A Reason to Believe

by McKade, Maureen

  Martin listened to the boy’s story, his expression clearly revealing his skepticism. Once Collie was done, the sheriff spoke. “Did this fellah tell you to tell me this?” he asked, motioning to Rye.

  Collie shook his head. “No, sir. When I heard Mr. Pollard was ’rested, I told the Gearsons that the peddler couldn’t have seen him and Mr. Carpenter fightin’, but they said I was lyin’ and that you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “They were right. I don’t.”

  “Look, Sheriff, between what Mrs. McDaniel and Collie have told you, even you can see Frank Pollard couldn’t have killed Carpenter.” Rye tried to keep the irritation from his voice but knew he wasn’t succeeding.

  “Virgil Lamont said—” the sheriff began.

  “A peddler’s job is to stretch the truth. Why would you take his word over theirs?”

  Martin slammed his fist down on the desk and jumped to his feet. “Why would Lamont lie? He’d only been here a time or two before and got along with everyone. And Dulcie, she was gone for over five years, and when she come back, she don’t hardly talk to anyone until her pa is in trouble.”

  “So you’re saying just because Dulcie kept to herself, you took Lamont’s word over hers?”

  Martin glanced away, but not before Rye saw the confirmation in his eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No? Then tell me how it was.” Rye didn’t bother covering his angry frustration. “Tell me why you allowed an innocent man to be taken out of your jail and hanged. Tell me why you didn’t arrest those who did the hanging. And tell me why you still won’t even consider that Dulcie and Collie are telling the truth.”

  Martin glared at him. “This is a small town, mister. Carpenter was well-liked ’round here. Somebody had to pay for killin’ him.”

  Rye gnashed his teeth. “And that somebody was Frank Pollard, because he was a good-for-nothing drunk and nobodywould stand up for him. Nobody but his daughter, who you wouldn’t even consider was telling the truth.

  “And what about the real murderer? He’s running around scot-free, and you don’t care that an innocent man was lynched in his place.”

  Martin’s face reddened, but he didn’t say anything.

  Furious, Rye slapped the desktop and spun around. “Let’s go, Collie. I can’t stand the stink in here.”

  The boy hurried to the door, clearly wanting to get away from the sheriff as much as Rye. Once the door was slammed behind them, Rye stood motionless on the boardwalk. Rage clouded his vision as he struggled to keep from striking something.

  “Why won’t he believe us?” Collie asked.

  The boy’s tentative question dissipated Rye’s remaining anger. “Because he knows he let an innocent man die and he won’t own up to it.”

  Collie frowned. “I never liked Mr. Pollard, but I didn’t like seein’ him hang neither.” He shuddered.

  Rye stared down at the boy, suddenly realizing Collie must have witnessed the hanging. Remembering his own childhood when he’d sneaked out of the orphanage late at night, he wanted to kick himself for not considering the possibility. “Did you recognize anyone who hanged him?” he asked.

  Collie stared into the distance, his young face drawn. “There were lots of people. They all wore something over their faces, so mostly I couldn’t tell who they were.”

  Rye sensed Collie knew more and waited for the boy to continue.

  “Mr. Gearson was there. I saw him when he went back to the house. So was Knobby from the bathhouse and”—he swallowed—“Mrs. Carpenter was there, too. There was lots more, too.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  Collie turned to glance through the lawman’s window and shivered despite the warmth of the sun. “I think so.”

  If the sheriff was involved in the lynching, there was no way to bring justice to the vigilantes. It would be Collie’s word against the word of everyone, including the sheriff.

  The simple fact was Dulcie’s father was dead and no one would be charged with his murder.

  However, there was still the mystery of who actually killed Carpenter. If Rye figured that out, then he’d have something to give Dulcie before leaving Locust.

  AFTER she returned home, Dulcie moved mechanically, keeping her mind empty except for whatever task she worked. Madeline was oddly quiet, playing with her doll and making up stories she told Aggie in a low, singsong voice. Although they ate dinner, Dulcie couldn’t recall what it was she’d made for her and her daughter.

