A gentle breeze stirred Trish's hair about her face, tickling her nose and eyes. Echoes of a sharp headache reminded her of her collision with the livery door. She slowly opened her eyes. A man stood at her window. How long had she lain here? The sun no longer streamed through the window as it did until midday. She blinked and squinted, forcing her bleary eyes to focus. "Quinn?"
He turned slowly and she noticed he held something. Fabric. Her clothes? "My bet is that this ain't your blood. No woman bleeds like this."
Trish tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness making her head spin pulled her back down. Swallowing hard and refocusing, she pushed herself upright. Her stomach pitched and rolled. A herd of mustangs thundered in her head. "Blood? What blood?"
"Found these bloody clothes. Ya had 'em tucked under your mattress. Whose blood is this?"
Trish stared at him, wishing his back wasn't to the light. She couldn't make out his expression. How much did he suspect? His tone was as level as it had been at the poker table with Ace. Usually his tone held a vibrant quality, even when training a young horse. Not now. What, if anything, could she deny?
"You rifled through my things?" she asked, trying to stall long enough to gather her thoughts.
"No. Answer the question, Trish. Whose blood?" His tone, though still quiet had an edge to it.
Trish struggled with how to answer, her words rushing out without the usual care of an attorney. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I couldn't save him. He died in my arms. I didn't kill him. You've got to believe me."
Quinn's chest expanded with his deep intake of air, yet his words remained calm. "Whose blood?"
Trish shook her head, the pain rolling from side to side as the tears she'd held back fractured her teetering resolve. "Albert's," her voice cracked. "I didn't--"
"Why didn't you stay with him?"
"I did." She swallowed, trying to regain her composure.
"No. You weren't there when I found him," he said, his words accusing her.
"I did. I just-- I heard someone coming and realized how it would look if they found me with him. You have to believe me I didn't kill him."
He took a menacing step closer. She shrank back. "And the blood? Why?"
Trish kept her hands close to her chest, but raised them defensively.
"I found him there, bleeding, when I arrived. I held him in my arms and tried to comfort him. I lost it. I didn't know what to do. The horse was stamping. The scent of blood-- ooh..." She managed to close her mouth before the profanity slipped out. Her hands flew to her face, covering her tears. "So much blood-- I tried to stop the bleeding and it just kept coming."
Sobs drowned out her words. She shuddered, wishing she had done more. Wishing she'd never been there. Wishing she had never come here. Wishing he believed her.
Quinn stepped to the bed, dropping the stained clothing between them, his expression unyielding. "Ya should have stayed."
"I didn't know it was you. I thought the murderer…"
Quinn sank to the bed. The bedsprings groaned under his added weight, but he didn't touch her. "Ya should have stayed and told me who murdered him."
"But I don't know who did it."
Quinn glowered at her. "Tell me. No more lies. No more tears."
Trish stared at him in silence. She couldn't tell him. Her precious lies had to continue protecting her.
"Damn it, Trish." His words sounded tortured. He pushed her back on the bed, seizing a handful of hair, constraining her. She closed her eyes, trying to pull away, but couldn't. His abrupt hold with a roughened hand on her chin forced her to face him. His kiss demanded she yield herself to him. At first she fought him, but she stilled as tears again formed in her eyes.
For most of a week, she had dreamed of his kissing her here. Her dreams had warmed her with excited anticipation. This was not as she had hoped. Tears of abject horror to his forcefulness replaced earlier tears of sorrow over Albert's death. The pressure of his lips bruised hers and yet his hands remained in her hair and against her chin bone. When he stayed his hands, she dared to hope the moment would end. Quinn eased the pressure of his lips, holding her head still with his forehead on hers, his breath whistling through clenched teeth.
He shook his head and moved away, turning his back to her and breathing hard. "No more lies, Trish. I can't--I won't stand for your driving a man insane. The truth. All of it."
She remained prone on her bed where he had left her. "I told you," she whispered.
He pulled the sheet up to cover her, pinning her shoulders with it for a minute. "Why did Curly have you tethered?"
"I guess because he was sick. I certainly didn't deserve it."
"He wasn't your pa?"
Trish gasped. "No!"
"Were you giving your--your body to Albert?" He sounded like he might choke on his words.
"No!" Trish struggled free, rolling away from him, coming to a sitting position. "Never, how could you think that?"
Strong hands reached for her pushing her back to the mattress. "Woman, I am through playing games with you. