Eliza saw her father topple sideways. Another, louder crash filled her ears as his head connected with the corner of the stone chimney. The room fell into silence. The only sounds were the whistling breaths of the widow, and the frantic heartbeat that thundered in Eliza’s ears.
“You’ve…killed…him,” the widow wheezed.
Eliza ran her tongue over her lower lip where something stung. She could taste blood. Her father’s blood, spattered on her as she beat him to death. Her arms fell limp down her sides. The poker slipped from her fingers and clattered against the hearth.
“Doctor?” She managed the single word. Then she swallowed, trying to hold back the rising tide of nausea that followed the fragile sound.
The widow crouched beside her father’s limp form and pressed two fingers to the base of his throat, right above the collar of his shirt. A moment later, she straightened and directed an accusing look at Eliza. “He’s dead. You killed him.”
“I had to.” Eliza spoke in a dazed monotone. “Otherwise he would have killed you.”
In front of her eyes, the widow Redwood transformed. Her mouth settled into a hard line. Her spine snapped ramrod straight beneath the layers of fat. “We were about to start a life together as man and wife,” she said primly. “You had an argument with your father. You flew into a rage and hit him.” The widow hesitated. “I believe that you didn’t intend to kill him, but clearly you have difficulty controlling your volatile temper.”
Eliza stared. The widow met her scrutiny without a flinch. In the calculating glint of her eyes, Eliza saw the truth. The woman wanted to maintain an illusion of having entered into a happy marriage. The early death of her husband allowed her to keep up the pretence.
Fear closed in around Eliza, choking off the flow of air into her lungs, like the hangman’s noose. She tried to speak but couldn’t manage a single sound.
“I’ll leave for San Francisco as soon as I can.” The widow stepped away from the crumpled body. “I’ll lock up the house and take the keys to the bank. They’ll sell the property and pay Peter Sorensen anything that is left over after the mortgage is settled.”
Eliza closed her eyes and blinked them open again. No use hiding from the worst. She forced out the words. “Will they hang me?”
The widow curled one hand over the cameo pinned to the top of her bodice. “I’ll testify on your behalf.” Her mouth puckered in a sour sign of reluctance. “I’ll stay long enough to make sure people accept that you didn’t kill him on purpose. Then I’ll leave.”
“Can I come with you?” Eliza asked.
“No.” The widow had enough shame to look away. “I don’t want to travel with an unstable companion. And don’t ask if you can stay in the house. I want to tell the bank that the house is vacant for them to sell. It will ensure a better price. Who knows, there might even be something left over for me, once the mortgage and what I owe at the mercantile has been settled, so I don’t have to be totally empty handed when I seek relatives to take me in.”
Tears started to fall, and Eliza couldn’t stop them. She cried for her father, for herself, and for the cruel fate that punished her for saving a life. She even cried for the widow, whose quest for security had turned into ugliness. In hot trails, the tears ran down her face and fell on her worn calico dress, where they mingled with her father’s blood.
“Do you agree with me what happened here?” the widow asked bluntly.
Eliza tried to marshal her thoughts. In the end, she nodded. She had no choice. If she told the truth, that she had hit her father to keep him from strangling the widow, it would all have to come out—the two earlier marriages, the swindles, the deadly stomach complaints.
It was better to be branded mentally unstable than the complicit daughter of a murderer.
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Chapter Four
The night sheltered Joaquin under its dark cloak as he rode back to Lone Gulch. The Sorensen brothers had decided to go on to Tucson, after having heard from Abe Tucker that the town had swelled to over three thousand people. Surely, the young men had reasoned, there had to be a few passable unmarried females in that lot. The urge with which the brothers sought wives drew a smile to Joaquin’s lips. He had no such needs. To the contrary, he preferred his uncomplicated life. The ten days of absence hadn’t quite served to erase the memory of Eliza Hargreaves from his mind, but the recollection had faded.
If yearning for one particular woman was a disease, he’d been cured.
