by Deb Stover
"I wish we could go," Jenny said, echoing Sofie's thoughts.
"I know, sweetheart." Sighing, Sofie poured Jenny a glass of milk and staunchly resisted the urge to look outside. Marshal Weathers had cautioned them to stay away from the windows, because someone–the killer–might see them. If only Jenny would tell...
By now the wedding would be over, and the crowd would descend on Miss Lottie's–made temporarily respectable–for the reception. There'd be dancing. Sofie closed her eyes for a moment, picturing herself in Luke's arms, swaying to the rhythm of soft jazz or rock. Of course, Redemption probably only allowed country music and square dancing.
She smiled despite her melancholy. The town might be backward, but it was still a special place. Her smile faded as she considered why it was special to her. Redemption was the only home she'd ever known.
She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table across from Jenny and stared toward the shuttered window near the back door. Determination welled within her as she sat down. Somehow, she would find a way to see the specialist in Denver. She would regain her memory.
And her home.
"Everybody oughta remember their mama," Jenny had said. Truer words were never spoken. Resigned, Sofie scooped up a spoonful of the soup she had helped Jenny prepare. "Mmm, not bad, kid."
Jenny smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. She sighed and looked longingly toward the door. "It isn't fair."
Sofie remained silent, telling herself not to remind Jenny why they couldn't attend the wedding. That would be cruel, and she felt certain it was unnecessary as well. "Eat your soup before it gets cold."
"Yes'm." Jenny ate several slurpy spoonfuls of soup, then took a biscuit from the basket on the table. After smearing molasses on it, she took a bite. "Mama made the very best biscuits."
Sofie smiled again, glad to hear Jenny speak of her mother. The child mentioned her less often than she had initially, and Sofie suspected this was all part of the grieving process. "She must've been a wonderful mother, to have raised such a great daughter."
A tear trickled down Jenny's cheek, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand. "I'm...I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Sofie reached across the table and covered Jenny's hand with her own. "You're allowed to cry. It would be strange if you didn't cry."
Jenny nodded, then took another, far less enthusiastic, bite of biscuit. Her gaze darted to the door several more times.
"Do you think the wedding is over now?"
Sofie nodded. "I think folks are on their way to the reception now." Will Luke dance with anyone? Jealousy gnawed at her insides.
"I hope they like the cake I baked."
"What's not to like? The batter alone would make angels give up heaven for a taste."
Jenny gasped and her eyes widened. "Mama would've washed my mouth out with lye soap for saying something like that."
Sofie laughed and apologized at the same time. The difference between Jenny's morals and hers was huge, yet Sofie had no idea where or how she'd become who she was. At least Jenny knew her mother had been initially responsible for her value system.
"You're pretty smart for a kid," she said quietly, taking a sip of tea.
"Everybody knows it's blasphemous to talk about angels leaving heaven." Jenny fidgeted, then took another bite of soup. "That doesn't make me smart."
"Maybe, but what you said earlier about everybody remembering their mama. Now that was smart."
Jenny's lower lip trembled and she looked down at her half-empty bowl. "I remember my mama real good."
Sofie patted the child's hand. "Always remember. Don't ever forget her, Jenny." Passion crept into her voice, surprising even herself. "Your mama will live forever if you and Shane remember, and tell your children about her someday."
Brightening, Jenny nodded and sniffled. "Yes, she will." The child finished her milk, leaving a white moustache on her upper lip. "I wish I could see Shane."
More regret. Soon Jenny would crack and reveal Charlie Latimer's killer, then they could all get on with their lives. Sofie's stomach lurched at the thought of leaving Redemption and venturing into the big, bad world alone, but she'd do whatever she had to. She couldn't impose on the hospitality of strangers forever, nor could she lean on Luke–Father Salazar–indefinitely. He had responsibilities to his church and to God.
Not to her.
Sighing, Sofie rose and took her bowl to the slop pail near the back door. She was a doctor, and a woman of–what had Mrs. Fleming said?–good upbringing. Someone, somewhere missed her and was searching for her. She had a life of her own, and it was time she found her way home.
