High Plains Passion

by Beaudelaire, Simone

  “You're right,” Jesse agreed, “much as I hate to give that little cat credit for anything. Hey, how about if we lay out these clues in chronological order. Try to establish a timeline.”

  “I know the timeline pretty well,” Dylan said. “What would that accomplish?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Maybe nothing, but you never know.”

  “You do it,” Dylan said. “I'm going to walk down to the mercantile.”

  “What's at the mercantile?” Jesse wanted to know.

  Dylan arched an eyebrow. “Cans of peaches.” Then he chuckled and dropped the stupid act. “I'm expecting a package in the mail, and James promised to hold it for me,” he explained, reminding his friend that the mercantile was also the post office. “I want to see if it's there yet, nosy.”

  Jesse grinned and waved before settling himself in front of the desk and shuffling the newspaper clippings and threatening letters into yet another new configuration.

  Outside, the brief respite of the previous weekend had ended in another gully washing thunderstorm, and then a third, until the sluggish river ran high and the sunflowers lay beaten and naked on the prairie. Following the storms, the temperature and humidity had risen, leaving the town once again sweltering under a blanket of brutal heat. Dylan wiped sweat from his forehead. “Lord, if you're listening, we'll be happy to take some fall weather any time now,” he muttered.

  As though in answer, a hot, stale breeze blew up, moistening his skin. He shuddered. It smelled like a cross between old horse barn, wet dog, and stagnant puddle. Fall can't come soon enough.

  “Sheriff Brody?” An unknown voice cut through his thoughts and he turned to see an equally unfamiliar face… or was it? Something about the dark-haired, middle-aged stranger registered in his mind, but what was it?

  “Yes, I'm Sheriff Brody. Did you need some help, sir?”

  The man nodded. “I'm Andrew Fulton, Wesley's father. There's been… there's been an incident down at the river.” He scrubbed at his forehead.

  “Father?” Dylan drew his eyebrows together and stared at the man. “I didn't know Wes still had a father.” What did the story say? He ran off when Wes was a kid and that was what drove Wes's mother over the edge?

  “Yeah, I'm still around,” Andrew replied. “I'll explain later. Right now, um, you need to come with me.”

  Dylan's furrowed eyebrows shot toward his hairline at the instruction. “What's going on?”

  “Um, my… um… my wife; that is, Wesley's mother… she tried to get up to some shenanigans with Allison. Um, tried to kill her, actually.”

  “Oh dear Lord!” Dylan exclaimed. “Is Allison all right? What the hell happened?”

  “Allison is all right. Walk with me, Sherriff. I'll explain.”

  “All right.” Alarm and confusion left Dylan with no choice but to follow this near-stranger toward the scene of trouble.

  Andrew led Dylan south down the street past the bank. “You see, we think Charlotte probably lured Samantha out onto the ice last winter.”

  The non-sequitur did nothing to answer Dylan's questions, but it did cause a knot of tension to tighten his belly.

  “And she just tried to kill Allison, like I said. Allison gave birth this afternoon and Charlotte lured her down to the river and pretended to throw the baby in, hoping Allison would…”

  “Jump in and drown? My word. That woman should be locked up in the looney bin. How's the baby?”

  “He's fine. She left him at the house.” They passed the edge of town and crossed the train tracks, still heading south.

  “Well that's good. And Allison? It couldn't have been good for her to be running around right after giving birth.”

  Before them, the river, no longer a lazy silver ribbon, now rushed and snarled, beating against the bridge and washing over the boards.

  “Wesley is getting the doctor to check her out,” Andrew explained. “But, uh… well there was a scuffle trying to get Allison away from Charlotte and… well, Charlotte fell in the river.”

  Dylan blinked. He took in the rushing flood and then turned to the stranger. “Fell in?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Is she all right? Did someone pull her out?”

  Andrew's lips twisted to the side. “How? Come on, Sheriff. Who was going to risk that,” he indicated the water, “to save a murderer? She's in there somewhere. That's why I brought you. I'm reporting her death.”

