by Pamela Clare
A telegram arrived shortly after 10, stating that my men had been to visit a gunsmith on Pine Street and that the prey they’d been hunting had gotten away. I knew then Taylor’s purpose in Boulder, for the Colt my men had hidden in the rafters of Hawke’s henhouse had come from that very gunsmith.
Taylor had to know now that Hawke had not purchased the firearm, and he would be able to prove it. The thought caused me a moment of panic, but it was one thing to prove Hawke’s innocence and something else to establish my guilt.
I sent my two most trusted men to eliminate the man who’d bought the pistol and hide his body somewhere it would never be found—at the bottom of Moose Lake or down a discarded mine shaft. I sent two more to a high point above the canyon with orders to delay the sheriff without being seen or caught.
At about 11, I dressed as I would for any important social event and made my way down the snowy and muddy streets with Mr. Craddock to the jailhouse. I asked for Sheriff Taylor. His deputy, a lout by the name of Quintrell, told me Sheriff Taylor had gone to Boulder on official business. I discerned by the way he looked at me that he did not trust me, but I refused to be sent away and insisted on waiting.
Who better to provide my alibi than the sheriff’s own deputy?
It wasn’t long after I arrived when Quintrell was called away to settle an armed dispute at the saloon. I seized this chance to speak with Hawke.
He stood in his cell in his best clothes, looking out the window toward the gallows, his face freshly shaved. He glared at me. “I know this is your doin’. Sheriff Taylor knows the truth, as do the men. They know I spoke against the violence and didn’t own a pistol. You cannot cow them by murderin’ me. Aye, I know that’s what you’re after. You’ll not find them so easy to manage after this.”
I told him that he was speaking nonsense but assured him it was likely normal for a man to protest his innocence and make far-fetched claims on the day he was to be hanged. “I still want to believe you are innocent, but I must trust in the jury’s verdict. I’m told that the pain does not last long if the neck breaks. If not, hanging can be a long and torturous death.”
He laughed at this. “Have you come to gloat?”
I did my best to mask my hatred with pity. “I came to tell you that I forgive you, and to promise that I will look after your wife and children. I’ll see to it they receive candy and new shoes for Christmas.”
His face contorted into a look of such rage as I have never seen. “You stay away from my family, Moffat! They need nothin’ from the likes of you.”
“Do you want them to starve in the streets? Do you want your wife to feed your children with money she earns on her back?”
He pressed up against the bars and would likely have killed me had he not been constrained. “My wife is a good woman and true. Speak of her again, go anywhere near her or my children, and I’ll kill you, if I have to come back from the grave to do it!”
It was then the Methodist minister arrived. I left the two of them and went to wait once more with Mr. Craddock, who told me that one of my men had just returned with the news they’d tried to stop the sheriff with a rockslide but had failed. He expected Taylor to reach Scarlet Springs in the next twenty minutes and awaited my orders across the street.
I ought to have had them shoot Taylor, but it was impossible to kill him so near town without raising suspicions or risking being seen.
It was Mr. Craddock who seized upon the solution. He walked to the clock, opened its face, and moved the big hand forward fifteen minutes so that it was now almost noon. He shut it again and resumed his seat.
“Great men make the world as they wish it to be,” he said.
He and I both changed the time on our pocket watches to be safe.
Wanting to seem in every way a law-abiding and helpful citizen, I went across the street and ordered my man to ride down the canyon and to tell Sheriff Taylor that I had heard about the dreadful rockslide and wanted to make sure he was safe. “Tell him that I sent you to ensure his safety. Accompany him into town, acting as his guard. Do nothing to harm him. Do you understand?”
A crowd had already gathered around the gallows by the time Quintrell returned. I saw Hawke’s wife with her oldest son standing near the jailhouse.
“What has kept you, man?” I demanded. “Do you not see what time it is?”
Quintrell looked at the clock, saw that it was five past noon. “I should wait for Sheriff Taylor. He said he’d be here afore noon.”