  While Madeline napped in the afternoon, Dulcie picked apples. As she did, she worried about the wheat still standing in the field, as well as the corn on the stalks. If only she hadn’t been so quick to judge Rye. The deserter brand was reason enough for him to keep quiet about having been in the army. He was obviously ashamed of the scar since he’d kept his shirt on even when they’d made love.

  She paused, her hand on an apple, as she recalled that evening and what he’d done to her. Her cheeks heated and she squeezed her thighs together. If he’d only been looking to get her into bed, he wouldn’t have taken the time to pleasure her. And he had pleasured her, more than she imagined a man could.

  She pulled the apple off the branch and crammed it into the bag slung over her arm and head. Her thoughts turned to Lamont’s blackmail—his silence in exchange for a night in her bed. What about the next time he was in Locust? And the next? Would his silence cost a night each time he was passing through town?

  Her stomach heaved, and she pressed her arms against her belly. Was her reputation worth her self-respect? She’d whored herself with Lamont before, but that had been for Madeline, and she’d do it again to protect her daughter. But for herself? Didn’t she deserve more? Didn’t she deserve a man like Rye Forrester?

  Her vision blurred and she swept her wrist across her eyes. Resolve stiffened her spine. This evening she’d accept Lamont into her home and feed him supper. She’d learn why he lied about seeing her father argue with Carpenter, and she’d do it without letting him use her again.

  Maybe Jerry had thought she was a worthless wife, and maybe Lamont thought she was little more than a whore. But Rye had made love with her, treated her like she was special. And after experiencing Rye’s loving, she’d accept nothing less ever again.

  AFTER feeding Collie at the restaurant and sending him on his way, Rye entered Carpenter’s hardware store. Although startled to see Lamont inside, he wasn’t surprised that the peddler and Mrs. Carpenter had their heads bent close as they talked. It only strengthened his theory that they were in cahoots.

  Mrs. Carpenter, facing the door, quickly moved away from Lamont. “Can I help you?” Her tone was as chilly as a Dakota winter.

  “Mr. Lamont. I’m surprised to see you here,” Rye said, ignoring the woman.

  Virgil Lamont turned languidly, and his artificial smile made Rye grit his teeth. “I’m merely trying to persuade Mrs. Carpenter to purchase some of my goods.”

  “It seems to me a woman who’s planning on leaving doesn’t have much use for your load of —he paused deliberately—“goods.”

  Lamont’s face flushed, but he also appeared startled by the news of her moving. “I hadn’t realized she was leaving Locust.”

  Mrs. Carpenter’s haughty expression slipped. “I was about to inform you when we were so rudely interrupted,” she assured Lamont. “In fact, I was going to ask you if you would like to buy some of our goods at lowered prices.”

  Rye leaned against a barrel filled with chains and crossed his arms. “Consider it another form of payment for services rendered.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lamont said, brushing some dust from his sleeve.

  Rye shrugged nonchalantly. “I figured it out. Mrs. Carpenterwanted her husband dead, but she needed someone to take the blame since he was so well-liked around these parts. So she struck a deal with you to lie about Pollard.”

  Mrs. Carpenter narrowed her eyes. “Are you insinuating I killed my own husband?”

  Rye’s chuckle was as
icy as her glare. “No, ma’am. You aren’t big enough or strong enough to have killed him.”

  Peter Carpenter came out of the back room and froze, his gaze roving from Rye to his stepmother to Lamont and back to Rye. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Mrs. Carpenter quickly replied.

  Rye drew his brows together as his gaze went from the woman to her stepson. What if Mrs. Carpenter had wielded her charms on Peter? Being young and impressionable, he might do anything for her. Including kill his own father.

  Rye’s stomach rolled in revulsion and he swallowed the caustic rise in his throat. He pushed away from the barrel and approached the counter, his gaze locked on Peter’s face. “Is she worth it? Is she worth having your father’s murder on your conscience?”

  Peter’s face paled, confirming Rye’s horrible suspicion. Rye would’ve given anything to still have his own father, and this foolish young man had killed his.

  Rye took a deep breath and surveyed the three people staring at him—Lamont with coolness, Mrs. Carpenter with loathing, and Peter with trepidation. He shook his head in disgust and strode out.

