West of Heaven

by Victoria Bylin

  “I’ll be back around dusk.” Thinking of Dawson’s letter, he added, “There’s a pistol in the cigar box on the mantel.”

  Her eyes flickered with curiosity, then in the way of mothers-to-be, she touched her belly. “I’ll have supper waiting for you.”

  He gave the reins a shake and took off down the trail. How would it feel to come home to a hot meal and a woman’s company? Probably good, and that was a problem for a man who couldn’t be happy.

  Aside from his quick trip to report Dawson’s body, Ethan hadn’t been to town in weeks, but it hadn’t changed. A train in the station was working up a boiler full of steam, and the rattle of wagons filled his ears as he drove to the livery stable.

  Glancing at the sky, he saw that it was close to noon. He’d had a hell of a time getting here. The wagon had gotten mired three times and he and his horses were covered with mud. If he had been alone, he would have ridden the roan and just filled up his saddlebags. Yet with a pregnant woman in his care, he needed more than a few bags of flour, coffee and beans.

  But no bacon. He could still hear that laughter. It had charmed him, and his own chuckle had been a shock. So was the pressing need in his gut to get back before nightfall. Leaving her alone with a man like LeFarge on the prowl made his skin crawl.

  Ethan stopped the gelding in front of the livery stable. He’d thought about keeping the widow’s mare until she was ready to ride, but he’d decided against it. The man who ran the livery had an ailing wife and six children to feed. The mare was income he wasn’t taking in. As he untied the horse, Ethan glanced around for the stable boy. The kid wasn’t around so he left the horse tied to a post. Not answering questions suited him just fine.

  Next he visited the Midas Emporium. All two hundred pounds of Mrs. Wingate loomed behind the counter. “Mr. Trent! How are you today?”

  Ethan ignored the question. He’d been studiously unfriendly to the town busybody, but in addition to everything else in her cluttered store, she sold books. She’d been the one to shove the dime novels into his hands, so Ethan put up with the chatter.

  “Here’s my list,” he said.

  He handed her the paper and browsed through the store as she put the order together. The shelves were full of trinkets meant to catch a woman’s eye and he stiffened at the sight of ribbons and fancy buttons. He thought of Laura’s box of doodads, but then a bolt of sky-blue gingham caught his eye.

  The widow had one outfit to her name. He had no business noticing, but she’d look pretty in blue. Cautiously fingering the fabric, he wondered what Mrs. Wingate would do if he plopped it on the counter. She would probably bust a gusset with curiosity, but this wasn’t the time to make mischief, not with LeFarge looking for Dawson’s widow.

  That meant he couldn’t fetch her trunk, either, so he settled for a plain wooden hairbrush, some white ribbon that could be used for anything, and a pair of trousers and a shirt that were too small for him. He didn’t want to think about her unmentionables, but that had to be an issue, so he picked up a bolt of white cotton. If Mrs. Wingate asked about it, he’d growl at her.

  The clerk met him at the counter. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Ethan glanced down at the small stockpile. It was enough to support a single man for a couple of months, but a pregnant woman had different needs. Gossip aside, he had another mouth to feed, or two if he counted the baby.

  Pulling out his billfold, he said, “I want another twenty-five-pound sack of flour, three more cans of Arbuckle’s, a ten-pound bag of sugar, cornmeal, whatever tins of vegetables you have, dried apples, three dozen cans of milk and a bag of lemon drops.”

  “Did you say three dozen cans of milk?”

  “Yes, I did.” He slapped a few more greenbacks on the counter. “I’ve had a craving lately.”

  Mrs. Wingate arched her eyebrows, but she didn’t say another word as she piled boxes on the floor. Then she glanced at the cotton and stared down her nose. “How many yards of this would you like?”

  “All of it,” he said, scowling. He had no idea how much material it took to make a pair of ladies drawers, but it was clear Mrs. Wingate wasn’t going to back down. “I’m reseeding the garden. This is to keep off the frost.”

  As if that made any sense. Any sane person would use old flour sacks, but Mrs. Wingate didn’t say another word as he loaded the boxes into the wagon and rode away.

