“It’s White Rock Station. It’s off the train route, but it has a telegraph office,” Cheyenne said.
“Cheyenne and I will ride along,” Falcon added.
Kevin and Win didn’t argue. No one liked it, but Rachel was determined and had said so loud and clear. She’d planned to go alone.
“The whole idea is for no one to notice anything going on. No one even knows I’m here, so they won’t miss me. No one knows me in any town around here, so no reason my wire will draw attention. If I’m with a group, it changes everything.”
“You can’t ride in the night alone. It ain’t safe,” Falcon said.
“I rode out here alone.”
Narrowing his eyes, Falcon said, “That don’t mean you should’ve.”
“Rachel, I agree with Falcon,” Cheyenne said. “And not because I doubt you’re tough, but we really need you to make it, and we need you to get back here. When Wyatt gets evidence against Hawkins, unless he just shoots him or drags him to the sheriff, we need someone who knows the details of your investigation and how you’ve tied him to the deaths of three women. We can explain it, but Sheriff Corly isn’t likely to take our secondhand account of things. We need you here.”
“Didn’t you take off alone in the wilderness a few weeks ago?” Rachel arched a brow at Cheyenne. “And apparently Wyatt didn’t think twice about it except regretting you were upset.”
“That’s different.”
Shaking her head, Rachel said, “That’s the same.”
“Kevin, just tell Rubin I’ve gone back to my cabin with Falcon.” Cheyenne looked at Rachel. “But I can’t be gone one minute more than necessary. We’ll ride out as soon as the ranch settles for the night.”
“You’ll reach White Rock by morning,” Win said. “Then send the wire and turn around and ride back. It’ll be after dark by the time you get home. One day. Rachel shouldn’t be gone a minute longer than necessary, either. And if you’ve got a letter to write, you’d better write it now.”
The man listened at the window, noting every detail. Then he slipped away and got a message sent as he’d been instructed.
They thought their trip would be made in secret. They thought that stranger hiding in their house was still a secret. But he knew everything, and so did the man who was paying him.
Finally, Molly set her lantern in the window, her signal for Wyatt to come, and he hurried across the shadows on the snow-covered yard and climbed in through Molly’s window.
After his first night examining the account books, and after the way Hawkins had tried to get Molly to come to his room, Wyatt came over every night as soon as the lights went out.
He wasn’t leaving Molly alone in that house—it was hard enough in the daytime but impossible at night.
He couldn’t search every night. It was too exhausting, considering the long, hard days he was working, trying to clean up the horrible mess around the ranch. But he came over and slept.
The ridiculous house was so large, he could’ve taken over the whole third floor, half the second, and the cellar if he’d wanted. Hawkins never went in most of the house. But Wyatt picked a place close to Molly. He’d picked a pantry near Molly’s rooms, laid a pallet of blankets on the floor, and slept in there.
She greeted him at the window in her ridiculous robe-nightgown-dress getup. She looked to weigh about twenty pounds more than usual, and he wanted to tell her how cute she was, all properly bound into three layers of clothes.
He didn’t because tonight she had news.
“I found a loose floorboard in Mr. Hawkins’s bedroom when he went out riding today. I’m sure there’s something strange about it, but I couldn’t get it lifted out. I’m afraid to take time to work on opening it when he’s here, even if he’s in his study. He’s so aware of where I am all the time, and he tends to come and ask me questions. I’m being extra careful not to be in his bedroom when he comes around.”
Wyatt’s jaw went tight to think of a fine woman like Molly having to put up with such unpleasant behavior. And unpleasant described it only if Hawkins wasn’t something far worse than unpleasant.
Wyatt couldn’t figure out a way to be in the house during the day. He had a few excuses lined up, things to talk to Hawkins about, but he needed to save them for when Molly needed time to get into the safe. But maybe . . . “The men say he rides out quite often.”
“He’s done it a few times since I’ve been here. Now that I’ve found the floorboard, I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait until he goes out again.”
Thankful their whispered conversation was covered by the distant sound of Hawkins’s snoring, Wyatt said, “We’ll be patient, then. I wasn’t around when he saddled up and left, so I didn’t know about it and didn’t come in to help.”
