“He knows his papa is on your back porch,” Caitlin said breathlessly. “If you feel uncomfortable about this, I’ll gather him up and go back outside.”
The child chose that moment to lift his arms to Rachel, his plump face dimpled in a happy grin. “Pa, pa, pa, pa!” he cried.
And somehow Rachel’s arms were reaching for him. He was birdsong and sunlight and laughter and all that was lovely—everything she hadn’t seen in far too long—a baby, toddling about, with skin so new it glowed. Oh! The word echoed and reechoed in her mind, an exclamation of joy she couldn’t articulate. That inexpressible joy was amplified a hundred times more when soft, dimpled arms curled trustingly around her neck.
“Pa?”
Rachel could barely see the child for her tears. But she managed to nod and carried him to her back door. In a voice tremulous with emotions she couldn’t separate or define just then, she said, “He’s out there.”
Little Ace was a smart boy. He saw the hole and put his eye to it. Then he promptly started giggling. “Pa, pa, pa, pa!”
“Yes,” Rachel confirmed, “that’s your pa.”
The toddler poked his finger into the hole, and then, as if mere pointing wasn’t enough, he twisted his wrist to drive his tiny finger deeper into the depression. “Pa!” he said proudly.
And Rachel got lost in his dancing brown eyes. He was so soft and warm and dear, a pint-sized miracle, and she never wanted to let him go.
The peephole quickly became boring. He fastened a bright gaze on Rachel, grinned to display his new front teeth again, and said, “Hi!”
“Hi” was a lovely word, one that she hadn’t heard or uttered in far too long. “Hi,” she replied softly.
“I am so sorry. He can run faster than I can.”
Rachel turned from the door. Framed in the hole of her barricade was the face of a longtime friend. “Caitlin,” Rachel whispered.
“Yes, it’s me. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. When I found out Ace was coming, I begged to come along. Joseph thought you might like the company because you’d mentioned knowing me, but my husband had an absolute fit.” Her cheeks went high with color, and she flapped her wrist. “The shotgun had him worried. Ace is nothing if not protective, so he left me at home.”
“So how—?”
“I hitched up the wagon and came on my own,” Caitlin said with an impish grin. “He wasn’t happy to see me, but he finally gave in after I promised to be careful.” Caitlin rolled her eyes. “As if you’d shoot me. I kept telling him that we’ve known each other for years and years. I’ve never believed all those silly stories about you being—” Caitlin’s blue eyes went wide, and she flapped her wrist again. “Well, you know.”
“Crazy?” Rachel supplied.
“Well, there, you know how people talk. I never listened to a word of it. I used to come by once a week and knock on the door.” She shrugged. “You never answered, so I’d just leave things on the porch.”
Rachel’s eyes went teary again. So it was Caitlin who had come calling so often in those early months after the tragedy. “The books,” Rachel whispered raggedly. “You brought me Tom Sawyer!”
“Did you like it?
Rachel nodded, then laughed when Little Ace touched the wetness on her cheek. “It’s one of my favorites. I never knew it was you who brought it. I heard you knocking, but I was afraid to open the door. Finally, the mystery of it bothered me so that I asked Darby to install a peephole, but after that you never came again.”
“Oh, lands! I got married.” Caitlin rolled her lovely blue eyes again. “And when I took on a husband, I took on every male in the family. Cooking and laundry and picking up. It took me a full year to train all the bad habits out of them.”
Rachel put the squirming toddler down. The child sped off like a pea from a slingshot, heading straight for Rachel’s crochet basket.
“Little Ace!” Caitlin scolded. “That’s a no-no!”
Rachel had no sooner rescued her fancywork than the child turned to the parlor table, his chubby hands reaching for the lamp. If asked, Rachel couldn’t have described how she felt in that moment. She only knew that resenting the intrusion wasn’t one of her emotions. “Oh, Caitlin, he is so precious.”
“He’s a little pistol, into this and into that, his feet going a mile a minute. He fills up my days, I can tell you that.”