  The sheriff’s office was four blocks to the north. A flat-roofed adobe set apart from the storefronts, it was the oldest building in town. Ethan tied the gelding to the rail, hopped down from the seat and walked through the door. His gaze locked on Sheriff Handley who was sitting at his desk reading the Midas Gazette. As the hinges creaked, Handley lowered the newspaper and scowled.

  “I’ve been wondering about you, Trent. Did that damn fool woman make it back to your ranch?”

  Ethan had planned to tell him that the widow was alive, but Mrs. Dawson wasn’t some “damn fool woman,” and the sheriff had a spiteful glint in his eye. It seemed wise to find out more about LeFarge and the circumstances before he revealed the widow’s whereabouts, so Ethan frowned. “She was a pain that day.”

  As Handley rocked forward in his chair, the front door opened again, stirring the air as Ethan looked over his shoulder. A stranger in a gray duster and a fussy black bowler stepped over the threshold, covering his mouth as he coughed. At the sight of wispy orange hair curling over the man’s neck, Ethan felt his blood chill.

  The stranger removed his hat and scanned the room, glancing briefly at Ethan before locking his gaze on Handley. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Am I interrupting you two gentlemen?”

  “That depends,” Handley replied. “What can I do for you?”

  Ethan wasn’t about to politely excuse himself.

  “My name is Timonius LeFarge,” the outlaw said. “I’m a detective with Pinkerton’s, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about a missing woman.”

  Handley pushed to his feet. “You wouldn’t be looking for Jayne Dawson by any chance?”

  LeFarge’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I am.”

  “Then we’re on the same side of the law.” Handley stood and extended his hand as LeFarge approached the desk. When the two men shook like old friends, Ethan’s doubts about Handley’s judgment turned into the certainty that the man couldn’t be trusted.

  Handley nodded in Ethan’s direction. “Detective, this is Ethan Trent. He’s the man who found Dawson’s body.”

  “I see,” said LeFarge. “How far away is your place?”

  Ethan’s mind snapped into action. No matter what else happened today, he had to prevent the two men from riding out to his ranch together. Handley knew Ethan lived alone, but LeFarge didn’t. If Ethan could keep the sheriff from blabbing that he was a widower, he and Mrs. Dawson could pass for husband and wife if the outlaw decided to pay a call. Given the circumstances, Ethan doubted that LeFarge would invite Handley along for the ride.

  The plan would work as long as the outlaw didn’t already know what Jayne looked like. Determined to glean all the information he could from LeFarge, Ethan forced himself to be cordial. “My place is a ways from here, and the road’s full of mud. We can talk here just as well.”

  Handley nodded. “That suits me fine. Have a seat, detective. Ethan can fill us in at the same time. I was escorting the widow back to town when she made a beeline to his ranch.”

  “Is that so?” LeFarge lowered his angular body into the chair. “Where is she now?”

  “She’s dead,” Ethan replied.

  After staring for a good three seconds, LeFarge settled into the chair across from Handley. “Please, sit down, Mr. Trent. It sounds like you have a story to tell.”

  Handley pursed his lips. “Why exactly are you looking for her?”

  As Ethan pulled up a third chair, LeFarge leaned back like a judge holding court. “It goes back to her husband. The fellow you buried was named Jesse Fowler. Back in Wyoming, he robbed nine banks, shot a
woman and killed the real Hank Dawson. When the Feds failed to arrest him, the marshal’s family hired me. It seems Fowler’s been using the man’s good name.”

  “The man sounds like trouble,” Handley replied.

  “That he is, Sheriff. He got away with a lot of money from those robberies.”

  LeFarge sounded grim, but Ethan wasn’t fooled. Greed was burning in the stranger’s glassy eyes as he cocked his head to the side. “I trust we can count on your help, Mr. Trent. I have reason to believe that Jayne Dawson was in possession of the money from the bank robberies. That makes her an accomplice to Dawson’s crimes.”

  The man was the smoothest liar Ethan had ever met, but two could play that game, especially if it meant protecting a woman and an unborn child. “She never made it back to the ranch. I found her remains in the middle of nowhere and buried the body where I found it. I figure she froze to death in that blizzard.”

