She took one last glimpse at his eyes. There was nothing there.
Lane ached to touch her. He gripped the reins so tightly he could feel the pulse throbbing in his fingertips. He watched Rachel as she stared up at him, her eyes clear, tearless. Her face was chalk white, as colorless as the pristine white sheets on her bed.
He almost reached for her. Almost wrapped her in his arms and begged her to forgive him. Instead, he forced himself to continue wearing the chilling, emotionless stare he depended on whenever he faced down a gunman on the street. He had to stay alert, to think, to keep from showing her one shred of emotion, to keep from telling her everything that he had tucked into his heart.
He could see that his decision was breaking her heart, but there was no choice. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he was the worst thing that could have ever happened to her. There was no getting past it.
He had to leave.
She showed no signs of moving.
"Your boy needs you, Rachel," he reminded her.
He barely heard her when she said, "Good-bye, Lane," and held out her hand to him.
He stared down at her hand as if her touch had the power to kill him on the spot. He ignored the gesture and made great work of shoving his boot into the stirrup as he mounted up.
"'Bye, Rachel."
She whirled around so quickly that her skirts flared and lifted the dust. He watched her hurry over the stepping-stones in the path, saw the huge rose blooms bob to salute her as she passed. One of the fully opened blooms fell apart, the petals dropping like great, ivory tears in her wake.
He watched as she hiked up her skirt and ran up the steps, waited until the screen door banged shut behind her and she completely disappeared into the shadowed interior of the house.
He watched until there was nothing left to see and nothing to do but kick Shield into a gallop and ride out of her life.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
On hands and knees, Rachel attacked the weeds in her garden with a vengeance, pulling them out by the handful, shaking the dirt off the roots, leaving piles of them behind her as she moved between the hydrangeas and daylilies near the back door. She leaned back on her heels, placed her hands at the small of her back as she stretched. She had ignored her garden since the day Lane had ridden out of her life over a month ago. It appeared as neglected as her spirit felt.
Working outdoors had been her first conscious step toward healing the gaping wound in her heart. Until a week ago, she could barely stand the sight of the rainbow of colorful blooms. Whenever she caught herself staring out the window at the once perfectly tended plants, it seemed as if the garden belonged to someone else, as if some woman from another place and time had planted every bulb, shrub and seed.
She reached out and cut back a faded, withered lily and twirled it between her fingertips before she tossed it on the closest pile of weeds. Long days and lonely nights had made her feel much like the dried-up, colorless flower. As she brushed a fallen lock of hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist, she heard Ty call out to Delphie somewhere inside the house.
Her son was her reason for living. Because of Ty she was able to rouse herself, dress and carry on. She tried to pour every ounce of joy she could muster into him. He was growing like a weed, and thankfully, still oblivious of the storm that had raged around him during those terrible days when the McKennas had been determined to keep him. She allowed them to visit Ty, but insisted she must always be present. He was never permitted to go to the ranch without her—and she had no intention of ever going back again. They complied willingly with her conditions, but their only visit to Rachel's house had been strained and fraught with tension.
In the last week she had taken to wearing colors again, giving up black because the somber tone made her feel that she was outwardly mourning Lane's departure from her life, and there seemed little point to doing that. She didn't need black as a constant reminder that she would miss him for a very long time to come.
Robert had been buried in the family graveyard on the ranch, without the pomp and circumstance Loretta would have loved. At the time, the newspapers were full of accounts of the parlor gunfight and the subsequent death of the notorious Gentleman Bandit. To keep Lane's undercover identity a secret, there had been no mention of his part as a Pinkerton, but Arnie Wernermeyer had made certain everyone in town knew that Lane had acted as an undercover agent and that Rachel had played a small role in solving the case—a fact which helped explain the bogus kidnapping. She made a point of thanking Arnie personally for his attempt to clear her name. But whenever she walked down Main or into Carberry's General Store, she was greeted with sly glances and hushed whispers.
