Yellowstone Memories
Page 5
“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and your own good gifts and strengths. You don’t need your uncle’s approval or anyone else’s.”
Wyatt stared, sputtering for words. “How dare you speak that way about my uncle,” he managed, his heart beating fast in his chest. “He’s your superior. Your boss. He hired you.”
“I never said not to respect your uncle.” Jewel raised her voice slightly. “He’s a good man, Mr. Kelly, and he deserves your respect—and mine. He’s raised you and looked after you his whole life. But he doesn’t own your future, and you certainly owe it to yourself to discover what you can really accomplish if you stop comparing yourself to someone else.”
“Are you crazy?” Wyatt bristled. “I don’t compare myself to anybody!”
“Yes you do. All the time.”
“Who?” He scooted his chair forward, making an ugly rasping sound. Uncle Hiram stirred, his snores sputtering.
Jewel folded her hands and glanced up at the faded tintype photograph of Amos Kelly on the mantel. “You know who,” she whispered.
Wyatt abruptly got up from the table and fidgeted with something on the shelf, trying to straighten the plates with quivery hands until he knocked them together. When he sat down again, he polished his glasses a long time without speaking and then growled, “You sure do speak your mind,” and stuck his glasses on his face at a twisted angle.
“So should you.”
“You’re wrong about all of it, you know that?” Heat climbed Wyatt’s neck. “Completely wrong.”
“No I’m not.”
“That’s enough!” Wyatt shut the Bible and pushed it to the side of the table, his fingertips shaking with anger. “Look. If you want to talk about the gold, then talk. Otherwise we’re done here tonight. Got it?”
“Fine.” Jewel met his eyes without flinching. “Go ahead. You start.”
Wyatt shuffled his feet irritably under the table, glancing over at Uncle Hiram’s sleeping figure. “All right then. What do you think of the contents of the box?” He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Do you think Crazy Pierre really buried it, or did someone else take what he’d originally left and replace it with something else?”
“You said you saw him bury it.”
“I did, but that was years ago. Somebody might have dug it up since then.” Wyatt rubbed his forehead with his fist, letting his temper cool down. And keeping his father’s photograph out of his line of vision. “If it was Pierre, what was he thinking leaving nothing in that box but a rusted old set of spurs?”
“And his letter to my husband doesn’t help much: ‘Le trône de solitude dans la lumière de la lune.’ ” Perfectly accented words rolled off her tongue like kisses. “ ‘Throne of solitude in the light of the moon,’ ” she translated. “But it makes no sense to me. Pierre said something about looking under the whiskey jug if my husband was too dense to figure it out.”
“Under the whiskey jug.” Wyatt rested his chin in his hand. “That’s pretty cryptic.”
“Not only that, but Pierre wrote that letter over four years ago. Even if he left a specific whiskey jug, maybe down in the root cellar, it would almost certainly be gone by now.”
“So what next? I don’t get the spurs or the letter. A throne is where a king sits. Something royal? Expensive?” He raised his palms in frustration. “Or something up in the sky, like … like a constellation. Is that what he meant by solitude and the moon?”
“Maybe something related to a horse, then, because of the spurs?” Jewel played with the Bible page.
“Is there some … horse-shaped constellation?”
“What? No.” Jewel stopped another laugh with her palm, and Wyatt glared.
“I’m just trying things, you know,” he grumbled. “You could at least be civil.”
“Wait a moment.” Her smile faded. “Pegasus. The winged horse.”
“Why, you’re right.” Wyatt ran a hand over his jaw in surprise, thinking. “No, I’m right. The big square in the winter sky.”
“Could the big square be a box? Like the box we found?” Jewel gasped. “And one other thing. A horseshoe could look like a moon. A crescent moon.”
Wyatt studied her briefly, the candle flickering between them. A bead of wax slipped slowly down, melting into a molten ivory pool.
Jewel actually hadn’t shown him the letter. Who knew if she’d told the whole truth—or even part of it? “Is there anything else in the letter, Mrs. Moreau?” he asked carefully. “Anything at all?”
