Brooks took the bucket from her hands. “Old injury. Nothing to worry about.” Though after Wyatt took the bucket from him, he rolled his sleeve back down. “Why don’t you take a break, Mayor, now that Mr. Reed is here?”
Mayor Evans jerked from his attempt to steer her out of the line. “I’m not about to rest when Evans Grove needs me.” She grabbed the next bucket from Mr. Regan.
“Sheriff, we found the culprit,” shouted Bucky Wyler. “Got him ’round back.”
“That so?” Mason stepped out of the brigade. “Coming, Deputy?”
At first Wyatt thought Mason was talking to someone else, but the sheriff was looking straight at him.
“I could use your help, Deputy.”
That title sure sounded sweet. Wyatt could hardly believe Mason still trusted him. First Charlotte and Sasha were safe, and now his job was intact. That was some answer to prayer. He mopped his brow. He’d just promised God to do whatever He asked, but Wyatt had no idea how to figure out what that might be. So he’d start by helping Mason.
He followed the sheriff to where Bucky Wyler stood guard over an unconscious man lying on the ground near the privy.
“Is he hurt?” Wyatt asked.
Mason shook his head in disgust. “Drunk. I wouldn’t have figured Vern Hicks as someone who’d light buildings on fire.”
“You think he did it on purpose?” Wyatt’s skin crawled.
“Might’ve been an accident,” said Bucky. “You know he smokes them cigars. Might’ve flicked a lit one too close to the school afore he dropped off.”
Mason rubbed his chin and surveyed the distance to the smoldering schoolhouse. “That would have had to be one long flick.”
Wyatt estimated it at twenty feet or more.
Bucky tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. “Well, he might’ve dropped it down there and then toddled over here ta relieve himself.”
Mason sighed, but he didn’t look convinced. “Guess he’s the only suspect we have.”
“But why would anyone want to burn down a school?” Bucky asked.
Wyatt knew one person who might. One man had leveled threats yesterday. Would Baxter have hired Hicks to do the job?
“For mischief, Mr. Wyler.”
The three men started at the sound of Miss Ward’s voice.
“What do you mean, ma’am?” asked Mason.
All prim and proper, Beatrice held her bag before her like a shield. “Those street-urchin orphans, is what I mean. First the thefts and now this. Who else was here this morning except those children?”
Wyatt clenched his fists. If Beatrice Ward weren’t a woman, he would knock some sense into her. Sasha could have died. All the children could have died. And she blamed them?
Mason’s jaw tightened. “My wife was here. You’re not accusing her, are you?”
Miss Ward flinched. “I’m sure she had nothing to do with it. The orphans probably waited until she wasn’t looking.”
“They’re innocent children,” Wyatt growled.
“Unlike some men who frequent saloons.” Miss Ward glared at him before returning her attention to Mason. “Now, I’m not saying they set the fire deliberately. Ill-mannered children will get into mischief.”
“They’re not ill-mannered!” Wyatt yelled. “They’re just like any other children.”
Mason cut off the rest of Wyatt’s rant. “Now, Miss Ward, there’s no reason to think the children had anything to do with it.”
The spinster wouldn’t back down. “Your wife does keep matches on hand to light the stove, does she not? From what I recall, they are within reach of any child inside the school.”
Mason looked like he’d punch Miss Ward the way he’d clocked Wyatt, but the sheriff managed to maintain control. “A good lawman never jumps to conclusions, Miss Ward. All possibilities will be investigated.”
“Well.” She sniffed. “That’s the most a law-abiding citizen can ask.”
No doubt she was referring to Wyatt’s tarnished past.
Miss Ward drilled Mason with a pointed look. “I can count on you to keep me informed?”
Mason managed a curt nod.
“Very well. Good day, gentlemen.” Satisfied that she’d accomplished what she’d come to do, Miss Ward picked her way past the weary citizens dumping buckets of water on the remaining fire.
“That old biddy didn’t lift a finger ta help,” observed Bucky. “Jess picked fault.”
Wyatt couldn’t have summed it up better.