As she sat in the dirt musing over all the work that needed to be done, Rachel heard the back screen door slam and looked up, hoping Ty had come to keep her company. Instead, she saw Delphie hurrying along the path toward her.
"What is it?" Rachel asked with alarm when she noticed the expression on Delphie's face.
"The McKennas' girl, Martha, is here. Says she has to talk to you. She seems very upset."
Immediately on guard, Rachel wanted to know, "Where's Ty?"
"In the house. She brought him a toy. Made it herself."
Rachel stood and brushed her hands together and then stripped off her garden gloves and handed them to Delphie.
"Put these in the lath house, please, and then come join us. Who knows what the McKennas are up to now?"
Rachel shook out the blue gingham skirt of one of her everyday dresses and hurried toward the house, where she found Martha standing uncomfortably in the parlor with a bulging, faded satchel at her feet. The maid was dressed for travel in an ill-fitting wool suit of drab olive green that did little for her pale complexion.
"Martha," Rachel began, fighting to keep the anxiety out of her voice. "How nice to see you. What brings you into town?"
The young Irishwoman's bright blue eyes were red-rimmed, sparkling with unshed tears. Rachel saw the girl's hands shake, despite her attempts to hold them tight against her waist. Rachel reached out to Martha and drew her over to the settee.
"Oh, no, ma'am, I couldn't," Martha said with a shake of her head when she realized Rachel meant for her to sit down. "I just came to say good-bye to little Ty and see him once more before I leave."
"You're leaving the McKennas?" Although she wasn't surprised, Rachel wondered where the girl would go.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm going back to Boston, back to my folks and fiancé, Tommy." She looked down at her hands and blushed beet red.
"Why, Martha, that's wonderful news. Congratulations."
Just then, Delphie walked into the room, and Rachel urged her closer with a wave as she continued to talk to Martha. "You do want to go, don't you? Certainly that's not what has you so upset. Is everything all right at the ranch?"
"As right as it can be with Mister Robert dead and not two nights ago, Miss Mary Margaret run off with one of the cowhands. She left and didn't take a stitch of anythin' with her. Told me aforehand that she was leavin' and that it was going to be the greatest escapade of her life."
Rachel almost smiled, but Martha's beleaguered expression led her to ask, "Then what is it? Don't you want to marry this man in Boston?"
Martha looked up so quickly, with such a glow in her eyes, that Rachel didn't doubt her for a minute when she said, "Oh, yes, ma'am, I do. I love him dearly, but it took him some time to come around, ye see." She glanced over at Delphie and then back to Rachel. "Maybe I will sit," she said softly.
Ty ignored them while he played happily in the corner with the hand-stitched horse Martha had fashioned for him out of scraps of calico.
"Please do," Rachel said. "Would you like some tea?"
Martha shook her head. "No, thank ye. Can I be honest with ye, ma'am?"
"Of course," Rachel said. "The McKennas aren't about to try to"—she glanced over at Ty—"you know…"
"Oh, no, ma'am. I'm sorry
if I scart ye that way. It's just that I knew I couldn't leave town without tellin' ye about what really happened that day your man come to the McKennas' about Mister Robert bein' the Gentleman Bandit and all."
Rachel's heart began to thud. "My… my man? Do you mean Lane Cassidy?" It was the first time she had spoken his name aloud since he rode away.
"Yes, ma'am. Ye see, I was downstairs when he and the others came and I got lost in the hubbub, sort of waitin' around to see if I was going to have to pack up Ty's things or not. Anyway, I heard your man and old Mr. McKenna arguin' about the boy, and they went on and on about your good name and Ty's future.
"Mr. Cassidy came right back at the old man. Laughed in his face, he did. Told him that the McKenna name was blacker'n yours now and that there was no way they could keep your boy from you."
It wasn't hard to imagine Lane standing up to Stuart the way Martha described, proud and defiant, eyes blazing with black fury.
"Go on."
