The ceremony was quick and simple. When it came the time for Hartman to slip the ring on her finger, Claire refused to let him touch her. Hartman offered the ring to her in his cupped palm, but she refused that too.
Hartman consulted with the priest. When he was told it didn’t matter, he dropped the ring in his pocket, and they were declared man and wife. The priest had understood enough of the situation not to invite the groom to kiss the bride.
“Is it over?” Claire asked, aware that her voice sounded harsh.
“Yes,” Hartman replied. She could tell he was offended by her curt behavior which amounted to an open rebellion in front of the entire ranch staff.
“In which case, I’ll bid you good night.” She tilted her face up to him. “Please remember that I do not wish to be disturbed.” She spun on her heels and marched into the house, her nose high in the air, as though even the short spell in his company was more than she could endure. The wedding guests had hushed into a silence so deep that her mutinous footsteps broke the calm like a series of thunderclaps.
A moment later, she was back inside, through the hall, and in the privacy of her bedroom. The lamps had not been lit, but a faint glimmer from the lanterns outside shone through the window. Claire paused to lock the door to the hall. There was no key in the door that connected to Hartman’s bedroom. When she tried the handle, the door didn’t give, and she assumed it had been locked from the other side.
Hurrying, but at the same time trying to keep quiet and to stay out of sight of anyone who might peek in through the window, Claire yanked open the dressing table drawer and pulled out her bag. Tucked in at the bottom, folded inside a scarf, was the gun Susanna had given her.
Balancing the heavy revolver in one hand, Claire counted out six bullets from the small pocket sewn into the bag’s lining. Her fingertips met the wedding band. She’d forgotten about Rafael’s ring. She picked it up now and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. Then she returned the empty bag into the drawer.
As she rushed over to the bed, one of the bullets slipped from her grasp. She could hear it clatter to the floor and roll along the timber boards, although it was too dark to see where it had fallen. She crouched on her hands and knees to fumble over the floorboards and along the edge of the thick wool rug, but she couldn’t find it.
There was no time to open the drawer and take out the bag again. Five bullets had to be enough. Claire gave up the search and got to her feet. She hid the gun and the bullets in the bed and smoothed the covers over them, a precaution in case someone should ignore her wishes and come into the room.
She drew calming breaths and got on with her evening toilette. First, she untangled the wreath of flowers from her hair. Then she undressed with nervous, hurried motions and slipped into her nightgown. When she tried to hang the silver satin gown in the armoire, the door stuck. It wouldn’t budge, however hard she rattled the handle. There was no key in the lock.
It didn’t matter. She folded the gown on the chair by the dressing table, washed her face and used the linen towel to dry her skin. Then she slid between the covers, fumbling around to find the gun, and the bullets that had rolled around on the mattress as she climbed in.
The lanterns outside must have burned out, for the darkness was almost complete now. She had to do everything by feel. Push out the cylinder. Slot in the bullets one by one, checking the shape with her fingertips to insert them the right way. Push the cylinder back into place. Rotate it with a purring sound. Cock the hammer with a muted click.
Then all she could do was to sit back and wait.
If Hartman honored his promise, she faced a life filled with terror, a prisoner in a marriage to a man she despised.
If he didn’t, she might end up free, or she might end up dead.
Minutes passed. Claire’s arms grew tired from holding the gun. She wanted to keep the weapon hidden while she aimed it at the door on the opposite wall, even if it meant having the weight of the bedcovers pressing against her hands.
Finally, footsteps echoed down the hall. A door opened and closed. A floorboard creaked in the adjoining room. Again. And again. A thin strip of light appeared under the connecting door. More footsteps. A few minutes of silence. Footsteps again, softer now. Moving closer. The lock clicked. The door handle rattled.
A tall vertical crack appeared in the darkness. Slowly, it grew wider. Then a shadow blocked the light, and Hartman stepped in through the open doorway. Claire held her breath. She got the impression he was completely naked, although she couldn’t tell for certain, since he was only a silhouette against the glow of the lamps behind him.
