A Reason to Believe

by McKade, Maureen

  “Why would I lie? I didn’t know your father, except for what you told me about him.”

  Dulcie’s face heated with guilt. She’d been lonely, and it had been too easy to talk after Lamont had taken her, with night hiding her sin. “He might not have been a good father, but he wasn’t a murderer either.”

  He shrugged. “You have to admit your life is better without him.”

  Her stomach pitched and she swallowed back the bile that rose in her gorge. Biting back her rage, she spoke to Madeline. “Why don’t you go look at the candy? Mr. Coulson will show you what he has.”

  The girl’s gaze jumped from Dulcie to Lamont and back, then she walked to the front counter. Once Madeline and Coulson were talking, Dulcie turned back to the peddler and spoke in a low voice. “You never cared for me, which means you lied for someone else.”

  His expression faltered for a moment, confirming Dulcie’s theory. However, she didn’t know who he would’ve lied for, or why. Or maybe it was as simple as Lamont killing Carpenter himself and using her father as the scapegoat, since he knew the man from Dulcie’s description. Which meant she was in part responsible for her father’s death.

  All thoughts of finding someone with a reaper fled. The only thing that mattered was getting away from Lamont. She joined her daughter, who was chomping on a piece of licorice. “What do I owe you, Mr. Coulson?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. McDaniel.”

  “Thank you,” she said with heartfelt gratitude.

  She turned to leave with Madeline’s hand in hers. Lamont hurried ahead of her to open the door. Dulcie paused, not wanting to accept anything from him, even the small courtesy. But she didn’t want to make a scene, so she stepped through without acknowledging him.

  Before she could lift Madeline back into the wagon, Lamont snapped the girl up and onto the seat. Fortunately, it was so fast Madeline didn’t have time to be startled. Dulcie refused to thank him and moved around to the other side of the wagon. Lamont beat her there and stood leaning against the wagon’s side.

  “You used to be a lot friendlier,” he said.

  Her face hot, Dulcie glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. Nobody was near, except Madeline. She kept her voice down. “I didn’t have a choice then.”

  Leering, he leaned nearer. “Sure you did. I still remember you begging for more.”

  Dulcie burned with shame, yet shook with suppressed rage. She crossed her arms to keep from hitting him. “You used me.”

  “You didn’t complain too much.”

  “I only did it because if I hadn’t you would’ve left Madeline and me behind,” she said in a hoarse voice.

  He shrugged. “You wanted something from me, and you had to pay my price. It was a business transaction.”

  She hated herself because he was right and she’d willingly gone to his bed all those nights. Being a wife or working in a saloon were the only jobs she was fit for after Jerry died. Sleeping with Lamont to get back to Texas hadn’t seemed too bad a bargain at the time.

  “Excuse me. I have to go now,” she said through stiff lips.

  “What do you say to one more night, for old times’ sake?” Lamont asked, his voice low and obscenely intimate.

  “You don’t have anything I want this time.” She tried to push him aside, but he remained immovable.

  “My silence.”

  She froze and met his smug expression.

  “I’ll come by your place tonight,” he said.

  Rage vibrated through her. “I have a shotgun.”

  “If you use it, you’ll never learn who really killed Carpenter.”

  Her father was dead. Nothing would bring him back, but the way he’d died wasn’t right. The real murderer remained out there, and for all she knew, it could be Lamont. However, if she let Lamont into her bed tonight, she’d lose every ounce of self-respect she managed to regain. “What if I refuse to let you in?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Then I’ll let it be known what you did to get back here.”

  “I’ll call you a liar.”

  Lamont chuckled. “Even if you do, who’s to say folks won’t believe me instead of you? Besides, my reputation won’t be harmed, but yours . . .” He shook his head, his meaning clear.

  “If I agree, will you tell me who killed Carpenter?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  His smile, which she used to think was roguish, disgusted her now. As did his too-handsome features. Rye’s rugged features were infinitely more appealing.

  “You need some help, Mrs. McDaniel?”

  A voice startled Dulcie, and she turned to Rye standing on the boardwalk behind them, as if he’d materialized from her thoughts. Her heart sped up and her knees trembled. “Uh, no. I’m fine.”