"Finally, Mr. McKenna said he'd agree to send the boy home to you on one account—that Mr. Cassidy promise to have nothin' to do with you and the boy ever again once he delivered him to ye. Said he would never stop fightin', that he would drain you of every penny before he would allow the man who murdered his son to be around Ty. Said he'd never forgive the man—or you—for Mister Robert's death and that the only way he would agree to drop the fight was if Mr. Cassidy swore to leave town for good."
"So Lane agreed—"
"Without takin' a breath, ma'am, and anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear could tell it was killin' him to make that promise. He must have loved you more than life itself. I told myself right then and there that if a man ever claimed to love me half as much, I'd be a fool not to do whatever it took to be with him. Then, not a week ago, my Tommy wrote me and promised me the moon if I'd go back home to him."
Rachel barely heard the rest. She glanced over at Delphie, who had sunk into a chair and balled her apron up into a hopeless tangle in her lap. It was a moment or two before Rachel realized tears were spilling down her own cheeks.
Martha apologized. "I didn't mean to upset you so, ma'am, but I knew if I was in your place, I'd want to know what it cost your man to leave ye and to know that he didn't want to go, but that he did it all for love of ye. He did it so's ye could have your boy back." She took a deep breath. "I couldn't leave knowin' ye were sittin' here thinkin' he left 'cause he didn't care anymore."
Blinded by her tears, Rachel reached out for Martha. The maid took her hands and held on tight. "I'll never be able to repay you for what you've given me today, Martha. Never. But I can offer you some traveling money—"
"No, ma'am," Martha said proudly. "I won't be takin' charity. I've saved my pay and I've got my ticket home, but I thank ye for offerin'." She stood up, her trepidation gone now that she had related the tale. She finally smiled. "I'll just be tellin' Ty good-bye and I'll be on my way."
Rachel waited while Martha knelt down and hugged Ty long and hard and then walked the girl to the door. Martha paused in the open doorway and shifted her heavy satchel to her other hand.
"What'll ye do now, ma'am? Will ye be tryin' to find Mr. Cassidy? I'd like to know there'll be a happy ending."
For the first time in a long, long while, Rachel smiled.
"I hope so, Martha. I can assure you I'm definitely going to try to find him." She reached out and hugged Martha for a brief moment, embarrassing the girl beyond words.
"Safe journey, Martha," Rachel said.
"Good luck, ma'am."
As she closed the door, Rachel felt as if she had all the luck in the world whirling about her at that moment. She spun around and ran back into the parlor. Delphie was on her feet, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.
"I knew it," Delphie said smugly, and then sniffled. "I knew Lane Cassidy couldn't up and leave you that way. Why, if I could get to your father-in-law right now I'd—"
"Never mind him, Delphie. He's not worth the effort. Right now we have to decide what to do."
"We? What's there to decide? You're going to write that Mr. Johnson and the Pinkertons and have him send Lane back as fast as he can—"
"He won't come back, Delphie." Rachel paced over to the center table, absentmindedly adjusted the photographs and a stack of books beside them. "Lane promised Stuart to stay away from us, and he'll keep his word."
"Then how… ?"
"I never promised Stuart anything, and Lane certainly can't make any promises for me. Besides, it was blackmail for Stuart to force Lane into a decision like that."
"I don't like that look in your eye. What are you thinking?"
The answer was as crystal clear and loud as the decision to put aside her black mourning gowns.
"I'm selling the house."
"What?"
Rachel said it again, louder this time, savoring the words she'd never thought she'd utter. "I'm selling the house. To the first buyer. To the bank, if I have to."
"But you love this house. It was your mother's house."
"Exactly. I've loved it as she did. I held on to it to maintain my independence when I was married to Stuart, but now it's time to let it go. When I think about it, Delphie, I realized that since my parents died, I've never really been happy here, but I've clung to it nonetheless. It's time to let it go."
"Where will you go?"
"Wherever Lane is."
"I don't know if I should be buttin' in like this, but maybe you ought to find him before you give up the house. Maybe you'd better see if… well, if—"
"If he still wants me?" Rachel took a deep breath and released it. She walked over to the mantel, shifted a candlestick holder two inches to the right and then stepped away from it.
