Eventually she bobbed her head, causing the thick chestnut-colored braid to ripple over her shoulder. “All right, but you have only one day to convince Marshal Hobbs that he needs to look elsewhere for a murderer.”
“I’m sure I can talk sense into him, man to man, when you aren’t gnawing on his ear and his ankles,” Quin said teasingly.
Boston rolled her eyes as she assisted him across the room. “Men,” she said, then sniffed.
Quin wasn’t sure what that meant but he was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.
By the time Quin reached town, he had a splitting headache. He noticed the crowd gathering around the jail, as if Hobbs had arrested the worst offender on the Most Wanted list. Heavens above! Whoever was spewing gossip to ruin the Cahill reputation and fuel superstitious nonsense about a curse was doing a bang-up job.
Quin growled under his breath when he saw Preston Van Slyck standing in front of the bank, wearing a ridiculing smile. Whether or not that bastard had anything to do with the would-be informant’s death, he was enjoying Quin’s public humiliation.
Just as Preston had delighted in spreading scandal about Leanna at the party. Damn him.
Somebody should string up Preston Van Slyck on general principles, Quin mused as he dismounted—and clung to his horse for support. Preston was a womanizer of the worst sort and a sorry excuse for a man. Yep, thought Quin, that “gentleman” deserved to be the honored guest at a necktie party. Unfortunately, Quin was the one under arrest for murder and facing the possibility of a lynching.
He grimaced when he met the accusing stares of townsfolk who apparently had been swayed by gossip. The public consensus was that he deserved to suffer. He wondered if folks would be mollified if they knew how lousy he felt already.
“Come on, Cahill,” Marshal Hobbs prompted as he urged Quin up the steps to the pinewood office. Then he turned to the crowd gathered on Town Square. “Go on about your business and let me do my job.”
Serenaded by mumbling and grumbling from the crowd of saddle tramps, tracklayers and other ne’er-do-wells from the wrong side of the tracks, Quin wobbled into the office. He wasn’t looking forward to camping out on the lumpy cot behind bars. The sooner he convinced Hobbs he was barking up the wrong tree, the better.
Quin removed his hat and directed the marshal’s attention to the stitches on the back of his head. “I didn’t get these brain-scrambling blows from a dead man,” he insisted. “I was hunkered over the would-be informant and I was attacked from my blind side.”
Hobbs spared a cursory glance at the injury as he marched Quin across the office to the back room. He opened the cell door, then gestured for Quin to enter. “How am I supposed to know if the man at the springs clubbed you, then tried to make a getaway with the money before you shot him in the back?”
“Then I would be claiming self-defense against a brutal attack,” Quin said reasonably. “That is not what happened.”
Hobbs narrowed his dark eyes as he shut the barred door with a clank. “Did you shoot the man you hired to set the fire to shut him up permanently? Was he trying to blackmail you?”
“For God’s sake, Hobbs, you heard what Boston, er, Adrianna said. Lightning started the fire at her ranch.”
Hobbs ambled back to his office to hang his bowler hat on the hook by the door. Then he strode to the potbelly stove to pour himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t offer Quin a cup. Apparently, prisoners received no kindness whatsoever.
“What do you know about the dead man at Phantom Springs?” the marshal asked intently as he stood in the doorway.
“I never saw him until the night of Rosa and Lucas’s wedding celebration. He brushed past me on his way to the refreshment table but he didn’t speak or try to draw my attention. Adrianna remembers him vaguely, as well. But we have no idea who he is…was.”
“Yet you claim he knew something about the supposed deaths of your parents?” Hobbs asked skeptically, then sipped his coffee. “Sorry, Cahill, but too many things are going on around here and most of them have to do with you, one way or another. If you are lying to me about this unidentified dead man you are headed straight to court for trial.”
Quin tried not to lose his temper but it was damn hard when he felt miserable and frustrated—to the extreme. Never in his life had he had to work so hard to be believed. These days, his name and reputation counted for nothing and a constant fog of suspicion surrounded him. And damn it, just when he thought he had begun to heal from the remorse and anguish of two years past and move on with his life, another obstacle stood in his path.