  The outlaw blinked like a bobcat waiting for its prey. “Did you check her pockets? Was there anything to indicate where she might have been headed?”

  “Not a thing.” Ethan shrugged. “I wish I could help you, but I just came by to tell Sheriff Handley about the body.”

  The sheriff rocked back in his chair. “I almost forgot. The hotel sent her trunk over a few weeks ago.”

  LeFarge shot up from his chair. “Where is it?”

  Handley pointed to the back of the room. “It’s right there. Help yourself.”

  The outlaw pried the lock with a knife and opened the lid. The scent of honeysuckle wafted through the air as he tossed dresses and petticoats onto the floor. Lingering over a satin nightgown, he smirked. “I bet she’s a whore.”

  Handley shook his head. “I talked to her a bit. That’s not too likely.”

  Damn right, Ethan thought. He’d bet his ranch that she had worn that satin on her wedding night.

  LeFarge kept riffling through the garments. “Can you gentlemen give me a description of Mrs. Dawson? I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her for myself.”

  Handley pursed his lips as if he were straining to think. “As I recall, she had light hair and came up to my nose. She was pretty but nothing special.”

  Wrong. She was very special. Ethan had never met such an iron-willed woman, but he wasn’t about to argue.

  “Eye color?” LeFarge asked.

  Handley shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Ethan did. Her eyes changed color with her moods, from blue ice when she was angry to a soft shade of aqua when she laughed. “I think they were brown,” he said.

  “What was she wearing?” LeFarge asked.

  Handley sat straighter in the chair. “I can help you there. She was wearing a dark cloak when we rode out. It was black, or maybe gray.”

  No, it was navy-blue with large brass buttons. Ethan nodded. “That’s right. It was gray.”

  Shoving the widow’s things aside, LeFarge tore into Hank Dawson’s clothing, snapping his shirts like a dog shaking a rabbit. Next he dumped out the drawers located in the sides of the trunk. A pair of scissors clattered to the floor and ribbons swirled on the planking like a posy of spring flowers. LeFarge kicked everything aside, took a knife from his belt and slashed the lining.

  At the rasp of tearing silk, Ethan imagined skinning the outlaw an inch at a time.

  Handley stood and ambled to the pile of clothing. “I’ll give you a hand,” he said. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Just being thorough. I’m looking for a letter, train tickets, anything.”

  Handley kicked at a skirt with his toe. “If it’s any help, she and her husband were headed to Los Angeles.”

  God bless you, Sheriff Handley.

  “Then it looks like I’m on my way to California.” Rising from his knees, LeFarge coughed viciously, wiped his hands on his thighs and straightened his hat. “Gentlemen, thank you for your help. If Los Angeles doesn’t pan out, I may be back. Where exactly is your place, Mr. Trent?”

  “About ten miles east,” Handley offered to Ethan’s chagrin.

  “If you remember anything else, I’ll be at the hotel.” LeFarge extended his hand. The sheriff shook it as if he’d just met Wyatt Earp. Ethan shook it because he had no choice.

  “It’s been a pleasure.” The outlaw tipped his hat and paced out the door.

  Handley dropped to a crouch and stuffed the clothing back in the trunk. “Someone could use these things. Did you bring the wagon today?”

  “It’s out front.”

  “Would you mind dropping the trunk at the church? You can leave it on the steps. I’m sure Reverend Leaf will find it.”

  “I’d be happy to help, Sheriff.” And even happier to have the widow’s possessions.

  Handley put the last garment in the trunk, stood upright and shook his head with disgust. “That Dawson woman made me look like a fool when she ran off. The world’s better off without her kind.”

  Ethan fought a powerful urge to set Handley straight about Mrs. Dawson’s character, but he didn’t trust the man. LeFarge had played his part well, and even with the letter from her husband, the sheriff was apt to lock her up. Ethan’s jaw tensed. He and the widow needed a new plan.

  He picked up the trunk and followed the sheriff to the wagon. The lawman unlatched the tailgate and surveyed the supplies. “It looks like you’re stocking up.”

  Ethan grunted. “I am. I hate coming to town.”

