Love on the Range

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Love on the Range Page 12

by Mary Connealy


  Running her hands all along both sides, she felt for anything out of the ordinary. What she wanted was a lever, but surely that would be visible.

  She felt as if a clock ticked in her head as she gave up on any button to push or lever to pull. She slid the knife between the boards and heard a metallic click as the knife sank through where it should have hit wood.

  Dragging the knife along the side of the floorboard, careful not to nick anything, suddenly something gave and four floorboards, in an uneven rectangle, swung open on some kind of hinge.

  With a gasp of excitement, she leaned down and saw the second safe. Topped by a round combination lock.

  She quickly pulled the slip of paper with the two combinations on it out of her pocket. Molly carried it with her at all times, afraid if she left it somewhere, even in her room, Mr. Hawkins might find it, or she might need it—just like now.

  She carefully followed the same set of turns, forward and backward, turning the dial a different number of times for each of the three numbers. A lock clicked inside. Her hand trembling, she lifted the lid of the safe. It was about a foot square, but made of heavy iron, and she needed both hands to lift the small lid. Opening it wide, she tipped it up until it rested against the floorboards.

  Inside she saw several packets, mostly envelopes or other folded paper. They weren’t completely flat like they’d be if they only contained letters.

  “I’ll be sure to check on that, Mr. Hawkins.” The kitchen door slammed.

  Slammed deliberately. Wyatt was warning her.

  Then footsteps pounded on the stairs. Mr. Hawkins was back and coming fast. Desperate to find out what she’d discovered, Molly plunged her hand past the top envelope and grabbed three from below, hoping if Mr. Hawkins checked the safe, he wouldn’t notice they were gone.

  She swung the lid closed, spun the dial, and put the floorboards in place. They wouldn’t fit.

  “Stay off the trail.” Falcon led the way, not back but down. Into the woods. On foot. With that gunman possibly still up there, the only way forward was off the trail.

  Cheyenne came right along. Not as quiet as she could be but enough to make a man proud.

  Rachel Hobart was good, too. Tough, savvy. They had no choice but to leave her, unconscious, the bleeding staunched. She needed care.

  They had to find whoever did this, do it fast, and get her help.

  And they had to do it without being shot down themselves. Good as they both were in the woods, no one was good enough to dodge a bullet fired from cover, but they could sure enough try to keep trees between themselves and that vicious would-be killer.

  The forest swallowed them up. The way was slow. Scrub brush to slip past. Downed trees tangled up in vines and standing trees. Tumbled stones cropping up randomly. The leaves still fluttered down, but they were nearly done. All that plus leaves left piled and rotted from the beginning of time turned the forest floor into a nearly impassable tangle.

  Falcon was used to that. A glance back showed his wife keeping up with no trouble. Where had that shot come from? Falcon had seen movement. Late, far too late, but he’d thrown himself off the horse and sprinted for Cheyenne even as the gun fired. And he had one moment to fear the most important person in the world to him might have died.

  Then he had her, alive and unhurt. And Rachel hit the ground, bleeding. Now he sorted through all those rapid-fire thoughts and knew right where he’d go to find this evil dry-gulcher.

  Forging on, each step chosen carefully, his eyes never resting, Falcon kept trees between him and any gunman who might be coming or waiting.

  He reached a point where he thought the gunman, should he still be in place, might be visible. Falcon doubted the killer was still there. It was the way of people who fired from cover to run after the deed was done. But he might think the trail was covered from where he sat. He might be content to watch and wait and kill again given a chance.

  Reaching from behind, Cheyenne’s hand came into his. He looked back and tipped his head toward the massive oak tree right in front of him.

  Cheyenne nodded and stayed still. Falcon eased forward, considered. Saw himself peeking around the trunk of this tree and getting his head blown off. Nothing to like in this situation. Instead, he looked overhead and saw a heavy branch within grabbing distance. He had to launch himself upward, but that was no problem.