“Did the judge not set the hanging for noon?” Mr. Craddock asked me, making certain that Quintrell overheard. “The deputy will be held in contempt, I fear. He’ll likely lose his badge as well.”
Quintrell called to some of the sheriff’s men and reluctantly went to retrieve Hawke from his cell, returning a few minutes later with the minister and the prisoner, whose hands were now bound behind his back.
Hawke glared at me but seemed unafraid. “You’ll go to hell for this.”
“I’m not a murderer. You are.” I followed the others outside, Mr. Craddock behind me.
Hawke’s wife ran toward her husband the moment he appeared.
“He is innocent! He could not have done this. Please, wait for the sheriff to return. It’s not yet time.” She tried to reach her husband, but the minister held her back.
It was the only time I saw remorse on Hawke’s face. “All shall be well, Molly. Be strong, my girl. Moffat is determined to see me hanged, and so he shall.”
Quintrell and the other deputies led him up onto the scaffold, and it was Quintrell who positioned the noose around his neck. The minister mounted the steps and spoke quietly with Hawke for a few minutes, then stepped back.
“Do you have any last words?” Quintrell asked him.
Hawke looked down at his wife. “I love you, Molly. I always have. Promise me you’ll never let my children work in a mine.”
His wife choked back her sobs and smiled at Hawke. “I promise, my love.”
But Hawke hadn’t finished. “Stay away from Moffat. Don’t trust him. Tell the children I died an innocent man, my conscience clean.”
“They know, my love, and they won’t be forgettin’ it.”
Hawke tried to reject the hood, saying he wanted to look upon his wife’s face, but Quintrell forced it upon him, assuring him that it was a mercy and meant to preserve his dignity. Then Quintrell stepped back, and the executioner released the trapdoor.
Hawke’s neck broke in the fall, and he died almost instantly to the sound of his wife’s screams. I can tell you I felt such relief when his struggles ceased!
It was not two minutes later when Sheriff Taylor rode in, his horse lathered.
“What have you done? Cut him down!” he shouted at Quintrell, leaping from his saddle and helping to lower Hawke’s body to the ground. He attempted to revive Hawke until he saw that the man’s neck was broken.
Molly threw herself on her husband’s body, wailing and caterwauling as women do. The minister knelt beside her, but she rejected even his consolation.
Taylor glanced at his pocket watch and showed it to Quintrell. “What in God’s name have you done? The hangin’ wasn’t until noon. I’ve brought a witness who might have been able to free him.”
“But it is past noon.”
I stepped forward. “If you had evidence, why did you not think to send a telegram, man? Your incompetence has cost this man his life!”
The stricken look on Taylor’s face at my words brings a smile to mine tonight.
I offered to pay for Hawke’s grave marker, but his wife spat on my boots. I assured her that I shared her grief, told her that she had misjudged me, and tossed a few silver coins onto his body. Mr. Craddock and I made our way back to my office, where we celebrated with a bottle of fine whiskey.
Chapter 14
Joe arrived home to find Rain in the library crying, Silas’ journal and the photograph of Cadan Hawke, hooded, noose around his neck, on the coffee table in front of her. He didn�
��t have to ask why she was upset.
He sat beside her, drew her into his arms. “Hey, come here.”
Some part of him was afraid she would pull away, reject him, but she didn’t.
She rested her head against his chest, a tissue crumpled in one hand, her cheeks wet with tears. “Silas killed that poor man. He murdered him. He took Cadan from his wife and his kids. I hate him. I really do. I hate him.”
“So do I.” Joe had felt sick to his stomach when he’d read what Silas had done.
Unfortunately, Joe got his DNA from Silas and from three men who’d been very much like him—ruthless, selfish, immoral to their core.
“I can’t read anymore. Please tell me there was justice, that Sheriff Taylor found some evidence to exonerate Cadan, that Silas paid for this somehow.”
Joe kissed her hair. “I wish I could.”