And, he’d done his duty by the citizens of Lone Gulch. A man was dead, and Joaquin prayed to God it was the right one. He shook his head in disbelief. Never would he have expected a woman’s vengeance to run quite so deep. He could still picture Pandora Flanders sitting in silence on the ground, patiently watching, waiting for the man who’d hurt her to die.
Something flashed in the darkness ahead. Joaquin’s eyes sharpened as he peered into the shadows. Slivers of light shone under the shuttered windows of The Watering Hole. He shrugged, untroubled. Alvira must have returned early from Bisbee. Maybe the two bawling infants had proved too much for her easily frayed nerves.
Dismounting in the faint moonlight, Joaquin tied his horse to the hitching post out front. He’d take a quick look around before he led Diablo to the stables at the back. He tried the door, found it bolted inside. He pounded with his fist, but no one came.
“What in hell?” he muttered. Uneasy now, he drew his gun from the holster and cocked the hammer to chamber a round. He ought to have been on guard. Carelessness had cost him the advantage of surprise. He took a few backward steps, then charged and slammed one booted foot into the solid planks of timber. The door flung open. Splinters flew from the broken lock.
Candles flickered on the metal tray in front of the small painting of the Madonna. It was the only valuable remaining from the estate his family had lost when California ceased to be part of Mexico, three years after he was born.
On the floor, a bundle of cloth stirred.
“Get up real slow.” His aim was steady. “I want to see your hands in the air.”
A flurry of patterned blankets tumbled aside. In the flickering candlelight, Eliza Hargreaves scampered to her feet. A mane of chestnut tresses cascaded down her shoulders. She was wearing large pants, cinched around her waist with a piece of rope, and a short coat in heavy black wool.
His clothes.
Seeing her dressed in something of his, as if she belonged to him, sent blood pounding through Joaquin’s veins. “What are you doing here?” The words came out harsh as he fought the pull of attraction he’d thought already conquered.
She gestured at the altar. “They don’t want me at the church.” Her head hung, but after a moment, she raised her gaze to meet his. Tears glinted in her eyes. “I had an argument with my father. I hit him with an iron poker. He cracked his head on the stone chimney and died.”
Joaquin shuddered, as if to repel the information that came at him too fast. “Are you wanted for murder?” he asked. Thoughts jumbled in his head, and he latched on to something practical, a dismay that the townspeople might ask him to continue as the sheriff, and his first job would be to hang a woman he’d kissed.
“No. It was accepted as an accident, but people look askance at me. They think I’m evil.”
“Why are you wearing my clothes?”
“There’s a cold draft on the floor.” She nodded down to the big flagstone where he knelt to pray each morning and night, as if the lack of heat offered an adequate explanation to her odd appearance.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “If you believe in God, you know he’s everywhere, not just in front of a picture and a burning candle.”
“I know.” She managed a watery smile. “But a picture and a burning candle offer comfort.”
Even in his exhausted state, Joaquin knew that a woman wouldn’t risk her reputation and defy the dangers of the night just to pray at a makeshift altar. “That’s not why you’re here.” He waved his gun
at her. “Talk.”
Her eyes snapped wide. She inhaled a sharp breath. “I have something I’d like to ask you.”
He sighed, half amused at the way she kept hedging. “I guess you’re going to take a long time getting to the asking.” He moved the cylinder back to an empty chamber and holstered his gun. “I’ll see to my horse. You think you might manage to make coffee?”
Her smile caught and held. “I’ll try.”
Joaquin returned outside and took Diablo to the stables. He doubted his sanity at letting her stay. He’s seen what people did to Colt Riverside when they thought he’d raped Pandora Flanders. They’d do worse for him if they thought he’d violated Eliza Hargreaves.
Or maybe not…if she spoke the truth about having become an outcast.