He had filled up Rachel’s heart, easing the ache in empty places that she hadn’t even realized were there. A baby. She’d lived so long within four walls, with only herself for company, that a little boy with dimpled cheeks was the best thing she could have wished to see, even better than sunshine.
Rachel carried the child to the kitchen, opened the cupboard that held her pots and pans, and set Little Ace down in front of it.
“He’ll pull everything out,” Caitlin warned.
“Exactly,” Rachel replied with a laugh, and even that seemed wondrous to her. It felt so fabulous to laugh. She took some large metal spoons from the flatware drawer and showed the child how to pound on the bottom of a pot. Little Ace loved that, and soon the kitchen resounded with noise.
“Oh, my. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” Caitlin said. “Your nerves will be completely frazzled.” She chafed her arms through the sleeves of her green shirtwaist. “I took off my cloak before Ace boosted me up to climb through the window. Now I wish I hadn’t. It’s a bit chilly out here.”
Rachel had a fire going in the stove and hearth to warm the kitchen, but she guessed only a little of the heat was escaping into the other room. “Would you like to come in?”
Caitlin took visual measure of the hole left in the barricade by the shotgun blast. “Do you suppose I can fit through?”
Rachel was trembling just at the thought. Since the day Darby had finished the modifications to her living quarters, no one besides Rachel had been inside. But this was Caitlin. Even though she was four years Rachel’s senior, they’d been educated in the same one-room schoolhouse and had played together in groups during recess.
“If you pull over a chair, it’ll be easier to climb through,” Rachel suggested. Rushing over to the table, she said, “I’ll get a chair for this side and help all I can.”
Within seconds, Rachel and Caitlin were giggling like schoolgirls. The hole wasn’t quite so large as it had seemed in Rachel’s imagination over the last many hours, and it had jagged edges to catch on Caitlin’s clothing and hair as she twisted and bent into odd positions, trying to fit through.
“I’m stuck,” she pronounced.
Rachel giggled and tugged on Caitlin’s elbow, trying to get her loose.
“Is everything all right in there?” a deep, masculine voice called from the back porch.
Rachel nearly parted company with her skin, but Caitlin only laughed. “Yes, darling, everything’s fine. Absolutely fine.”
Hearing his father’s voice, Little Ace scampered toward the door, pounding on a pot with every step.
“What in tarnation is that racket?” Ace Keegan asked.
“Not to worry, sweetheart.” Caitlin tugged on strands of her hair that were caught on the wood. “It’s only—ouch—Little Ace playing with Rachel’s pots.”
Suddenly—and unexpectedly—Caitlin spilled through the opening and sent Rachel scrambling to catch her. When Caitlin had both feet safely on the kitchen floor, she dissolved into laughter. As her mirth subsided, she said, “I can’t believe I just did that.” She looked over her shoulder at the hole. “Now the question is, will I be able to get back out?”
That was a worry for later. Rachel stoked the firebox in the range, put on a fresh pot of coffee, and dished up bowls of peach cobbler. Soon she and Caitlin were sitting at the table, and Caitlin was chattering like a magpie, telling Rachel all the news and tidbits of gossip that she’d missed out on over the last five years.
“Remember Beatrice Masterson and Clarissa Denny?” she asked.
“The milliner and dressmaker? Of course I remember them.”
“Well,” Caitlin said in a low, conspiratorial voice as she spooned up some cobbler, “they’re in competition for Doc Halloway’s favor.”
“Truly?” In Rachel’s estimation, both women were too old to be entertaining romantic notions, especially about a stooped, elderly gentleman like Doc.
“You didn’t hear it from me, mind you. Normally I try not to carry gossip. It’s just that there’s so much you don’t know about.” She tasted the cobbler. “Oh, my, Rachel, this is delicious. May I have the recipe?”
“It’s just a bit of this and a dash of that.”
Caitlin took another bite. “It’s better than mine.” She washed the dessert down with a sip of coffee. “Now let me think. What else has happened?” She grinned mischievously and pointed at Rachel with the spoon. “Hannibal St. John, the new preacher.”
“What about him?”
“Pauline Perkins carries a torch for him.”