Too bad his family wasn’t around to help him bear the burden and uncover the truth, he thought resentfully. His one champion was Boston, and he didn’t want her sucked into the vortex of this exasperating turmoil.
Quin sighed heavily. “Look, Hobbs, I have no reason to lie. I received the note last night and Adrianna and Hiram Butler saw it. They tried to persuade me not to go alone to that rendezvous site with money in hand. They thought I was walking into a trap. Turns out they were right.”
Hobbs came to stand by the cell. “Where is the note?”
“At home.”
“And the money? How much money are we discussing?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
“Two thousand dollars?” Hobbs hooted. “Where’s the money now? Did you exchange it for supposed information?”
His skeptical comment prompted Quin to clench his fists around the iron bars. “Whoever hit me from behind must have taken it. As a precaution, I left it in my saddlebags and went to meet the man who was dead when I arrived.”
“But you didn’t see this second supposed assailant?” Hobbs questioned doubtfully.
“No. When I tried to turn on him after he delivered the first blow to the back of my head he hit me a second time. I blacked out.” Quin waited a beat and decided to twist the truth, in hopes of protecting Boston and convincing Hobbs to believe his side of the story. “I didn’t hear the shot being fired from my pistol while I was unconscious. I don’t know who fired at whom or why. I came to in time to hear three riders racing away in three different directions.”
Hobbs glanced up with sudden interest. “Three men? They rode off in three different directions?”
Quin bobbed his aching head. “It was a gang, obviously.”
Hobbs took several swallows of coffee, frowned pensively, then set aside the cup. “I’d better check the site again and bring in the body. I also want to see this supposed note you received. I’ll swing by to question Adrianna and Butler.”
“And I’d like to see the note you received about the dead man,” Quin insisted. “I wonder if the handwriting matches.”
Hobbs strode to his desk, then returned with the note.
Quin squinted at the handwriting. “It doesn’t look the same. One of the other gang members must have written it.”
Hobbs sent him another dubious glance, then replaced the note in his desk drawer. He craned his neck around t
he corner to the room with the cells. “Sit tight, Cahill. I’m locking up this office while I investigate.”
Quin plunked down on the cot to rest. So much for the man-to-man discussion to clear his name quickly. It looked as if he would be sleeping off this hellish headache on a lumpy cot in jail.
He wondered if his brothers and sister would delight in knowing Quin was in misery. They, like some of the spiteful locals who chose to believe the gossip and scandal, probably thought Quin was exactly where he belonged. As for the envious and resentful folks hereabout, they probably wanted him to sit here and rot.
Chapter Eleven
After Cahill and Hobbs left, Adrianna rode to her ranch. She walked into the foyer of her house and took a whiff of the air. Although she had opened all the windows after the rainstorm doused the fire, a hint of smoke still clung to the fabric of the furniture and drapes.
Not enough to use as an excuse to stay with Quin much longer, she mused as she ascended the staircase. Tonight she would be in his bed—without him. Since Quin hadn’t returned home, she presumed he hadn’t convinced Marshal Hobbs of innocence in the unidentified man’s death. Surely someone around town knew who he was. If no one claimed to know him, did that suggest he knew nothing about Ruby and Earl Cahill’s wagon wreck and he was attempting to extort money?
Adrianna expelled an exasperated breath as she stared out the upstairs window. Her troubled thoughts trailed off when she noticed the brown saddle horse with three white stockings grazing in her pasture with the remuda. She snapped to attention. That was the very same horse she had commandeered the previous night to follow Quin when he rode to Phantom Springs—and received two knots on his hard head and become a murder suspect.
Who had tethered that horse in front of Quin’s bunkhouse one night and why was it grazing in her pasture this afternoon? And where was the strawberry roan horse that had been tethered beside it?
Adrianna lurched toward the door. Too many unexplainable and suspicious incidents were occurring at her ranch and the 4C. Someone was exploiting the rumors of her personal feud and the supposed Cahill Curse to explain rustling, butchering and arson. That someone was making a profit from the ranch losses. Adrianna was determined to find out who that someone was.
