Never a man to waste words, the captain skipped the usual polite greetings and cut right to the chase. “Got your telegram. You said something had come up.”
Matt glanced at the people milling around the station. It was hardly the place for such an urgent conversation, but there was no time to look for somewhere more private.
“Neal Blackwell is dead.”
The captain didn’t even blink. “Did you find the loot?”
“I’m working on it.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The man is a hero around here, and no one is willing to say a bad word about him. There’s even a statue of him in the town square, and they plan to name the school after him.”
“So what are you saying?”
Matt sighed. For someone who held such a high position, the captain sure could be thickheaded at times. “Now that he’s dead, I don’t know that finding the stolen money is even possible. It’s been a year.”
The captain frowned. Not only had the Rangers failed to capture Matt’s brother, but they’d taken a lot of heat of late for failing to put a stop to the fence-cutting wars. McDonald didn’t look happy at the prospect of another failure on his record, especially since a senator was involved.
Not that Matt could blame him. The Rangers couldn’t afford to lose more public support and were in desperate need of a positive outcome.
The captain’s clipped voice cut through Matt’s thoughts. “Have you been to Blackwell’s farm?”
“I’ve been there,” Matt said. He decided it was best not to mention being held at gunpoint by the suspect’s widow.
“Do you think that’s where Blackwell hid the money?”
“Possibly.” Blackwell had died the day after the robbery. It hardly seemed possible that he’d had time to spend it.
“And?”
Spotting a man loitering nearby, Matt lowered his voice. “Blackwell left a widow and two children.”
“I don’t care if Blackwell left a whole orphanage of children.” Seemingly oblivious to those around him, the captain made no effort to lower his voice. “Dig up the whole Blackwell farm if you have to. I want that stolen money found.”
Matt’s jaw hardened. “My time would be better spent tracking down my brother,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I’ve got men working on it.”
“But no one knows him like I know him,” Matt argued. Or at least he’d thought he knew his younger sibling. But that was before Charley had pulled a gun on him. Before he knew how little family meant to Charley.
A flash of impatience crossed the captain’s face. “Like I said, I’ve got men working on it. Your job is to find the stolen loot. That money from the stage has gotta be somewhere, and I want it found.”
Matt spoke through wooden lips. “I’ll find it,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “But it’ll take time.”
“Take all the time you need. Just make it quick.” Without another word, the captain spun around and headed for the train with minutes to spare.
* * *
Ellie-May woke with a start. Something had pulled her from a sound sleep, but she didn’t know what.
Rising, she donned her robe and quietly checked the children’s room before plodding barefooted down the hall to the parlor. She paused for a moment to listen. Light from a full moon angled in the window and spread a luminous glow over the sparsely furnished room.
It was more of a feeling than a sound that drew her to the parlor window.
The moonlight spilled over her property like melted butter, and she immediately spotted movement. Pressing her face close to the windowpane, she narrowed her eyes. It was a man, and he appeared to be digging up her vegetable garden. What the—?
What possible reasons would anyone have for doing such a thing? Grabbing her shotgun from a corner, she ripped the door open with such force, it was a wonder that it hadn’t come off its hinges.
She dashed outside to the edge of the porch and raised her shotgun. She could see only the dark form of the man, but it was enough to tell her the intruder was short and stocky.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she yelled. Without giving the trespasser a chance to answer, she aimed her gun high and fired. A screech owl left the safety of a sycamore tree and took to the sky in protest.
The man’s arms shot up over his head. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
Ellie-May kept her weapon pointed. “Who are you?” she called again. “And what are you doing on my property?”
“Name’s Wagner, and I heard there was stolen money buried here.”
Anvil came running from the barn. Dressed in a white nightshirt and sleeping cap, he looked like a ghost. “What happened?” he called. “You all right?”
Her shotgun aimed at Wagner, Ellie-May said, “I’m fine. But that man claims he’s looking for stolen money.”
“Money?” Anvil said, sounding as confused as she was. “What money?”
Wagner kept his hands held over his head. “From last year’s stage robbery,” he replied.
Ellie-May frowned. “Why would you think the stolen money is here?”
Wagner lowered his hands to shoulder high. “Heard the Texas Ranger say it with my own ears.”
Ellie-May gritted her teeth. Taggert again! “Well, you heard wrong. Now get your sorry ass out of here before I fill you with lead.” To show she meant business, she aimed over his head and fired again.
The blast echoed through the night.
Seeming to need no further proof of Ellie-May’s intentions, Wagner ran to his mount and practically flew into the saddle. His horse then took off in a flash, its hooves hammering the ground like war drums.
“You can go back to bed, Miss Ellie-May,” Anvil called. “I’ll keep watch.”
“It’s all right, Anvil. I don’t think he’ll come back. Least not tonight. Get some sleep.”
“Mama?”
