The room was small and plain, painted green with chairs upholstered in a slightly darker green leather. A collection of rifles hung in a balanced display on the wall opposite the gray stone fireplace.
Fletcher glanced at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases with the books organized by author, but was more interested in the black walnut rolltop desk under the window. He closed the door behind him and strode across the room, his footsteps muted over the dark red Oriental carpet.
Taking a seat in the oak chair, he rolled up the bowed desktop. The contents were neatly arranged—the ledger and account book standing in one corner, ink jar and pens set back in the other, and correspondence stuffed tightly into a small cedar box on the desk shelf.
Beginning with the account book, Fletcher flipped through the pages to check the postings, but found no amounts out of the ordinary, nor any of the account names suspicious. Reaching for the ledger next, Fletcher pulled out the thick black book and opened it. The silvery light of morning shone through the window and onto the long pages, which revealed typical journal entries—a debit to cash here, a credit to revenue there. All the amounts seemed reasonable for an outfit this size.
The only thing that made him stop and stare was the change in penmanship.
Sometime in February, the entries went from a small, dull scribble to a larger, more graceful, right-slanting script. Fletcher knew it was Jo’s handwriting, for it matched her style—smooth and elegant, yet clear and strong—no fancy, curly swirls and loops in her letters.
He ran his finger over it. Tragic, that she’d put this ink to the page only weeks after her husband’s death. How hard it must have been for her to look at his script, a personal mark of his existence still living inside the book. She had probably run her dainty fingers over it, too, just like Fletcher was doing now, and what a task, he thought soberly, to undertake her husband’s role as master of this ranch while the grief was still so fresh. He wished she would talk to him about it.
Realizing he was sliding off the track of his duty again, Fletcher slammed the book shut and looked out the window at the rolling pasture, at rest beneath the white, overcast sky. He had to stay focused.
Setting the ledger back in place, he reached for the cedar box of letters on the small shelf and began reading. Unfortunately, all the letters were dated over the past six months, personal correspondence addressed to Jo from various friends or relations. Fletcher found nothing suspicious, just a lot of continuing condolences about Edwyn’s death…how lonely you must be, a hundred times over.
Reminded again of Jo’s recent sorrow—her problems, her vast responsibilities, her heartbreak over losing the man she loved—Fletcher tried to shake away the jealousy he didn’t want to feel and the regret about what had just happened between them. He stuffed the last letter back into the box, steepled his fingers together and rested his forehead on them.
Concentrate. If this was Jo’s workplace now, where were Edwyn’s business papers and correspondence?
Swiveling in the chair, he glanced around the small room. On the floor beside the bookcase, he spotted a small oak sea chest.
He crossed the room and knelt before it, but found it locked tighter than a bank safe. It was just as heavy, he discovered, upon trying to move it away from the wall. What in God’s name could weigh so much?
He jiggled the lock a bit, but nothing budged. He jiggled it a little harder, but froze when the door to the den suddenly swung open.
Fletcher rose to his feet to face John’s skeptical gaze.
“What are you doing in here, Marshal?”
Hell, he couldn’t tell John he was investigating Edwyn’s murder. He couldn’t tell anyone. So what, exactly, was he doing in here?
At Fletcher’s hesitation, John’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s Mrs. O’Malley?”
“She’s upstairs.”
“Nonsense. I’m right here.” Wearing a white cotton apron over a yellow calico bodice and skirt, Jo walked in and stood beside John. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Marshal Collins weaseled his way in here, ma’am. I found him lurking around like a bandit.”
Jo cupped her hands in front of her. “Well, of course he’s in here. Where else is he to wait for breakfast? In the burned parlor?”
“But I saw him jiggling the lock on Mr. O’Malley’s private box right there.”
“I was just admiring it,” Fletcher said. “I like old sea chests.”
Jo cleared her throat, looking shaken. “John, if you’ll wait for me in the kitchen, I’d like to speak with you. I’ll be along directly.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.” He glared at Fletcher before backing out of the room.
Jo moved into the room, her skirts whipping between her fast footsteps. “Here’s what you’re looking for.”
Impatiently, she rose up on her toes and retrieved a brass key from the highest shelf over the chest. Her tone had never been so cold, and Fletcher felt the chill clear down to his boots. “Though I don’t know what you’re after,” she went on. “It’s just full of Edwyn’s personal letters from Ireland. They’re old, they were written before he even came to America. He was sentimental and brought them with him.”
Fletcher’s finger touched hers as he took the key from her, and she immediately jerked her hand away. Trying not to let it bother him as much as it did, he knelt down and turned the key in the old lock. The rusty hinges squeaked as he opened the chest.
“Yep. Letters, and lots of them.” He flipped through a few.
“I wouldn’t lie about it.” There was something odd in her tone. Something that struck him.
“I didn’t think you would.” Fletcher closed the box and stood. “But is there something you’re not telling me? Something about these letters?”
“I assure you, they’re just personal. So what were you looking for?” Jo asked, returning the key to its hiding place, and seeming anxious to change the subject.
