Finally, she wanted to be there for Henry in order to be true, at last, to his memory. She wanted to know that the man she had helped to entrap was her brother’s murderer, that she had brought about what she had come so far to do. She wanted reassurance that she had kept faith with Henry so that she could leave this place and never return.
Reasons and more reasons, but in the end it was a small thing really that she required. She just wanted to see him. And she felt she owed it to him to see him alone, for the sake of past consideration.
Lettie and the colonel made good time. Thirty minutes before the hour set for the meeting, they were within a mile of it. The colonel’s men had been deployed well before dark in case the Thorn should take the time to watch the place before he came in. There was no reason to suspect that he might fear a trap, still, it was best to be prepared. The colonel drew rein, and Lettie pulled up beside him.
“Are you sure you want to meet him alone?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll warn you again, it may be dangerous if he decides to shoot it out.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“I want your word that at the first sign of trouble you will drop to the floor and stay there.”
“I’ll do that.”
“My men and I will never be far away. It will be over before you know it.”
“Please don’t worry about me.”
He swore. “How can I not? I shouldn’t let you do this. I’d order you to stand back and let us take care of it if I thought it would do any good. You know that if anything happens to you, Sally Anne will never forgive me.”
“That is, of course, something for me to worry about,” she said with wry humor.
“Oh, the devil, you know what I mean!”
“I do know, and I promise you I’ll be all right.”
“See that you keep that promise.”
She rode on without him, leaving him to reach the rendezvous by a more circuitous route.
The night was moonless and dusty. The wind with the breath of the Texas plains in it dried out her face so that the skin felt tight and stretched. It also made her horse skittish. Or it might have been her own edginess affecting her mount. She was not without a certain apprehension. In fact, her nerves were tied in knots. It wasn’t her safety that troubled her, however, but rather this terrible need to be assured that she had done the right thing.
She thought the colonel, from the way he had looked at her, suspected her of setting this trap for revenge. He could not know all the reasons she might have for doing that. Weren’t the deaths of two men, her brother and Johnny, enough?
Still, he was wrong. Or was he? She felt no need to gloat over the Thorn, and yet remnants of her anger lingered. It was her own weakness that enraged her most. To see the man laid by the heels might assuage it, it very well might, but it was not her main object. Her motive was much more complicated than that.
Was it really?
She had told herself a great many things, marshaled reasons by the score, but in the end she thought that what she wanted most of all was to hear what the Thorn would have to say in his defense. If there was anything he could say.
The turning that led to the corncrib lay before her. The woods around it were quiet, so quiet. The colonel’s men were well hidden; she saw not a sign of them. The track was narrow and overreached by the rampant new growth of the summer. The briers of vines tugged at her poplin skirts, and the tassels of some blooming grass sent out floating bits of fluff that tickled her nose as she passed.
The low corn crib was a dark shape more sagging and forlorn than when she had seen it last, and the lean-to seemed lower and more ramshackle. She unhooked her knee from the side horn and slid to the ground, then stood holding to the stirrup while she stamped the prickles of cramp from her legs.
She stared about her in the darkness. This was where the Thorn had spent the night when she had forced him at gunpoint out of the corncrib into the inclement weather. He must have huddled against the wall over there, away from the dripping rain. It was a wonder he had not crept back inside and disarmed her while she slept. She had never thought of that.
And there was no point in thinking of it now. Holding one hand before her, she felt in the darkness for a post and tied up the horse. The animal pushed at her with his head, as if wondering where his oats were, and she stood for a moment holding the bridle, rubbing her hand over his nose. She gave him a last pat and turned toward the corncrib.
The door creaked as she pulled it open. The familiar smell of cornhusks and mice and dust assailed her, bringing memories she would just as soon forget. She had a sudden impulse to slam the door and run, run and never stop running until she reached the outskirts of Boston.
It wouldn’t do. She must finish what she had begun. She owed it to Johnny. It was here that she had stood talking and joking with him while they waited for the Thorn to come to take him to Texas. Here that they had first seen that caricature of an old woman, that deadly old woman.
If she concentrated on those things, she might hold those other memories at bay, the ones she had tried so hard to wipe from her mind.
It could not be done.
She should have set this meeting for somewhere, anywhere, else. Inside the crib, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, fighting to keep her mind blank. Still, they crowded in on her, the memories. The unbelievable cataclysm of desire she had shared with a murderous stranger. The wonders of touch. The magic of joined bodies. That odd sense of recognition, not of his identity, but of something inside him that made him seem a familiar soul. These things were imprinted on her mind and heart beyond forgetting. There was only one thing that could remove them, and that was death.
The time was drawing near.
Almost, she wished he would not come. She would have done her duty but would be relieved of this terrible weight of responsibility.
Oh, but to spend the rest of her life not knowing? That, too, would be intolerable.
Hoofbeats.
They were no more than a distant drumming, fading and growing louder with the wind. A shiver ran through her. She clasped her hands together. She thought that Thomas wanted the Thorn alive for questioning, but she had not thought to ask. Why had she not asked?