Ellie-May turned to her find both her son and daughter standing in the doorway. Alicia’s and Lionel’s pale faces seemed to hang in midair. The moonlight reflected fear in their rounded eyes.
“Don’t be scared,” Ellie-May said gently. “Mama thought she heard something, but…I was mistaken.” No sense worrying them.
She glanced at Anvil before joining her children and herding them back into the house.
* * *
The Feedbag Café was empty when Matt took a corner seat early that morning and perused the bill of fare.
Breakfast was served at the hotel where he was staying, but the out-of-town guests had no personal knowledge of Neal Blackwell. Matt counted on the café to serve up a generous heap of local gossip along with his cackleberries and bacon.
What he hadn’t counted on was coming face-to-face with Blackwell’s widow. No sooner had his eggs and bacon arrived than he spotted her storming into the restaurant. She paused for the briefest of moments at the doorway. Even from a distance, he could see the fire in her eyes. Whoever had earned her ire this time deserved his sympathy, that was for sure. At least she wasn’t packing iron.
Picking up his fork, he was just about to dive into his breakfast when her gaze zeroed in on him. As a Ranger, he’d been the target of angry men and blazing guns, but he’d never been as tempted to hide as he was at that moment.
Unfortunately, there was no time to follow through with his cowardly wish. For before he could move, she dashed toward him like a runaway train and stood next to his table, glaring. A bull tossed by a cowcatcher couldn’t have looked more incensed.
“How dare you?” she thundered, turning the heads of the other diners.
He reared back in his chair. “I’m sorry?”
As if suddenly aware she was making a scene, she leaned forward and lowered her voice for his ears only. “You have no right spreading falsehoods about my husban
d!”
Now he really was confused. “Falsehoods?” He’d been accused of many things, but never had he been accused of lying. “I don’t know where you got such a notion but—”
Blue sparks shot from her eyes, and she straightened. “A man named Wagner told me what you said about stolen money being buried on my property!”
Not having the foggiest idea who Wagner was, Matt was at a loss for words. “And you believed this man?”
She regarded him with narrowed eyes before dropping her gaze to his still-untouched plate. For an instant, a look of deprivation dulled her eyes. It was the same hungry look his father had shown all those years ago upon returning from that awful war.
As if to stop herself from staring at his plate, she lifted her gaze to his. “What reason would he have for lying?”
The café’s proprietor, Mrs. Buffalo, stopped at their table. An apron was tied around her thick middle, and only a few strands of white hair showed beneath her ruffled cap. “Is there a problem, Ellie-May?”
Motioning to his plate with his fork, Matt answered for her. “No problem,” he said. Right now, there seemed to be a more pressing issue at stake. “At least none that a plate for the lady wouldn’t solve.”
With a curious glance at the still-seething widow, Mrs. Buffalo nodded. “I’ll see to it right away.”
Not giving Mrs. Blackwell a chance to object, he pointed to the empty chair. “Have a seat,” he said. “You look like you could use some vittles. My treat.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not hungry,” she said, the deprived look in her eyes belying her words.
Ignoring her protests, he reached for the saltshaker. “So where did you meet this…man, Wagner?”
“On my property,” she said, and her eyes blazed anew with accusatory lights. “Digging for the money you said was buried there!”
Matt furrowed his brow. Wagner. The name didn’t ring a bell, but then he’d talked to a number of people around town. Still, the only time he recalled mentioning buried money was during his conversation with the captain at the train station. Had someone overheard? Perhaps the man he’d seen lurking nearby?
He sprinkled a generous amount of salt on his eggs. “If something I said gave the wrong impression, I apologize,” he said, hoping to smooth her feathers.
His apology didn’t take the wind out of the lady’s sails, but she looked less inclined to throttle him. She did, however, draw herself up to her full five-foot height to subject him to a long, level look.
“Neal was no thief,” she said.
She spoke with such conviction and heartfelt emotion that Matt found himself hoping she was right. “It’s my job to consider all possibilities,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why Neal?” she asked. “He’s been gone for a year. Why are you suddenly interested in him?”
He took a moment to consider his answer. “We have reason to believe that the man who robbed that stage purchased a train ticket in Haywire.” He purposely failed to mention that only two men had bought tickets on the day in question and one had already been cleared of any wrongdoing. “Anyone at the train station that day is of interest.”
She studied him for a moment as if to measure his sincerity. “My husband was a good man.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“An honest man.”
He drew in his breath. “Your husband has a lot of admirers,” he said. Her expression softened at his words, and he was once again reminded what a pretty woman she was. Especially when she wasn’t spitting fire.
He picked up his knife and fork and sliced off a piece of crisp bacon.
“He has a lot of admirers for good reason,” she said. “And you have no right dragging his name through the mud.”
His hands froze. “If that’s what you think I’m doing, I apologize.”
Mrs. Buffalo delivered a second plate to the table and left. Matt stabbed the air with his fork. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
“I told you—”
“I know, I know. You’re not hungry. But it would be a shame to let good food go to waste.” He doubted she would let that happen. A hardworking woman like her. It was what he counted on.
