The Marshal and Miss Merritt

by Debra Cowan

  “I won’t do anything, but I would like to know what you find out.”

  He nodded in agreement. She couldn’t believe she was asking to be included in an investigation, but Earl and Ruby had been her friends.

  Just like Bowie was.

  As she left the jail, she glanced back. He stood on the top step, the sun glinting off his dark hair. She couldn’t see the look in his eyes, but she could feel his gaze on her.

  Her urgency to get to the jail hadn’t been only because he needed to hear her unsettling information as soon as possible. She had wanted to see him.

  In the days since the election, she had managed to steer clear of him. Of course, it helped that he had been gone.

  She had told herself that she wouldn’t let herself want more than friendship, but she did want more. Still, getting involved with a lawman was a mistake she didn’t intend to make again.

  Black fury pulsed inside Bowie. Hobbs had passed off Earl’s and Ruby’s deaths as an accident for two years. Bowie barely kept from plowing his fist into the wall.

  If the lie hadn’t been enough to tangle his guts like rusty barbed wire, the fact that Merritt had been the one to bring him the information certainly was. He didn’t like seeing her upset. The pain in her eyes when she learned about his parents had punched him right in the chest.

  And reminded him that she had been friends with his folks. Bowie hadn’t wanted to add to his petite landlady’s anxiety by showing how angry he grew with each passing second. Hobbs had lied about what had happened to Bowie’s parents and who knew what else? Bowie wanted answers.

  It was a good fifteen minutes before he felt calm enough to walk to the ex-marshal’s house down the street from the Morning Glory.

  Stepping onto the porch of the small log home, Bowie knocked on the front door. The town of Cahill Crossing didn’t provide housing for their marshal like some towns did, so this place belonged to Hobbs rather than the town.

  The former marshal answered the door, sans suit coat, hat and vest. It was the first time Bowie had seen the other man without a full suit.

  Rolling up his shirtsleeves, the other man’s eyes widened at seeing Bowie. “Hullo, Marshal Cahill. What brings you by?”

  Bowie shoved down the swirl of fury inside him, knowing he needed to stay calm if he wanted answers. “I came across some information that I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Of course.” The man’s face was blank as he opened the door wider and motioned Bowie inside.

  As he palmed off his hat, he stepped over the threshold, fighting the urge to pound the ex-marshal to a pulp.

  The house was small but nice, with a large front room that comprised the kitchen, dining and sitting room. The cookstove squatted against the wall to Bowie’s left. In front of him was a small sink with a pump, then a table and chair. Straight ahead, a large tin wash-tub leaned against the wall adjacent to the bedroom entrance, where he could see the foot of a bed and an open window.

  “Nice place,” he observed. His attention returned to the other man, who stood near the still-open door with an expectant look on his face. A faint breeze stirred the heavy summer air.

  “Thanks,” Hobbs said. “What can I help you with?”

  Bowie wanted to see Tobias’s face when he told him why he was here. “Some information I’ve gotten leads me to believe my parents were murdered and that you knew their deaths were no accident.”

  “Me?” Anger flushed his face. “I know nothing of the sort. Why would someone murder them?”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  Something flickered in Hobbs’s eyes, but was gone before Bowie could identify it. The other man glared. “Earl and Ruby were killed in a wagon wreck.”

  “My source overheard you talking to someone, telling them that another party knew the Cahills had been murdered.”

  “Who’s your source? I have a right to know who’s accusing me.”

  As if he would say. Bowie just gave him a flat stare.

  “They must have misunderstood,” Hobbs said coldly.

  “They’re certain.” Bowie felt no compunction about the lie.

  “You’ve been given false information.”

  The man’s refined features were still fixed in the same blank mask he’d worn since Bowie’s arrival, but a subtle tension vibrated in the room. Of course, that could’ve been because Bowie was calling the man a liar.

  “I was at the scene of the wreck,” Hobbs said. “Nothing there pointed to murder. Does this anonymous source have any credibility? Or are you just fishing?”