  “Really? It looked like this man was bothering you.”

  Although Rye’s voice was casual, the cold look in his eyes told her he was angry. However, she didn’t know if the emotion was aimed at her or Lamont.

  “This isn’t any of your concern, Forrester,” Lamont said.

  Dulcie’s heart dropped into her belly. They knew one another.

  “I think that’s up to the lady,” Rye said.

  Dulcie looked back at Lamont, whose expression reminded her of his threat. If Rye didn’t know about them yet, he soon would, as would the rest of the town, if she didn’t agree to Lamont’s demand. “Virgil Lamont and I are old friends,” she managed to say without throwing up.

  The disappointment in Rye’s face was too hurtful to see and she dropped her gaze.

  “If you say so,” Rye said coolly. He turned his attention to Madeline, who was staring at Rye like he was one of those knights come to save the damsel. “Good morning, Miss Madeline.”

  The girl’s lower lip thrust out. “You didn’t say bye.”

  Rye walked to her side of the wagon. “You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  Madeline stomped her foot on the wagon floor. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “I am.” He swept his hat off and held it against his heart. His wavy hair lay flat, which Dulcie found more attractive than Lamont’s stiffly pomaded hair. “I’m sorry for leaving without saying good-bye, Miss Madeline,” he said to the girl.

  She stood up in the box and leaned toward him. He caught her as Madeline wrapped her arms around his neck. She whispered something to Rye that Dulcie couldn’t hear, but she did hear what he said in reply.

  “I’ll miss you, too, sweetheart.” Then he kissed her cheek and settled her back onto the wagon seat.

  Dulcie cleared her full throat. How had she believed Rye was anything like Virgil Lamont? Rye hadn’t pretended his affection for Madeline. Did that mean he hadn’t faked his feelings for her, too? Not that he spoke of love, but all he’d done bespoke of fondness and consideration.

  So why hadn’t he told her he’d known Jerry?

  Unable to remain in either man’s presence for a moment longer, she pressed Lamont aside and climbed into the wagon. She took the reins in her hand and clicked her tongue to get Jack moving.

  As they rolled away slowly, Dulcie heard Lamont call after her, “I’ll be by around six for supper.”

  Afraid to see Rye’s reaction, Dulcie didn’t look back.

  THE knowledge that the peddler was going over to Dulcie’s that evening ate at Rye. If what Burt said was true, Dulcie, Madeline, and Lamont had traveled together to Locust, spending long days and nights in each other’s company. Rye tried to tell himself he didn’t care what had happened between them and what might happen again tonight. It didn’t work.

  What about Madeline? She’d looked frightened of Lamont. Had he hurt her? If he ever laid a hand on her, Rye would tear the man apart. But then, he wouldn’t be around to protect her. The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Why had Dulcie invited the man whose lie had led to her father’s lynching to supper? Was she hoping to learn the truth? In his mind’s eye, he saw Dulcie and the sua
ve peddler lying in bed and Dulcie asking him questions in between kissing and touching him. The picture brought red-hot fury and seething jealousy.

  After Rye calmed down, he went in search of Lamont and found him on the edge of town with his wagon, surrounded by a dozen people checking out his wares and making their purchases. Rye sidled in beside another man to look at the knives, but his attention was on Lamont’s voice as he extolled the virtues of a new kettle.

  There was no question the man was a slick talker. Had Dulcie been swayed by his fancy words?

  The crowd tapered off until only Rye remained.

  “See anything you’d like?” Lamont asked.

  “A lot of things, but the pockets are empty,” Rye said, forcing a friendly smile.

  Lamont, knowing he wouldn’t get any money from Rye, began to repack the items he’d displayed to the small crowd.

  “So you know Mrs. McDaniel and her daughter?” Rye asked.

  “Gave them a ride back to Texas after she lost her husband. Poor woman. All alone with a child to support.”

  So Burt wasn’t making up a story. “Her father was here.”

  Lamont finished wrapping up a glass lamp. “I know. She told me about him. Said he was a drunk.”