Still she hesitated. She was no doubt torn between eating with the enemy and walking away from the best meal she’d probably had in a month of Sundays.
In the end, practicality won, and she yanked out the chair and sat. “Just because I’m eating with you don’t mean I agree with what you’re doing.”
“Understood.”
Eyeing him like a cat might eye a mouse, she picked up a fork. “My Neal didn’t rob no stage.”
Without waiting for him to agree or disagree, she dived into the food on her plate as if there were no tomorrow.
5
Ellie-May drove horse and wagon away from the Feedbag Café feeling more than a little guilt. The curious and, in some instances, shocked stares of other restaurant patrons had followed her out the door.
No doubt they were thinking she was a hussy, if not worse. Her poor husband had been dead for only a year, and already she had been seen dining with a man.
Ellie-May inhaled sharply. Holding the reins with one hand, she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket and mopped her damp forehead.
She could hardly blame anyone for judging her. Not only had she failed to comply with the rules of widowhood through dress and demeanor, but proper ladies didn’t let casual acquaintances pay for their meals. She might not have much in the way of school learning, but she knew that much.
Still, it wouldn’t have been right to let all that good food go to waste. The amount of food on her plate alone added up to nearly three days of rations.
If only she hadn’t enjoyed the meal so much! But she hadn’t been able to help herself. The bacon was crisp, the eggs fluffy, and the flapjacks light as air.
The coffee alone had been worth the critical stares. It had been months since she’d allowed herself the luxury of a cup of coffee. What precious beans she had were saved for Anvil. He needed them more than she did.
Not only had she enjoyed the coffee and food, but never had she known the luxury of dining in a restaurant and being waited on. As a child, she’d thought that only rich people could afford the extravagance. Certainly, Neal hadn’t been able to spare such expense.
“One day,” he’d told her. “One day.”
The view hadn’t been all that bad, either, much as she hated to think it. It wasn’t every day that a gal got to sit across from a good-looking man, and the Texas Ranger was that in spades.
The female diners might have glared at her in disapproval, but she didn’t doubt for a moment that they envied her.
She sighed. It wasn’t just that she’d allowed a man—a near stranger—to pay for her meal that had filled her with guilt; Matt Taggert obviously thought her husband was involved in some way with the stage robbery. True, he’d fallen short of calling Neal an actual suspect, but why else show so much interest in him?
Accepting anything from Taggert, let alone a meal, showed the utmost disrespect for her husband and his memory.
Such were her thoughts as she drove horse and wagon home, and her misery only increased as the day wore on.
By late afternoon, she was still mulling over her morning encounter with Taggert as she sat in her parlor ripping seams out of one of Neal’s shirts.
The broadcloth was in good condition and would make a fine shirt for Lionel. The boy was growing like a weed and had outgrown the shirt she’d made him for Christmas. Here it was only five months later, and already the shirt was too short to tuck into his knee pants.
It wasn’t that long ago that she could make Lionel two shirts from a single one of Neal’s. Now it took careful planning and cutting just to make a single shirt.
A knock sounded at the door, drawing her away from h
er thoughts. Dropping the scissors and shirt into her sewing basket, she stood and hurried across the room to open the door.
The visitor pulled off his hat and held it to his chest with both hands. He appeared to be in his late thirties. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. The name’s Roberts. Dave Roberts.”
Her gaze traveled past him to the brown horse tied to the hitching post in front. The absence of a wagon told her he probably wasn’t a salesman.
Ellie-May shifted her gaze back to the man. The lack of a Bible and frock coat ruled out the possibility of him being a traveling preacher. Instead, he was dressed in canvas trousers and a plaid shirt. He looked like one of the cowhands who worked on the nearby cattle ranches.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Roberts?”
“Actually, I’m here to do something for you,” he said with a magnanimous air that caused the upturned ends of his mustache to twitch. “I just got back from Alaska, and I only just heard about your husband passing through the Pearly Gates.”
She drew her eyebrows together. “Did you know my husband?”
“Know him? Why, we grew up together and were practically blood brothers.”
“Oh? You grew up in Texas, too?” she asked, testing him.
He blinked. “Missouri, ma’am. Born and raised in Hannibal, Missouri. Just like your husband.”
The man had the right answers, but Ellie-May still wasn’t sure if she could trust him. “If that’s true, how come Neal never mentioned you?”
“It’s like this,” Roberts explained in a conspiratorial tone. “Neal and I had what you might call an altercation. He didn’t like me mentioning his past and what had happened.”
She stared at him. “You…you knew about that?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.” He shook his head until his jowls wobbled. “Shooting his little friend took a terrible toll on him. Just terrible.”
She moistened her lips and tried to think. It stood to reason that anyone residing in Hannibal at the time would know what Neal had done. Certainly, anyone growing up with Neal would know.
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