  Catching hold, he swung himself up, hooked his knees around the branch, then swung around to sit. He climbed to his feet. The branches were thicker, closer together up here, and stout enough they didn’t shake under a man’s weight. Hopefully, even if the shooter was still out there, he wouldn’t be looking for trouble coming from the treetop. Falcon fetched his rifle around and, with his hand on the trigger, pointed it up so the muzzle wouldn’t be visible, then leaned enough to get one eye around the tree.

  Studying the area with eyes as strong as a flock of hawks, he searched back and forth, up and down.

  There! Maybe fifty paces up the mountain slope.

  Falcon fought down the surge of triumph and rage. Calm. Steady. He didn’t want this man dead. There were too many questions. But he wanted him stopped, and stopped hard.

  The man was on the ground, behind a waist-high boulder, his rifle resting on the rock. He was sheltered and all but hidden from the trail, but from where Falcon was, his whole left side was exposed.

  Falcon faltered as he realized who the man was. What could he have to do with the Pinkerton investigation of Oliver Hawkins? His thoughts chasing themselves around did no good, not right now. Right now, he had a would-be murderer to catch.

  An inch at a time, Falcon brought his rifle down. Movement drew the eye, and he didn’t want the man’s intent focus on the trail diverted.

  Falcon aimed, considering where to hit him to stop him.

  His finger pressed on the trigger, as far as he dared. He breathed in deep and let the breath out halfway. Waiting for a second, going completely still, he fired. A bright bloom of scarlet exploded on the dry-gulcher’s shoulder. Very close to the spot where he’d hit Wyatt.

  The man slammed backward onto the ground. His rifle flew over his head. The killer shouted and crawled toward the long gun. Falcon fired again and hit him in the leg, then again and blew the rifle to pieces. The man clawed at his pistol. Falcon smashed a bullet into the holster and the six-shooter snapped in two. The man’s fingers were stained with blood.

  “Go.” He hissed down at Cheyenne.

  She tore up the hill toward the man. Falcon was on the ground and after her, his rifle again slung over his shoulder.

  “Knife!” Cheyenne hollered.

  The man slashed at her, the knife held awkwardly in his left hand. She leapt away and landed on her backside.

  Falcon, pushing hard, felt every second like an hour as the man came at his wife with a knife. He remembered his ma calling him a berserker and knew that was in him right now. He roared as the man staggered to his feet.

  Jerking his head up at the sound as if he feared an approaching grizzly, the killer’s gunshot leg went out from under him.

  Cheyenne, flat on her back, kicked the blade aside. He lost his grip, and fumbled at his right sleeve. Cheyenne twisted with the grace of a hunting wildcat, regained her feet, and stomped on the wrist he was trying for.

  Then Falcon was there. He pounded a fist into the man’s face. Falcon grabbed his left arm as Cheyenne dragged a derringer out of his sleeve. Falcon slugged him again, and the man slumped to the ground.

  “Don’t trust him,” Cheyenne said. “He acts like he’s passed out, but I don’t believe it.”

  She held up the tiny, two-shot firearm. “Nice gun. Maybe I can keep it.”

  Cheyenne pulled a length of leather off her belt.

  “I must say I admire a woman who is always prepared to tie up a prisoner.”

  She grinned at Falcon, but it didn’t last. “You really think this man might’ve shot Wyatt?”

  Falcon studied him. “We’d just be
guessing unless we can get a confession out of him. But he sure as certain shot Rachel and fired at us. And came at you with a knife. Attempted murder on two women oughta be enough to hang him. If they do, or if they just lock him up, we’ll count it for Wyatt, too.”

  “Who in the world is he?” Cheyenne threw him onto his stomach and pulled his hands together behind his back.

  “I know him.”

  “Really?” Cheyenne stopped tying.

  The man made a sudden wild leap forward.

  Cheyenne brought the derringer down hard on the back of his head, and he went still. This time he was really out. She tied him up tight anyway.

  “Remember when I came out west, I stopped in Casper to talk to the lawyer who sent me the information about Pa’s will?”

  Cheyenne shrugged as she finished binding. “I can’t remember you saying that, but we got a wire from him, telling us you’d be on that morning’s train.”

  “This is that lawyer. His name is Randall Kingston. He sent that wire.”