"Even if there was more to his leaving than just his promise to Stuart, even if Lane can't offer more than a day-to-day arrangement, even if he can't offer me anything at all, I still want to start over. I want to teach again. I want to really live my life, before it's too late."
"Then I guess I had better start packing." With her dark eyes bright with the challenge, Delphie looked around the room at all of Rachel's possessions.
"Just our clothes and a few keepsakes. Mine, Ty's and yours—if you want to go with us." Rachel waited, realizing she had perhaps assumed too much.
Delphie looked thoughtful for a moment and then smiled. "When my husband died, I decided to go wherever the winds of fate blew me. Besides, I want to see how all this turns out."
Ty walked over to Rachel, leaned against her and held the new patchwork horse close to his chest. Looking up at her with soulful eyes, he said, "Mama, I heard you talkin' about Lane. Is he coming back soon?"
He had asked her the same question countless times over the past few weeks. Before it had caused her pain. Now Rachel had cause to hope. She brushed his chestnut hair off his forehead and cupped his cheek.
"We're going to go find him instead, Ty."
"Where is he?"
"I'm not real sure, but I think I know a man who can help us find out. We'll have to go to Denver."
"Can I wear my new hat?"
"Certainly. I may even have to get a new hat for myself before we go," she told him. "And one for Delphie, too."
Rachel paused in the hallway of the brick building at Sixteenth and Curtis that housed the Denver headquarters of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Her calm outer demeanor belied the turmoil roiling inside her. In a few moments she would know where Lane was, and in a few hours, if he was working close by, she would be reunited with him.
She adjusted the stylish, fur-trimmed hat that crowned her upswept hairstyle. Delphie had labored over the new look for almost an hour before Rachel left the hotel. A scarlet bow at her throat added a daring touch of color to her ensemble. The chocolate brown, hip-length jacket, with its puffed shoulders, leg-of-mutton sleeves and matching skirt, gave her a sophisticated air that made her feel more a part of the city's surroundings.
Satisfied that she looked presentable, an
d anxious to meet Boyd Johnson, Rachel walked down the hall past open doors where busy office boys, accountants, bookkeepers and stenographers worked hunched over desks or bustled to and fro. She followed directions given her by the secretary on the first floor and continued to the end of the hall, where she reached a door with the word administrators stenciled on the glass.
Letting herself in, Rachel asked a smiling, bespectacled man with a personable air if Administrator Johnson had time to see her. The secretary looked her over from head to toe, took her name and asked her to wait. Two minutes later, she was being ushered into Johnson's inner sanctum.
Johnson, wearing a burgundy checkered suit, was already moving around the wide, cherry-wood desk to greet her. He appeared a little more portly than when she had glimpsed him dressed as a drunkard on the street in Last Chance. She tried not to stare at the thick white mustache that covered his upper lip or the muttonchops that more than made up for the lack of hair on his head. His greeting was warm and cordial, although she thought she saw something akin to sympathy in his eyes. Her already frazzled nerves accelerated.
"Mrs. McKenna, what a pleasant surprise." He pulled a chair up to his desk and drew another alongside it. "Sit down. Sit down and tell me what brings you all the way to Denver."
Trying to appear at ease, Rachel smiled, set her reticule in her lap and folded her gloved hands atop it.
"I think you probably already know the answer to that, Mr. Johnson. You see, a few weeks ago I learned that Lane left Last Chance abruptly because my former father-in-law would not release my son to me unless Lane ended our… our association." She was unable to meet his eyes after trying to put a name to what she and Lane had shared.
Johnson sat across from her with his ankle propped on his knee. He cradled his chin in his hand and listened intently. There was a patient, fatherly air about him that gave her the courage to go on.
"Lane told me he had an urgent Pinkerton assignment, but now I know that was not his entire reason for leaving. I'm quite certain he would not have completely disassociated himself from me and my son if it hadn't been for his promise to the McKennas."
Last Chance Page 27