  “But not a killer.” Rye paused. “You didn’t see her father arguing with Carpenter, did you?”

  “I told the sheriff I did.”

  Rye smiled coldly. “You lied.”

  Lamont dusted his hands off and smiled just as frigidly. “Prove it.”

  The man as good as admitted he didn’t see Pollard with Carpenter the day of the murder, but Lamont was a slippery bastard. “You see everything as something to buy or sell.”

  “I’m a peddler by trade, Forrester. Buy and sell is what I do.”

  “What about your word? You ever sell that?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Rye grinned without warmth. “Sure you do. Lies can be bought and sold, and I bet you’d be a good one to sell them.”

  “You’re grasping at straws, Forrester.”

  “Do you know Carpenter’s widow and son?”

  “As well as I know any of the folks around here,” Lamont replied without hesitation. “Surely you don’t think upstanding folks like them would pay me to lie?” His eyes glittered with humor.

  Rye had hoped Lamont might show his hand, but the man had ice water in his veins. He managed a nonchalant shrug. “Mrs. McDaniel seemed pretty convincing when she told me her father was innocent.”

  “Mrs. McDaniel has a way of making men do things.”

  Rye gnashed his teeth at the man’s underhanded meaning. He hated to believe Dulcie had lain with him, but his gut was telling him otherwise. Still, knowing Dulcie, she must’ve had a damned good reason.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Rye said coolly. “Good day, Lamont.”

  Rye turned and strode back to the heart of town. His mind raced as he tried to unravel the tangled web. What if her father had committed the murder, and Dulcie was trying to clear his name for her own peace of mind?

  No. He was allowing Lamont to make him doubt Dulcie. Her obvious love for her daughter and her desperation to provide for Madeline without asking for help told him far more than Lamont’s smooth words.

  Rye found a chair on the boardwalk where he could see most of the town. He’d keep an eye on Lamont and see what he was up to. Putting a booted foot against a post, he crossed his other ankle over it and rocked back on his chair.

  Ten minutes later, Lamont walked into town from the edge where his wagon was parked. At the door of the saloon, Lamont stopped and turned to look directly at Rye. He smiled and tipped his hat. Rye touched the brim of his own hat, and his smile was as artificial as Lamont’s.

  The sun moved to its zenith and started its downward slide. A boy peeked out of the alley not far from Rye. He recognized the shaggy dark hair immediately. “C’mon out, Collie.”

  His hands stuck in his overall pockets, Collie trudged over to Rye. “You said you was leavin’.” There was accusation in the boy’s tone and belligerent expression.

  “I am, but I have something to do first,” Rye said. He surveyed the boy, glad to see he didn’t sport any new bruises. “How was your first night back at the Gearsons’?”

  Collie shrugged and sank to a cross-legged position beside Rye’s chair. “It was okay. The food ain’t as good as Mrs. McDaniel’s though.”

  Rye smiled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. How’s your hand?”

  Collie held out his still-wrapped hand. “You wanna look at it?”

  Rye leaned forward and unwrapped the bandanna. He held the scarf up for a moment, remembering Dulcie’s anger and wishing he’d told her the truth when he’d first met her. But he’d been scared, scared that she wouldn’t allow him to work off his debt . . . and guilt.

  He examined the sores on the boy’s hand and was pleased to see they were well on their way to healing. “You don’t have to wear this anymore.”

  “Can I have it?” Collie asked, pointing to the bandanna.

  “Why?”

  Collie lifted one shoulder. “I kinda like it.”

  It was also something for the boy to remember him by. Rye understood too well how a stranger’s kindness to an orphan would be recalled years later. He folded the scarf and handed it to Collie. “Have Mrs. Gearson wash it.”

  “I’ll wash it.”

  In other words, Collie was afraid the woman would give it to one of her own rather than back to him. Rye cleared his throat. “That’d be fine, too.”

  For a long time, they sat in silence, with Collie on the boardwalk by Rye’s chair. Rye had never known the boy to remain still for so long, and it bothered him. Yet he liked his company, even if they didn’t talk.