“You promised,” she said, surprised that she managed any sound at all.
Hartman laughed a cruel little laugh. “Of course I did,” he taunted her. “I’d have been a fool not to promise you anything you wanted. You didn’t really believe I meant it, did you, my dear?” He moved toward the bed, leaving the door open behind him.
Claire took aim and pulled the trigger. A shot rang in her ears. The bedcovers jerked. The smell of burning fabric filled her nostrils. Hartman froze on his feet, but only for an instant. Then he hurtled into motion again, charging toward the bed.
Claire’s hands shook so hard she almost dropped the gun. When she pulled the trigger again nothing happened. Panic rose inside her, filling her mouth with the sour taste of bile. The empty chamber! With only five bullets there would be an empty chamber in her gun, and she must have miscalculated when she rotated the cylinder.
Hartman was flying at her, like a predator leaping through the air. She saw him getting closer and closer in slow motion as the terror stretched the passage of time. Cold sweat beaded on her brow. Her throat closed up, choking off her air.
Then she heard Rafael’s voice in her head. Cock back the hammer for each shot. Like this. She remembered his fingers, strong and warm over hers as he instructed her. Of course. Not the empty chamber. A blank shot made a futile sound.
The gun still hidden beneath the bedcovers, Claire brought her thumbs together and pulled back the hammer, the way Rafael had shown her on that sunny afternoon during their dreamy time at the barn. She heard a muted click. She squeezed the trigger once more. Another shot exploded out to the smell of burning fabric. An echo of it rang through the room before everything went silent again.
Claire held her breath as she watched Hartman topple forward. His body landed half on the bed, half on the floor, as though kneeling in front of her. She could feel the weight of his chest and shoulders pressing against her feet.
She waited. Hartman didn’t move. His face was buried in the bedding. Slowly, Claire inched away from him, sliding backwards under the covers, until she could swing her feet down and get up. Moving with caution, she tiptoed around his slumped form.
Blood oozed from a fist-sized wound in the side of his skull. Claire pressed a hand over her mouth, trying not to retch. She eased past his sprawled legs. On the other side of his head, a small round hole punctured the temple.
Entry and exit. She’d read about it in a newspaper once, when a politician had committed suicide by putting a shotgun in his mouth. There had been no damage to his face, but the impact of the slug had torn off the back of his head.
Footsteps clattered outside. Claire picked up the towel she had used for her evening toilette and covered her arms and shoulders with the cloth that still held a trace of damp. She took a deep breath to calm her churning inside and walked toward the door.
The butler came in first. Claire had no idea how many people lived in the house. Behind the butler, the big brute of a man she knew from before leaned his shoulders into the room and edged inside, crouching low, a gun in his outstretched hand. Others followed, and soon it became too many people to count. Everyone was fully dressed. Claire realized the hour couldn’t be particularly late.
Hartman simply hadn’t been able to wait.
“He is dead,” she said in a small, fragile voice. “He attacked me, and I shot him. Co
uld someone please go and get the sheriff?”
The man who’d been crouching straightened. He stepped past the butler and extended his arm. “Ma’am, give me the gun.”
Claire looked down at her hand. It hadn’t been a conscious decision not to drop the gun. Her fingers simply seemed frozen over it. “Why?” she asked.
“We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
She met his eyes. “Since when did you worry about anyone getting hurt?”
The man frowned, looking pained, and then he inched forward. “Come now, Mrs. Hartman.” He spoke in a low, cajoling voice. “Give me the gun.”
“No.” She stepped back, her legs colliding with the edge of the bed. She recovered her balance and raised the gun at him. Then she remembered. Lifting her other hand, she pulled back the hammer.
“I want you to get rid of the body,” she told him. “Take him away.”