Jewel didn’t answer, twisting the wedding band on her finger.
Wyatt crossed his arms. “You’re keeping something from me, aren’t you?”
“Should I?” She eyed him with a suspicious look. “If I tell you everything up front, you could figure it out and take the entire stash yourself.”
“Me?” Wyatt pointed to his chest, openmouthed. “I’d never do that.”
“How can I believe you?” Jewel held his gaze. “No shrewd treasure hunter shows the landowner the full map before she asks permission to dig.” The candle flame flickered from her breath.
Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “You promised me fifty-fifty. That was the deal. And that means you tell me everything.” He raised an eyebrow. “Partner.”
“How do I know you’ve told me everything? Prove it, Mr. Kelly.”
“I gave you my word, and that should be enough.” He leaned across the Bible. “You admitted yourself that I’m a man of my word.”
They regarded each other across the table, and neither spoke. A log snapped in the fire, sending up showering sparks. Outside the house, the wind rattled a loose shutter, which banged and groaned.
“So long as you doubt me, how can I trust you with any evidence I find? Or my ideas, or … or anything?” Wyatt banged a fist in his palm for emphasis. “Fact is, I don’t even know who you are. What’s to ensure me you won’t take what I say and run off with the treasure yourself?”
“Nothing. Do you trust me?”
Wyatt studied her, his jaw tight. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“So you don’t know for sure.”
He picked at his nails in the lamplight. “I’d like to,” he said finally, lacing his calloused, freckled fingers together. “But how do I know if you trust me? I could ask you the same question.”
“Neither of us can know anything for sure.” Jewel reached across the table and touched the corner of the Bible, nearly brushing Wyatt’s hand. “But I’m learning a bit about faith from this book—and faith never asks me to believe foolishly or throw all my caution to the wind without counting the consequences.”
Wyatt quickly put his hands in his lap. “Why, you don’t mean to tell me you believe what’s in here, do you?” Guilt crept up his spine like a spider skulking in Crazy Pierre’s root cellar.
“Maybe.” Candlelight flickered on Jewel’s face, more earnest than Wyatt had ever seen her. Eyes clear and dark like a winter sky, sparkling with starlight. He looked away, pretending to study a knot in the pine-log wall.
“You think faith never asks you to believe foolishly? Look at Abraham.” He flipped the Bible back to Genesis. “God told him to move to a new land—a land He hadn’t even shown him—and ol’ Abe packed up without a second thought. If that’s faith, then forget it. It’s not for me.”
“No. You’re missing it.” Jewel pushed the Bible closer to Wyatt, and her voice took on a reverent tone, almost husky—like the one she used when training horses in her native Arapaho. “God moved with Abraham one step at a time, never asking more than His just due. You’re right that God told him to move to a new land—but when he did, God blessed him. God promised him a son, and Abraham believed and waited years until it happened.” Jewel smoothed the page with her finger. “God didn’t throw everything at him all at once. He allowed Abraham to learn who He was, little by little, so that Abraham could make the hard decisions in the end.”
“Huh.” Wyatt scratched his head.
Wyatt massaged his temples, feeling like he’d just stepped in a noose. “You said you were Hagar,” he said, switching subjects slightly. “How am I supposed to know that whole story isn’t a lie? I don’t know if I can trust you to tell the truth. About that or anything else.”
“Maybe you can’t.” She arched a dark eyebrow. “But you can do what Abraham did.”
“What, pack up and move?” Wyatt felt his patience wearing through, like a threadbare patch in his overalls.
“No. Wait and watch my character. Then you’ll know whether or not you can trust me.”
Wyatt leaned his elbows on the table and shook his head. “You’re a Christian, aren’t you?” His lip turned up slightly. “You’ve been pretending the whole time, just like you did with English. Why, I bet you know this whole book inside and out. Maybe you’re even a missionary.” He set his jaw. “Am I right?”