Home...
A warm glow commenced in her chest and spread outward, reaching every filament of her spirit, body, and soul. With a certainty that stunned her, she knew her path.
And, just maybe, her destiny.
Miss Lottie's House of Ill Repute was like a blast from the past–rather, Luke's future-past. At the age of nine, his grandparents had taken him to Southern California, where he'd found little-boy-heaven at Disneyland. The saloon was The Golden Horseshoe–no doubt about it.
Except tonight there were no girls dancing on the bar, flashing their colorful petticoats for the audience's entertainment. No, tonight Miss Lottie's had been transformed to host a wedding reception for two of Redemption's most respected citizens.
Who'd just been married by a flim-flam-priest.
Oh, God.
The establishment was on the edge of town, at the farthest end of the road that had led Luke and Sofie to Redemption. Only mountain trails continued beyond the three-story building, where Luke imagined miners came down from their claims for a night of refreshment and entertainment.
"Roman, I've never been in a place like...a saloon..." The new and red-faced Mrs. Wilson tugged on her husband's sleeve.
"Anna, Miss Lottie wants to do something nice for us after the epidemic," Dr. Wilson whispered. "Remember, some of our patients were her, uh, employees."
Mrs. Wilson's blush deepened, but she nodded. "Very well," she said. "I suppose it will be all right."
"Of course, just ask Father Salazar."
Luke looked up at the intricate scrollwork on the banister, hoping he could pretend he hadn't heard the question, but Roman and his bride moved closer. He had no choice but to acknowledge their presence and the question.
"Right, Luke?" Roman elbowed him so subtly, no one else could have noticed.
"Uh, yeah, right." Luke nodded, trying not to laugh at the irony of this latest fiasco. Anna Wilson was worried about the scandal of venturing into a saloon, unaware she'd just entered into a sham marriage.
Not funny, Nolan.
Dora Fleming followed her mother through the swinging doors, her eyes wide and her mouth set in a thin line of disapproval. "I can't believe we're doing this," she said quietly, shaking her head. "Of all the places for a wedding reception..."
The perfect place for this particular wedding reception.
"Remember your manners, Dora," Mrs. Wilson said, drawing a deep breath. "We will be gracious to our...our hostess, and that is that."
"I'm proud of you both," Dr. Wilson said, kissing his bride on the cheek. Tinny music filled the room from an old piano, and the doctor smiled at his bride. "I think they're waiting for us to lead the dancing."
Luke sighed, reminding himself that he'd done the right thing by performing the marriage ceremony. These two people loved each other and belonged together. Nothing else mattered.
As the doctor and his bride began to waltz, other couples joined them. Soon, the tension in the room waned as the crowd seemed to forget where they were and what sort of activity typically commenced on the upper floors.
Luke glanced up the stairs again, then tugged at the stiff, white collar at his throat. He hadn't worn it in days, and now he had a rash where it chafed his neck. Hives caused by guilt, no doubt.
Forcibly banishing such thoughts, he pulled the collar free and shoved it into his pocket. A
s he scratched his now-naked throat, he looked around the room. Miss Lottie's girls were easy to spot, though he suspected they'd toned down their usual attire as well as their behavior for tonight.
"That was a fine wedding, Father," a woman with a Mae West voice said, jerking his attention from the dancers.
Luke met Miss Lottie's gaze and nodded, feeling warmth creep up his neck and into his cheeks. Here he stood talking to a notorious prostitute, blushing like a teenager. Well, sexually speaking, he was a teenager. It had been that long since...
He swallowed hard.
"Thank you," he said, wincing as his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "And thank you for hosting this reception. It was very kind of you."
"Pshaw." Miss Lottie gripped his arm and gave it a squeeze. Though she wore a simple blue dress, her breasts spilled from the neckline, leaving only her nipples concealed. Heady perfume wafted up from her deep cleavage.
And Luke couldn't stop staring.