“You couldn’t come in anyway, the men would talk.”
“I don’t care about gossip.”
“You would if they told Mr. Hawkins.”
“They have nothing to do with the man.” Wyatt hesitated. “One of them saddled his horse today. So maybe you’re right.”
“At least now, if I’m right about that loose floorboard, the next chance I get, I should be able to open it. That’s progress.”
“Should we try and get him out of the house again soon? I could tell him I’ve got questions, or I want him to inspect something. I’ve been hunting around inside my head, thinking up questions I could ask. Now I’m afraid to even go and do normal cattle chores. I should’ve known he’d gone off.”
“I think sooner is better,” Molly said. “He’s starting to scare me. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Come to the house tomorrow and get him out of here. I may not get into the safe in one try, but having more time will help—even if it just helps me eliminate wrong ways to get that floorboard up.”
“Can you handle the combination?”
“I’ve practiced, like you told me, on the safe in his office.”
Wyatt thought of those account books they’d found in the office safe. He’d been going through them when he could stay awake, but tonight his head almost buzzed with fatigue.
“I’ve got it figured out now. I hope.”
Nodding, Wyatt touched her shoulder. “If he ever lays a hand on you, I will protect you. Even if that means we don’t prove he committed a crime, and we both get kicked out.”
“Agreed. If for any reason he fires you, I’m going too. I won’t stay here without you.”
He hesitated. His hand tightened on her arm. He wanted to talk to her of the future. Talk to her about staying at the RHR as his wife. Kiss her again. Wake up with her again.
It was all so impossible when he was in her room in the night. He didn’t dare begin anything until they could see each other in an open and honorable way. He’d be as guilty of mistreating a fine woman as Hawkins.
Well, maybe not that bad. At least his intentions were honorable and, he hoped, welcome.
So far, Wyatt had been able to keep his mouth shut and his hands away from her. But every night it was harder. Every day it worked on his mind as he cleaned the barns and herded cattle. Ordered the men around and put the ranch to rights.
He’d been up most of the night last night combing through account books. Tonight he had to sleep. As he went to the pantry, he listened to that layabout Hawkins snore, that man who preyed on women in his employ, and wondered if he’d even be able to sleep.
A possible murderer overhead.
A beautiful woman next door.
A few thousand underweight cattle who needed help to survive the winter.
Worry circled in his head, but he’d been up all last night and the night before. Worry chased him into sleep.
Fifteen
They rode hard all night.
The sun broke over the eastern sky, and Cheyenne, near to falling asleep on her horse, knew they’d make it.
They hadn’t followed the main trail, which would have taken them to Casper.
Cheyenne wanted to stay well clear of it. Her riding
into Casper wouldn’t matter much, nor Falcon, that could all be explained somehow.
But Rachel was unknown, and people would wonder about her. They’d ask the telegraph operator, who would know too much and share it all.
There was still a good stretch to ride, but sunlight helped keep her head from nodding. Cheyenne was in the middle. Once she’d found the right trail, she’d let Falcon lead. Looking back, she smiled at Rachel. A hardy woman, who seemed tireless. Rachel smiled back, her blue eyes flashing in the rising sun.
Looking on past her, Cheyenne enjoyed the sight of her beloved mountains rising up in the distance. They were on a narrow path that wound around a steep, uphill grade. Trees rose up on the right side, a solid wall of rock on the left.
Cheyenne turned to face forward to see Falcon dive off his horse toward the wooded side. Cheyenne didn’t even think. She just moved, taking her rifle with her. The gunfire split the air as she hit the ground rolling to a crouch.
Falcon was running for her. He saw her down and alive, then they both spun to warn Rachel, only to see her slam backward off her horse, who crow-hopped, spooked by the shot.
They reached her as she landed on her back in a puff of dust, a bright crimson star blooming on her chest.
Her horse startled the others, and they reared. Enough ahead that Cheyenne didn’t have to dodge hooves.
One hard look at Rachel made her turn to Falcon. He saw the same thing she did. Rachel was hit dead center in the heart. No one survived a shot like this.