“What? I’m not a Christian.” Jewel folded her arms. “I’m not anything. I don’t know what I believe.” Her eyes seemed, for a moment, sadly empty. She looked away, firelight flickering on the lines of her face. “I don’t follow the gods of the Arapaho anymore. I fasted every year during the Sun Dance, and all my life I prayed to the Creator of the Arapaho who speaks through eagles. But I felt nothing. Heard nothing. Almost as if I’d died and my spirit ceased to exist.”
Tears shimmered briefly in Jewel’s eyes, and she blinked them back, keeping a stoic face. “When I heard the priest at the mission school speak about Jesus, the ice in my heart began to melt. And I longed to read the Bible. To soak up the stories and learn about the God who spoke not through eagles but through people, through His Son Jesus—and from His book.”
Her eyelashes trembled closed. “But as soon as I learned to read, my father sold me to my husband, who neither approved of women reading nor listened when I asked for a Bible.” She rubbed at a scratch on the wooden table with slender fingers. “I asked God, if He existed, to let me hear His Word for myself and see if it was true.”
She looked up briefly. “And then you asked me to study English. With this.” Jewel passed her hand over the pages of the Bible.
Wyatt realized he was gaping and closed his mouth.
And you only offered to teach her because of the gold. Shame on you. Wyatt shifted uncomfortably in his chair, guilt weighing so heavily on his heart that he could hardly breathe. He stared down at the slats in the wooden table until colored lines glowed behind his eyes.
The wind rattled the window shutter again, and Jewel jumped.
For the life of him, Wyatt couldn’t think of a single word to say about the Bible. So he simply closed it and pushed it to the side, trying to bring his mind back to the gold. “Did the letter say anything else you feel comfortable telling me?” he asked in a gentler tone.
“It didn’t say much at all, Mr. Kelly. It was a short letter. Just the key and the note, and my husband thought it funny.”
“So your husband seemed to understand the letter?”
“Not at first. But after a day or two he picked up the letter and read it again, and he laughed.”
“Wait a second.” Wyatt looked up suddenly. “Why didn’t your husband go after the gold then, if he knew Crazy Pierre died? He had the clues, and he figured out where Pierre hid the gold.”
Jewel scooted back in her chair, pressing her lips together. She didn’t reply.
Something awful thumped in Wyatt’s chest, like the Cheyenne war drums on the field where his father died.
“Mrs. Moreau?” Wyatt leaned forward. “Your husband. Why didn’t he go after the gold? And where is he? Why do you never speak of him?”
The clock on the mantle struck, and Jewel flinched. Her fingers twisted together, shaking like a leaf in the winter wind. “It’s late, Mr. Kelly.” She abruptly rose to her feet, sweeping her long skirts from under the table. “I think I’ve had enough studying for the evening, if you don’t mind. Good night.”
“Wait.” Wyatt scraped his chair back. He crossed the room in fast strides and stood with his back to the door, throwing his arm over the latch.
“Let me leave, please,” said Jewel in cold irritation, attempting to duck around him. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.” She reached defiantly over his arm to rattle the latch.
“Why won’t you tell me?” Wyatt kept his hand over the latch. “You’ve already told me your real name and the details about the letter. Why do you need to keep hiding?”
“I thought you said you knew everything about my past.” She raised her face to his boldly, but her cheeks had paled. “You’re the expert, right?”
Wyatt’s heart quivered in his chest, trying to remember what exactly he’d said to call her bluff. Something about the magistrate—and something about her sordid past. “I know enough. But I’d rather hear the truth from you—and not from everybody else in town.”
Jewel fingered the latch but didn’t move to open the door, even when Wyatt finally stepped aside. “So they’re talking about me here, too?”
“A little.” Wyatt cleared his throat. “Yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Do you believe them?”
He scuffed his boots on the pine floor, listening to Uncle Hiram snore in his chair. Wind whistled around the sides of the log house, rustling grasses.
“I see.” A line in Jewel’s slender neck bobbed as she swallowed. “So you do believe them. Your actions show it.”
“My actions show no such thing. I want the truth, and that’s all.”
