Chapter Eleven
Luke sat astride his horse, scanning the horizon a few miles outside town. It was too early for the purple lupine of summer to shoot their arrowheads upward to the sun, too early for Indian paintbrush to wash the landscape with bold strokes of yellow, persimmon, and scarlet. But even in their absence the beauty of the Wyoming prairie in spring was an immeasurable bounty for lovers of all things created. Where grass was sparse, delicate sand lilies, their waxy-white star points set on tufts of dark green, were interspersed with nosegays of Alpine wallflowers, cheery yellow bursts of blooms as welcome as a pot of gold at the end of a treasure hunter’s trail.
The temperature was moderate, and a soft breeze gave Luke some relief from the ravages of hours in the saddle, unprotected from an endless sun. It was a good day to return to the North-East Creek to look for more clues to the disappearance of James Rose, which is what drew Luke out of his dreary office in town this fine morning.
As he rode Luke wondered at his motivation. Was it curiosity, an innate zeal to unravel a mystery that kept him on the trail of the missing rancher? At one time, when Luke was young and starry-eyed about the work of a lawman, this might have been the case. He’d learned since that most criminal investigations contained disappointingly little of the mysterious. If someone went missing there were logical reasons: they were hurt, guilty, or dead—rarely kidnapped. He wasn’t sure which applied to James Rose. But he knew from the start that the unlucky Mr. Rose had not willingly abandoned his wife. And every day that passed, Luke became more certain that Mrs. Rose had not murdered her husband.
Well then, was it curiosity about the life of James Rose that kept Luke on the hunt, curiosity about what he could have been involved in, criminal or otherwise, that could have led to his death? Luke was curious. But not curious enough for the search for James Rose to crowd out all other thoughts twenty-four hours a day, as it had since the plucky, the prickly, the exquisite Mrs. Rose had first stepped into his office.
Then there was the matter of Christian charity. Mrs. Rose was surely a widow. And we ought to look out for widows and orphans. Luke knew this to be true because his ma had taught him that and other moral principles from the Good Book. Of course, Mrs. Rose didn’t think she was a widow. But in everything that mattered, she was widowed. Her husband had been gone some time and showed no signs of returning. She didn’t have children to care for, but she had a ranch and animals—almost as much responsibility as a house full of children. The only problem with Luke showing Christian charity to Mrs. Rose is that if he, being single, demonstrated even a hint of brotherly love in Mrs. Rose’s hour of need, he would only complicate things for her in a most embarrassing way.
Which is why Luke had made Mr. and Mrs. Slocomb promise not to divulge that the chore money they gave their son for helping Mrs. Rose came from the deputy’s pocket.
And then there was Mrs. Rose. If Luke were honest, he would admit that in all the hours of searching and in all the tasks he’d completed in town related to the investigation, it was Mrs. Rose’s pretty face and womanly form, not a certain rancher’s watery fate, that anchored his thoughts to the search. He searched for Mr. Rose, but his search hours—and his off hours—were filled with thoughts of Mrs. Rose. Did Luke even care for the welfare of the man? It was a difficult question.
Well, he certainly didn’t wish him any harm.
But what Luke felt about the luckless James Rose didn’t matter. The man was dead. Luke knew it in his bones, had known it from the day his widow had first come to town with her report just as surely as the big sky of Wyoming hung over his head, just as surely as if an angel had whispered in his ear. It was more than just a lawman’s sixth sense, honed by years in the saddle, tracking criminals and missing people. And the sooner Luke found his body, the sooner his widow would mourn him and get on with the business of living.
And perhaps, just perhaps, Luke would be part of her business. Luke would make it his business to see that he was. To that end he was boldly honest with himself. As he urged his horse toward the North-East Creek, he realized with shameful clarity his true motivation. As long as Mrs. Rose thought of herself as a married woman, Luke would respect her feelings and the law of God and behave himself. But when James Rose’s body was finally brought home, wrapped in a blanket and slung over the back of a horse—as it surely would be—Luke would be the first in line to court his widow.
He must do everything in his power to find that body.