  Bowie wasn’t answering that. Instead, he asked, “Exactly what did you find at the scene of the accident?”

  Folding his arms, the other man matched Bowie’s level stare. “You already know. I told you and your siblings.”

  “Tell me again.” His hand clenched tightly on his hat.

  “There were clear signs that the wagon had gone over the road’s edge into Ghost Canyon. I looked around thoroughly.” Hobbs’s words were clipped, precise. “The wheels were busted. Three were with the wagon, but one was up on the road. From what I could determine, it came off and caused the accident.”

  “You saw no footprints, nothing to indicate that someone might have been there? That there might have been foul play?”

  “Nothing.” He met Bowie’s gaze unflinchingly. “The four of you went out there yourselves. Y’all didn’t find anything suspicious. Or if you did, none of you said anything to me about it.”

  Bowie had thought about the scene of that wreck more than once. And there hadn’t been signs of anything other than an accident. Of course, Hobbs could’ve removed any evidence that might point to murder or look incriminating.

  “I don’t know why you’re giving this so-called information any credence. Either someone misunderstood or they’re making it up. When did this conversation supposedly take place?”

  “A little over a month ago.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Are you denying that you spoke to someone about my parents’ murders?”

  “I am.” Hobbs gave nothing away. The man wasn’t perspiring or shifting frequently. There was nothing in his person to suggest he was lying or nervous. Just angry.

  And right now there wasn’t a damn thing Bowie could do about it. His gut said Lefty had indeed heard what he believed he had. The notes Quin had received backed that up.

  “When did you find my parents?”

  “You already know this,” the former marshal said impatiently.

  “I want to hear it again.”

  “I discovered them on my way back from Wolf Grove. Like a lot of people, I had gone over for the big announcement that your parents had donated land to the railroad. Earl and Ruby left Wolf Grove about an hour after the announcement. I left about two hours behind them. They couldn’t have been dead very long when I found them.”

  Even though the visit from Hobbs to inform Bowie and his family had happened two years ago, every word was burned into Bowie’s brain. The ex-marshal’s story was consistent with what he had told all of them back then, but that didn’t mean Bowie believed it. Not anymore.

  “Was my mother wearing a ruby necklace when you found her?”

  “There was no jewelry on her.”

  Probably because the bastard had stolen it.

  Bowie had hoped to startle a reaction out of the ex-marshal and he hadn’t. Bowie realized he wasn’t going to get anything out of Hobbs. At least not today.

  Hobbs gave him a dark look. “Is there anything else, Marshal?”

  “I may have questions later, but that’s all for now.”

  “Fine.”

  Giving a curt nod, Bowie settled his hat on his head and stalked out.

  Bowie’s temper hadn’t abated during the discussion; if anything, it just burned hotter. His parents had been murdered and that bastard knew it. Just how involved was the ex-marshal? Had he done more than keep it quiet? Had he been the one who had ki
lled Earl and Ruby? It was possible. Hobbs said he’d been alone when he found their bodies and no one had ever disputed that fact.

  Bowie had wanted a reaction when he told Hobbs he was onto him; he hadn’t gotten one. But he wasn’t finished. He was just getting started.

  Bowie wanted to talk to his brother about his visit with Hobbs, but Quin was away on the cattle drive. Merritt and Lefty were the only other people who knew Earl and Ruby had been murdered. Bowie supposed he could talk to Merritt, but he didn’t want to involve her further. And talking to Lefty was just a plumb bad idea. He would talk to Ace. The saddle maker had good judgment and could keep things to himself.

  A few minutes later, his friend laid down his curved awl, his gaze sober. “Are you sure about this? Your parents were really murdered?”

  Bowie nodded, just as blistered up now as he’d been since hearing from Merritt.

  “What makes you think so?”

  Bowie explained about the anonymous notes Quin had received and the man Quin had killed in self-defense who confirmed it. He ended with the information Lefty had overheard.

  Ace grimaced. “Lefty isn’t the most reliable.”

  “No, but I believe him. He was right about Pettit’s name and he thought he dreamed that, so I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “How did Hobbs react when you told him what you’d learned?”