“Why? Why do you want to know about my husband so badly?” Jewel turned to him, so close he could see the outline of each dark eyelash. “His whereabouts have nothing whatsoever to do with the gold.”
“Because I won’t partner with you if you’re doing dirty work for someone else. And that’s final.”
Jewel’s eyes widened in what looked like surprise—and perhaps even relief. “I’m not blackmailing anyone, or stealing, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” She swept an arm toward Wyatt. “How do I know about you? How do I know you’re honest and not working against the law yourself?”
“Because I’ve got nothing to hide.” Wyatt spoke gently. “You talked about character earlier, Mrs. Moreau. Ask anyone about me and they’ll tell you everything. No secrets.”
Dark strands of hair had come loose from Jewel’s braid, falling in soft lines around her ears, and he longed to brush them back from her smooth forehead. But he stuffed his hands in his pockets instead, hoping the rush of color stayed out of his face.
“Then why do you care where my husband is? What business is it of yours anyway?” Jewel’s cheeks glowed an unusual pallid pink, and for a second she looked small and vulnerable there against the rough pine door. Clad in the blue-and-white cottons of a people not entirely her own and gossiped about by townsfolk she’d never met.
“Listen to me, miss. If I’m going to work with a criminal, I need to hear your side before I make up my mind.” Wyatt leaned forward.
“So you can turn me in?” Something in the way she said it held a warning. A fearful quiver but with a dagger beneath.
Wyatt’s heart pounded in his throat, and he breathed through his nose, trying to keep calm. Thinking through his words. “I don’t want to.” He spoke gently, meeting her eyes. “I truly don’t.”
He reached out and put a hand on her arm, trying to still the frightened look in her eyes. “Tell me. Where is your husband? You wear his ring.” He gestured to her plain silver band. “Where is he, then?”
Jewel glanced down at his pale hand on her arm, but she did not pull away.
“Will you believe me if I tell you the truth?” Wyatt licked his lips nervously and then nodded.
“Fine then.” Jewel closed her eyes. “My husband is dead.”
Chapter 5
Wyatt lay uneasily in his
bed, unable to sleep. Every whistle of wind around the corner of the house haunted him, and the steady creaking of the pine floor made him jump. All his rusty red hairs standing on end.
If Jewel had killed her husband—a sinister guess when he put the ugly pieces together—then might she not just as easily kill him, too? A business partner with fifty percent of the goods she’d like to have all for herself?
She’d already gotten the key from him. What purpose could he possibly serve her now?
Wyatt fingered his Colt revolver under his pillow and wondered, with a tight pinch of his stomach, if he should warn Uncle Hiram—and maybe get Jewel off the ranch before she struck again. Not long ago a disgruntled cattle driver in Buffalo had set fire to an entire ranch, taking the lives of six ranch hands and nearly killing the ranch owner himself.
Is that why Jewel had taken the job? To seek out all the information she could about Pierre’s gold and then get rid of the evidence?
Black widow indeed. Wyatt pulled his revolver from under his pillow and checked the chamber then loaded in an extra round. He put the gun down and flopped back on the bed in misery, staring up at the darkened plank ceiling. He didn’t want to think the worst. Not at all. Not about Jewel, with her earnest black eyes and long scar on her forearm.
After all, she’d trusted him with her name—her story. Even the contents of her private letter. Why would she deceive him now?
Or maybe the whole thing was a lie. What if her name was not Collette Moreau after all, and she was merely stringing him along—hook, line, and sinker?
Because goodness knows, he wanted to believe her.
Badly.
So much so that his stomach curled into a quivery knot, and he felt the blood rush up his neck, pulsing in his throat. He saw her standing in Crazy Pierre’s root cellar with tears in her eyes, her fingers briefly brushing his as she handed him his glasses. Her dark head bent over the Bible.
She was different, this strong-minded Indian girl, from the giddy, empty-headed females he’d seen in Cody and Deadwood, swilling whiskey and banging on cheap player pianos. Fanning their ample cleavage with feather fans and giggling over ignorant jokes.