  Even though he was now fairly certain of who was involved in the murder, he found himself in the same helpless position he’d found himself with the sheriff. He had no way of proving their guilt. However, there was a weak link in their triad of murder.

  And Rye had to break that link to learn the truth, for Dulcie’s sake.

  DULCIE heard the approaching jangle of a wagon and her heart leapt in her breast. Her gaze flicked to the table, which was set for three, and her daughter, who’d made her displeasure for the peddler known with whines and pouts. If there was anyone she could have left Madeline with this evening, Dulcie would have done so.

  Dulcie smoothed a hand over her daughter’s hair then kissed her crown. “It’ll be all right, honey. After we eat, I want you to go up to the loft and play. If you get tired, you can lie down up there and go to sleep.”

  Madeline scowled. “I know, Ma.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Dulcie had given her the same instructions at least a half dozen times.

  “I don’t like him.”

  Dulcie clamped down on the hysterical urge to laugh. “I’m not fond of him myself, but we have to be polite.”

  Madeline looked like she wanted to argue, but footsteps on the porch made Dulcie raise her finger. “Be good,” she told her daughter.

  As Dulcie walked to the door, she glanced into the bedroom to reassure herself that the loaded shotgun stood in the corner. Her gaze landed on the trunk, where the whiskey bottle was hidden, untouched for days. She would’ve liked a swallow for courage, but it was too late now. A knock sounded, and Dulcie fisted her hands at her sides and took a deep breath. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers and opened the door.

  Virgil Lamont, wearing a dark suit, swept her dress-clad figure with a lecherous gaze. “Hello, Dulcie.”

  “Mr. Lamont,” she greeted him formally, her heart racing and her palms damp with apprehension. She motioned for him to enter.

  He stepped into the small cabin and wrinkled his nose. “This is what you wanted to return to?”

  She lifted her chin. “It’s our home. Mine and Madeline’s.”

  Lamont merely grunted. He spotted Madeline sitting in a rocking chair and approached her.

  Dulcie quickly insinuated herself between him and her daughter. “Supper is ready.”

  The man narrowed his eyes but nodded.

  She motioned for him to sit then ushered Madeline into the seat across from him. Aware of his gaze on her, Dulcie tried not to shudder with revulsion. How had she ever lain with him?

  Because he threatened to strand Madeline and me in the middle of nowhere . . . and because my body liked what he did.

  Self-hatred made her grimace, but she pressed the disgust aside. She had to pretend to go along with his blackmail if she hoped to get any information from him.

  Once the plates were filled, Dulcie sat down to eat. Although it was one of the better meals she’d prepared, it tasted like sawdust and settled like a rock in her belly. As she forced herself to eat, she rehearsed in her mind how she’d get him to admit he’d lied about seeing her father and Carpenter arguing.

  “I saw your friend Forrester in the hardware store right before I came out here,” Lamont remarked.

  Dulcie faltered for a second and hoped the peddler didn’t notice. “Forrester was my hired man.”

  “Funny. I got the impression there was more between you two.”

  Dulcie’s heart skipped a beat and she kept her gaze lowered, fearful Lamont would see the truth in her eyes. “You’re wrong.”

  There was a moment of dense silence, then Lamont said, “He accused Mrs. Carpenter and her son of killing Lawrence Carpenter.”

  Dulcie’s heart jumped and she caught the peddler’s narrowed eyes and held them. “He must’ve had good reason.”

  “Do you know what I think, Dulcie? I think Forrester is sweet on you and trying to get in your good graces by proving your father didn’t kill Carpenter.”

  Maybe the other night had meant more to Rye than simply lying with a willing—more than willing—woman. But she wasn’t about to tell Lamont. “You’re imagining things.”

  “I’m done, Ma. May I go?” Madeline asked.

  Dulcie glanced at the girl’s plate, which was still half full. But she didn’t want her daughter to hear any more of their conversation. “Go ahead.”

  Madeline scrambled down from her chair, and no residual effects from her illness were evident as she scampered up the ladder.

  “She’s going to be a beauty, just like you,” Lamont said.

  Dulcie swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “She’s a good girl.”