  “He was angry. Denied everything.”

  “What does your gut say?”

  “That Lefty really did hear what he thought he did.”

  “Anything you remember from when your parents were killed?”

  “Just what Hobbs said the day he talked to all of us, which is the same story he just told me. But he could’ve been acting suspiciously that day. I was in shock, maybe too much to really be aware of what was going on. My brothers and sister were the same. He could’ve lied about everything. He was involved from the beginning. He found the bodies. He’s the one who told us it was an accident.”

  “He was the marshal then. It makes sense that he would be the one to talk to the victims’ family.”

  “True, but it’s pretty convenient that he was the one to find them, the only one to see them.” Bowie’s thoughts raced. “Don’t you find it strange that no one passed by before or during the time he was at Ghost Canyon? There were plenty of people that day who would’ve been returning on that same road from Wolf Grove to Ca-Cross.”

  Bowie hadn’t been there, of course. He’d chosen to remain at White Tail with a prisoner, assuming Quin would be with their parents. “Plus Hobbs was the one who falsely arrested Quin for killing Vernon Pettit.”

  “Pettit was the dead man Quin woke next to after receiving the first note?” Ace asked.

  “Yes. Then when Quin responded to the second note, things went south quick and he shot Huck Allen in self-defense. Before he died, Allen confirmed that our parents were murdered.”

  “So, you’re thinking Hobbs could’ve killed Pettit and framed Quin.”

  “It would be a way to get rid of both of them.”

  “And if Hobbs found out about Pettit’s intention to sell information to your brother, Hobbs could’ve told whoever he’s working with that someone besides the two of them knew that your parents had been murdered.”

  “Which is what Lefty overheard.” Fighting back savage emotion, Bowie gripped the edge of his friend’s worktable. “Hobbs could also have stolen Ma’s necklace and that possibility makes me madder than hell. Quin and I know she would’ve worn it to Wolf Grove for the announcement from the railroad. It’s the only piece she had.”

  The opening of the front door had both men turning. Muddy Newton, who operated the ferry that navigated the South Kiowa River, clomped inside. The bite of liquor hung over him like a cloud. The ferryman, whom the Cahill family had known for years, smelled like the inside of a whiskey bottle.

  “Bowie.” The short, skinny man pulled off his ever-present slouch hat. His long gray hair lay plastered to his head. “Ace.”

  “Hello, Muddy.”

  The man’s bloodshot gaze went to Bowie. “There’s a problem over at the Hard Luck Saloon. Sid sent me over to fetch the new marshal.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Preston Van Slyck and those Fitzgerald boys.”

  “Are guns involved?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. They’re just botherin’ Monty’s dance girls. Sid was hoping you could come before they cause worse trouble.”

  “Sure.” Bowie shook hands with Ace. “I appreciate the conversation. See you later.”

  Ace nodded as Bowie followed Muddy to the door. Once the other man stepped outside, Ace asked, “What are you gonna do about Hobbs?”

  Bowie glanced at Muddy to see if he had heard anything, but the ferryman didn’t act as though he had.

  In a low voice, he told his friend, “I’m going to watch the bastard.”

  “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

  “Thanks.” Glad he’d confided in his friend, Bowie closed the door and started for the Hard Luck with Muddy.

  Hobbs wasn’t the only one Bowie planned to keep an eye on. He would also keep track of Lefty. Now that Hobbs was aware that someone had overheard him, he might easily figure out Bowie’s source was Lefty Gorman. If he thought about it very long, he would figure it out. If that happened, Hobbs might hurt Merritt’s friend. Bowie didn’t want that to happen.

  After he handled this business at the saloon, he planned to speak to Lefty. Bowie wanted to hear from the man in his own words. But right now, he had to deal with three of the most obnoxious whelps in town.

  Preston Van Slyck and the Fitzgerald boys were bad enough on their own. Together, they could cause serious trouble. The son of banker Willem Van Slyck, Preston was the one who had been telling people that Bowie’s sister, Leanna, worked in Deadwood as a saloon girl and had an illegitimate son.