He told Rain how Silas had been right. Cadan’s murder broke the spirit of the miners for a time, enabling Silas to lower their wages while meeting their demand for an eight-hour workday. He told her how the hostility between Sheriff Taylor and Silas grew fierce after this and how Silas decided it would be better to leave things in Craddock’s hands and head back east to be with his son. “He threw Jenny out of her suite at his hotel and left her, pregnant and addicted to laudanum, on the street. She made her way back to Scarlet, moved into Belle’s place, and died from a botched abortion one month later.
“Silas got away with all of it. He invested his profits—about five million a year by today’s standards—wisely. When the price of silver crashed, he had already shifted most of his fortune to steel, railways, and hotels. He died not long after that, making his son one of the wealthiest men in the U.S.”
“That son of a bitch. That’s so unfair.”
“There’s nothing fair about life.”
“What happened to Molly, Cadan’s widow?”
“I don’t know. The journals never mention her again.”
“Poor Jenny. If Silas had left her alone, she might have lived a normal life, gotten married, had kids. I wish her family had done more to help her. Why couldn’t they go to the sheriff and push him to charge Silas with rape?”
“Are you kidding? Wealthy men still get away with sexual assault and harassment today. Back then, an unmarried rape victim from a poor, immigrant family didn’t stand a chance. Society always blamed the victim.”
“Well, fuck them!”
Joe knew this was personal for Rain not only because she was distantly related to Jenny, but because she’d lived through something similar. She’d been manipulated by an older man—and then rejected by her family when she’d returned with a baby. Joe had met her parents once and had found them to be self-righteous prigs. “Yeah. Fuck them all.”
“Where are they buried?” she asked.
“Cadan is buried in the Scarlet pioneer cemetery, though the headstone is worn. It’s almost impossible to make out his name. Jenny was buried in an unmarked grave. The Scarlet Historical Society has a map showing where she was laid to rest. We can visit when the snow melts if you’d like.”
“I’d like to buy a headstone for her, maybe get a new one made for Cadan someday.” She tilted her head back, looked up at him. “Does Eric know? Does his family even remember Cadan?”
Joe nodded. “I went to see them not long after I moved here. I didn’t want to make the journals public, but I wasn’t going to cover for Silas. I photocopied the pages that mentioned Cadan, blacked out everyone’s names apart from Silas’, and gave them a folder. Eric sat there listening—he was just a skinny kid, maybe fourteen. His mother, Robin, who is a direct descendant of Hawke’s oldest son, was gracious. She thanked me for coming and sharing the pages with her. She even invited me to stay for dinner. I hadn’t imagined in a million years that the descendants of the man Silas murdered would show me such kindness.”
“Craddock!” Rain drew back, sat up, stared at him wide-eyed. “You kept the journal private to protect Mrs. Beech, didn’t you?”
Rain had figured that out.
“Mostly Mrs. Beech, but also Rico and you. It was one of Rico’s ancestors who put the noose around Cadan’s neck. Given what you’d been through, I didn’t think it would help you to read about something similar happening to one of your female ancestors.”
“You’re probably right.”
“As for Mrs. Beech, she is so proud to be Craddock’s great-granddaughter. I couldn’t take that from her. Every time I run into her, she reminds me that her family used to manage the mine for my family. She acts like we’re old friends or something. I don’t know what she’d do if she found out the man she reveres was an accomplice to rape and murder. I figure justice has waited this long. It can wait until she passes. After that, I’ll happily donate all of Silas’ journals and photos to the library.”
“You’ll need to build a library first.”
“True.”
They both laughed.
“Oh, Joe, I couldn’t love you more.” Rain pressed her palm to the left side of his chest. “You have such a good heart. You’re not Silas. You’re nothing like him. You’ve been trying to prove that to yourself for so long. Please believe me. You have nothing to prove to anyone.”
She brushed her lips over his, then kissed him.
Hungry for her, needing the absolution she offered, he kissed her back, then caught her face between his hands and drew back. “Let’s go upstairs.”
