Montana Promise (McCutcheon Family Series Book 10)

by Caroline Fyffe

  If she and Blanche hadn’t already been awake, no one would have been the wiser. The horses were too far away for her to identify any of the riders, and she wondered if one of them was Francis. He was so sure Luke McCutcheon hadn’t murdered Benson. Because of that, he was a very compelling witness. She chanced a glance to her side to find Blanche staring at her again.

  She swallowed. “I guess I’ll go back to bed.” Ashley wondered if she’d stay upright on her shockingly weak knees. She pressed the glass against her middle to keep it from trembling.

  “Don’t you want a glass of water? That’s what you got up for.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. The cowboys made me forget. I’ll get that now.” She was chattering like a frightened schoolchild. Before Blanche could say anything else, Ashley turned and hurried to the kitchen, a drink of water the very last thing on her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Hold the light closer,” Roady whispered, hunkered down by the back door of Mrs. Van Gleek’s cabin.

  Francis moved the lantern as close to the side of Roady’s face as he could get without burning the foreman. The other men waited on their horses twenty feet away, hidden among the trees. No use having them all out in the open in case somebody else showed up with the same idea they had.

  Roady delicately probed the lock with a long, bent nail, his ear pressed to the door. “There she is,” he said with a gentle twist of his wrist. “Easy now, sweetheart. Come to daddy.” He glanced up at Francis and smiled. “We should be in shortly.”

  Francis heard the click. He let go of the breath he was holding and waved to the others. Soon everyone except Pedro, who stood watch a few hundred feet down the road, concealed between the rocks, silently moved through the door. The amigo, who had the eyesight of an owl and the hearing of a wolf, wouldn’t let anyone take them by surprise.

  Inside, the furniture was sparse and rustic. The dry sink at the end of a counter on the far wall was still stacked with dirty dishes, and the floor was none too clean. A skittering sound behind a handful of logs on the stone hearth told Francis the home wasn’t rodent-proof—Lucky would have something to say about that if he were here.

  Shad went to each window and pulled closed the coarse brown curtains as Nick, with a lantern of his own, scanned the room. Roady took the lamp from Francis as soon as they came inside and began a meticulous search of the place with Francis close behind. What one man missed, another might see.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Nick shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  Francis couldn’t believe he was already asking questions. His attention span was that of a gnat. Roady had given detailed instructions before they’d retrieved their weapons and ridden out. Now here was Shad’s younger brother already needing direction.

  “Anything that looks out of place,” Roady said quietly. “Anything that looks wrong. Anything that brings a question to your mind.”

  Nick lifted his hat and scratched his head. “Like why didn’t this woman do her job? This place is a mess.”

  “Hush,” Shad said irritably. “Just get to lookin’. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Nick shrugged and then smiled. “I suppose.”

  Heck, the place is so small we’ve already looked everywhere in the first three minutes, Francis thought. What more can we find? Frustrated, he smacked one fist into his palm. Something had to be here. A clue that would clear Luke. He wasn’t leaving until they found some evidence. Francis lifted a small rug in the middle of the room. A brownish stain resembling a three-quarter moon, of all things, marred the wooden floor. “Here!” he called excitedly. “Here’s where Benson fell.”

  The men crowded around.

  Francis tried to visualize how Van Gleek would have lain. Which way had his feet been pointing? Had he just entered, or come out of the bedroom? He took a long step to the door. “Say he came inside like this.” He walked to the middle of the room. On his left was the fireplace where the rock chimney climbed the wall by the front door. He reached out a hand. “If I lean far enough, I can touch the fireplace tools.” He did.

  Roady’s brows creeped up his forehead. “That’s good, Francis. Pick up the poker.”

  It wasn’t as heavy as he’d expected. He stared at the mark on the floor. “That’s a lot of blood in one place,” Francis said.

  Shad hunkered down, staring at the stain. “Didn’t she claim Luke and her husband had a fistfight?”

