Justiss waited a heartbeat, watching Flaherty stalk across the street, before shaking his head. “I’d like to talk to Smythe alone first.”
For a moment he thought Turner was going to argue, but in the end the man agreed. “You know where to find me.”
* * *
“You cannot be serious,” Smythe complained loudly, though no one was there to answer or listen. “You cannot keep me locked me up in this...this—”
A rustling in the far corner of the hastily constructed cell, beneath the pile of stale, odiferous straw, had the tiny hairs on the back of his neck raising. Good Lord, he hoped it wasn’t a rat. He hated rats—especially the wharf rats from back home.
The rustling continued, and now he heard a faint meow coming from the other side of the locked stable door. That sound could only mean one thing, and it wasn’t a snake the cat was after. He had to calm down, needed to regain his optimistic outlook. At least he still had the deed. The marshal hadn’t searched him before depositing him in this poor excuse for a jail cell. If the man had, there was no telling where Smythe’s papers would have ended up by now.
Why hadn’t the lawman searched him? The marshal seemed to be sharp and knew the letter of the law as if it were ingrained on his brain. Something, or someone, must have distracted the marshal from his duties.
Pearl. No doubt in Smythe’s mind, the woman was an eyeful.
He wondered yet again who had injured so lovely a woman, before his thoughts got tangled around the fact that she was still living out at the ranch he purchased with his half of the inheritance, while he was stuck in this poor excuse for a jail with no one to listen to his side of the story.
Smythe knew he had to let his growing anger go. It wouldn’t help his situation. He needed a clear mind to figure a way out. Frustrated, he thought about kicking something, but there wasn’t anything nearby to kick. He toed the soft-packed dirt on the floor with his boot, raising a satisfyingly fair-sized cloud of dust.
“Ah-choo! Damnation!” He could not believe the way his day was going. He sneezed again. As the dust settled, he clamped his nose between his fingers to discourage any further sneezing. He didn’t want whatever resided in the pile of straw to come out investigating the sound.
“Why didn’t I listen to Runyon?” Smythe asked aloud. “Things would have calmed down in a few months, and we would have found out who tampered with Michael’s saddle.”
Just thinking about it brought the horrific scene back to his mind. The black night and sharp report of a gun that spooked his brother’s horse. The sickening thud as his brother landed on the slab of rock after being thrown…and the eerie silence that followed while he tried to rouse his brother.
Smythe broke out into a cold sweat, the same reaction he’d had while trying to bring Michael around. Beads of perspiration ran into his eyes. He rubbed at the stinging sensation, but could not seem to rid himself of it. Giving up, he walked over to the door, amazed at what some ingenious person had fashioned out of the three-quarter door to the stable. The makeshift wooden bars framed the top of the door, and it almost looked like a real jail cell. He turned around and thought about pulling the stool over, away from the still-moving pile of straw so he’d have somewhere to sit, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He really hated rats.
Needing something to take his mind off the beady-eyed creature waiting to leap out and bite him, he called out, “How long do you intend to keep me here?”
He knew there was no one to answer him. He’d heard the outside door closing a little while ago.
“Well, now, the marshal will be the one to decide that.”
Smythe started at the sound of the deep voice coming from the other side of his cell. “Who’s there?”
“Name’s Reilly.”
“Well, Reilly, is the marshal on his way over?” Smythe couldn’t keep the anxious tone from his voice. He was damned tired, his feet still hurt, and his pride had taken a direct hit.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Damnation, he wished he could see to whom he was speaking. “It’s hard to carry on a conversation when you can’t see the other person.”
“Miss Pearl is right. Ye sure are one for gabbin’.”
“How is Pearl?” he couldn’t keep from asking.
“Miss Pearl was on the road to recovery last time I saw her.”
The man was just beyond Smythe’s line of vision. He hoped to bring him closer, asking, “Recovery from what?”
“I don’t see as that would be any of yer business, boy-o.”
“Reilly, please—” Smythe began. But what else could he say to the stranger? Why should he even bother trying to convince someone else he was innocent?
Neither the marshal nor Pearl believed he was a victim, the same as she. And now he was behind bars, unable to do anything to prove otherwise…unless he could get Reilly to listen to him. “I have the deed. Isn’t that proof enough?”
“Well now, lad,” Reilly said, finally showing his face by the barred opening of the door. “That’d be interesting, to be sure, but now we all know Miss Pearl has the deed.”
“Then where is her copy?” Smythe had overheard her tell the marshal she couldn’t find it. Why was the woman lying? She couldn’t have the deed when she had signed it over to him after he paid her good money for it. Could she?
“I’m thinkin’ she’ll be findin’ it in good time.” Reilly’s dark eyes narrowed. “What’s yer real reason for coming to Emerson, Smythe?”
“How do you know my name?”
“Boy-o, the whole territory will know yer name by nightfall. No one takes kindly to land fraud.”
“I tell you, I’m the victim,” he ground out. Lord, his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth in a bid not to shout. “I paid good money for that ranch, and I intend to live there.”
I can’t go back to Boston…and I have nowhere else to go.