  Dylan heaved a sigh. No doubt, if Charlotte had gone under and not been seen since, this would be a body retrieval, just as Andrew had suggested. Movement in the vicinity of a tree that stood to the left of the water drew Dylan's attention. James Heitschmidt leaned against the rough and twisted bark, regarding the water with intensity.

  “James?”

  “Oh, there you are, Dylan. Thank goodness. I think I saw her, but I'm not sure.” James waved in the direction of the bridge. “We're in luck. She seems to have washed up against the piling. Otherwise there's no telling how far downstream she would have gone.”

  “So you're in on this too?” Dylan demanded, uninterested in James' commentary.

  “In on it?” James snorted. “We were watching Melissa, Rebecca and I, because Allison was in labor. When Rebecca told me she'd sent for Charlotte Fulton and not the midwife…” he shook his head. “I need to have a word with my wife about that one. Wes isn't rational where his mother is concerned. Anyway, we got to the house and everything was covered in blood. We found the baby outside in the garbage pile. Whatever went on in there must have been really upsetting for Allison. We barely made it to the bridge in time to stop her jumping into the water after… whatever it was Charlotte threw in.”

  “I'm sure it was a cat,” Andrew added. “She hates cats and kills them whenever she can.”

  “So no one was in on anything,” James continued. “Charlotte orchestrated some kind of horrible death for Allison, and we got here in time to stop it. Look, there. Think that might be her?”

  Dylan turned to the river and sure enough a large gray mass bumped against one of the wooden supports of the bridge.

  “Here.” James extended a large tree branch, forked at one end. “Must have blown down during one of the storms.”

  “That's lucky,” Dylan commented. “Rare to find a big stick anywhere within a hundred miles.” He accepted the branch and cautiously approached the river. Water seeped into his boots and soaked his socks. He scowled at the squishy sensation but stepped onto the boards anyway. Reaching over the low railing and catching the object in the fork of the branch, he pushed it toward shore. The current fought him, but he held on, straining his muscles as he maneuvered the unwieldy burden.

  “A little help, please, gentlemen,” he shouted over the roar of the water. Andrew and James approached and regarded him with matching expressions of disgust. Then Andrew stepped forward into the mud and managed to snag their quarry in one hand, dragging backward.

  After another moment of struggle, the drowned body of Charlotte Fulton lay face down on the shore.

  “She'd hate this,” Andrew commented. “She considered mud to be her personal enemy.”

  James nodded. “Poor woman. I wonder why she was so… loony.”

  “Hard to say,” Dylan commented, heaving the waterlogged body over. “I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I do hope Melissa turns out okay.”

  He frowned at the unpleasant sight of the stern, bony face, now coated in river muck, staring at the sky, eyes wide in death. Her normally tidy gray hair had escaped its pins, torn loose in the torrent and springing in wild disarray around her head. “Nothing left to do now but ask Cody to plan the funeral. And to think I just wanted to make a quick run to the mercantile.” He sighed.

  “Could be worse,” James replied. “Last time we had excitement in this town, train robbers nearly blew up my wife. I'm not glad Charlotte is dead… but she kind of brought it on herself.”

  “I'll have to look into that, of course,” Dylan told his friend. “It's not that I dou
bt you, but you know. Procedures have to be followed.”

  “Of course,” James said. “I understand. Only, can you leave Allison alone for a while? She's been through enough.”

  Though Dylan knew he'd have to talk to the only eyewitness of the entire incident eventually, he nodded. A while. I'll give her a while.

  “Oh, dear Lord! Are you joking?” Lydia demanded, staring at Becky in shock as they moved around the sweltering kitchen, preparing for the Founder's Day breakfast.

  Her friend shook her head and whisked pancake batter in a huge bowl, shouting to be heard over the clanging. “The doctor says Allison needs to stay in bed for a good long while, but she should be all right. Mrs. Fulton passed, though.”

  “Poor Allison,” Addie said, frowning. She bit her lip as she sliced bacon. “Do you think we should bring her some meals?”