Luke was halfway to the creek when he saw the dust cloud of a buckboard and two Morgans interrupting the horizon to the East. He halted his horse and pulled his hat down to shade his eyes. The team was a great ways off, but it was evident from the light color fabric the driver wore—which appeared as just a smudge to Luke—that a woman drove the team. She was alone. Luke’s concentrated hard on the rider. Coming from that direction and riding alone, the driver could only be Mrs. Rose. He sincerely hoped it was her.
Slowly the wagon came into view. Luke saw a look of recognition and then surprise on Lenora’s face. She shouted at her team to stop them, pulling on the reins with both of her dainty gloved hands. Once she had set the brake and wrapped the reins securely around a metal hook installed for that purpose, the only sounds on the wide prairie were the jingle of the reins as the horses got settled, pawing and snorting as they did.
“Deputy Davies, good morning. What brings you out this way?”
Luke tipped his hat. “I’m headed toward the creek to take another look around. And you?”
Luke tried to keep his eyes on her face, but everything about this woman intrigued him, including all the lovely details below her neck. She wore unusually simple clothes for a trip to town, that is, unusually simple for her, as if she had dressed in haste. A pale green lawn skirt with matching shirtwaist sprigged with tiny pink rosebuds. But no frills today, though her exaggerated poke bonnet was made of the same feminine lawn. The bow under her chin was the exact pink shade as the rosebuds. She complemented the panorama of spring flowers all around, though she surely was the fairest flower of them all.
“Actually, Deputy Davies, I was coming to see you.”
“Ma’am?” Luke noted that she did not say she was coming to see Sheriff Morris. The thought gave him pleasure, but then he realized that she would never willingly come to the office to see Cyrus; she would cross the road to avoid him. Luke was merely the only lawman left to come to for help. His pleasure faded fast.
“Someone was on my property last night. Whoever it was tried the latch.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. Even with the moon it was too dark to see well. I heard him run across the yard after Ulysses started barking.” Lenora pulled a pink, lace trimmed handkerchief from her reticule and gently dabbed the perspiration from her face.
“You have any idea who it was?” Luke’s mind was already casting about, bringing up any number of ne’er-do-wells about the Territory, particularly in Buffalo. No one face stood out.
“None at all.”
“Did he take anything? Leave footprints?”
“Nothing is missing. The animals are all accounted for. I didn’t think to look for prints.”
Luke nodded, thinking.
“Deputy Davies, this is not the first time. It’s happened several times before.”
“You never said anything before.”
“No,” she said, grimacing a little with embarrassment, “I was reluctant to involve the sheriff’s office.” She patted her throat and the back of her neck with her handkerchief.
Luke had no difficulty figuring out why that would be.
“It started ... not the night that James disappeared.” She paused, thinking. “The night after that. Sunday. I distinctly heard the sound of a man walking outside the house in the middle of the night. Maybe very early morning. Under my window. He stepped very stealthily, as though he didn’t want to be heard. At first I thought I had imagined the sound, but that time too Ulysses went crazy with barki
ng and the man ran off.”
“I wish you had come to me sooner,” Luke said, shifting in his saddle.
“I failed to use wisdom,” admitted Lenora, looking down at her hands.
“Any evidence the man left behind the first time is long gone.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Let’s hope there’s something to learn out there now,” said Luke, gripping the reins tighter. His horse was getting antsy, flicking his head back and forth.
“I hope you can find something that leads you to the man. I’ve been sleeping with James’ Sharps, but even with the rifle at my side I don’t sleep well.”
Luke thought she looked a little pale. Doubtless her sleeping troubles were partly related to the fact that she was not used to sleeping alone. That thought led to another thought; he was ashamed about the pictures that rose unbidden in his mind. He too had trouble sleeping at night since he had met the fetching Mrs. Rose. She shouldn’t be alone at her ranch so far from town. She needed a man. Luke felt a wave of desire come over him, but he willed his face to show nothing but professional concern. God forbid she look into his eyes and catch a glimpse of his thoughts. He wished he could have met Mrs. Rose in other, better circumstances.
“I have other urgent business in town, Deputy Davies, so I must not dally,” said Lenora as she unwrapped the reins from the metal hook. “I’ll be on my way.”