  Whether that was true or not, Bowie didn’t know. How could he when his baby sister had contacted him only once to let him know where she was after the Cahill siblings had gone their separate ways? And the thought that Leanna might have confided in Van Slyck ratcheted Bowie’s jaw tighter.

  Bowie had never liked the weasel, but he liked the Fitzgerald brothers, Ira and Johny, even less. Their father, Don, was the second most influential rancher in the area, behind the Cahills.

  As Bowie and Muddy neared the saloon, Bowie spied Van Slyck first. The dark-haired man was handsome, but inside he was as rotten as a wormy apple. Ira and Johny were nearby. All three men took what they wanted, when they wanted, taught they could by their fathers. Like blisters, they never showed up until the work was done.

  As Bowie approached, they were circling around a girl wearing a garish red-and-black dress short enough to reveal her legs.

  An hour later, Bowie headed to the Morning Glory. He’d gone around and around with Van Slyck and the Fitzgerald boys. They denied harassing anyone, despite Bowie seeing them intimidate the girl and her reporting that they had taken her reticule.

  After the bullies finally returned the young woman’s purse and scattered, Bowie checked with Monty to make sure the rest of his girls were fine and that none of them had further complaints. He would just as soon not have to deal with such nonsense every day, but he knew jackasses like Preston, Ira and Johny were in every town.

  Bowie squinted against the late-day sun as he neared the boardinghouse. Someone stepped off the front porch. In the blinding glare, he could determine only that it was a man. As he got closer, he recognized Tobias Hobbs.

  What was he doing here? Bowie wondered as Hobbs strode down the street and out of sight. Obviously not eating, since he was leaving just before suppertime.

  Bowie had just enough time to wash up before making his way to the dining room. There he spotted Merritt. She was flushed, attesting to her time in the kitchen. Tendrils of hair escaped from her loose braid to curl against the creamy flesh of her elegant neck.

  He was gl
ad to see she still wore her sling. Mr. Wilson and Doc Lewis carried food to the table. She followed behind, checking everything.

  Clancy looked over as he pulled out a chair for Merritt.

  “Hey, Bowie.”

  “Hey, Doc, are you joining us for supper?”

  “I am. I came to check on Merritt’s hand and she was kind enough to invite me.”

  Bowie’s attention shifted to his landlady. Golden light played in her dark hair. Her pale blue dress, the same one she’d had on earlier in the day, molded perfectly to her breasts and nipped in at her trim waist. The neckline was square, showing a patch of velvety skin above her collarbone. “Evenin’, Miss Merritt.”

  “Hello.” She gave him a warm smile.

  He moved toward the chair at the end of the table, leaning forward to shake Mr. Wilson’s hand before he sat. “Professor, nice to see you again.”

  “You, as well, young man.”

  Not feeling all that young, Bowie grinned at the portly man on his right. Along with Ace, Clancy and Undertaker Druckman, Wilson had been a key supporter of Bowie running for marshal.

  A burst of color caught his eye and he turned his head to see a bouquet of wildflowers on top of the sideboard. Next to the yellow, orange and purple blooms was a thin hardback book. Where had those come from?

  His gaze went to Merritt.

  She smiled. “How was your day?”

  “It was fine.” He caught a hint of worry in her green eyes. She probably wanted to know if he’d learned anything from Hobbs and would likely ask when they were alone.

  Bowie didn’t particularly want to tell her anything, but he would if it might help put her mind at ease.

  Once everyone had finished supper, Merritt brought out an apple pie. While she poured fresh coffee, Mr. Wilson served the dessert. Bowie noted the fatigue etching her delicate features. She took a bite of pie, then dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. He tried not to stare at the curve of her lips or her rose-and-cream skin.

  He helped Mr. Wilson clean up while she finished her pie and visited with the doctor. After telling Merritt he would look in on her in a couple of days, Clancy took his leave. Mr. Wilson excused himself, stating that he had an article to write for the next edition of the newspaper.