Today, no sound could be heard from the second-floor jail cells. Either the prisoners had been released, or they had succeeded in their demands for steak. Either way, Matt was grateful for not having to raise his voice.
“Oh?”
“I bumped into a boy named Jesse James. You know him?”
The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know him. His mother died last year, and his old man lets him pretty much run wild.”
“Jesse said he told you about a conversation he’d overheard between Blackwell and some stranger.”
“He talked to me, all right.” Keeler folded his hands across his protruding middle. “Just like he’s talked to me about half the citizens in Haywire. If I arrested everyone he suspected of a crime, we’d have to shut down the town.”
For some reason, Matt felt the need to defend the boy. “He wants to be a Texas Ranger.”
“Good. Then he’ll be someone’s else’s problem.”
Matt frowned. “So, you don’t think there’s any truth to Jesse’s story? About Blackwell, I mean.”
Sheriff Keeler shook his head. “You’re wasting your time. The kid’s as wild as they come, and he’s got an imagination to match.”
“So what you’re saying is that he made the whole thing up.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” The sheriff paused for a moment. “Who knows? Maybe he’s just lonely and this is how he gets attention. He sure don’t get it from his pa.”
Matt leaned forward. “I don’t understand. If his pa owns a saloon, why does Jesse look so needy?” It had been his experience that even during dire economic times, saloons were the last to feel the pinch.
The sheriff scoffed. “His pa don’t own no saloon.”
Matt sat back. He distinctly recalled the boy mentioning his pa’s saloon. If what the sheriff said was true, the boy had lied about his father, and his credibility had just taken another nosedive.
Still, even in the face of all the evidence to the contrary, Matt was reluctant to discount the boy altogether. Without him, Matt had nothing to go on but Blackwell’s train ticket and a number of improbable theories on how it had ended up at the crime scene.
“So you don’t think there’s anything to what the boy said?”
The sheriff made a face. “All I knows is this—Blackwell had nothing to do with the stage robbery. I’ll stake my life on it.”
7
Ellie-May had just finished hanging her wash on the clothesline when she caught sight of Anvil heading her way.
One look at his serious face told her something was wrong. She sighed. Please don’t let it be another expense. She’d recently had to sell their best horse to pay for new parts for the windmill. Last winter, they’d had to sell a cow to fix the barn roof. She was now down to one sorry mare, one skinny milk cow, and a bunch of chickens.
She reached for her empty laundry basket before addressing him. “Something wrong?”
“Yes, there’s somethin’ wrong,” he said, his face pinched. “It’s that Roberts fella. What’s he doing here?”
“He was a friend of Neal’s,” she said. “He offered to help ’round here in Neal’s memory. Thought you’d appreciate the help.”
Anvil scowled. “Far as I can see, he ain’t much help. I told him to muck out the horse stall, and I found him diggin’ ’round the windmill instead. Said he was weedin’.” Anvil spit out a stream of tobacco. “When did weeds take precedence over muck?”
Ellie-May furrowed her brow. She hadn’t counted on Anvil objecting to the man’s presence. “I’m sure he means well. He refuses to take payment for what he does here.”
“That might be the problem,” Anvil said with a shake of his head. “Been my ’sperience, you get what you pay for. I’m tellin’ you, the man’s slicker than a boiled onion. He even works slower than I do.”
“No one can take your place, Anvil,” she said, hoping to soothe his feathers. “Like I said, he was Neal’s friend. And I doubt he’ll stay around for long. I’d consider it a big favor if you’d try to be pleasant to him.” Since the same stubborn look remained on Anvil’s face, she added, “It’s what Neal would have wanted you to do.”
Anvil shrugged in resignation. “I’ll do what I can, Miss Ellie-May. But don’t ’spect me to like it.” Turning, he walked away, muttering beneath his breath.
Tucking the empty laundry basket beneath her arm, Ellie-May headed back to the house. Upon reaching the porch, she noticed Lionel’s discarded shoes.
She stooped to pick them up and dropped them into the basket. She’d told Lionel time and time again not to run around barefooted. There were rattlers out there. Scorpions and the Lord knew what else. That boy would be the death of her yet.
Holding the basket with one hand, she shielded her eyes from the sun with the other and scanned the area. It wasn’t a school day, and the children had left earlier to go fishing. It sure would be nice if they caught a bass or two for dinner, but Alicia’s restless nature usually scared the fish away.
Shaking her head, Ellie-May started up to the porch, forgetting about the broken step. The rotted wood caved beneath her foot, and she was barely able to regain her balance and keep from falling all the way through.
Muttering beneath her breath, she tossed the laundry basket onto the porch. She then carefully removed her foot and stood staring down at the splintered step, hands at her waist.
Tired of waiting for Anvil or even Mr. Roberts to get around to fixing it, she decided enough was enough! She would fix it herself.
Crossing quickly to the toolshed behind the barn, she grabbed the toolbox in one hand and a length of wood in the other. The board was too long, so at least six inches would have to be sawed off. Maybe more.