His throat went dry and, for some inexplicable reason, the sight of Miss Lottie's awe-inspiring anatomy made his thoughts shift to another woman. A much smaller woman, with a tattoo on the side of her breast.
Miss Lottie leaned closer. "Well, Father, if I didn't know better," she whispered, "I might think you was peeking at my bosom."
Luke peeled his gaze from her soft, powdered, perfumed flesh and looked into her laughing eyes. Her hair was a garish shade of red, her lips painted the color of wine, and a beauty mark had been pasted to her cheek. She was the consummate hooker. The only thing missing was a feather of some sort.
Her laughter made his face grow hotter, but rather than concern him, he realized his blush probably enhanced his disguise. To all present, he must have appeared the perfect blushing priest, gawking at women's cleavages and barely able to speak in a coherent sentence.
If only they knew the truth.
Standing in their midst was a horny ex-con whose rampant hormones had long since declared chemical warfare on what remained of his sanity.
"Well, help yourself to some punch, Father," Miss Lottie suggested, moving away from him at last.
There is a God.
The woman made him think of sex in a big way, but not of sex with her, just sex in general. No, that was a lie. Miss Lottie made him think about very specific sex.
With Sofie.
He loosened another button at the top of his shirt. Of course, everything made him think of sex with Sofie. Absolutely everything. Food, drink, scents, sounds, sleep... Perspiration trickled down the sides of his face, and he headed toward the cider bowl. Soft cider, no doubt. Pity. He could use some of Zeke's corn liquor about now.
Luke ladled cider into a dainty cup and lifted it to his lips. Even before he tasted it, a familiar scent alerted him the punch had more punch to it than he'd anticipated. After he took a sip and confirmed it had been spiked, he looked behind the bar, where Zeke Judson stood. Grinning.
"Evenin', Padre."
Luke returned Zeke's grin and drained his cup. After refilling it, he looked at Zeke again and realized who was missing from these festivities besides Sofie and Jenny.
Where was Sam Weathers?
Worry oozed through him as he searched the crowd. Dancers whirled by, doing some kind of reel, and other merrymakers stood on the perimeter, clapping and smiling. Dora Fleming occupied the far side of the punch bowl, sipping steadily, her eyes overly bright. Ab took her empty cup and offered her a full one.
Luke smiled again, despite his concern. Ab and Dora–imagine that. Ab said something and Dora laughed, taking the refilled cup and lifting it to her lips. So the good old boy was trying to get the spinster drunk. Interesting.
However, if Ab managed to seduce the prudish Dora, Luke had no doubt he'd be called upon to perform another wedding ceremony. He had nothing against Dora and Ab hopping in the sack together, but he had no intention of marrying anybody else, anywhere, anytime. No way.
He moved closer and tapped Ab on the shoulder. "Marriage first, Ab," he whispered, knowing he actually sounded like a priest. The other man reddened, tugged on his collar, then gave Luke a sheepish grin.
Luke figured by the time Ab wooed and courted Dora, he'd be long gone from Redemption. The circuit judge or new pastor could perform the ceremony.
As he moved away from a still blushing Ab and slightly tipsy Dora, something silver flashed from Ab's vest, reminding Luke why he'd been so worried a few minutes ago. Sam.
The marshal had followed Frank Latimer from the church over an hour ago and hadn't returned. Where were they?
Cold fear shot through Luke. He had to check on Sofie and Jenny. What if Frank–
Luke suddenly knew what he should've realized the day he'd witnessed Shane's reaction to his uncle. "Oh, my God."
Frank Latimer was the killer, and Sam Weathers had known that immediately. Luke had only known he didn't trust Frank, but he didn't realize exactly why until now.
He had to get out of here. Panic thundered through his veins, but he maintained a calm facade as he placed his cup on the bar and nodded to Zeke.
Though he wanted to tear through the crowd and into the frosty night, Luke maneuvered around the crowded dance floor until he found the bride and groom. After offering his apologies for leaving early, he walked out the door at a casual pace, praying his terror didn't reveal itself on his face or in his demeanor. He didn't want to make a scene and spoil the Wilsons' wedding reception.