Mason sighed. “Suppose we’d better get Vern to the jail. Wyatt, why don’t you and me cart him there so Bucky can continue fighting the fire? He’s part of our fire department.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.” Bucky headed back to the blaze.
At this point, they had the fire under control and men were taking axes to the remnants of the walls. Wyatt shuddered. The building had gone up so quickly. If anyone had been inside, they would never have been able to get out. Just like Atlanta. Yet the memory no longer carried the pain it once had. Maybe because this time, he’d been one of the people fighting the fire, doing the right thing—and possibly even with God on his side.
Wyatt looked toward the spot where Charlotte had stood, but she was gone. With the fire almost out, she’d probably taken Sasha home.
“If you take one side, and I take the other, we should be able to drag the lout to the jail,” Mason said.
“That’s a couple blocks.” Wyatt eyed the distance. “We could lay him on my horse and take him that way.”
Mason agreed to that plan, and Wyatt hurried off to fetch Dusty from where he’d left him unhitched in front of someone’s house. The crotchety horse had discovered the owner’s pansies and was making a feast of them.
The elderly woman slapped at the horse with her bonnet. “Stop that. Shoo! I said get out of here!”
Wyatt stoppered a chuckle. “Ma’am? My apologies. Let me compensate you for your loss.”
“Oooh.” The woman drew up, her eyes round as he handed her a few coins, more than covering the cost of her half-eaten flowers. “Thank ye.”
In the process of retrieving the coins, Wyatt felt the gold watch in his pocket. Maybe it belonged to Hicks. If so, then he’d gone very close to the front door and probably was at fault, putting to rest Miss Ward’s accusation against the orphans.
He’d have to show the watch to Mason.
* * *
Charlotte simply wasn’t tall enough to see over the crowds of people surrounding the fire. All that mattered was that everyone was safe. She’d wondered if Wyatt might be there. If he saw the fire before leaving town, he might have stayed. But the ladies she talked to hadn’t seen him, so he must have left to track Jakob.
Since Sasha got antsy standing around, she brought her home. As soon as she opened the door, she knew something was wrong.
The house felt empty and lifeless, like after Charles died, only worse. But Wyatt hadn’t kept much here, and the few things he did bring fit into his saddlebags, which he would have taken with him, anyway. She rubbed the goose pimples on her arms.
“Pitty!” Sasha stood on her chair and reached across the table for her jar of geraniums, which wasn’t in the center of the table anymore.
Charlotte darted over to stop Sasha from climbing onto the table, and her heart sank. A folded piece of paper with her name scrawled on it sat underneath the jar.
With trembling hands, she slipped the note from beneath the jar and handed the flowers to Sasha. A smudge marred the paper beneath her name. His fingerprint? She touched it, wanting to believe it was a love letter, that he’d said in writing what he couldn’t express aloud, but deep down she knew it wasn’t. Part of her wanted to throw the note into the stove unread, but the larger part had to know what he’d written. So she unfolded the paper.
His handwriting scrawled across the page, as if he’d hurried to get it all down. The opening sentence drove a knife through her heart.
Dear Charlotte, I’ve provided for you and Sasha.
She didn’t need to read the rest to know what it would say. He was leaving—truly leaving, with no intention of coming back. He’d already gone. But he’d eased his conscience by setting aside some money for her. Every cruel word confirmed that supposition.
When she reached the bitter end, her knees gave way. She sank to the floor. The sobs came next. She could stifle them at first, but then they came with greater urgency until she could hold them back no longer. Had the way he held her been nothing more than pretense? Did he never care?
Sob after wrenching sob tore from her, washing away thirteen years of loveless marriage, Charles’s death and the cruelty of loving another man who couldn’t love her in return.
“Mama?”
Sasha’s slender arms wrapped around her neck, and Charlotte held her close, held her tight, held her forever.
“Sasha, dearest. I will never stop loving you. Ever. Ever.”
That’s all she had now.
* * *
After locking Vern Hicks in the jail cell, Wyatt showed Mason the pocket watch. “Found this near the door of the schoolhouse. Thought it might belong to Mr. Hicks.” He rubbed the watchcase against his trouser leg to remove the dirt and grime.