“Edwyn’s business papers and correspondence. I didn’t find anything in the desk.”
“You searched my desk?”
“I thought we agreed I’d look through Edwyn’s belongings. It seemed like a wise place to start.”
Jo moved to the collection of rifles on the wall and pulled another key from behind the Winchester on the mantel. “You’ll find everything over there.” Pointing to another larger chest covered by a green plaid blanket, Jo handed the key to him. “I’ve looked through it all and didn’t find anything unusual, but you have a go at it. Shall I bring your breakfast on a tray?”
He took the key. “It would get me out of here faster.”
Jo lifted her chin. “Yes, of course. You don’t like to stay in one place for too long, do you?” She turned to leave.
Too late, Fletcher realized how insensitive his words had sounded. “Jo…”
But in a whisper of petticoats, she was already out the door.
Jo walked down the wide hall, her hand on her stomach. She paused at the bottom of the staircase, her other hand resting on the carved oak of the bottom post. The parlor to her left was blackened and smelling of scorched fabric, kerosene and smoke. Someone was trying to kill her, and Fletcher was itching to take her to prison.
Why, oh why, then, was she fantasizing about kissing him again, about making love to him, all problems forgotten? Why was she so completely heartsick and tormented by the fact that that would never happen?
She took a breath, trying to find the heart to move. Ridiculous, that she could be falling for such an unfeeling, soulless man. A man with no devotion to anything, land or people, no ability to love anything deeply enough to stay in one place longer than it took to arrest a few criminals, including someone he admitted he cared about—her.
How could Fletcher tell her he cared, knowing he would toss her in jail the first chance he got? And why was she letting herself care for him when she knew the kind of man he was?
As she considered it more, she found herself remembering the things he had said to her on the da
rk prairie, how he had reacted when she’d confessed her sins and secrets—that she had lied about what she saw the night Edwyn was killed and, after that, had taken the law into her own hands. Of course, Fletcher did what his duty demanded of him—he’d arrested her—but at the same time, he had listened and understood and consoled her. He’d told her that Edwyn’s death was not her fault, that she had done the right thing, staying hidden. He did not condemn her for the thing that mattered most in her heart—the thing she believed was her greatest sin.
How then, could he be soulless? How could a man with no heart manage to touch hers, when she thought she’d cloaked it in ice?
It was all so frustrating. She could no longer deny how desperately she wanted and desired the man beneath the badge, the man she knew existed but could not have.
She supposed that if her heart was to be broken, she had only herself to blame for confiding in him, for entrusting her life to him, and for letting him kiss her and touch her the way he had.
It would not happen again.
Dropping her hands to her sides and forcing herself to stand tall, she glanced toward the kitchen where John was waiting—after having offered to marry her in front of everyone—and she dreaded talking to him about this. She hoped it would not be too awkward.
Working hard to focus on what had to be done, she squared her shoulders and walked with purpose into the kitchen. There he sat, hands clasped together in front of him, full of hope when he knew nothing about all of Jo’s reprehensible sins and failings. He stood as soon as he saw her, and she felt a twinge of guilt.
“Good morning, John. Thank you for waiting. Please sit down.”
Jo sat across from him. Unable to meet his gaze, she let hers fall to his rough, callused hands. “I…I want to thank you for what you tried to do this morning, after the fire was put out. I know you were just concerned for my well-being.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am concerned.”
She tried to smile. “There’s really no need to be. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
Before she had a chance to finish, John was leaping out of his chair and dropping to his knees before her, clasping her hands in his. “Mrs. O’Malley, that man in Mr. O’Malley’s den is no good for you, no good at all.”
“John, let me—”
“No, please, let me talk first. I reckon I can guess what he did to you, why your eye looks like that, but I promise not to ever mention it again if you’ll just let me and the boys throw him out of here.”
“John, this is all a misunderstanding.” She hated herself for keeping the truth from him.
“No need to make up stories for me, ma’am. I’m just glad to see you popped him one in return.”
“It’s nothing like that, John—”
“I’m glad I popped him one, too.”
Her head throbbing with frustration, Jo pulled her hands from John’s and stood up. She walked to the sideboard and leaned against it. “Fletcher did not intentionally hurt me. It was an accident.”
“Then why’d you hit him back?”
“That was an accident, too.”
John hesitated, his forehead crinkling. “I sure hope you’re not going to marry him.”
“Of course I’m not, and I would appreciate it if you would not speak of it again.”
John’s chest heaved with a deep breath. He stood and approached her. “Then my offer still stands, ma’am. I don’t know what happened between you two last night, and I’m willing to forget about it. I won’t mention it again if you’ll just consider my offer.”
“John…”
“Please listen first.” He knelt down on one knee and held her hand. “I know you’ve had a rough year. We all have, after what happened to Mr. O’Malley. He was a good man and a fair boss, but you shouldn’t have to be all alone and run things by yourself. Folks are talkin’ about you living out here with all of us—”
“I know that, John, and I really don’t care what they’re saying.”
“Maybe you don’t love me, but you might in time. I’m a nice enough fellow, I’d always treat you decent, never raise a hand to you or Leo. I ain’t like that.”