“Pearl was right,” Reilly said quietly. “Sure and ye sound convincing.” With that, the man turned and walked away.
“Wait! Reilly, don’t—” Too late. Smythe turned away from the door and walked over to the pile of straw. At least it had stopped moving. He bent down and snatched the stool, carrying it back over to the door, as far away from the rat as possible.
He sank down on the stool, head in hands, wondering when he’d give in and admit that he was living on borrowed time. He was the one who had been meant to die, not his brother. It was Smythe’s horse that had the saddle tampered with. But for some reason, when he had arrived late, his brother had already been sitting atop the horse Smythe usually rode, waiting for him.
Everything that had happened since his brother’s death was a blurred memory. Staring at the rough-hewn planked walls, he wondered if he shouldn’t take the time now to sort things out—think them through. He had nothing else to do.
Since he had no one to talk to, he settled for talking to himself. It did sound a bit crazy, but there was no one around to hear him.
“Why would Michael ride Samson?”
He didn’t expect an answer to the question, and since the rat wasn’t talking, didn’t receive one.
“Who would have wanted to see me dead? I’m the younger twin by three minutes.”
Nothing. His mind couldn’t come up with one person.
His brother’s death had turned Smythe’s whole world upside down, having him act rashly—spending money on piece of land half a continent away sight-unseen—and now he was cooling his heels behind bars because of it.
His stomach burned, but he ignored the feeling. He had to find some answers.
“Of all of our friends and neighbors, who would possibly believe that I would want to harm my brother?” Smythe faltered, swallowing the lump of sorrow lodged in his throat. “He was my best friend, the better half of me.”
Smythe lifted his head from his hands and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. The odor of stale sweat wafted past his nose. Damnation. He was ripe and needed
a bath.
Obviously there would be no answers to his questions. He was no longer in Boston where the rumors were still rife that he had conspired to gain his brother’s half of the inheritance. Though removed from the source of his recent pain, he was also removed from the scene of the accident, where he might have found the answers.
He hoped Runyon would be able to uncover the truth. Between them, they had decided it would be best for Smythe to leave town. He wondered belatedly if that had been the right decision.
Alone in his misery, he berated himself yet again for not arriving on time that day. He’d not been late since then, though it hadn’t done him any good and hadn’t brought his brother back.
“Smythe.”
He jumped to his feet. “Marshal?”
“I’ve got some questions to ask you.”
Chapter Four
Pearl muttered to herself to keep from storming back down the stairs and confronting the girls. She wanted to remind them that she deserved their respect, as she had taken them in and provided them a home, but couldn’t do it in good conscience. She kept picturing the strained looks of concern on all of their faces as they solemnly did what the marshal told them to—well part of what he’d said. They only took her shoes.
She wanted to understand the marshal’s worry, but for the life of her couldn’t see how it could compare with the urgency of her need to protect her home and her girls. Pearl tried not to let them see how angry she was that they’d chosen to listen to the marshal instead of her.
She knew their actions stemmed from their need to help her heal. After all, she had received the wounds she still suffered from while protecting them from O’Toole and his gang.
“If they would just go back outside and tend to their chores,” she huffed out to the four pale yellow walls she’d grown to hate in the last few days she spent looking at them while lying on her back in bed.
It had felt wonderful to storm outside with her Winchester earlier. She belonged on this ranch. It was her home now, and she’d almost finished remaking it into the home she’d always wanted growing up, but never had.
Pearl paced in front of the windows, and stopped by the fancy lady’s writing desk. It had been a gift from John’s mother; well, it would have been if the woman had been alive to give it to Pearl. She set that thought aside, and any others about her former life. There was no point in dredging up past hurts. They no longer mattered. She only hesitated a moment before deciding a climb out the window and down the big oak tree would do her aching ribs more harm than good.
Another trip back and forth and she looked out the window again and breathed a sigh of relief. “Finally.”
The girls must have decided she was going to stay put upstairs. They were all outside tending to their chores. Torn between sneaking down the stairs and being honest with her girls, Pearl decided on the latter.
Reaching up to place the bonnet on her head, she groaned. Doc had been right; any stretching would hurt for a while. Hell, any movement at all still hurt. Working through the agony, she tied a lopsided bow, dropping her arms to her sides with a sigh of relief.
A long soak in a hot tub would be her reward for doing what she considered a good deed when she got back from town. Straightening, she headed to the door, carefully pulled it open and started down the stairs.
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
“Amy!” Pearl put her hand to her breast to keep her heart from jumping out of her skin. She could have sworn she’d just seen the girl headed out to the herb garden.
“Were you trying to sneak out of the house?” Amy demanded, narrowing her eyes.
Pearl snorted. “I wouldn’t have taken the stairs if I were going to sneak out of the house.”
When Amy remained unmoved, Pearl added, “I’d have climbed out the bedroom window.”
Amy’s face lost all color at that statement. “You could’ve broken your ribs clean through!”
Pearl’s irritation with the girl melted in the face of the poor thing’s obvious distress. Ignoring the sharp stab of pain, she put her arm around Amy. “I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid.”