  Lamont finished eating and pushed his plate away. “You aren’t a bad cook”—his eyes glittered like obsidian—“but you’re better in bed.”

  She flushed hotly. “You threatened to leave Madeline and me behind if I didn’t—”

  Lamont laughed. “Come now, Dulcie. You weren’t a blushing virgin. You knew what you were getting into, and from what I recall, you didn’t mind sharing my bed.”

  Dulcie closed her eyes as humiliation threatened to choke her. She reminded herself she’d done what she had to and pushed back her shame. She concentrated on her task. “I wonder what Mr. Forrester’s reason was for accusing the Carpenters of murder.”

  Lamont leaned back and negligently slung an arm over another chair. “I believe he thinks the widow cuckolded the old man.” His eyes flashed with dark humor. “And bedded her stepson.”

  Shocked, Dulcie’s eyes widened. Mrs. Carpenter was much younger than her husband had been, but to sleep with Peter and be party to killing her husband . . . Dulcie had done some things she wasn’t proud of, but she could never be that brazen.

  “You look surprised, Dulcie. Surely you know how powerful passion can be,” Lamont said, his tone mocking.

  She refused to be baited. “Did she pay you to lie?”

  Lamont’s composure slipped and an insincere smile tried to cover it. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Dulcie. Our deal is one night together, then I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  As surely as Dulcie knew the sun would rise in the east, she knew Lamont wouldn’t reveal the truth. Not now and not in the morning after he received his “payment.” With that realization, she felt a lifting of the weight from her shoulders. “You’re lying. You’re planning to have your fun tonight and leave tomorrow morning without telling me a thing. And the next time you’re in the area, you’ll be calling on me again, wanting another ‘payment’ for your silence, and promising me something else you never intend on giving.”

  Lamont studied her, and a reluctant smile touched his lips. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change a thing. If I leave here now, everyone in town will know of your loose morals.”

  The fear Dulcie expected didn’t materialize. Instead, she thought of Rye and how well he’d treated her and Madeline
. If she gave in to Lamont’s demand, she would lose Rye’s respect, and that would hurt more than the entire town of Locust thinking less of her. Besides, the townsfolk already looked down upon her for being the daughter of Frank Pollard. But they didn’t know her or her reasons for what she’d done or why she’d returned to Locust, to a father who was a drunk and a farm that was falling down.

  They didn’t know that she loved her daughter more than her reputation.

  Dulcie stood and walked to the door. She opened it wide and made a sweeping gesture toward it. “Get out of here, Lamont.”

  He eyed Dulcie like he’d never seen her before. “Are you sure, Dulcie?”

  She smiled and nodded, feeling as if she was awakening from a nightmare. “I’ve never been more certain. Go ahead and spread your rumors. I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks of me. I know who and what I am.”

  Lamont rose slowly and crossed to the door. He stood gazing down at Dulcie. “I’m almost sorry we met like we did.” He turned to leave but paused on the porch. “You’re a hell of a woman, Dulcie McDaniel.”

  She stared after him, startled by the reluctant admiration in his voice. Before she realized what she was doing, she ran out to his wagon and grabbed the nearest trace to hold the horses. Lamont tipped his head in question as he looked down at her.

  “Did you kill Mr. Carpenter?” She held her breath.

  He was still for a long moment then slowly shook his head. “I had no reason to. He was a good customer.”

  “You didn’t see my father arguing with Carpenter, did you?” Dulcie knew she was pressing her luck, but some strange compulsion wouldn’t let her stop.

  Lamont stared at her, as if trying to determine what to tell her. “That part’s true, only it was the day before Carpenter was killed.”

  “How much did Mrs. Carpenter pay you to lie to the sheriff?”

  Lamont chuckled without humor. “I was expecting my money this time, but she’s still paying interest.”

  Dulcie’s face heated, realizing how she paid the interest. Was Mrs. Carpenter so ruthless as to bed both Lamont and Peter so she could be rid of her husband? Thinking of the beautiful but cold features of the woman, Dulcie knew she could be that heartless. “Rye’s right, isn’t he? Mrs. Carpenter and Peter killed him, and you were paid to cast the blame on my father.”