Behind His Blue Eyes

by Kaki Warner

  “I’d rather not discuss it, Mr. Bonet.”

  His flush deepened. “Of course.” He paced from the window to the desk, then slowly around the bulky printing press. “Still, you can imagine my surprise when he wrote that your father was supposed to be studying ancient Indian ruins in New Mexico, rather than here, in Heartbreak Creek.”

  “We altered our plans.”

  “Did you? I wonder why?”

  “Because he became ill and needed rest and quiet.”

  He stopped pacing and faced her. “Became ill, Miss Pearsall? Or was ill? For over two years, it seems. Yet, miraculously, despite his failing health, he has continued to publish articles.”

  She let the pretense of ignorance drop. “Why is this important to you?”

  “Why?” He gave a bitter laugh and ran a hand through his curly red hair. “Because I cared for you. Because I offered you my friendship and you’ve repaid me with lies.”

  “I was only trying to protect my father. To make his last years as pleasant as I could.” She glanced past him through the front window, praying Ethan would suddenly arrive to walk her back to the hotel. But the street remained empty.

  “How? By forging his signature?” He stalked the two steps to his desk, snatched up several periodicals and held them out. “On articles published under his name since he took ill?”

  “I only transcribed the notes he had already written. A small deception. Who did it harm? The people eager to publish his work? The readers who clamored for more of it? Those dependent on me to put food on the table?”

  “You collected money for papers he never wrote. That’s dishonest, Miss Pearsall. Fraudulent. I’m quite disappointed in you.”

  She looked down at the floor, struggling to curb the angry words rising in her throat. He had no right to treat her like a recalcitrant child. She knew what she did was wrong. She had known it when she’d done it, and would do it again if she had to. If he thought to shame her, he’d failed. Certainly, she had regrets—that there had been no other recourse open to her, that her father had spent his money on travel and research rather than providing for his family, that sometimes hard choices had to be made—but not shame. “Have you told Mr. Villars?” she asked.

  When he didn’t answer, she looked up to find him studying her.

  “Not yet.”

  “Will you?”

  “I haven’t decided. As a journalist, I’m honor-bound to print the truth.”

  He’s enjoying this. Disgust curled her lips. She had thought they were friends. But now he threatened to expose her as punishment for her not returning his feelings and choosing Ethan over him. Vile creature. Masking her revulsion, she forced a conciliatory tone. “I understand that what I did was wrong, Mr. Bonet. What I don’t understand is why you’re so upset about it. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me!” He slapped the magazines so hard on the desktop, she flinched. “I hired you, taught you how to be a reporter, shared things with you I haven’t spoken of in years. And how do you repay me? By making a fool of me.” With every word, his face had grown redder, his expression more vicious.

  For the first time, she began to feel afraid.

  She should leave. Now. Before this went further. She glanced at the back door, wondering if it was unlocked.

  He stalked toward her, his voice rising on every word. “And then you as good as called me a liar at the inquiry. Belittled me in front of half the town. Made a mockery of all that I’ve done for you. How could you do that to me?”

  She edged toward the back. “I assure you such was not my intent, sir. I only meant to clear Mr. Hardesty’s name. I’m sorry if you were hurt in the process.”

  “Hurt?” He laughed. “Disappointed, perhaps. Humiliated.”

  She continued to retreat. He continued to advance.

  “In view of your feelings, sir, I think it best if I no longer work here.”

  “Of course it’s best, Miss Pearsall. I have a reputation to uphold. The last person I need in my employ is a plagiarist and a woman who openly admits to a sordid liaison with a man who caused the deaths of three people. Count yourself fortunate I don’t turn you in for fraud.”

  “Then I bid you good day, sir.” Turning, she flung open the door, then drew back in surprise when she found a broad figure planted on the back step.

  Ethan!

  But when she looked up, it wasn’t Ethan at all.