The rifle took up firing and rained bullets down as fast as someone could cock it and pull the trigger. A branch inches over Cheyenne’s head was shredded by bullets.
“We’re out of his sight down low.” Falcon crouched and dragged Rachel around the curve of the trail. Farther out of range.
The shooting stopped. Falcon got all three of them up against the rock wall. He pressed his back to it, gun drawn. Cheyenne left him to guard and turned to Rachel. She was shocked to see Rachel open her eyes. Not dead yet, but she couldn’t last long.
“T-take this.” Rachel dragged a letter out of her coat pocket and shoved it into Cheyenne’s hand, then a piece of paper. “Th-the code. Contact Pinkertons. D-don’t put my name in the telegram. They’ll know I’m dead or in terrible trouble. Someone will come.”
Her eyes fell shut. Her grip on the letter and paper trembled, then her hand went slack, and she released both.
“She passed out.” Cheyenne pulled back Rachel’s thick coat, then opened the top buttons of Rachel’s dark red shirtwaist. The bullet was high on her chest. Better than Cheyenne had feared. It had missed her heart, probably missed her lungs. Maybe it wasn’t deep enough to sever her spine. Maybe Rachel had a chance. Taking frantic assessment of the bleeding wound, Cheyenne dragged her knife out of the sheath at her waist, cut a strip off Rachel’s black riding skirt, and formed a large pad. She pressed it to the wound and felt the hard lump of the bullet. It wasn’t in deep.
Looking away from the trail, Falcon’s eyes flashed with fury. “I didn’t see anyone until a rifle moved, aimed. They hit exactly who they wanted to hit. I think they’d’ve killed us, too, and not minded when they were firing after that first shot, but we weren’t the targets. She was. Even knowing that, we don’t dare round that corner. We have to go back.”
With one jerking nod, Cheyenne said, “Bring me your knife. It’s got a better edge on it. I can feel the bullet. I can almost judge the distance that dry-gulcher was from here because that sounded like a Henry rifle. I know its range, and this had to be near the end of it for the bullet not to have gone in farther.”
Falcon whipped out his knife and extended it to Cheyenne.
She took it and probed the wound. And heard the sickening scrape of metal on metal. “It’s barely beneath the skin. Falcon, she may make it.” Cheyenne was surprised by the sigh of relief. “Hold her still, in case she takes a notion to wake up while I’m doing my ham-handed doctoring.”
They were both silent while Cheyenne gritted her teeth and dug the bullet out. Rachel groaned once and tried to roll away from the pain. Falcon held her in place.
The bullet came free, and the wound bled faster. Cheyenne pressed the pad of cloth hard against the entrance wound. While she worked, she glanced up at Falcon, who wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he kept his eyes on the trail and the woods around them. On guard, as wary as a wild creature.
Quietly, using more torn cloth to tie the bandage on, Cheyenne said with grim certainty, “This has to be connected to Hawkins somehow, doesn’t it? There’s no other reason to want her dead.”
“He didn’t know she was here.”
Cheyenne’s eyes flickered up, then back to her doctoring. “Someone did. And someone knew we were heading for White Rock.”
“They even knew we were taking a route to avoid Casper. And no one knew that.”
“Unless someone listened while we planned it.”
“Another traitor on the RHR?” Falcon came to crouch beside Rachel, regret shining in his eyes.
“But who?” Cheyenne gripped the letter in one gloved hand.
“I don’t know.” Falcon’s jaw tightened. “But someone sure enough did. And Wyatt is over there.”
“Wyatt?” Cheyenne, already so tense she nearly snapped, heard his tone, and it was worse. “What about him?”
“It strikes me that whoever did this managed it in the same way Wyatt was shot. Right down to him being with us.”
“We figured one of the men who died when we went after Ralston and brought in his gang had done it.”
Falcon glanced at the horses, which had trotted off but were now skittishly coming back. He looked at the trail they’d been heading down and now had to go back on.
Then he looked at Rachel Hobart. A tough woman who’d insisted she could ride to town in the dark alone, but nope. She needed the protection of a savvy Tennessee mountain man and feisty lady rancher. Rachel Hobart now lying unconscious and bleeding on the ground.