Jo didn’t know what to say. His words were echoing inside her head. She had a million reasons not to marry him, but the only one that seemed to reveal itself to her now was a witless infatuation for a man who cared only for the steel badge he wore on his vest. “John…”
“It would be sort of like one of them marriages of conven—conven—”
“Convenience,” she finished for him.
“Yeah, yeah, one a’ them. You’d get your reputation back and I’d get a ranch out of it.”
Jo slowly pulled her hand away. “A ranch…?”
“Yes, ma’am. And a darn good one. Is something wrong?”
“Uh, John, to be frank, you don’t know the first thing about me. If you did, your feelings might be different.”
“Ma’am, a ranch is a ranch.”
Turning her back on him, she cupped her pounding forehead in her hand. Oh, dear, sweet, simple Edwyn. Nothing was ever this complicated with you.
“Maybe we should talk about this later,” Jo suggested, setting aside the sharp edge to her voice and replacing it with a gentler one that took significant efforts to produce. “The men are waiting for their breakfast.”
He stood in silence behind her. She could hear him breathing hard and it made her uneasy, so she faced him squarely. “Wait outside, John.”
Finally his boots thumped across the floor and she heard the front door creak open and slam shut behind him.
Good God, was there no one she could trust?
Feeling angry and disillusioned, she collapsed into the chair and wondered how in all the world her life had plunged to such a depth of misfortune, and how she would ever claw her way out of it.
Chapter Eighteen
While the ranch hands burrowed into their breakfast plates in the dining room, Jo stood at the stove in the kitchen, serving up a large helping of fried eggs and bacon for Fletcher.
Perspiring over the hot stove, she reached for two slices of corn bread that Matilda had made before she left, dropped them onto the plate and set the heavy cast-iron frying pan aside. She reached for a jar of molasses to set on Fletcher’s tray, wondering why she was taking such pains with his food. It wasn’t as if her cooking was so stupendous it would convince him to let her go.
She poured a cup of black coffee for him and arranged everything on the tray. Untying the strings on her apron, she draped it over the kitchen chair, picked up the heavy breakfast tray and walked down the hall toward the den with caution on her mind. When she set eyes on Fletcher, she would not—absolutely not—let herself think about the kissing. She would focus on her purpose: to ensure her family’s safety and see Zeb pay for what he did.
With that and only that in mind, she pushed open the door to the den and entered.
Fletcher sat in one of the leather upholstered chairs reading a letter. Both his eyes were black from being punched in the nose so many times, and Jo felt a twinge of guilt about that fact. She stared at his focused expression, then at his capable, masculine hands, and a flurry of disloyal butterflies created a disturbing breeze within her belly. Why wasn’t her body listening to what her head was telling it?
Standing like a dazed ninny in the doorway, Jo tried to concentrate on moving her feet, one in front of the other, and somehow she managed to fully enter the room. She set the tray on the center table, brushed her hair back from her perspiration-dampened forehead and looked toward the window, all in a determined attempt to fight the memories that would not retreat from her mind. She thought of Fletcher giving her back her weapon that morning, of the way his eyes told her he trusted her with it; she remembered how he had courageously fought the fire and how he’d insisted she leave the smoke-filled parlor to go outside and breathe some clean air. He did those things not because it was his job, but because he sincerely and genuinely wanted to protect her. That’s ju
st the kind of man he was.
It was such a nice feeling, she realized, to have someone care about her like that when she’d had only herself to rely on for so long.
Fletcher lowered the page he was reading and the sound startled her out of her thoughts.
“Did you know that Edwyn reported cattle theft to the city council more than once?” he mentioned with interest.
So, for him, it was business as usual. It would be that way for her, too, she decided, then she moved to stand behind the chair and look over Fletcher’s shoulder at what he was reading. “Yes, I’ve seen that letter, but I never thought much about it. Most of the ranchers have lost head to rustlers.”
“Seems like there’s been a lot of rustling in these parts lately.” He rose from the chair and moved to the old ledgers lying open on a corner table. “I just compared the losses Edwyn reported at year-end with the losses from previous years. I know ranching,” he added, “and these numbers seem high to me.”
Jo followed him and looked at Edwyn’s year-end adjustments in the ledger. “It was a hard winter. We lost quite a few head to the early storms. Maybe that’s why he was adjusting the accounts.”
“No, no, he was a very meticulous bookkeeper. There’s a year-end entry over here for winter losses, and a separate entry over here for unexplained disappearances—most likely theft. It’s this number that doesn’t compare to other years. Look at the difference.” He lifted up the ledger and pulled out the one from the year before.
Jo examined the two books. After Edwyn’s death, she’d pored over the year-end statements and thought she’d gained a thorough understanding of the bookkeeping. Why hadn’t she thought to study the previous years?
She stared at the ledgers in disbelief. Had Edwyn been murdered because he knew something about the cattle rustling around Dodge? How could she have missed this?
Fletcher walked toward the breakfast tray. “Looks like we may have found something.”
The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley Page 15