****
A shiver shook Eliza. This was going to be much harder than she’d thought. Joaquin Pereira had walked in unwashed, a week’s growth of beard coating his jaw, and a hard glint in his dark eyes. He looked like a gunfighter, cold and without mercy. Just because she’d heard a rumor that the saloon girls came to see him didn’t mean he’d be gentle.
She closed her eyes and let the memory of the kiss wash over her. The sense of safety she’d felt in his arms on that sunny morning returned, banishing her fears.
She had no choice. She was doing the only thing she could.
Eliza crossed the room to the open archway leading into the kitchen and lit an oil lamp on the table at the far end. She’d lived there nearly a week, since the widow Redwood threw her out, and she knew where everything was. She’d kept a list of all the foodstuffs she’d consumed, so she could one day pay back for what she’d stolen.
After a moment of hesitation, Eliza hurried to the storeroom and changed into her own clothes. She’d gotten the bloodstains out, but in her imagination, they dotted the front, and the metallic scent of death lingered. Rising to her toes, she unlatched the small window up near the ceiling. She’d come in that way, through the window, using a ladder she’d dragged over from the livery stable and then kicked down to the ground before jumping inside.
The small hook and eyelet latch had broken loose when she’d banged the windowpane with the heel of her palm. She’d fixed it, just enough to hide the damage. It reassured her to know that the she could use the same entrance again.
By the time Joaquin returned, she had two steaming cups of coffee on the table and a plate of cookies she’d baked arranged in between them.
“Talk,” he said and sat down. His manner had hardened while he was gone, as if he’d decided that she brought trouble.
Eliza curled her hands around the cup, relishing the warmth. “I have no money.”
He glanced up from his coffee. “Are you asking me to help?”
“No,” she said and then amended, “Yes. But not in that way.” She took a deep breath. “I plan to go and work at the Mockingbird Saloon.”
Eliza waited in silence while Joaquin Pereira studied her with an assessing look. It made her feel that he was measuring her charms and finding them lacking, but he offered no comment.
“I’ve heard that sometimes the girls visit you,” she said, feeling awkward.
Joaquin nodded. He took a cookie, bit into it. Surprise at the delicate flavor showed on his face as he slowly chewed, pausing to inspect the piece left in his hand, but he said nothing, didn’t ask where she’d got it from.
“Why do they come to you?” Eliza asked.
“Sometimes, when a man has been rough, the girls want to wipe away the memory.”
“And you can do that?”
His only reply was a shrug. Watching her, he picked up another cookie.
“I want you to do that for me.” Eliza was speaking rapidly now, forcing the words out before she lost her nerve. “I understand it hurts the first time. I don’t want it to be with some cruel stranger who’ll care nothing about my pain.” She lowered her cup and reached across the table to curl her hand around his wrist. “I want you to show me what it is like, so I won’t have to be so afraid when I start working at the saloon. Please? Will you do that for me? Help me through the first time, so I won’t have to be so afraid?”
The strong wrist beneath her fingers flexed as Joaquin clenched his hand into a fist. He said nothing, but a muscle tugged at his jaw. Jerking his arm free, he stood and turned his back on her. His shoulders heaved beneath the black shirt, a sign that he was struggling for breath.
Eliza stared at his forbidding stance. Was she truly so repulsive that the idea of bedding her made him shudder? In that moment she realized that even now—even after what had happened with her father and the widow—she’d clung to a dream. A dream that Joaquin Pereira would tell her not to worry, he’d take care of her. Take her in as his woman, and then she could stop being afraid.
The dream withered. The force of will that had kept her going all week crumbled. The chair clattered back as Eliza jerked to her feet. “I’m sorry I spoke,” she managed through gritted teeth, holding back the sobs that clogged her throat. Then she bolted to the door, shoved it open, and ran blindly into the night.
“Eliza!” she heard him calling after her, although he kept his voice low, so no one else would hear.
She couldn’t go back to him. Not after he’d crushed the dream that had given her the courage to live through the past few days. The only dream she’d ever have.
The dream was gone. Now she’d have to find a way to survive.