“That reminds me, Mrs. Rose. One more question.”
“Yes?” Lenora stopped what she was doing and looked back to Luke.
“Did you ever determine if your husband left unarmed? Did you find his revolver?”
“I apologize, Deputy Davies. It slipped my mind. Yes, I found his Colt. It was right where he left it in the bedroom.”
Luke silently shook his head, thinking about the ramifications of that fact. “Shall I escort you to town?“
“No, that’s quite alright, Deputy Davies,” said Lenora. “Under the circumstances I think it would be more fitting if I continued alone.”
“I understand,” said Luke. “If I see anything suspicious at your place I’ll send word. Keep me posted if you see or hear anything yourself.”
“I will, Deputy Davies.”
Luke made like he would snap the reins to urge his horse, but then he stopped and turned back to Lenora.
“Mrs. Rose, do you want me to send someone out to check on you?”
“You are very kind, Deputy Davies, but the neighbors have been coming by quite regularly. I’ll be fine.” She shouted to the Morgans and snapped the reins before he could object, and in a minute she was rolling noisily down the worn wagon ruts to town in a cloud of prairie dust and clomping horses’ hooves.
#
Lenora knocked briskly on the dark green door of the Biggerstaff’s home in town, hoping anxiously that Dr. Biggerstaff had not been called away to a birth or farm accident that would keep him away for hours. She urgently needed to talk to him. After the scare she’d had this morning, paying his fee was the least of her concerns. In a few seconds she heard the sound of feet approaching. The handle on the door opened, and the next moment she was eye to eye with Mrs. Biggerstaff.
“Lenora, good morning. What brings you here today, dear?”
Lenora made a slight smile and stepped into the Biggerstaffs’ front room, chafing as usual at the oozy sweetness in Mrs. Biggerstaff’s tone. Lenora knew she’d have to go through the irksome wife to get to Dr. Biggerstaff, but the woman’s presence never failed to rankle. Lenora always felt like she had to be on her guard around her. Anything she said in her presence was bound to be around town by midafternoon, but not in the bland state it was in when it left Lenora’s lips. By the time Emmaline Biggerstaff was through with it, it would be hashed, seasoned, and fried into a savory tidbit designed to whet the appetites of the most discerning palate.
“I need to see Dr. Biggerstaff.”
“Yes?”
Lenora set her mouth in a line and entered into a brief stare down with Mrs. Biggerstaff, determined not to volunteer information that the woman obviously hoped Lenora would divulge. In the tense but silent interlude an enormous tabby, waddling from years of culinary indulgence, slinked into the foyer and made its way to Mrs. Biggerstaff, curling its portly body around her ankles and purring loud enough to be heard from several feet away. Mrs. Biggerstaff bent over heavily, picked up the fat feline, and cradled it under her protruding bosoms. Lenora was relieved for the momentary distraction, though she wished Mrs. Biggerstaff would dispense with the questions and fetch the doctor. As Lenora waited Mrs. Biggerstaff scratched the cat’s neck and cooed nonsense sounds into its ear. Lenora was convinced the woman dawdled just to provoke her. Finally she could stand to wait no longer.
“Is the doctor in?” said Lenora, tempering her voice to hide her irritation.
Mrs. Biggerstaff kissed the top of her pet’s head, seeming in no hurry to give any quarter to Lenora. Finally the woman stopped fawning over her cat and met Lenora’s eyes. “He’s in,” she said. “Please wait in the parlor.” Mrs. Biggerstaff nodded her head toward the small waiting room off the foyer.
Lenora watched her sashay out of the room, noting the attitude of contempt in the woman’s shoulders. Lenora was glad she had kept her mouth shut about why she had come today.
Once Mrs. Biggerstaff was out of sight, Lenora stepped into the parlor and sat down on the deep ruby moire settee. Despite the irritating ways of the woman who had decorated this little room, the charming details of its appointments reflected talent. The curtains, pulled aside by silky gold rope, were made of the same red moire. A white, cut glass lamp graced a mahogany side table. Bas-relief nymphs danced around its clear red glass base. The floral carpet was thick and lavish in its complex, woven design of multiple colors. The room overlooked Main Street, and one could sit on the floral side chair near the window and peer unnoticed through lace privacy curtains at the goings-on of Buffalo citizens in the street below. Lenora wondered how often Mrs. Biggerstaff did exactly that.