  When the sheriff nodded and walked away, Ethan silently thanked Mrs. Wingate for wrapping the white cotton in brown paper to protect it from the dust in spite of his stupid explanation. He unwrapped the reins from the hitching post, climbed onto the seat and drove to the edge of town.

  With its white clapboard sides and shake roof, the First Church of Midas resembled a New England farmhouse. He had been there once, exactly a year after he’d lost his family, but Reverend Leaf’s words about the seasons in a man’s life hadn’t done much good.

  A time to weep, a time to laugh.

  A time to mourn, a time to dance.

  Ethan had left in the middle of the service and never went back, but that hadn’t stopped the Reverend from visiting his ranch every so often. Once he’d shown up with fresh-baked bread. They’d eaten it together, dry because they had no butter, and that night Ethan had cried himself to sleep. Sitting on the wagon, he wondered if maybe the preacher had been right.

  A time to give birth, a time to die.

  A time to tear apart, a time to sew together.

  Clicking his tongue at the gelding, he drove past the empty churchyard with Mrs. Dawson’s trunk snug in his wagon. Only she wasn’t Mrs. Dawson anymore. She was just Jayne, and she needed his help. If the outlaw showed up, they needed to be prepared.

  The thought of pretending to be married made Ethan’s heart thud with misery, but what choice did he have? To protect Jayne and her baby, he’d put up with just about anything.

  Instead of finding his way back to the hotel, Timonius LeFarge took a window table at the restaurant across the street and watched as the rancher drove to the church. It made sense to donate a dead woman’s things to charity, but the rancher didn’t stop. Perhaps Ethan Trent had a wife…but the outlaw’s instincts told him otherwise.

  LeFarge walked out of the restaurant without ordering and strode to the railroad depot while considering the events that had led to Jesse Fowler turning into Hank Dawson. Their last meeting had left Tim in a fury.

  After discovering his ex-partner’s ruse in Lexington, Timonius had caught up with him in Midas where he’d learned that Mr. and Mrs. Hank Dawson were registered at the hotel. He’d gone to their room and told Jesse he had two choices: he could turn over the money or watch his wife die—right after Timonius took his pleasure.

  To his credit, the kid had seen the wisdom of handing over the money. He’d told Tim that he’d gone straight and had deposited the cash in a bank in Albuquerque under his new name. They had taken off that night, but just before dawn the kid had gone for
his gun. He’d missed, but Timonius hadn’t. Jesse had taken a bullet before galloping into the dark.

  Tim hadn’t minded all that much. He’d learned to be all things to all people, and conning a bank manager sounded like child’s play. Except the fellow in Albuquerque had never heard of either Hank Dawson or Jesse Fowler. Timonius had been duped. He’d made his way back to Midas, asking questions along the way, but the widow had vanished into thin air.

  The money had to be somewhere. The rancher might have taken it. Or maybe the widow and the rancher had formed an alliance…

  Timonius thought about asking the sheriff if Ethan Trent was a married man, but if the answer was no, Handley would insist on riding with him to the Trent ranch.

  As Timonius walked to the railroad depot, he weighed the possibilities. Either the widow was really dead and the money was waiting in Los Angeles, or the rancher had made it up as a ruse to throw him off track while she was near Midas waiting for the right time to go after it herself.

  At the ticket window, a clerk peered at Timonius through his round spectacles. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “When is the next train to Los Angeles?”

  “Not for three days. We have a problem on the track down near Las Vegas.”

  “One ticket, please,” LeFarge said.

  The timing suited him perfectly. Three days was just enough time to pay a personal call on Ethan Trent.

  Chapter Five

  W hen she heard the rattle of the rancher’s wagon, Jayne climbed out of the warm bed, lit the lantern on the nightstand and peeked out the window. She saw him in the moonlight, sitting with his knees wide and his shoulders bent with fatigue, guiding the horse through the meadow.

  It had been a hard day. The morning sickness had churned in her stomach until noon, and she had spent the afternoon wondering if being pregnant had sharpened her senses. She heard pine needles rustle and imagined LeFarge coming after her. When she pumped water, she recalled Ethan Trent’s rusty laughter. His smile had shocked her down to her toes. Behind that scruffy beard, she saw the hint of a handsome man.