  “She did,” Roady answered. “Over money, of all things.” He scoffed. “Ending with a blow to the side of his head that killed him. If that were the case, more bloodstains would be splattered around. I’ve never had a fight where I didn’t break the skin of my knuckles or get a bloody nose or lip.” He glanced around. “Anyone see any other spots? Look close. They could be tiny.”

  After a few moments, everyone shook their heads.

  “Not a thing,” Francis said. The crimson spot will tell its own story. “Heads bleed a lot. I remember getting that tiny cut on my hairline over my forehead and thought I’d bleed out.” He fingered the small scar and then chuckled.

  Like granite sculptures, no one moved.

  “We don’t know if this stain is from the back of his head or his face.” Nick pushed up to his feet and the others followed.

  A hoot of an owl sounded, followed by two more short hoots.

  “Pedro. He’s spotted something. We better go.”

  “Look!” Across the room, Francis thought he saw something almost covered by a chair. Shad quietly moved the furniture to the side, revealing the print of a boot.

  Roady stared a long time.

  Francis felt sweat break out in his palms. This was something important. A chance find that might be the difference between life and death.

  “Someone stepped in the blood,” Roady said, even though that fact was obvious. He carefully considered the marking.

  “Not someone. By the size, the print belongs to a man. We’ve just cut the field by fifty percent,” Francis corrected. “No woman I’ve ever seen has boots that large.” He gave a long whistle. “If I’m wrong, and she does, you can tar and feather me.” He pointed closely at the heel. “And look at this. One side’s uneven, worn down differently.”

  Roady nodded, still gazing at the print and then glanced up at Francis. “Good work.”

  As Francis stood, he spotted a glimmer of silver wedged between the chair’s cushion and the base of the armrest. He palmed a money clip fashioned in the shape of a gun and holding two one dollar bills. “Might be Benson’s. Might be the killer’s. Who knows?”

  “Bring it,” Roady barked. “Something that unique has a history.” Before making for the door, Roady placed his boot over the print, checking the size. His boot covered the print completely. “Everyone, hold your foot over the mark.”

  The men followed orders. Shad’s boot overshadowed the stain. Same with Nick.

  Francis’s fit the mark to a T. “Just like Cinderella.” He chuckled as a small amount of relief passed through him. He replaced the chair over the boot print hiding the evidence and Roady threw the rug back over the brownish bloodstain. Whoever was here must have been in such a panic to leave they didn’t notice the print. Or had the bloodstain been covered on purpose?

  Nick blew out their lanterns, and then Shad went around the room and opened the curtains. The place looked exactly like when they arrived; except for the fact the bloody boot print was now completely hidden. If no one had noticed before, they’d definitely not find the mark now unless they moved the furniture.

  In total silence, the men exited the cabin, and Roady clicked the door closed but was unable to lock it without a key. “Can’t be helped,” he said as they hustled to their horses. “Doesn’t matter anyway. We got what we came for. They’ll know we’ve been inside.”

  Pedro rode into sight. “Sheriff Jones coming over the ridge. Still a few minutes away.”

  “Good work, Pedro,” Roady said, swinging his leg over Fiddlin’ De
e. “And good work to the rest of you. I have a feeling we’re on to something.” Roady reined around.

  The men followed. Francis brought up the rear. Knowing Roady as he did, he was sure the foreman would take them in the opposite direction for some time, circle around, and then reenter Priest’s Crossing on the other side of town after finding a new spot to cache their guns. They’d have their horses back in the corral before sunup, and be warm in their beds if anyone came looking.

  Francis thought about the coming meeting with Ashley and wondered if he’d get an interview with Mrs. Van Gleek. As much as he hoped he would, only time would tell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The dark night was a glove wrapped around Luke’s throat, keeping him from sleep. The silent burst of cool air that randomly issued through the small window was his lifeline in the stuffy cell. Everything was silent in the sleepy town. The inky darkness was wholly quiet except for the soft hoot of an owl.