Hoofbeats.
Louder, thudding with an irregular rhythm. Suppose they shot him on sight, before there was a chance to see him, to speak to him?
Hoofbeats.
He was coming fast. Was he anxious to see her, or was he angry that she had summoned him again? What was he thinking as he rode? Was he noticing the stillness, the lack of night sounds?
Hoofbeats.
A steady thunder. Could she stop this thing if she wanted to? If she ran screaming out into the night, would he turn and fly or would he ride in to discover what was wrong?
Hoofbeats.
Soon. She was such a fool to not know her own mind, to have any compunction for the capture of such a vicious man.
Hoofbeats, slowing, jogging down the track. Nearer. Nearer.
She didn’t want to know. She didn’t. She was afraid. There was something that nagged at her, some warning unheeded, some knowledge buried deep.
A bit jingled. Saddle leather creaked. A horse made a soft, snuffling sound and another whickered in response. The door made a scraping sound. It swung open.
His tall form was outlined against the gray darkness, broad of shoulder, easy of stance, a hat tipped at a slight angle on his head. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He took a step forward. When he spoke, his voice was soft, faintly curious.
“Miss Lettie?”
She came erect, and the rush of the blood in her veins was like poison with the fear that gripped her. “Ranny? What are you doing here? Go away! Now!”
The night erupted with the figures of men shouting and cursing as they ran. The door crashed against the wall as it was flung back on its hinges. Four soldiers threw themselves on Ranny whi
le two others whirled inside, then stood back with their rifles trained on the struggling, thrashing group. There came the thud of blows, the grunts of effort.
Lettie, recovering from her frozen consternation, plunged forward. She caught a uniformed arm, pulling, clawing. “Stop it! Stop! It’s the wrong man! You have the wrong man!”
She was jerked this way and that, tripping over her skirts. The blow came out of the darkness. It caught her on the shoulder. She staggered, reeling, and fell against the wall.
An order rang out. The night was full of men and the bristling barrels of rifles. A lantern flared, its light blinding, virulent in its brightness.
The fight was over.
Ranny was hatless, his arms twisted behind his back and his legs wide apart. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and his golden-blond hair was sliding into his eyes as he stood with his head down trying to catch his breath. Slowly he squared his shoulders, lifted his head. His gaze found Lettie, resting on her as she pushed into a sitting position on the floor.
He met her eyes. Slowly he moved his head-from side to side. “Oh, Miss Lettie, what have you done?”
The men were pushed aside as Thomas Ward stepped into the crib. “Lettie,” he exclaimed as he saw her on the floor. He moved toward her with long strides. “Are you all right?”
She gave him her hands and he pulled her to her feet. “Thomas, make them let him go. It’s Ranny.”
The colonel barely glanced at his prisoner. “I would let him go if I could, but there has to be an investigation.”
“What are you talking about? This is Ranny!”
“This is the man who found the letter you left in the tree, Lettie.”
She stared at him in confusion and feverish disbelief. What he said might be true, but there had to be some other explanation, there had to be. She turned to Ranny. “Tell Thomas why you came here. Tell him how you knew to come.”
“I came because I found the letter,” Ranny said obligingly.
“Yes, but how? How did you find it?”
“I saw you go. I followed you. We put a letter in the tree one time before.”
Lettie swung around to Thomas. “You see! He was with me the first time I used the hollow tree to contact the Thorn. That’s all there is to it!”
“I’m not so sure. For my part, it all fits a little too well. I’ll have to take him in.”
She put out her hand to clutch his arm. “Thomas, no. Please!”
He removed her hand from his sleeve. His voice was firm when he spoke. “It’s a matter of duty, Lettie, however unpleasant. I have to do it.”
Ransom watched Lettie. It was almost worth the drubbing he had taken to hear her plead for him. He would like to hear her do a great deal more pleading, though not to Thomas Ward and not for Ranny.
It was no use blaming her, however. He had known how disturbed she was, known also that she was his weakness. Still, most women would have thought it necessary to demand an explanation for Johnny’s death, to throw his failure to save him in his face and threaten to expose him. That was what he had expected tonight. He had given too much weight to the physical rapport between them and not enough to her conscience. But he had meant to end the farce he had been playing with her. He had come as Ranny because it seemed the best way to do it. He had actually been looking forward to dropping the mask he had worn for so many years, to revealing his true self. It seemed he must wear it a little longer, as long as it would serve.
The colonel snapped an order. Ranny was hauled around and marched out the door. The soldiers guarding him swung around smartly and followed him. Thomas, with his hand under Lettie’s arm, gave her no choice except to do the same.
The horses were brought up, including Lettie’s mount from the lean-to. In a short time, they were all in the saddle. Thomas walked his horse to where Lettie sat in the darkness and touched his hat brim.
“Are you sure you weren’t hurt just now?”
“No.” Her voice was cold.