Moments later, she dropped to her knees in front of the porch steps and pulled the loose tread away from the frame with a crowbar. The wood was so decayed and moldy that it splintered. Reaching into the toolbox, she pulled out the metal measuring tape.
As she drew the tape from one end of the step to the other, something caught her eye on the newly exposed ground beneath the porch. Something that made her lean over for a closer look.
It sure did look like a gunnysack. Curious, she reached down and grabbed hold of the burlap sack with both hands. It took some tugging on her part to pull the bag through the small step opening. Not only was the sack heavy, it was bulky. What in the world?
Plopping the sack down on an unbroken step, she brushed away the dirt. It smelled musty, like it had been there for a while.
She untied the narrow strip of rawhide. Peering inside the bag, she got the biggest shock of her life. Gasping, she blinked, not sure she could believe her eyes.
Thinking—hoping—she was seeing things, she reached inside the sack for one of the brick-shaped objects and pulled it out for a closer look, but there was no mistake. The object was made up of a stack of banknotes held together with a paper band. It was but one of many such bundles that filled the bulging bag.
Dropping the wad of banknotes into the sack as if it would bite, she leaned back on her heels. Hand on her mouth, she tried to think. Never had she seen so much money. She couldn’t begin to guess how much was in the sack. Thousands!
But how…? Where? The answer came in a rush, shaking her to the very core.
Oh, no! No, no, no! Please don’t let this be stolen money. Please, God, no! Brushing the dirt off the bag, she stared in a daze at the bank’s name stamped on the side.
Shocked, she remained frozen in place, unable to move. There had to be a logical reason for how a sack of money had ended up under her porch. There just had to be. But the only explanation she could think of—the only one that made sense—was that Neal had put it there. And if that were true, it could mean only one thing. Her husband had robbed that stage.
A wave of nausea washed over her, and she clamped down on the tho
ught. Hunching over, she grabbed her stomach and rocked back and forth. No, no, no. It can’t be!
Shaken, she tried to still her hammering heart and forced herself to think. She couldn’t keep the money, but neither could she turn it in. It would only tarnish Neal’s reputation, and that had to be avoided at all costs. She would do anything—anything at all—to keep Lionel and Alicia from being exposed as the children of an outlaw.
She had no idea how long she’d sat there in a state of shock before the sound of horse’s hooves yanked her out of her inertia. A quick look to check the road confirmed her worst fear. Someone was heading her way. Worse, the tall rider upon the fine, black horse could be none other than Matt Taggert!
Feeling herself begin to panic, she quickly pushed the gunnysack through the opening and shoved it back under the porch as far as she could reach.
Grabbing the wooden plank with trembling hands, she quickly covered the gaping hole left by the missing tread. The wood hung over the side by a good ten or twelve inches, but it masked the area beneath the risers, and that was all that mattered.
Forcing herself to breathe and willing her heart to stop pounding, she stood ready to greet her visitor. She hid her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt, but nothing could be done about her trembling knees.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Blackwell,” Taggert said, touching a finger to the wide brim of his hat.
He dismounted and, after wrapping his horse’s reins around the hitching post, sauntered up to the porch, his piercing eyes seeming to see right through her. He glanced at the tools scattered around her feet before locking her in his gaze a second time. Once again, she was reminded how tall he was, how straight he stood, and what a commanding figure he made.
Thankful that her knocking knees were hidden beneath her skirt, she forced a smile. “Mr. Taggert. What a surprise,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice her strained voice or trembling hands.
Tilting his head, he arched an eyebrow. “A not-too-unpleasant one, I hope.”
She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “That depends on why you’re here.”
“I just have a question that I hope you can answer.” He pulled a canceled ticket stub from his pocket and held it up. “Your husband purchased this train ticket,” he said. “It was found in the vicinity of the crime scene. Do you have any idea how it might have gotten there?”
“H-how do you know that’s my husband’s ticket?” she asked, hedging.
“Only two tickets were sold on that particular day, and the other passenger had purchased only a one-way ticket. This is a two-way ticket, which means it had to have been purchased by your husband.”
Feeling trapped, she chewed on a nail. Just thinking about Neal’s train trip brought back all kinds of memories—none of them good. That ticket had cost them more than they could afford. That was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted Neal to take that trip, but he’d insisted. They needed a bank loan to pay for a new windmill, he’d said. They needed to replace the shingles on the roof, fix the back fence, and purchase livestock.
After being turned down by the Haywire Bank, he’d decided to apply elsewhere for a loan. But he’d had no better luck in the larger towns than he’d had locally and had come home feeling tired and depressed.
The Ranger hadn’t said it in so many words, but his meaning was clear—things looked bad for Neal. As if she didn’t already know it.
“The robbery occurred on a main road that my husband traveled many times,” she said, her mind scrambling. “Neal had a habit of stuffing things in his pockets. He could have dropped it at any time.” After a beat, she asked, “Does that answer your question?”
“Not exactly.” Taggert returned the stub to his pocket.
She studied him with narrowed eyes. “Oh?”
“A Pinkerton detective happened to be in town the day the stage was robbed. He found the train ticket at the crime scene.” Taggert paused as if to carefully choose his words. “That means your husband traveled that road between the time he returned to Haywire and the time of the robbery, eighteen hours later. Do you know what he was doing there?”