“We can’t do that, ma’am.” He spoke slowly. Even though he made an effort to sound soothing, he kept his gun aimed at her, his finger steady on the trigger.
Lowering her arms, Claire eased the hammer back down. “Why not?”
“The sheriff will want to see how it happened. We should leave everything as it is. Just drop the gun and walk away.” He gestured with his free hand, beckoning her.
Claire lowered the heavy revolver on top of the bedding and walked out past the butler, who had chased the others out of the room and was holding the door open for her. In the hall, she turned to glance back. The big foreman had removed the key and was locking the door from the outside. Then he ushered everyone down the corridor.
****
Claire sat on the padded sofa in the parlor, twisting Rafael’s ring around her finger. The man who had taken charge had guided her there down the hall, not touching her, just following behind her at the same slow speed as she stumbled along.
Matt Duncan…that was what he had told her his name was. Claire clung to the information, but only because it was something to think about, something to focus on, something to push all other thoughts out of her mind.
A command from him had dispersed everyone expect a solitary maid, the one who had prepared the wreath of flowers for her hair. The girl hovered in the room now, timidly offering a blanket, a cup of coffee, anything to provide a little comfort while they waited.
Lamps had been lit in the opulent room, and the antique furniture cast deep shadows over the precious carpets.
“Has someone gone to fetch the sheriff?” Claire asked in whisper.
It had escaped her notice that Matt Duncan had taken a seat in the corner of the room where the light didn’t reach, and his deep voice startled her. “There’s no point in riding out while it’s still dark. It can wait until daybreak.”
Claire nodded. She was already waiting. Why hadn’t Rafael come to her?
Of course, she realized, the barn was a ride away. It would take him a little while to get to the house.
Later, as Claire huddled on the sofa, shivering under a blanket, she told herself the sound of the gunshots couldn’t have carried that far. Rafael would come in the morning. When it got light, he would arrive, and support her with his quiet strength.
Throughout the night, she sat on the sofa, staring with unseeing eyes into the shadows, waiting. When the morning came, it brought the sheriff, and it brought the lawyer.
But it didn’t bring Rafael.
The sheriff spent a few minutes alone in the bedroom, taking care of the grisly business of examining the body. Then he came into the parlor and sat next to Claire on the sofa, sipping coffee, talking a little too loudly, as though she had trouble hearing.
“How many times did you fire the gun?” he asked.
“Two,” she replied. “I shot him twice.”
The sheriff pointed at the shiny silver revolver, which he had collected from the bedroom and had already inspected. “Three rounds have been fired.”
Claire shook her head. “I only shot him twice.”
“Three shots. That’s what people say they heard.”
“Maybe. I can’t remember.” She closed her eyes, blinked them open again. “Blood,” she said. “There was blood. On the floor. On the bed.”
The sheriff reached over and patted her hand in a paternal gesture. Claire didn’t jerk away. Remember, she told herself. He is the one you need to win over. She made an effort to listen to the sheriff’s rumbling voice as he reviewed what he had discovered so far.
“The first shot you fired must have missed. I found the bullet lodged in the wall. The second shot got him between his legs, right where it hurts the most.” A ghost of a smile passed over the lawman’s heavy features. “That would have bled slowly, but he might have lived. The last shot got him on the side of the head. That killed him instantly.”
“He kept coming at me,” Claire said, the slow motion images filling her mind. “I thought he was going to take the gun away from me.”
“He would have, but your last shot stopped him.”
She turned sideways on the sofa, and for the first time she looked straight at the sheriff. “What will happen now?”
“Well, ma’am.” The burly man rubbed his hands over his thighs, as though to wipe his fingers clean of the whole nasty business. “I reckon you killed him in self defense.” He glanced at the lawyer who had kept silent up to now. “I mean, we were both there,” the sheriff continued. “We clearly heard him say he wouldn’t trouble you at night. You might have believed he was an intruder, since you weren’t expecting him.”