****
Joaquin stood on the front steps of the widow Redwood’s house and waited for someone to answer his knock.
“They’re all gone.” A boy of around ten in short trousers walked up to him, bouncing a ball on the uneven ground, deftly catching it whichever way it flew. “The man died a week ago. They buried him in the cemetery. The women left on the stage the day after.”
“The daughter left on the stage too?” Joaquin turned to the youngster. “Are you sure?”
“I dunno.” He ran a sleeve across his nose. “She’s not here, so she must’ve left.”
“Who are you?”
The boy’s chest swelled with importance. “I’m Carl Sorensen. My uncle owns the mercantile. I’ve come to stay.”
“Thanks, Carl.” Joaquin nodded at the boy and walked away.
After Eliza took flight last night, it hadn’t taken him long to figure out she’d been living at The Watering Hole. His blood ran cold as he thought where she might be now. Had she slept out of doors? He imagined her alone, chilled to the bone, fearful of the night-time sounds.
He strode down the road to the Mockingbird Saloon.
“Joaquin!” Nora got up from a wicker chair on the porch. The small brunette came around every month and asked him to hold her through the nightmares of being raped as a child.
“You’re back.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “Have you started visiting us now that you’re the sheriff?”
“I’m no longer the sheriff, and I haven’t started visiting you. I’m here…” He paused, chose caution over expediency. “Are there any new girls?”
“No.” Nora sent him a hurt look. “What’s wrong with the old ones?”
“Nothing.” Joaquin sighed, feeling awkward. “But I have a few things to deal with right now. Could you tell the other girls that I’ll be busy for a while?”
Nora pouted. “You must have hooked up with a woman in Tucson.” She sent him a brittle smile. “Let me know when it’s over. I won’t bear a grudge.”
“I’ll remember that.” Joaquin touched the brim of his hat and walked off.
So, Eliza hadn’t gone to the Mockingbird. In his mind, Joaquin inventoried the possible hiding places around town. As he stalked down Main Street, Peter Sorensen waved him over. By the time Joaquin had given the gathered group of men an account of what had happened with Colt Riverside, and dealt with the goods Peter Sorensen wanted to deliver, the sun stood at its zenith.
“What happened to the widow Redwood?” Joaquin asked. “I see the house is closed
up.”
Sorensen’s expression hardened. “She married that newcomer, Hargreaves, while you were out of town. His daughter went berserk and battered him to death with an iron poker. The widow left for San Francisco.”
“What happened to the daughter?”
Sorensen straightened and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure. Guess she left with the widow. Haven’t seen her since.” He gestured to the office at the back of the mercantile. “The house is up for sale. I’ve got the keys, in case you’re interested. It’s going cheap to pay the widow’s debts.”
Joaquin nodded. “I’ll take a look around.”
He took his leave from Sorensen and let himself into the widow’s house. The shutters were closed. Only thin shafts of sunlight filtered through. He toured the rooms, weaving between the furniture. The cluttered downstairs showed no signs of occupation—no clothes strewn about, no food in the kitchen. Upstairs, the beds had been stripped and the armoires emptied.
Joaquin returned outside, into the sunshine. It was a good solid house, once you looked past the ornate furnishings. His mind strayed into imagining what it would be like to live there, with a wife cooking in the kitchen and a pair of children playing in the backyard.
Stop it, he told himself. But the picture clung to his mind, and Joaquin realized he’d been wrong when he told Peter Sorensen that he had no wish to set down roots. In truth, he wanted to belong again. The dream of a home and family had grown in his subconscious, and he welcomed the idea, as long as it was a real dream, within his reach, and not some fantasy of a long-lost ranching empire that could never be recovered.
But, before he could pursue his dream, Joaquin had to find Eliza.
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Chapter Five
By nightfall, Joaquin had inspected every empty dwelling in Lone Gulch, including the property Pandora Flanders had rented with her father. He found no evidence that any of them had been slept in, and some were too dilapidated to offer shelter anyway.
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