Once outside, his mask crumbled and Luke raced toward the jail, his heart pumping wildly. The small stone building was empty and dark.
Where was Marshal Weathers? His breath coming in rapid bursts of white fog, Luke stood in the center of the dark town and looked toward the church.
And the parsonage.
Only two buildings in the entire town had lights burning. The lights in the parsonage windows were a dead giveaway. Every man, woman and child in town was at the wedding reception.
Except for Sofie, Jenny, Sam Weathers...
And a man who'd murdered his own brother.
Damn. Why didn't they just post a billboard pointing the killer to his target? Cold penetrated Father Salazar's black robe and Luke's shirt. He shivered as his breathing slowed and he moved across the dark, deserted street. Stealthily, he slipped from building to building and house to house, until he was at the side of the now empty church.
The killer could be in the parsonage now, with Jenny and Sofie. Luke swallowed hard, resisting the impulse to charge through the front door, though that's precisely what he wanted to do. He had to protect Sofie and Jenny. He had to.
They should have warned Sofie and Jenny to keep the lights low and the shutters closed. Why hadn't he and Marshal Weathers thought of–
No. Of course Luke hadn't considered this, but the marshal must have. The wise and savvy lawman knew exactly what he was doing and had everything under control.
Yes, Sam had a plan all right, and that obviously included using Sofie and Jenny as bait for a deadly trap.
I'll kill him.
Luke bolted from the side of the church to the nearest wall of the parsonage. He used both hands to feel his way along the cold stone, toward the back door.
Please, don't let me be too late.
His pulse pounded, echoing through his head as he strained to hear anything and everything. He paused at the kitchen window nearest the pantry and peered inside. The room was dark, except for a small sliver of light spilling under the closed door from the parlor.
Sofie and Jenny were probably in front of the fire, reading a story. God, please let them be safe.
Luke had prayed more since the morning of his failed execution than he had in his entire life. But none of those other prayers had been as important as this one–not even the one begging for his miserable hide in that frigging electric chair.
And he knew why, dammit. Because if anything happened to Sofie and Jenny, he wouldn't care if he lived or died. His life would be worthless without Sofie.
And only he would fall in love with the only other person in this century who knew who–and what–he really was. But he didn't have time to sort through that now. All that mattered was saving the life of the woman he loved and an innocent child.
He crept around the corner of the house, certain the temperature had fallen well below freezing. Even the threat of frostbite didn't matter, as long as he kept going until he saved Sofie and Jenny....
Holding his breath, he reached for the door knob, knowing if he found it unlocked, that would mean the killer was already inside. Please, let it be locked.
The knob turned easily and the door squeaked slightly as he pulled it open. The killer was already in there–Luke had to hurry, but he also had to use his head.
Quickly, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Hoping his heavy breathing wouldn't give him away, he paused until it slowed and quieted. He flexed his nearly frozen fingers and started across the kitchen toward the parlor door.
Luke took another step, then another. He put his hand out to feel any obstacle in his path. What should he do? Just waltz through the door like nothing was wrong? He didn't even have a gun, not that he'd know how to use one.
He froze halfway across the dark room. A prickly sensation crept up the back of his neck and danced across his scalp. Instinct screamed.
Someone else was in the kitchen.
Whoever it was had to have seen Luke, so hiding again was pointless. He held his breath and turned toward the back door. Pale moonlight now spilled through the window he'd peeked through earlier, bathing the room in a silver glow that reminded him of a blacklight.
A shadow shifted near the back door and Luke flattened himself against the wall next to the kitchen door. His gaze roamed the room, waiting for the intruder to make another move. He had to do something to stop the killer. Whatever it took.
Even kill?
He suppressed a shudder and knew if it came to that, he would kill to protect Sofie and Jenny. God help him.
The silver light wasn't enough. Whoever was in here with him, was obviously being as cautious as Luke about remaining hidden. Then a cloud drifted across the moon and the room went black again.