“Looks like gold,” Mason said. “Can’t see Vern having anything that expensive unless he won it gambling. They’re always scrabbling to get by, thanks to Vern’s drinking. Do you think it could be brass?”
Wyatt took a closer look. “Looks like gold to me. No tarnish anywhere.” He flipped the watchcase over and stared. The scrolling monogram gave its owner away. He’d seen this watch before. “Felix Baxter.”
“Baxter?” Mason stepped forward. “Are you telling me this watch belongs to Baxter?”
“I saw him take it out yesterday when we talked. It’s engraved with his initials.” Wyatt showed him the watchcase.
“Hold the cavalry. You saw Baxter yesterday?”
“He cornered me by the hotel. Acted like he’d just arrived and said he was leaving that evening.”
“Hmm.” Mason examined the watch. “Now why would he come to town for only a few hours?”
“Somehow he’d learned the outcome of the hearing, and he wasn’t happy.”
Mason narrowed his gaze. “Is that why you came up with that cockamamie story about marrying Charlotte for her money? Did Baxter threaten you?”
Wyatt supposed if he was ever going to get the life he wanted with Charlotte, he’d better start telling the whole truth. “He threatened to harm Charlotte if I didn’t finish the job and find a way to get the orphans to Greenville. Since there’s no way I’d take those kids away from here, I figured I had to get away from Charlotte and make sure people thought I didn’t care about her to protect her from retaliation.”
Mason drew in a sharp breath. “I can’t blame you for doing what you did, then. I’d have done the same. Sorry I clocked you in the jaw.”
Wyatt rubbed the tender spot. “I deserved it.”
Mason set the watch on his desk. “You said you found this at the schoolhouse. Could Baxter have been on the scene sometime yesterday afternoon?”
“I don’t think so. I saw the watch late in the afternoon. Four-thirty or later, I’d say. After we finished talking, Baxter went to the hotel dining room to eat supper. I took care of some business upstairs with Brooks, and when I came down, Baxter was still in the dining room, talking to someone.”
“Who?”
“That’s the trouble. I couldn’t see who it was. The wall blocked my view from inside the hotel, and the sun was reflecting off the outside windows so I couldn’t see in.”
Mason drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Doesn’t matter. The hotel staff will know. They’ll also know if he checked out.”
“You don’t think he took the evening stage?”
“Considering that watch, I highly doubt it.”
“Then that means we’ve locked up the wrong man.”
At that moment, the office door opened and a pale, nervous woman entered. She twisted and kneaded the bag in her hands. She looked familiar, but Wyatt couldn’t place her.
“I understand you have Vern?” She looked at the floor as she spoke.
A grumble echoed from the jail cell as Vern Hicks came out of his stupor. “Dat you, Meelie?” he slurred.
The plump woman cringed, and Wyatt felt sorry for her.
Mason shook his head. “I oughta keep you here, Vern, until you sober up.”
The woman looked up hopefully, but Vern shouted obscenities from within the cell, and she shrank again, like a wilted flower. She was no match for that bully in the cell.
“Sorry, Mrs. Hicks,” Mason said with genuine concern. “We can’t keep him here without charges.”
She nodded in resignation and fiddled with the clasp on her bag. “Do I owe bail?”
Mason stilled her hands. “Not a cent.” He tossed Wyatt the keys. “Why don’t you let him out?”
Wyatt hated to subject the woman to the tirade her husband would unleash on her. “Are you sure we can’t keep him until he’s sobered up?”
Mason shook his head. “It’s tempting, but he didn’t cause a ruckus.” Mason turned to the drunk. “You going to behave yourself, Vern?”
“Course.” Hicks quieted down a lot. “Come on, Meelie, and get me outta here.”
Wyatt gritted his teeth. That man did not deserve a wife.
“Best let Vern out,” Mason said to Wyatt. “From what you told me, we’ve got a dangerous man to find. The sooner we get going, the better chance we have of catching him.”