  Just to see the mountains. Smell the fresh air. If I get out of here, I’ll never take my freedom for granted…

  Luke stretched out on the cot, crossed his boots, and then pillowed his head on his woven fingers as he gazed up at the small square patch of black high on the wall. The bars glimmered in the moonlight. He was glad Faith had finally gone to the hotel so he could drop his façade of calm. In truth, his insides had been clenched in a death grip since the first day he’d opened his eyes to the bars and locked door.

  He wasn’t a good prisoner. He’d been playing nice for Faith and the others, but his blood ran hot—simmering like the mineral springs at Yellowstone, ready to erupt. Might be his Indian heritage. Might be his McCutcheon upbringing. Whatever the reason, with each passing day, staying calm and collected behind these bars became more of a challenge. The McCutcheon name wouldn’t get him out of this one. A murderer was out there, somewhere, willing and ready to make sure Luke took the fall for his deeds. He wouldn’t be happy until the hangman slipped the noose around Luke’s neck and pulled the lever. Until then, he’d be sure to incite others against Luke’s Cheyenne blood. It behooved him to make sure nobody listened to, or believed, the words of a half-breed.

  In the outer room, Luke heard the squeak of the door. He held his breath to see if he could make out any conversation. Had Faith come back in the middle of the night? Luke didn’t trust Clark at all.

  “Your prisoner awake?”

  A man. The voice familiar. Relief that the visitor wasn’t Faith washed through him.

  Luke closed his eyes when steps hesitated at the open door between the rooms. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. Or be stared at by Jack or anyone else. After a moment, whoever was there moved away.

  “Don’t know. Haven’t looked in since his wife left. I suppose so.”

  Deputy Clark taking his position to heart. Now Luke knew how a caged cougar felt. He reached up and slapped something off his neck.

  “You’re out late, Neil,” Clark went on. “What’ve you got under that cloth-covered plate? Something to share? You’ve tickled my curiosity.”

  Yeah, mine, as well. The deputy’s insolent tone was off-putting.

  “Oatmeal apple cobbler made by Tilly. For McCutcheon and his son.”

  The sounds of a chair sliding reached the cell.

  “Let me see.”

  Luke turned his head to look at the doorway and then silently swung his legs to the floor, sitting up. He’d guess the time to be one o’clock in the morning. What was Neil Huntsman doing delivering a care package at this time of night? Did he have a hidden motive? Kill off the suspect before he had a chance to prove his innocence and send the law looking for someone else? Not a half-bad idea.

  “That looks good. And she made plenty. Would you mind if I had some? McCutcheon will never know.”

  “It’s for McCutcheon only,” Neil snapped. “Not for you or Jack. She expressly told me that. Said Luke’s been locked up for a good long time and needed some home cooking. Hoss, you don’t want to anger Tilly. You know how she gets if crossed. You best not go looking for a fight.”

  “Yeah, I do know. Only all too well.” He gave a halfhearted chuckle. “But who’s gonna tell her? You?”

  Huntsman didn’t answer right away, as if he were weighing his options carefully.

  “If she asks, and she will, I won’t lie. I don’t lie to my wife. I won’t start now.”

  Good for you, Neil.

  “Killjoy,” Deputy Clark drawled. “I know who wears the pants in your family. That said, you’re not waking McCutcheon tonight. He’s asleep and peaceful. Leave the dessert, and I’ll make your delivery first thing in the morning.”

  A laugh.

  “Hey! Where you going with that?” Clark barked.

  “I’m not stupid. I don’t trust you. Tilly can bring it back tomorrow.”

  “Why, you…”

  Luke heard the door close, and then the place was quiet. Huntsman apparently left with his poisoned baked good. That had been interesting. He wondered if Neil Huntsman could actually be a killer. Or if he’d been alone out at the cabin with the Van Gleek woman. That would be a bitter pill for any woman to swallow. The man had seemed very much in love with his wife and soon-to-be child.

  He lay back and stretched out. No sleep would come tonight. Too much speculation and worry about the activity at the Van Gleek cabin. His men were in peril every minute they stuck around Priest’s Crossing. Roady, a new father. Luke had been surprised to see him arrive from the ranch. And Francis too. The young fella had his whole life ahead of him, as well as Shad, newly engaged to Poppy Ford, and the short-fused Nick Petty. When Pedro’s faithful face flashed in Luke’s mind’s eye, he actually sucked in a breath. He scrubbed a hand over his face, fatigue making his arm heavy. He didn’t like any of his men risking their lives to clear his name. Jack Jones was liable to shoot first and ask questions later.