  “That's a wonderful idea, Addie,” Lydia replied, shaking a pan full of sausages. “I think that would be perfect.”

  “But she still doesn't like me,” Addie pointed out. “She's been ignoring me since the picnic. Do you really think it's a good idea for me to… push myself on her?”

  “Yes,” Becky replied promptly. She attempted to heft the bowl.

  “Now stop that, you,” Lydia insisted. “Tend the sausage and don't you dare lift anything heavy.” She retrieved the batter and began ladling it into waiting skillets. “And to answer your question, Addie, kill her with kindness. Allison isn't herself these days.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me. What is she like normally?” Addie demanded. No pan remained for the bacon, so she set it aside.

  “Blunt, but not mean,” Lydia said. “I hope you're not easily offended by cursing.”

  “Not a bit,” Addie replied. “I've been known to let one escape now and again myself.”

  Lydia met Becky's eyes and found an expression matching her own. They're just alike. They'll either become friends or hate each other.

  “Ladies, the folks out here are getting restless.” James' voice cut through the clatter in the kitchen. “Any idea when the food will be ready?”

  The bubbles on the tops of the pancakes had begun to set. Lydia started flipping them over. “Just a few minutes,” she replied.

  “Good,” James replied. “You've got a line halfway down the street.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. Of course we do. Free food always draws a crowd.

  “Would you get out of here?” Jesse urged. “I promise, Sheriff, I have things under control. I promise to run and get you if anything happens.”

  “Whippersnapper,” Dylan muttered under his breath.

  Jesse grinned, showing white, straight teeth. “Don't you think you've kept your lady waiting long enough? Go get her. Walk around and give Ilse and her cronies something to gossip about.”

  “It's not like we're keeping things a secret,” Dylan replied.

  “Nope, you're officially a courting, betrothed couple, and not a moment too soon. Now get moving.”

  Muttering and grinning, Dylan left Jesse standing under one of the few large trees at the edge of town, where he could watch the impromptu goings-on while remaining in the shade. Once again the weather had turned hot, and a stale, gusty breeze teased the revelers. Skirts flew, revealing ankles clad in sturdy boots. Hats sailed away into the waving grass and disappeared. The wind blew a ribbon of dirt into the mouth of a toddler who had opened in anticipation of a huge bite of his peach ice cream. The paper cone dropped from his chubby hand. He shrieked and began to wail. His mother regarded the mess with a sour expression, then scooped the little boy onto her hip and carried him away.

  Dylan stepped out from under the tree and scanned the crowd. He couldn't see any strangers, anyone behaving in a suspicious manner at all. He edged past the milling throngs of revelers, intent on the ice cream booth. Screams of laughter drew his attention to the left, where a crew of partygoers flailed and tipped over, tripping over burlap potato sacks as they hopped toward a yellow ribbon, intent on the prize. At the kissing booth, Ilse Jackson reigned supreme, subjecting her friends to pimply-faced lads while she looked on, untouched and smirking. He shook his head.

  He continued moving forward until he reached a table set up under a makeshift awning of hastily-stitched fabric remnants stretched over some leftover lumber. Kristina turned the crank on the churn that kept the mixture of cream, honey and fruit rolling in a tumbler surrounded by ice. Addie sat in the shade, fanning herself with a piece of folded paper. Lydia collected coins from her customers and allowed them to select paper cones, each with a scoop of the sweet confection inside. In the heat, ice cream melted quickly, running down chins to spot dresses and dribble onto trousers. No one seemed to mind.

  “Miz Lydia,” he said, drawing her attention away from the line. Her eyes met his and they both smiled.

  “Sheriff,” she murmured with a demure lowering of her eyelids.

  “Oh my Lord,” Addie complained, rolling her eyes in mock disgust. “The pigeons are cooing. I think I'll be sick. You two are sweeter than molasses candy, and twice as gooey.”

  “If Jesse was here, we'd be saying the same thing about you,” Kristina reminded her with equally false sternness.