“You know Doc said you weren’t supposed to move from that bed for another week.”
“And you know that I’m going stir-crazy lying in bed while you girls are taking care of the ranch.”
“But we don’t mind, and we’d hate to see you have a relapse.” Amy’s voice started to waver, and Pearl knew the young woman was struggling to keep her emotions in check.
Patting Amy on the shoulder, Pearl stepped back and looked her right in the eye. “You heard what Mr. Smythe said about having a copy of the deed to our place.”
Amy nodded.
“I’ve looked, but I can’t find mine.”
Amy’s face paled, and she looked down at her feet and then back at Pearl.
“I did glance at the packet of papers he had, but my mind just went blank after I saw the word ‘deed.’ ”
Amy nodded. “Maybe it’s not real.”
“A forgery?” Hope began to glow through Pearl’s tired body. It was possible, and it would explain how this whole mess got blown out of proportion, but she still needed to find the deed to her ranch.
“Can’t you go back upstairs and rest?”
Pearl ached from head to toe and in a few new places after that third kick from firing the Winchester earlier. Brushing the aches aside, she focused on what she knew in her heart was right, protecting her girls and their home. “I refuse to let any smooth-talking city man from back East claim my ranch without a fight. But I can’t fight him without knowing everything he might use as a weapon.”
“But, Pearl—”
“No buts,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. “I’m going to town, and I’m going to talk to Mr. Smythe.”
“But the marshal said you were to rest,” Daisy whispered from where she stood with the rest of the girls in the doorway to the kitchen.
“But we hid your shoes just like we promised Marshal Justiss,” Mary added.
Pearl drew herself up, resolving to be firm and stand against her girls. She breathed in, and the familiar scent of chicken stewing filled her nostrils. At least supper had been started. One less thing to worry about.
She didn’t have time for this. She had to get to town and get a closer look at Mr. Smythe’s papers. “Where did you hide them?”
The girls looked at one another, but not one of them budged from where they stood around the battered oak kitchen table and mismatched chairs, gifts from Maggie and Bridget after the outlaws destroyed the other ones.
“I’m aiming to stop him,” Pearl vowed. “But I can’t without my shoes.”
As one, the girls looked to Pearl, then reluctantly nodded their heads, looking like china dolls with hinges at the backs of their necks.
Pearl let out the breath she held, centering her thoughts on what lay ahead of her. If she didn’t concentrate, she’d surely groan loud enough to wake the dead. Lord, she hurt, but she couldn’t let the girls see how much or they’d do what she always threatened when one of them was sick and not listening to her: tie them to the bed until they were better.
“Amy, please go fetch them for me.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears, “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Pearl demanded.
“Both,” she whispered. “You taught us how important giving your word is.”
Pearl’s stomach clenched. She had.
“And keeping your promises,” Daisy added.
Damn.
“Can someone help me get the wagon?”
“But Pearl—”
Pearl ignored Mary and lifted her skirts high enough not to trip on them as she swept outside, down the steps and over to the wagon. Mindful not to step on the patch of pale purple thistle, her skirts brushed against a tiny patch of sweet woodruff, releasing its faint sweet scent. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gone without shoes, but it had been a lot of year
s.
It would be tough going, hitching the horse herself and climbing up onto the wagon, but she had a ranch to save and girls who depended on her. Besides, what were a few prickers, thorns, and stubbed toes when compared to losing their home?
A quarter of an hour later Pearl was headed to town, gritting her teeth as the wagon wheels bumped against every rock and rut in her path. She didn’t remember the road to town being quite so rough. The weather had been warm, but dry. The sun baked the well-traveled road into ruts and ridges of hard-packed earth.
Tired, aching, and craving a hot cup of tea and a long soak in a tub of rose-scented water, Pearl set the brake and rubbed a hand to the small of her back. No point in putting off this meeting any longer. The marshal would not be pleased to see her.
She drew in a breath of warm, fragrant air, squared her shoulders and prepared to climb down out of the wagon when a pair of boys leapt from behind a rain barrel and shot across the street, too close to the front of her wagon. The horse whinnied and tried to stand up on its hind legs, but was still hitched to the wagon. All the animal could do was buck and pull against the reins and traces.
Hanging on to the reins with what was left of her strength, Pearl closed her eyes and prayed with all her might. Her arms ached and her hands burned by the time she heard a familiar deep voice calming her horse. “Whoa, laddie. Easy, now.”
Pearl opened first one eye and then the other.
“Have a care, lass!”
The kind words were as much of a balm to her ragged nerves and aching body as they’d been soothing to her horse. She smiled down into the broad handsome face of John Reilly.
“I’ll help ye down.”
Waiting as bidden, she bent to let him lift her from the wagon, but couldn’t confine the groan that slipped from between her tightly pressed lips.
“Aye lass, yer ribs’ll pain ye for at least a month of Sundays more.” Warm brown eyes filled with sympathy met hers. Setting her on her feet, Reilly held her elbow to steady her, but didn’t let go.
“Ouch!” Damn. She’d stepped on a sharp rock.
Reilly stepped back from her, and stared down at her bare feet.
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 45