“That is what I would assume.” The lawyer leaned forward in the spindly chair. “However, it was an accidental shooting. Not self defense.”
“Does it make a difference?” Claire asked
“Yes.” Catterill lowered his voice. “Since a husband is entitled to bed his wife whether she wishes it or not, it would be difficult to justify self defense.”
“I thought it was him.” Claire pointed her finger at Matt Duncan. “The man who came into my room seemed so big and powerful I thought it had to be him. I was scared. He was the ringleader on the day I was raped.”
Claire saw the man flinch. Good. She wanted him afraid. Wanted him to feel some of the fear she had felt on that day.
“I guess that settles the matter.” The sheriff lumbered to his feet, not hiding is eagerness to put an end to the matter. “I’ll ask the men to bury the body.”
“Not here,” Claire said quickly. “Not on the ranch.”
The lawyer spoke up. “If you agree, Mrs. Hartman, I can make arrangements to bury him in the cemetery in Cedar City.” He paused, and then he forged on. “Later, when you have rested, perhaps I may come over and review your husband’s property with you. Assuming that you would like me to continue handling your business affairs.”
“Yes,” Claire said listlessly. “Please come over tomorrow afternoon.” She rose from the sofa and watched the lawyer and the sheriff walk out.
“Ma’am.” She turned toward the voice that came from the corner. Matt Duncan stood on his feet, turning his hat in his hands. “I guess you’ll want me to go.”
She met his solemn gray eyes. “And I guess you’re talking about leaving the ranch rather than just leaving this room.”
H e nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I am.”
Claire considered a long moment. “No,” she said finally. “You took pity on me when you realized I was hurt. I don’t wish to force you out of your job.”
“I’d rather leave, ma’am.” The man glanced up from the hat in his hands. “Seeing you kind of makes me feel bad. It reminds me of what happened on that day, and my part in it. I’d rather just move on, if it’s all the same to you.”
“And the others?”
“They too, ma’am. There’s a group of us that’s been together for a long time, not just here at Deep Valley. We’ll ride out together. As long as you think you’ll manage until you can hire more men.”
“I’ll manage,” Claire said and released him with a no
d.
When Matt Duncan was gone, Claire wondered if it was his conscience that troubled him, or if he feared the next bullet in her gun might be intended for him. Her shoulders shifted to dismiss the question. She didn’t care one way or another. Her revenge was as complete as it needed to be. Now it was time to get on with her life.
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Chapter Twenty-Five
When Claire got back to the room where she had committed murder, the bed was freshly made with clean linens. The wool rug that had covered the floor was gone. If there had been any blood on the polished floorboards, it had already been scrubbed away.
Her gown no longer lay draped over the chair. She searched, and found it hanging in the armoire. There was a key in the door now, and when she tested the lock it turned with ease. Poking her head inside, Claire examined the hollow space. It contained nothing unusual, except for a few grains of sand scattered at the bottom.
Her brows puckered. Maybe she was getting confused. She hadn’t said anything to the sheriff about the bullet she had dropped, but only because it had completely slipped her mind. Now she squatted on her hands and knees and went over each inch of the floor. The bullet wasn’t there. Perhaps it had been thrown away, bundled up in the folds of the bloodied rug.
Putting the question out of her mind, Claire washed and changed back to her silver satin gown. Apart from her nightgown, it was the only garment she had brought with her. Then she left the room, intending to ride out to the barn and find Rafael.
At the front door she realized she might fail to find the way. The barren landscape offered few landmarks. It would stir up gossip if she asked, and instinct warned her against mentioning his name. And, if she simply rode about and searched for the barn, as she had done the previous day, Rafael might come while she was out. They could miss each other.
The sensible thing to do was to stay and wait for him. Lifting her chin, Claire walked down the hall, peering into each room as she passed the doors. She found the butler in an office at the front of the house, sitting behind a desk, turning pages in a large ledger.
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