  Cheyenne, already kneeling beside their prisoner, dropped to fully sit on the ground. “But he knows all the details of Pa’s will. Our lawyer in Bear Claw Pass said he was handling contacting you. And Rachel had nothing to do with Clovis’s will. She was out here searching for Amelia Bishop. Why did he shoot Rachel?”

  Falcon finished with the feet. “Randall Kingston’s name was on the wire I received back in Tennessee informing me of the inheritance. And I didn’t know where you lived. Didn’t know Bear Claw Pass from a hole in the ground, much less how to get to the RHR. But I had Kingston’s name, so I got off the train in Casper and hunted him up to ask where to head next.”

  It had about killed him to ask for directions, but he’d done it. Not being able to read. Not knowing a soul out here. With no idea hardly what a ranch even was, he’d wanted some answers before he just showed up at Bear Claw Pass.

  “The train had left before I finished with the questions, so I was stranded for a bit. This man was mighty friendly. He helped me find the schedule for the next train.”

  “So he knew exactly when you’d get to town.”

  “Yep, but he never acted like he had any interest in me beyond doing his job as a lawyer.”

  “If he shot Rachel, he must have some connection to Hawkins.” Cheyenne reached down and flipped the unconscious man onto his back. Studied him.

  “They’re connected somehow. And connected to Pa, too.”

  Cheyenne hunkered down beside Kingston and tugged gently on one of his eyelids. And stared into brown eyes shot through with gold. “His eyes are the same color as Clovis’s.” Cheyenne looked up. “The same color as yours.”

  “Brothers?” Falcon looked at his wife.

  Cheyenne shrugged. “Some kind of kin, I reckon.”

  They both crouched there across from Kingston for a long time, not talking, Falcon sorting it out in his head, and he could tell Cheyenne was doing the same.

  “We can’t figure it out here and now. We’ve got to get Rachel to the doctor,” he finally said. “Let’s bind up his wounds so he doesn’t bleed out before we get him to the sheriff. I’m going to toss him over his saddle, but I think we need to build a travois for Rachel. Is there a sheriff in White Rock?”

  “I don’t think so, but we’re not that far from Casper. Some of our questions might get answered there.”

  “It’s his town, will the sheriff take his word over ours?”

  Cheyenne rose. “My family is a respected one in the territory. They’ll take what I say seriously.”

  Falcon nodded at a horse standing back in the woods a distance. “You watch over him. I’ll use his horse to round up ours and get Rachel. And while we’re in Casper, we can mail that letter and send our wire to the Pinkertons. No more worrying about a talkative telegraph operator. I’ve got a feeling the one person in Casper we wouldn’t want to hear about the wire is this man.”

  “Rachel said someone would come. I s’pect when they get here, they’ll be looking for Kingston as well as Hawkins, and they’ll want some answers.”

  Sixteen

  The raised piece of floorboard wouldn’t fit.

  The footsteps came fast.

  She pushed, lifted, then pressed down and sideways. It clicked into place.

  Mr. Hawkins was almost to the door.

  Molly looked at the unmade bed. An excuse to be in here. She had no pockets. She slid the envelopes and knife deep under Mr. Hawkins’s dresser, leapt to her feet, dashed to the bed, and pulled up one side of the covers.

  The door slammed open hard enough it hit the wall behind it. Mr. Hawkins stood, breathing hard, something . . . frightening . . . glinting in his eyes.

  “Mr. Hawkins, you’re back.” She sounded false and cleared her throat, fought to conceal her pounding heart. “Did you find out what Wyatt needed?”

  He studied her. Could he know? What exactly had Wyatt said?

  It flickered through her mind as she smoothed the covers that all the times he’d come looking for her, especially when she was in the bedroom, she had assumed improper motives. But maybe Molly saw personal motives when that wasn’t it at all. Maybe he was watching her because of what was in the safe. Maybe the moment she was out of here, he’d open that safe, find things missing, and come for her.

  “Wyatt Hunt is not long for this ranch if he wastes my time like that again.”