At last his eyes came to Cheyenne’s. “I’d say we figured wrong. And I’d say now is our chance to find out who did this before he does it again. It’s time to stop him once and for all.”
“We’re not going back?” Cheyenne could feel fire flashing in her dark eyes. As if the fire came from inside, burning right out of her core.
“Nope.” Falcon turned to face the direction of the gunfire. “We’re going forward.”
“Good.”
Mr. Hawkins—Molly was careful to always call him that, to his face, to Wyatt, even in her thoughts, in an effort to behave in a respectful way that wouldn’t alert him to her suspicions or her contempt—dawdled at the kitchen table, drinking a third cup of coffee while she cleaned up after breakfast.
He liked to watch her. She had to force herself to keep working and not glance over her shoulder to try to catch him leering.
A hard knock sounded at the door as she dried the last pot.
Hiding a sigh of relief, she glanced at Mr. Hawkins. “Do you want me to get that?”
Without anyone getting the door, it swung open, and Wyatt walked in. She saw Mr. Hawkins scowl briefly before his wide smile appeared.
“Wyatt, nice to see you. Join me for coffee?”
“No, not now. Thank you, but I’ve got a few questions, and a report on the cattle. Can you come out to the barn?”
The scowl returned. “I’m sure however you want to do the work is fine. You’re a skilled rancher, Wyatt. I won’t meddle in your way of doing things.”
Molly turned back to hang up the pans on hooks over the stove. Mainly so Mr. Hawkins wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. Meddle? It was his ranch. He was supposed to meddle. And it wasn’t meddling to run your own property.
“I can’t make this decision without you, Oliver.”
Mr. Hawkins narrowed his eyes as Molly turned back around.
“Please remember that I prefer to be called Mr. Hawkins by people who work for me.”
“Yes, sir.” Wyatt�
��s jaw tensed.
And why? Wyatt’s foreman called him Wyatt. Rubin Walsh came to the ranch house door often enough, and Molly had heard him call his boss by his first name. She’d never seen anyone give it a second thought.
Wyatt had been the owner of a ranch just as big as the Hawkins spread and called him Oliver when he visited the RHR. Oliver liked to drop in for meals. He seemed to be eager to talk to Win, but Molly suspected he was mighty sick of his own cooking.
And Wyatt’s family had found out cattle were being stolen from Hawkins and put a stop to it, ridding his ranch of traitorous cowboys. Insisting on being called Mr. Hawkins didn’t smack of much gratitude.
Add to that, Wyatt had been shot helping Mr. Hawkins.
Clearly, none of that was as important as putting Wyatt on a lower rung than before. Mr. Hawkins felt the need to do that, and it told Molly a lot about the kind of man he was—none of it good. Molly’s already low opinion of the man sank lower. She hadn’t known it was possible.
With some grumbling, Mr. Hawkins stood and took his coffee cup to the sink, which brought him too close to Molly, deliberately she was sure, then he headed for the back door. There was a huge entry, and Mr. Hawkins slowly put his coat and boots on, almost as if to test Wyatt’s patience.
Wyatt held the door to let Mr. Hawkins go out ahead of him. Wyatt looked over his shoulder at Molly and grinned like he was a kid getting away with a handful of candy. He was getting his surly boss out of the house. His hazel eyes flashed, and she remembered their kiss. She remembered waking up with his strong arms around her.
Then he was gone, but the memories stayed with her.
Molly waited for a few seconds, watching them head for the barn, to make sure Mr. Hawkins didn’t forget something and come back. But she was worried about how long Wyatt could keep him busy, so before more than a few seconds had passed, she grabbed a knife out of the kitchen drawer and ran for that loose floorboard.
Pounding up the stairs, she dashed into Mr. Hawkins’s bedroom and noted she’d yet to tidy it, so she had an excuse to be in there, then she dropped to her knees beside a chest of drawers. There were two boards that slid up just a bit and weren’t flush with the other boards. They should have been nailed down. She tried prying with her fingernails.
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