  * * *

  Dragging a sleeve over his sweating brow, Ethan looked toward the creek that bordered the Wallace property. It was later than he’d thought. Already the sun had dipped behind the aspens. By the time he stopped at the hotel to collect Audra, it would be dark. Bending, he began collecting his tools.

  They had made good progress—Brodie and Ash lugging stones for the foundation blocks, while Ethan and Tait cut the posts to go on top of them. Once Ethan had checked with the water level to make certain everything was lined up correctly, they had started setting the beams that had been cut and left to season over the winter. Hopefully, by the time the plank flooring arrived next week from the mill in Pueblo, they would have the joists in. Then, once the flooring was nailed in place, they could begin framing the walls.

  He looked around, pleased with their efforts. They made a good team.

  It was a beautiful day to be outside, working on a project. It reminded him why he had been drawn to construction in the first place, and later, to architecture. He found it especially rewarding to create something with his own hands, to build a structure that would last through decades of use. He had missed the satisfaction that brought. While he’d worked, he’d drawn plans in his head for the home he would build for Audra. Out here would be a good spot. Plenty of sky and level ground, and a thirty-mile view to the taller peaks of the southern Rockies. She would like it here in the sun, with a creek nearby.

  Suddenly anxious to see her again, he tossed the last of his tools into his saddlebag, then motioned to the three men notching beams so they would sit flush on the posts. “Better call it a day, fellows. It’s getting late.”

  “And aboot time.” Ash straightened. He had taken off his shirt, and was wiping a neckerchief across his unclothed torso. “Sweating like a Newmarket tart on race day, so I am.” The man was a patchwork of scars, especially along the left side of his rib cage.

  “A munitions explosion,” he said when he saw Ethan staring. He pointed to a puckered scar on his shoulder. “This was from a bullet in India. And these,” he indicated two saber slashes, one near his neck and another on his arm, “I got in the Crimea.” The man actually seemed proud of them. “Ever been shot, lad?” When Ethan shook his head, he added, “I dinna recommend it. Now Rafe there,” he nodded toward the wrangler building a buck and rail fence atop the rocky soil between the foundation and the creek, “he’s been shot several times. Once served as a Texas lawman, so he did, and got caught in a shoot-out over a woman.”

  “Did he win?” Brodie asked, walking up.

  The Scotsman shrugged into his shirt. “Dinna say and I never asked. He may appear calm and mild-mannered, but I suspect he’s holding a wealth of anger inside. Saw it often in my fellow soldiers. Probably why the lad prefers horses to people.”

  Brodie dropped his bucket of tools beside Ash’s. “You want to see scars, Hardesty, you should see Thomas’s chest. As a Dog Soldier, he participated in the Sun Dance Ceremony. Brutal tradition.”

  Ethan didn’t want to see anybody’s scars. He had enough of his own. Inside and out.

  Brodie straightened to study the wrangler walking toward them. “Texas lawman, huh? Think he’d be interested in taking over the sheriff duties in town? Once we get this murderer out of the way, I’d like to get back to my ranch. The two cow chasers I’ve got working it are good men, but not that motivated.”

  “Hell, no, he wouldna be interested,” the
Scotsman blustered. “He’s helping me with my herd, so he is.”

  Brodie snorted. “What herd? All I’ve seen is a deaf gelding and two fat mules. If you’re expecting foals out of that bunch, you’ve got a long wait.”

  “I’ll be getting prime English thoroughbreds, if ye must know.”

  “From where?”

  “Kirkwell, of course.”

  “You’re going back to Scotland?”

  “Aye. For a while. As I’ve been reminded repeatedly by my Scottish solicitor and Maddie, I must return to complete the title transference.” The earl sighed in disgust. “I hate the thought of making my bows before the Queen and all those bluidy English peers.”

  “Peers like you?” Brodie laughed. “Can’t imagine you going down on your knees for anyone. Except your wife, maybe.”

  “Mind your tongue.” Ash punched his shoulder. “But, aye. It’ll require a lot of drink, I’m thinking. Luckily,” he added as Jessup stopped beside him, “I’ll have this fine lad to cover my back. Those English are a treacherous lot, so they are.”