Ellie-May thought for a moment. “That’s the road to the Petersons’ farm,” she said slowly, cautiously. “I’m almost certain that was the day of their barn raising.” She leveled her gaze at the Ranger. “Neal never missed an opportunity to help a friend or neighbor.”
As she spoke, he pulled paper and a small pencil from his vest pocket and made a note. “Peterson, did you say?”
She nodded. His note-taking told her he intended to check out her story. That was fine with her. If he found that Neal really was at the barn raising as she supposed, would that take him off the hook? She could only hope and pray that it did.
“Sorry to bother you,” Taggert said, returning both to his pocket. “I hope there’re no hard feelings. I’m only doing my job.”
Surprised by his apology, she flashed a quick smile. “No hard feelings, Mr. Taggert.”
“In that case, please call me Matt.”
“Matt,” she said, but only to oblige him. The bag of money weighed on her conscience like a massive rock, and she was in no mood for friendly chatter. She wanted him gone. “So when will you be leaving Haywire?”
“That’s what I came to tell you,” he said. “I’m leaving on the afternoon train.”
“Oh,” she said, relief washing over her.
He tilted his head. “You look happy to see me go.” She started to protest, but he held up his hands. “Don’t feel bad. I’m like the tax man. People hate seeing me come and love seeing me leave. I’ve learned not to take offense.” He tossed a nod at the plank covering the broken step. “Let me help you with that.”
“No, it’s all right,” she gasped. He looked at her all funny-like, and she hastened to explain. “I’m sure you must have more important things to do now that you’re leaving town.”
“The train doesn’t leave till three, so I have plenty of time,” he said.
“Not if you intend to check out my story with the Petersons,” she said.
“Don’t worry.” He dropped down on one knee and lifted the board away from the missing step, exposing the ground underneath. “This won’t take long to fix.”
She knotted her hands by her sides. “You really don’t have to do this.”
He glanced up at her. “Fixing your step is the least I can do for the trouble I’ve caused you.”
“You didn’t cause me any trouble,” she said. Just a few nights’ sleep was all. And maybe a few years off her life.
He reached for the tape measure, and she cast a worried glance at the opening. The bag was hidden, but the end of the rawhide tie was clearly visible.
Dear God…
Gulping, she pressed her knotted hands to her chest.
Matt measured the open area first and then the board. Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a pencil stub and marked the wood.
“I met a friend of yours in town,” he said as he worked.
Ellie-May’s heart was beating so fast she could hardly breathe, let alone talk. “Oh?” she managed, hoping he didn’t detect her strangled voice.
He reached for the saw. Balancing one end of the board on the upper step, he began sawing away. “His name is Jesse James.”
Anxiously eyeing the still-uncovered step, she cleared her throat. “How is Jesse? Haven’t seen him for a while.”
Faster and more efficiently that she could have managed on her own, Matt finished sawing, and the discarded length of wood fell to the ground. “Seemed okay.”
He picked up the plank and blew away the sawdust before placing it across the opening.
He wiggled it in place, and it fit perfectly. Relief washing over her, Ellie-May quickly dug in the toolbox for the little box of nails and handed him one.
Their fingers touched as he took it from her
, and something like a spark passed between them. His gaze flew up to meet hers, telling her he’d felt it, too. Cheeks flaring, she looked away and quickly reached for another nail.
Matt was the first to break the awkward silence that followed. “Jesse said that your husband hired him to work here.”
“He did, but only for a short while.” Careful to hold the next nail in such a way as to prevent physical contact, she handed it to him and reached for another.
Matt took the nails from her one by one and hammered each one in place. “Was there a problem?” he asked.
“A problem?” she echoed.
Matt paused for a moment to check his work before reaching for another nail. “You said he only worked here for a short time.”
“No, no problem,” she said. “Jesse is a hard worker. Neal was thrown from a horse and hurt his back. He hired Jesse to help out while he recovered.”
It had been an added expense, but the ground needed to be tilled. Neal couldn’t do it with his injury, and Anvil had his hands full taking care of the other chores.
After pounding in the last nail, Matt tossed the hammer into the toolbox and stood. “That should do it,” he said, brushing his hands together.
Now that the bag of money was safely hidden by the newly repaired step, Ellie-May took a deep breath and felt the tension leave her body. Matt would never know how grateful she was to him. Not just for fixing the step but for also failing to notice what was hidden beneath.
“Thank you,” she said. This time, she had no trouble smiling her biggest and brightest smile. If Neal did indeed steal that money, his secret was now safe. No one need ever know what lay under her porch, and her children would be spared the awful truth. “Perhaps you should take up carpentry as a profession.”
He arched a dark brow. “You mean instead of pursuing law and order?”
She shrugged. “The work is less dangerous, and run-down houses don’t generally fight back.”
He afforded her a crooked smile that brought a rush of heat to her face and struck a worrisome chord inside her. She hated herself for thinking it, but he really was one handsome man. Especially when he flashed his pearly whites.
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