We? Wyatt reveled in the undeserved confidence. It’d been a long time since a good man like Mason placed his trust in Wyatt. Two men stood a better chance than one of taking Baxter down, especially when one of them was the sheriff. The risk was still high. Baxter could have gunmen protecting him. The man could be lying in wait, but Wyatt had never stepped away from danger. He’d also had nothing to lose then. Now he had a wife and daughter.
“Charlotte!” he exclaimed, remembering the terrible note he’d left for her. She would have found it and read it by now. She’d think he’d abandoned her. He couldn’t head for Greenville and let her think he’d left for good. He had to get a message to her.
“Meelie!” Hicks banged on the bars.
Wyatt would leave the man to rot if he could. He gave Amelia Hicks a look of apology. She hung her head, and he realized where he’d seen her. She’d sat with Charlotte at that first town meeting.
“Do you know my wife?” he asked her.
She nodded. “She’s kind.”
“I need you to tell her—” He stopped, unsure how to formulate a simple message that this skittish woman could remember and convey. “Just tell her I’m coming back.”
“Yes, sir. I will. Just as soon as I get Vern home.”
Home. Nothing had ever sounded so good. He couldn’t wait to get back home to Charlotte.
Assuming he survived.
Chapter Twenty-One
After Charlotte cried herself dry and Sasha fell asleep for her nap, she climbed the ladder into the loft. Maybe Wyatt had left something behind, some trace that she could cling to, some hope he might one day return.
Despite nearly falling the last time she went up there, she managed the ascent. Daylight revealed a hideous room. Spiders strung their webs across the vents at either end. Dark and dreary, the room offered no hope or cheer.
She focused on the bed, neatly made. The pillow still bore the indentation of his head. She ran her fingers across the cotton case.
Wyatt, Wyatt. Why did you leave me?
Though she’d thought herself wrung dry, tears flowed again. Her salty offering mingled with the last trace of him. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He cared for her, didn’t he? Then why leave her? Why disappear with only a note?
She hugged the pillow to her chest and surveyed the tiny room for anything he might have left behind. If he’d forgotten something important, he’d have to return. She ran he
r hands along the floorboards on every side of the mattress. She stripped the sheets. Nothing.
Charles’s trunk contained nothing of Wyatt’s. Did the shelves? She bit her lip. Wyatt wouldn’t have set anything on the shelves, would he? Yet she had to look. She had to face Charles’s shrine.
Though she knew Charles had clung to Gloria’s memory, she’d hoped he would eventually pack the mementos in his trunk. But no. Her image in the daguerreotype still stared out at Charlotte. Cold, harsh, judgmental. No, not judgmental—fearful. What she’d once seen as harshness looked more like fear. Pauline had once told her that Gloria barely said a word to anyone, that she was timid. And Charles had protected her.
Charlotte touched the daguerreotype, surrounded by all those candles. “You won. He was always yours and never mine.”
For the first time, that didn’t hurt.
Now that the sting was gone, she could dismantle Charles’s shrine. But what to do with it? He would have wanted Gloria’s photograph buried with him, but it was too late for that. She stretched out her hand to pick it up, but the frame tipped over. Something fell off the back of the shelf and clunked onto the floor.
What on earth? She lay on her side and reached her arm under the shelves. Her fingers found balls of dust and plenty of dirt until they finally rested on a small metal object. She pulled it out. A baby spoon. But Charles and Gloria had no children. She brushed off the dust to reveal an inscription. By moving the spoon until the light hit it just right, she was able to make out the words: Baby Boy, June 12, 1861.
Charlotte’s head spun. That was the same day Gloria died. Her hands shook as she stared at the spoon. Charles’s wife had died in birthing a boy, who also died. Why had no one told her this? Why hadn’t Charles said anything?
Charlotte clutched the spoon to her chest. No wonder he’d feared giving Charlotte children. No wonder he’d agreed to take in Sasha. He could give her the child she craved without endangering her life.
The sob bubbled to the surface.
Dear Lord, he blamed himself for Gloria’s death. He never forgave himself.
The years of anger and resentment came crashing down. Poor man. Poor, poor man. He hadn’t despised her. He’d been afraid to love her.
Christine Johnson Page 20