“Lenora.” Dr. Biggerstaff appeared at the entrance to the parlor.
“Dr. Biggerstaff, how good to see you,” said Lenora, standing to greet him.
“Come in, dear,” he said, pointing toward the hall that led to his office. “This way.”
Lenora followed the doctor down the narrow hallway, half expecting to see Mrs. Biggerstaff at the end, hanging around like a hungry dog at a barbeque, hoping for someone to drop a scrap. Lenora was relieved when she got to the door of the doctor’s office to see that his wife was nowhere in sight.
“Have a seat,” said the doctor, motioning to a chair across from his desk while he shut his office door. After a little small talk, mainly inquiries about the sheriff’s investigation and the doings on the ranch, Dr. Biggerstaff got down to business. “What brings you in today, Lenora?”
Lenora sat straight up, bracing herself to hear aloud the horrible words that she had been able to speak only silently to herself ever since she had awakened this awful, awful morning.
“I’m bleeding.”
Chapter Twelve
“Ghosts, is it? Next she’ll be hearing voices calling to her from the bottom of her well.”
Sheriff Morris scratched idly at his jaw, leaned back in his chair, and noisily lifted his worn boots to his desk. A small fire burned in the office wood stove this warm late spring day, just small enough to keep the coffee at a drinkable temperature. He directed his gaze at his deputy, who was sitting at his own desk, absorbed in recording the observations he’d made at the Rose ranch. When the sheriff mentioned ghosts, Luke stopped writing and looked up, meeting the sheriff’s eyes straight on.
“Ghosts don’t make footprints,” said Luke, his voice taut. “Someone wrapped in real flesh and blood has been creeping around her property. I saw the prints myself. I think someone’s watching her comings and goings.”
“It’s a ranch for Christ’s sake. Ranch owner. Ranch hands. Ranch visitors. Prints could belong to any old ya
hoo.” Sheriff Morris put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.
“Only a trespasser would leave tracks right beneath her bedroom window.”
“It’s convenient, ain’t it? Ghosts only haunt the widow when she’s alone. No one else has seen ‘em. And James Rose ain’t here to tell us why his own boot prints are on his property, near his own house,” replied the sheriff.
Luke set his mouth in a straight line. Lately he had little patience with Cyrus’ smugness, and his sarcasm was worse. Three months had passed since they’d found James Rose’s horse abandoned on the banks of the North-East Creek. His young wife was left to care for a busy ranch alone, and all indications were that she had done nothing to bring this evil on herself. The Buffalo sheriff’s office had an obligation to find the rancher’s remains, determine his cause of death, and assist his widow. So far they’d failed at all three. But it seemed to Luke that Cyrus was not in the least perturbed at their lack of success. Mrs. Rose was right: the sheriff had made up his mind from day one to discount her testimony. Consequently he also discounted any evidence that might be useful to their investigation. Luke was frustrated with the slow pace of the search for the dead rancher and daily grew more annoyed with Cyrus’ laissez faire approach. He bit back a sharp retort. Sparring with Cyrus would get him nowhere.
“All the downstream towns reported back yet?” asked Luke, changing the subject.
“Every last one.” Sheriff Morris sat up again in his chair and, using a rusty nail he’d pulled from his pocket, began scraping the grunge beneath his fingernails.
Luke knew there was no need to ask for elaboration. If any of the downstream towns near the creek had reported finding a body or personal effects thereof, Cyrus would have told him by now.
“No one’s seen hide nor hair of James Rose,” said Luke, stating the obvious. Lost in thought, he looked beyond the sheriff to the street, though his mind was far from the sights and sounds on the other side of the grimy window. A lumber wagon rumbled slowly down Main Street and stopped in front of the sheriff’s office to let some shoppers on foot cross from one boardwalk to the other. “And he left his house without a weapon.”
Crazy Woman Creek Page 11