They sank together to his bed, locked in a kiss, limbs tangled, hands seeking the quickest way past clothing to skin. He yanked her shirt above her breasts, tugged down the cups of her bra, and suckled her until she writhed beneath him. While she wrestled herself out of her jeans, he grabbed a condom from the new box on his nightstand and rolled it over his erection. Then he was inside her, her body sheathing him, her nails biting into his back, her hips thrusting upward to meet him.
He fought to hold on, to rein himself in, wanting to please her. He was on the brink when she arched beneath him, cried out his name—and came. He kept up the rhythm, carrying her through her climax, the sexual ecstasy on her face shattering what remained of his control. Then he let pleasure carry him away.
They made a late dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, ate at the breakfast counter, then settled on the sofa near the warmth of the fire with a plate of Rain’s fudge to watch the lights on the Christmas tree sparkle.
Rain told him she’d bought the last packet of Plan B in Scarlet. “I’m so glad I got there before it sold out.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Then Rain told him about her frustrating meeting with the claims adjuster. “The cash value of the house is lower than the cost of rebuilding something similar, so I’m going to have to make up the difference. It feels like they’re cheating. It’s going to cost tens of thousands of dollars that I don’t have.”
That thought didn’t overwhelm her quite as much with Joe’s arms around her.
“Let me send the paperwork to my attorney. Maybe he can get them to bend.”
“Okay, but I doubt that will accomplish anything.”
He nuzzled her cheek. “I’m not going to let you fall, Rain. You are not alone.”
“I can’t let you pay for it.”
“Sure you can—but we’ll argue about that some other time.” He kissed her temple. “I got a few calls today from people wanting to know when I’d be holding a fundraiser for you.”
“Really?”
“You’re one of the most beloved people in Scarlet. You know that, don’t you?”
Rain’s throat went tight. “No. I mean … I know I have friends here, but …”
“I’m not the only one who loves you.”
“And to think I’d thought about leaving.”
“Please don’t.” He kissed her again.
“Do I have a job?”
Before he could answer, Rain’s cell phone buzzed. She drew away from him, picked it up off the coffee table.
It was Lark.
“Hey, sweetie, how are you?” Rain barely got the words out before Lark went off.
“I heard you quit Knockers and that you’re thinking of moving away. Why would you do that without telling me? You’re my mom. I don’t want you to leave me and live somewhere far away.”
“Oh, honey, I’m not leaving. That’s just gossip.”
“Then you’re still working for Joe?”
“Do you mind if I put you on speaker phone? I’m still staying with Joe, and he’s sitting right here.”
“I need to talk with him, too.”
“Hey, Lark. How’s it going?” Joe asked.
Lark didn’t bother with small talk. “Why did you let my mom quit?”
Joe met Rain’s gaze, his lips curving in a grin. “Your mom hasn’t quit. I never accepted her resignation, and now she’s changed her mind.”
“Why did she quit in the first place?”
Joe waited for Rain to answer, leaving it up to her.
Rain offered a simplification of the truth. “I turned in my resignation because I didn’t want people getting the wrong idea about Joe and me now that we’re together.”
A loud squeal came out of the phone’s speaker. “You and Joe are sleeping together? It’s about time!”
Rain’s cheeks flamed. She shot Joe an apologetic look. “Well, we… uh…”
Joe grinned, stepped in. “I’m not sure you’re old enough to ask that sort of question, young lady.”
Lark laughed. “I’m older than my mom was when she had me. But if you were wondering how I feel about this, all I have to say is what took you so long! My mom has been in love with you for as long as I can remember. You’re the closest thing I had to a dad anyway. This so rocks!”
Rain squeezed her eyes shut, did her best to change the subject before Lark could say anything else embarrassing. “How would you like to come for dinner at Joe’s place some night? We need to talk about Christmas, too. It looks like I’ll be spending Christmas here.”
Rain brought Lark up to date on the house, and they agreed Lark would bring her boyfriend for dinner on Friday, Dec. 14, after her last final.