  Molly plumped the pillow and rounded the bed so she was on the opposite side from her boss. “He didn’t need anything important?” Her heart rate, already too high, sped up. Fear swept over her to see Mr. Hawkins in whatever mood this was.

  She struggled to appear calm as she finished with the bed. She tried to act as if today were the same as any other day. All the while knowing she was one false move away from being caught in an act of thievery. She hadn’t thought of it like that. She’d considered herself to be an investigator, searching for evidence of a crime. But what if those envelopes were completely innocent? Or what if they contained money?

  He could haul her in to the sheriff, accuse her of stealing, and be completely right. She’d be guilty. She could go to prison.

  Worse, what if there was evidence in them that would show him to be a killer?

  There’d be no sheriff. No, he’d silence her permanently, and Wyatt was too far away to stop him.

  She walked to the chest of drawers and picked up the pitcher resting in a bowl on top of it. She filled it with fresh water daily. And right now, it was a barrier between her and Mr. Hawkins.

  She headed for the door. She had to walk near him. He stood between her and the only way out. As she came even with him, his hand flashed out and caught her upper arm. His grip was tight. Too tight. He smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth.

  “I need to get started with dinner.” She spoke brightly, as if he weren’t holding her arm to the point of pain. “We’re having cherry pie. I found more canned cherries in your cellar, and my cherry pie is delicious.”

  He was almost as greedy for food as he was for standing too close to her. She saw him weigh whether to release her or not. Her hands tightened on the pitcher. A dousing with cold water might calm him down. And if not, a crack on the head with the heavy pitcher would be next. She was tempted to just get on with whacking him, but if she did, all the cherry pie in the world wouldn’t save her job, and there were those envelopes under the dresser. She needed to see what she had there. If they were nothing, she’d really prefer to return them to the safe rather than explain what they were doing out of it.

  Mr. Hawkins’s grip tightened even more. Molly would have bruises tomorrow from the crushing grip. His fingernails dug into her arm until she wondered if he’d tear her dress and leave claw marks on her skin.

  Then he released her so suddenly she stumbled back. Steadying herself, she nodded as if nothing untoward had happened and rushed out. If she had a chance, she’d get those envelopes yet today because they were the only way she was going to prove anything. She’d get them, a
nd either they’d contain evidence she could somehow use, or she’d admit defeat, because she was getting out of here.

  He didn’t follow her. Was he opening the safe?

  Her heart thudding, she knew there was nothing she could do about it, not right now. She rushed to the kitchen, refilled the pitcher, then looked at it. Her excuse.

  She had to take it back up.

  At some point.

  Her heart pounded with fear as she pictured herself in that room again. She certainly wasn’t going to do it while he was in there. But later. She only needed a moment. Whisk in, grab those envelopes, get out.

  And maybe . . .

  She sloshed the pitcher so the front of her dress was wet.

  Then went to her room and changed into one she had with good-sized pockets. Hanging the wet dress from a peg in her room, Molly admitted she was so worried about Mr. Hawkins she wanted proof she’d gotten her dress wet, lest he check and catch her in a lie.

  She heard him coming down the stairs. As she pulled on her dress, she looked at a red, swollen spot on her upper arm. Her skin was broken but not bleeding, all courtesy of Mr. Hawkins. She quickly finished dressing and left her room. As worried about Mr. Hawkins catching her in her bedroom as his.

  She was in the kitchen measuring flour into a bowl when he came in. Silently, she swore she would put vinegar in the pie if he so much as touched her.

  He stood in the doorway. She heard him but didn’t look up from her work. His presence there was like a looming vulture.

  As she measured in lard, she felt the vulture leave.

  With a sigh of relief, she focused on preparing the noon meal.

  And wondered when she’d have her chance at those letters. He closed the door on his study, and it occurred to her she ought to go up with the pitcher right now.

  “Why’d you shoot Lawyer Kingston?” Sheriff Greg Gatlin studied the unconscious form of Randall Kingston. They’d stopped at the doctor’s office to leave Rachel and Kingston. Falcon stayed holding a gun on the unconscious lawyer while Cheyenne fetched the sheriff.

 

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