  Tait walked up, his hat in hand and his coat thrown over his arm. Even after an afternoon of hard sawing, the man was hardly mussed. “What are you laggards standing around for? Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  Twenty-eight

  At first, she saw him as her savior, the ragged prospector come to return the medallion he’d found in the ashes of her cabin, his sudden appearance giving her a chance to escape Bonet. Then in a move so sudden and shocking it froze her where she stood, he reached out and grabbed her hair.

  “What are you—”

  He slapped her. Yanked her up on her tiptoes and slapped her again. “Shut up.”

  She tasted blood and batted blindly at him, her scalp on fire.

  Bonet rushed up behind her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Ignoring him, the prospector lowered his face down to hers.

  Soulless eyes. A matted beard brushing her cheek. Breath so foul she could almost feel it slide over her skin. “Do what I say, girlie, or I’ll hurt you bad.” Something pricked her neck, then a warm trickle. “Understand?”

  She panted in his face, dazed by pain and the suddenness of the attack.

  Another prick. Deeper. “Understand?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  Releasing her so abruptly she almost fell, he looked past her at Bonet. “Lock the front door.”

  “I will not! Leave now or I’ll—”

  The prospector’s arm lashed out.

  A cry. Bonet lurched back, one hand pressed to his bleeding face.

  Audra stared in terror at the glistening blade in the prospector’s hand. What was he doing? Why was he attacking them? Everything was happening so fast she couldn’t think.

  “Lock the door,” he said again.

  Bonet stumbled away.

  Gripping her shoulder, the intruder steered Audra after him, past the press and toward the desks by the front window.

  Go! she screamed silently at Bonet’s back. Run! Get help!

  But Bonet seemed barely able to walk. He looked back at them, his fingers still pressed against his bloody cheek. “Wh-What do you want? There’s no m-money here. N-Nothing of value.”

  “Shut up.”

  Audra stumbled against a chair and almost fell when her attacker shoved her forward again. Swallowing back blood and bile, she staggered on. Why was he doing this? Where was Ethan?

  Bonet reached the front door, locked it with shaking fingers, then leaned back against it, his legs wobbling. “T-Take whatever you want. Just let us go. Please.”

  “Sit.” The prospector pointed the knife at the chair by Audra’s desk.

  “We won’t tell anyone—”

  Another slash.

  Another scream.

  More blood pouring down Bonet’s face.

  “Don’t!” Audra cried. “We’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Sit. Now,” he told Bonet.

  Moaning, Bonet collapsed into the chair, blood coursing through his fingers.

  Still gripping her shoulder, the prospector looked around, muttering softly to himself.

  Audra tried to focus. She needed to find a way to stop him. To convince him to let them go. But how could she do that until she learned what he wanted? She wiped a shaking hand over her mouth, saw the blood on her sleeve and felt her mind start to spin. No! Think! Do something! But her thoughts were so scattered she couldn’t make any sense of what was happening. Couldn’t stop shaking. Ethan, where are you?

  “Got any kerosene?”

  Her heart lurched. Kerosene? Why did he want kerosene?

  The knife poked her again. “Answer, girlie.”

  “N-No—only what’s in the lamp.”

  Bonet watched them, his face dripping, realization dawning in his eyes. “You’re him, aren’t you? The killer. Weems.”

  The killer? Oh, God . . .

  “I told you to shut up.” Thrusting Audra aside, Weems stepped past her, his knife hand rising.

  “Don’t!” Audra grabbed his arm.

  He jerked free.

  “No! Wait!” Scrambling from the chair, Bonet flattened against the wall, hands raised in defense. “I’m on your side.”

  Weems stopped. “What side?”

  Audra looked at the rear door. Unlocked. Her only chance. Watching the prospector’s back, she sidled toward it, praying her shaking legs would hold her.