“Pauline?” Pauline had been a singularly homely girl, tall, rawboned, and hefty, with frizzy blond hair and as many pimples as freckles. Her father, Zachariah Perkins, published No Name’s weekly newspaper, The Gazette. “Does the reverend return her fond regard?”
Caitlin let loose with a peal of laughter. “No,” she said in a thin, breathless voice. “But Pauline won’t leave him be. Last week—I have this on good authority, mind you—she cornered him in the church storage room and kissed him.”
“When he didn’t want her to?”
“Even worse, her mother, Charlene, caught them in the act and was absolutely beside herself. She accused Hannibal of compromising her daughter’s reputation and demanded that he marry her.”
Charlene Rayette Perkins was an older and heavier version of Pauline. Rachel had always been a little afraid of the woman because she wore a perpetual scowl and snapped at people when they spoke to her. “What did Hannibal do?”
“He refused, of course. Would you want to get stuck with Pauline?”
Rachel giggled and shook her head. “Lands, no. She used to push me down during recess. I never liked her very much.”
“Well, her disposition hasn’t gotten any sweeter. Hannibal is a very nice man. Handsome, too—very tall, with golden hair and kindly blue eyes.” Caitlin winked. “Not that I’m given to looking, you understand. I have eyes only for Ace.”
Rachel couldn’t recall ever having seen Caitlin so happy. “Is he good to you, Caitlin?”
A soft, dreamy look filled Caitlin’s eyes. “Good to me? He treats me like a queen. I love that man more than life itself, I truly do.”
En route to Amanda Hollister’s place, Joseph and David chose to bypass town by riding across open country through budding witches’-broom, newly blossoming clover, and more rocks than they could count. Spring was in the air, even though the March temperatures were still chilly enough to make both men shiver when the wind picked up. Joseph thought about tugging his coat free from the straps at the back of his saddle, but each time he started to reach for it, the breeze would slacken.
The sign over Amanda’s main gate laid no claims to grandeur, stating only her name, followed by RANCH. As they followed the dirt road toward the house, Joseph took visual measure of the fenced pastures, trying to guess how large a spread it was.
“It doesn’t appear that she has much land,” he finally commented.
“A quarter section with open range,” David replied. “When I went to the courthouse last night, I looked at her deed, too, along with other records of interest. I’m thinking the stories about her quarrel with Henry are true. She can’t have been very happy about being left out of her brother’s will. Two thousand acres, versus a mere one hundred and sixty? Even with open range for her cattle to graze, it’s a big step down for a woman who worked most of her life on a larger spread that she hoped to partly own someday.”
“You can bet her father didn’t manage to increase his original homestead to encompass that much land without plenty of help from his kids.”
“Amanda and her younger brother, Peter James, were his only children. Their mother, Martha, died in twenty-seven, when Amanda was eight and Peter was six. Their father, Luther, never remarried.”
“So it was left to only Amanda and Peter to help their pa work the spread.”
David nodded. “And according to what Doc told me, Peter inherited his mother’s weak constitution, so the giant’s share of the work fell to Amanda.”
“But the old man left the ranch lock, stock, and barrel to the brother?”
“Yep. Even so, Doc claims that she remained loyal to the family and continued to work like a man, carrying much of the load because Peter was never very robust.”
Joseph shook his head. “Peter—he was Henry Hollister’s father. Right?”
David nodded. “And he only outlived his and Amanda’s father by nineteen years. He was about sixty when he died.”
“And he made no provisions for his hardworking sister in his will?”
“Nary a one. He left everything to Henry, consigning Amanda to live on her nephew’s charity. She was sixty-two at the time, getting up in years and no longer able to work as she once had. I can’t say that I blame her for petitioning Henry to grant her at least a monthly income from the ranch.”
“But he refused.”
“Flatly.” David shrugged. “That was when she moved out and never spoke to him again. Doc says she had a small trust from her grandmother. She used that money to buy this place.”
“What goes wrong in some families that they value the boys over the girls?” Joseph couldn’t imagine it. “I’d never cut Eden off without a dime.”