  The thought of trouble propelled him back to his feet to pace the cell. Thank God he had Smokey to make sure Faith and Colton stayed put in their room. He didn’t trust either of them to follow his orders. He wouldn’t if either of them was in danger as he was now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Colton gazed out the hotel window at the darkness below. A wisp of air felt good on his skin, cooling him and easing his troubled mind. The second-story room he shared with his mother and Smokey had an excellent view of the street but also collected the heat from below. The building out the window was straight down. No chance to climb out.

  Look at all the trouble he’d caused. He wasn’t even Luke’s real son. Just a stepson. A hanger-on, coming into his life because Luke had married his stepmother. Faith had recounted to him many times how his real ma died when he was just a baby and had asked Faith to look after him.

  A rattling snore reverberated from Smokey, stretched out on his bedding in front of the door, not minding the hard flooring in the least. Anyone coming in would have to push him out of the way or go over. He had a derringer hidden under the rolled-up towel he used as a pillow. Even if the sheriff thought so, they weren’t completely unarmed.

  And his ma? Was she asleep? The fact he didn’t hear any breathing made him think she was awake too, just lying there thinking about Pa. He’d been careful sneaking out from under the sheet, antsy, too wound up to sleep. He set his elbow on the windowsill and pillowed his chin in his palm.

  He should be looking for clues. He was old enough. And he was the one who had started all this trouble in the first place. If only he hadn’t been so anxious to use his new rifle. If only he could go back and do that day over. He sighed. Wishing was no use. He’d have to think of something else. Something that would make a difference.

  Movement on the street below caught his eye, perking up his senses. Streetlamps were placed about, making seeing possible.

  Tilly’s husband walked up the other side of the street toward the sheriff’s office, carrying something large in his hands.

  As far as Colton could see, he was the only person out.
No, that wasn’t true. Looking straight down the side of the hotel, he noticed the clerk, Mr. Kasterlee, leaning against a porch post. The golden end of his cigarette brightened when he drew in the smoke.

  Mr. Huntsman looked across his way, but the two didn’t exchange any words. Tilly’s husband stepped into the jail but reappeared a few minutes later, still holding whatever he’d carried inside, and returned up the street toward the mercantile, the way he’d come.

  That was when Colton noticed Daniel Clevenger with his broom on the porch of the restaurant next door. Colton had to stick his head out the window a ways to see him, but if he was on watch, he needed to see everything that was taking place. Didn’t anyone in this town sleep?

  “Colton, what’re ya doing up, boy?” Smokey whispered in a groggy voice. “You should be asleep.”

  “It’s too hot to sleep.”

  “I hear you there.”

  The cowhand was on his way over to the window when a group of horsemen came into view on the west end of the street by the livery. They walked in slowly. Silently. “Look! They’re back.” Colton tried to keep the excitement from his voice so he wouldn’t wake his mother. She was heartbroken. He’d never seen her so sad before. “That has to be them.”

  Smokey stuck his head out the window. “Indeed. Let’s hope their maraudin’ paid off. I don’t like seeing your pa in that jail cell, no sir, not at all. The quicker he’s out, the sooner I’ll be able to sleep.”

  Colton didn’t even try to hide his smile. Smokey had been sleeping just fine. “Sure they found somethin’. They’re smart,” Colton replied. “I’ve a good feeling about tonight. They’ll be back soon to fill us in.”

  “I doubt that. They’re avoiding suspicious eyes. Besides, it’s late. They’ll want ta get some sleep.”

  Colton knew if he were out looking for clues, sleeping would be the last thing on his mind.

  “Now, get ta bed before we wake your ma. She has enough on her mind without being droopy-eyed tomorrow. If she hears us talking, she’s bound to want to know what’s going on.”