  “I h-hate the railroads, too,” Bonet pleaded behind her. “I want them g-gone as much as you do. I can help you get rid of them.”

  “I don’t need no help.”

  Past the printing press. Eight more feet to the door. Six. Why wouldn’t her legs move faster?

  “Then wh-what do you want?” Bonet started sobbing, his voice broken and high-pitched. “I’ll do anything you s-say. Just tell me what you want.”

  “Her.”

  Audra froze as Weems turned, his dark eyes pinning her where she stood. “I want her.”

  “Then take her! I won’t tell. Take her and go.”

  What? Audra gaped, not believing what she’d heard.

  Weems showed rotted teeth in a feral smile. “You run, girlie, I cut him. Your choice.”

  “No!” Bonet cried. “It’s her you want, not me. I’m on your side. I can help you.”

  Weems continued to watch her, evil dancing in his eyes. “Decide now.”

  Shaking, her heart hammering against her ribs, she looked past him at the man cowering against the wall, his eyes wild, tears and blood dripping from his chin. Could she make it to the back door in time? If she stayed, would Weems let them live? “How do I know you won’t—”

  “Too late.”

  Another lightning movement. A cry that ended in a gurgle.

  Audra watched in horror as Bonet slid down the wall, mouth open in a silent scream, fingers clawing at the bubbling wound in his neck. With a cry, she lunged for the door, yanked it open, then felt it torn from her fingers when a hand reached around her and slammed it shut.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Weems snarled just before he gripped her head from behind and smashed her forehead into the wood.

  Her knees folded.

  Dimly, she heard him mumbling. Felt him grab her ankles and drag her across the floor.

  She rose up, arms flailing. Then he hit her and everything went hazy again. She struggled to stay conscious as he gagged her and rolled her in a heavy canvas, pinning her arms against her sides. When he threw her over his shoulder and stepped out the back door, fear sent her into mindless struggles, but the canvas was wrapped so tight she couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.

  He walked faster, his shoulder digging into her stomach with every hurried step.

  After a moment, she heard the sound of rushing water, and guessed
he had taken her across the back lane and into the woods. He slowed, his stride uneven as he pushed through limbs and brush, until finally he stopped. With a grunt, he heaved her up and over the back of something that shifted beneath her.

  His mule. A good one. Named Jenny.

  She made futile attempts to slide free, but he quickly piled things on top of her, then lashed it all down tight. A moment later, the mule began to move back through the brush. The weight pressing on her back and ribs made every breath a desperate struggle. She began to fade. Like a cork floating on an endless black sea, her mind bobbed to the surface in occasional bursts of painful awareness, then sank into darkness again.

  Once, she thought she heard voices. She tried to call out, but the gag and canvas muffled her voice, and by the time she worked the cloth out of her mouth, they were moving again. She stopped struggling and hung in helpless terror, aware of little beyond the throbbing in her head, the constant struggle to breathe, and the rolling nausea of being carried uphill and facedown on a moving animal.

  Breathe, she chanted silently to herself. Stay alive. Ethan will come.

  * * *

  It was dark when Ethan followed the other four men into the lobby of the hotel. Looking through the door into the near-empty dining room, he saw Lucinda Rylander, Edwina Brodie, and the Scotsman’s wife, Maddie, sitting at a table. The Brodie infant kicked his feet and waved his tiny fists in a basket by his mother’s chair.

  But no Audra.

  “Anything left to eat?” Tait asked, walking toward them.

  “The kitchen’s closed,” his wife said. “But I had Cook set aside leftovers.”

  It didn’t seem that late to Ethan. Then he remembered the days were longer now, and by the time it was dark it was after nine. No wonder he was hungry. As the other men pulled out chairs at a nearby table, he looked around. “Audra here?”

  Lucinda shook her head. “She went to the Herald right after you left and hasn’t returned.”

  “She even missed her fitting,” Edwina added.

  “I sent Yancey to check,” Lucinda went on, “but the office was dark and the door locked. My guess is she went home.”