“Good. Good. I would hate for any harm to have come to you over this.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“I don’t think I need to tell you again how much the United States Army appreciates your cooperation.”
“No. I know it very well.”
He brought his hand down on his leg in exasperation. “Hang it all, Lettie, I’m only doing my job!”
“I realize that. It’s extremely important that you not let such a desperate and dangerous man, such a ferocious killer, ride free about the countryside.”
“He could be all of those things.”
“A man who can’t bear to stick a pin in a butterfly?”
“Be reasonable! I have to look into it.”
“Certainly.”
“Think about it, Lettie. He was a soldier, a daredevil, an actor in theatricals.”
“‘Was is the right word.”
“Dink’s Pond is near his house. The Thorn came at least once to Splendora itself; you saw him there!”
“Look at him!” she cried. “He could be taken for the angel Gabriel.”
“Gabriel carries a sword.”
“The Thorn doesn’t, and he isn’t the Thorn!”
“You should know, of course, since you’ve seen the man. Or is it just that having seen him now without his disguise you’ve changed your mind?”
“Why are you so determined that he’s the Thorn? Is there a promotion for you if you catch him?”
Thomas straightened in the saddle, gathering up his reins. His tone was cutting when he answered. “I hope that by the time I talk to you in the morning you will be in a more reasonable frame of mind. In the meantime, I will detail a man to see you home.”
He was leaving. With his prisoner. Lettie put out her hand in haste to touch his arm. “I’m sorry for what I said. Please remember the hospitality of Splendora that you and your men have enjoyed. Remember, and be kind.”
The detail moved out. Lettie followed with her escort at a slower pace. At the Red River crossing at Grand Ecore, she had to wait for the ferry to return for her after taking the last of the detail over. By the time she reached the other side, the soldiers and their prisoner had disappeared in the direction of Natchitoches.
Her escort left her at the gate of Splendora. She opened it and moved along the path and up the steps. She paused for a long moment on the gallery, breathing the scented air. Nowhere else, she thought, smelled like Splendora.
The wind had died. There was only a singing silence. She could feel it all around her, that Southern summer night. But the house looming over her felt empty.
Think, Lettie.
She would not. Ranny had passed his test. He had been here at Splendora when he said he had a headache. There was no other time when he could have done all the things of which the Thorn was accused.
He had not been in bed. He was outside on the veranda, so he said, but he might have heard her in his room before he left and returned to confront her.
He had been injured long before there was a need for the Thorn to fight the changes brought about by Reconstruction.
But he had been in prison for a long time, and after he returned home he had been ill for months more. He might have regained his senses in time to have a reason for failing to make it known.
She had been with him for weeks, talked to him, taught him, with no sign that he might be other than a brain-injured man.
Perhaps he had been damaged for a time so that he knew the signs. Or perhaps there had been others in the Washington hospital where he had been treated so that he learned them.
He was so gentle, so loving. Surely that could not be counterfeited?
He was the right size.
So were any number of others, including Martin Eden and Thomas Ward.
His eyes were the right color.
Or were they? It was difficult to tell. Ranny’s still seemed just a little bluer. Besides, the two voices were so different, and that was something not easy to disgu
ise.
Those amateur theatricals. Perhaps there was some actor’s trick?
Aunt Em was too honest, too forthright, and possibly too garrulous to keep up such a masquerade for so long, and how could so important a development as Ranny’s recovery of his faculties be kept from her?
A man daring enough to begin the subterfuge could find a way.
The Thorn had made love to her. Surely there would have been some response within herself to that fact when Ranny had touched her?
That feeling of longing and depravity. Oh, God.
But if Ranny was the Thorn, then he was a killer. A man who could murder his best friend, then cry over the news when it came; a man who could throw that friend’s body down a well as if it were a broken toy, then play a sweet and mournful dirge over his grave.
No.
If Ranny was the Thorn, then he was no killer.
The Thorn was a killer.
Then Ranny was not the Thorn. Unless…
Unless he was not himself when he killed? Unless the injury to his brain had been such that it had caused some form of madness?
There was a terrible sense of rightness to that possibility. If Ranny did not know he was committing the crimes, then in the light of day he would seem no different. Perhaps there was something, some kind of violence or danger, that triggered the instinct to kill. There had been something about him that had disturbed her when he had interrupted the fight between Thomas and Martin and also on the night when the Knights came.
But how did that fit in with the avenging Thorn who set out at night to redress the injustices of the countryside, who spouted Latin and evaded the best efforts of the sheriff and the military? Surely any man who could do that for the better part of two years could not be mad?
It was she who was insane, or who would become so if she did not end this uncertainty.
She was so weary, the result not only of the tension and upsets of the evening but of weeks of fitful rest. She would like to go straight to her room, climb into bed, and pull the sheet over her head. She could not be so callous or so cowardly, however. There was an unpleasant duty that she must perform. What the outcome would be, she did not know, but it could not be avoided.
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