  “Let's see how calm Kristina remains when Cody comes around,” Becky commented, approaching from the other side, one hand on her belly. “So, is that all the teasing you ladies had in mind? If so, I think we should send Lydia on her way. Spending time with her man is a pretty important thing to do.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Addie rolled her eyes again. The ladies regarded one another for a long, silent moment, and then as one burst out laughing. Dylan couldn't help but smile along with them. Looks like Jesse's lady has found her place already. Well, good. I suspect he lives and dies by her say-so. If she was unhappy, he'd leave. I don't want him to leave. He's a good kid, and good at his job.

  Dylan extended his hand to Lydia. She rose, handed her paper cones to Becky, and left the table area. Accepting Dylan's offer, they laced their fingers together and walked back into the crowd.

  “She's so in love, she didn't even say goodbye.” Addie's final teasing shot produced gales of laughter from the women.

  Lydia's tawny cheeks turned pink, but only slightly. Clearly their shenanigans didn't upset her. Instead, her hand remained tight in Dylan's, seemingly preferring, as he did, skin to skin contact over the more proper arm-in-arm escort. Her touch fired his blood as always. He angled a look in her direction and wanted to groan. Her dress skimmed over her ripe, luscious curves, hinting at the soft, soft flesh underneath. The day is fast approaching when I can uncover and explore those curves. I can hardly wait. His sex agreed, rising to the occasion with a painful throb. The rigid fabric of his jeans fought its expansion, leaving him aching.

  “Darlin', when did you want to get married?” he asked gruffly. I hope I can survive until the wedding.

  “Oh, I think mid-October should be enough time,” she replied.

  Six weeks. Wonderful. Definitely a risk of life and limb… well, one limb.

  “Are you in a hurry?” Lydia asked, eyeing him curiously.

  “Desperately,” he replied in an undertone. “I love you, Lydia. You know that. But, at least for men, love has a physical component that doesn't like to be denied.”

  “Yes, I know,” she replied. “The difficult part for women is knowing the difference between a man who wants to show his love with his body and a man who wants to indulge his body without love.”

  “You do know the difference though, don't you?” he asked.

  “I know you're not using me to get your way,” she replied. “I'm working on not being nervous about it… but really I think I'm working myself up more.” Her cheeks flamed this time and she looked around to see if their personal conversation in a public place had attracted any notice. No one seemed to be listening. He returned his attention to Lydia and noted a considering expression on her face. I wonder what my lady is thinking.

  She didn't expound, and they dropped
the uncomfortable conversation for a more appropriate time, instead taking in the Founder's Day festivities. The sack race ended and groups of people plunked into the grass, tying their ankles to each other for the three-legged race.

  “Want to try?” Dylan asked.

  Lydia made a face. “I'm far too clumsy for that. I'd probably break my leg, and yours too.”

  He chuckled. “I'll take that as a no. All right then. Do you feel like watching or moving on?”

  “I vote for moving on,” Lydia replied. “I'm glad people are enjoying the games, but they're not my favorite.”

  “Well then, my dear, what is your favorite?” he asked.

  She slid her gaze to him and her expression turned warm. “Spending time with you.”

  Why did I wait so long to claim her? “Shall we walk then? See what we see?”

  “Yes, please,” Lydia agreed.

  It seemed the whole town had turned out for the celebration, even people who rarely left their homes. One elderly women stood scowling on the edge of the crowd, her cane ready to whack any children that dared come too close. Dylan led Lydia away from her, not wanting to take any chances. Somehow, the noise and excitement of Founder's Day did not capture Lydia's interests. She subtly shifted their position this way and that until they found themselves walking through town instead.

  “Lydia?”

  She shrugged. “I don't know. I just would rather spend time with you out here than in all that crowd.”

  “Alone, together? Woman are you trying to cause a scandal?” he demanded. They stepped out of the sun into the shade of the church's steeple.”

  “I don't care about scandal,” she replied. “I've lived through enough not to worry if a few nosy busybodies tell tales.”

  “Have a care, darlin',” Dylan urged. “If enough people get to whispering, your café might suffer.”