David grinned. “If there were anything for us to inherit, I wouldn’t, either. We’re lucky, I reckon. There’ll be no haggling in our family when Mom passes on. Everything she has came to her from Ace. It’ll rightly go back to him.”
Joseph mulled it all over for a moment. “It sounds like Henry Hollister was a selfish man.” As Joseph spoke, he remembered the pain he had seen in Rachel’s eyes and instinctively knew that Henry had been a kind, just man and a wonderful father. What had gone wrong in the family that a faithful, hardworking female relative had twice been denied her rightful inheritance?
“Maybe so.” David pushed up the brim of his hat to meet Joseph’s gaze. “Only, no matter what the provocation, what kind of person would kill her own flesh and blood? We’ve got to remember that it wasn’t only Henry who died. His wife and two children went with him, one of them a little girl who wasn’t yet six. Read between the lines when we talk with Amanda. Watch for any sign of insanity. Maybe you’re right, and it runs in the family.”
Even though Joseph had made the same observation last night, he bridled at the suggestion now. Rachel wasn’t normal, living as she did. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that. But she didn’t strike him as being crazy, either. By hiding away, she’d found a way to feel safe, and now she clung to her seclusion like a drowning animal did to a log in a raging stream.
At a very young age, Joseph had learned to be a survivor, and so had everyone else in the family. His father’s untimely death had left them without a breadwinner, and the land swindle had rendered them penniless. Supporting the family had fallen to Ace, an eleven-year-old boy, so their circumstances had grown a whole lot worse before they got better. In order to survive, they’d done whatever they had to do, just as Rachel was doing now.
When they reached the end of the road, Joseph saw that Amanda Hollister’s house was as neat as a tumbler of straight whiskey. Green shutters bracketed the windows, and a veranda spanned the front of the house. Comfortable-looking wicker chairs flanked a swing, and several flowerpots were strategically placed to get sunlight. Nary a one hosted a plant that had sprouted any blooms yet, but that was Colorado for you. Spring didn’t come until almost summertime, and summer died young.
As Joseph and David tethered their horses to the hitching post that ran the length of the front flowerbed, a man came around the corner of the house. He had
the look of a ranch hand, his faded Levi’s dusty from working with livestock, his gray, collarless shirt stained with sweat. His honey brown hair glistened like bronze in the sunlight, and his fine-featured countenance creased in a warm smile.
“Howdy,” he called out. “How can I help you?”
Joseph and David flashed each other a grin. After their reception at the Pritchard place, it was nice to get a friendly greeting.
The man’s arresting blue eyes dropped to David’s badge, and his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, boy.” He thrust out his wrists. “Cuff me and get it over with. I’ve been found out.”
David chuckled, and introductions ensued. The hired hand said he was Amanda Hollister’s ranch foreman, Ray Meeks.
“Have we met?” Joseph asked as he shook Meeks’ hand.
Ray squinted thoughtfully. “Not that I recall. I’m sure I would remember if we had.”
“You look familiar, somehow,” Joseph said.
Meeks shrugged and smiled. “We’ve probably seen each other in town at one time or another. You look sort of familiar to me, too.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Miss Hollister is around back.” He motioned for David and Joseph to follow him. “If you want to talk to her, I hope you don’t mind a little dust. We’re breaking some broncos, and she insists on supervising.” Flashing a good-natured grin, he added, “God love her. She needs to leave the horse training to us men, but she won’t hear of it.”
Joseph had no idea what to expect. Given the fact that Amanda Hollister had motive to have killed Henry and his family—and also to want Rachel dead—he had a picture inside his head of a wicked old crone with calculating eyes and warts on her nose.
Instead, as they walked toward the breaking arena, Joseph saw that she was a much older version of Rachel, a small, fragile woman of about seventy, with delicate features, large, expressive blue eyes, a coronet of white hair that had undoubtedly once been blond, and a bad case of palsy that made her entire body tremble. She sat facing the corral in a wheelchair, head ducked to see through the rails, her divided riding skirt following the unladylike sprawl of her legs. Fists knotted, she pounded on the arms of her chair.
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