  “I seen Mrs. McDaniel and Maddie,” Collie said some minutes later. “Seen that peddler with them, too.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “He’s not very nice.”

  “Did he do something to you?”

  “Called me a thief and told me to stay away from his wagon.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last time he was here. I didn’t go by his stupid wagon anymore, but I watched him. He never knew I was there,” he said proudly.

  “So you saw what he did and where he went?” Rye asked, trying to tamp down his excitement.

  Collie nodded. “Mostly.”

  “You know he told people he saw Mrs. McDaniel’s father fighting with Mr. Carpenter. Did you see that, too?”

  Collie fiddled with the cavalry scarf. “No. And I never figgered how he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Collie lifted his head, and his brows were furrowed. “That day Mr. Carpenter was killed, I followed the peddler. He spent lots of time around his wagon, selling stuff to folks and straightenin’ things up. He didn’t go nowhere until after Mr. Carpenter was dead.”

  Rye set his feet flat on the boardwalk and rested his elbowson his knees as he leaned close to the kid. “So he couldn’t have seen Mr. Pollard arguing with Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Don’t rightly see how with him never near Mr. Carpenter.”

  Dulcie was right. Her father wasn’t a murderer.

  “Did you tell the sheriff?” Rye asked.

  “Told the Gearsons, but they said I was makin’ things up.”

  Anger flooded Rye. Children lied sometimes, but the Gearsons should have taken Collie to the sheriff and let the sheriff figure it out. Between Collie and Dulcie, Pollard should never have been arrested. But that would’ve meant they’d have no one to blame for Carpenter’s death, and having the wrong man was better than having nobody.

  Rye composed himself, not wanting Collie to see how much his words had affected him. “Did you ever see the peddler visit folks?”

  “Not much. Everyone went to him, ’cept Mrs. Carpenter. She had him bring his wagon to her house. Guess she thought she was better’n other folks.”

  “Was Mr. Carpenter with her when th
e peddler was there?”

  Collie thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, she was alone.” The boy squirmed. “I seen him and Mrs. Carpenter kiss once.”

  Stunned, Rye stared at the boy. “Are you sure?”

  Collie made a face. “I know what I seen.”

  Mrs. Carpenter and Virgil Lamont? A scandalous picture fell into place. Mrs. Carpenter, much younger than her husband, found she preferred someone closer to her age. And in order to have Lamont and her husband’s money, she’d have to find a way to get rid of Lawrence Carpenter. All she needed was for someone to kill him and somebody else to be accused of the crime. Frank Pollard was the perfect choice for the scapegoat, and Virgil Lamont was given the task of placing the blame on him. However, since Collie knew Lamont hadn’t been near Carpenter all day that meant somebody else had killed Carpenter.

  Who?

  TWENTY-ONE

  RYE abruptly stood. “Let’s go talk to the sheriff.”

  Startled, Collie stared up at him. “Why?”

  “So you can tell him what you told me about the peddler.”

  Collie wrapped his thin arms around his drawn-up knees. “The Gearsons is right. He ain’t never gonna believe me.”

  Angered by both the Gearsons’ disregard for their foster child and the miscarriage of justice, Rye had to take a moment to calm himself. He hunkered down in front of the boy. “Mrs. McDaniel told the sheriff that her father was at home when Mr. Carpenter was killed, but he didn’t believe her. But if you tell him that the peddler couldn’t have seen her father and Mr. Carpenter fighting, he’ll have to believe both of you.”

  Collie scrutinized him. “I’m not lying, Rye.”

  Rye smiled. “I know you’re not, and that’s why we’re going to see the sheriff.” He levered himself up and extended a hand to the sitting boy. “Come on.”

  Collie grasped his hand and Rye pulled him to his feet. With a hand on his back, Rye guided the boy to the sheriff ’s office. Entering, they found Sheriff Martin sleeping with his hat pulled over his eyes and his feet propped up on the battered desk.

  Rye slapped Martin’s boot and the lawman jerked, his eyes snapping open. “What?”

  “Collie here has something to tell you,” Rye said. He turned to the boy and said gently, “Go ahead.”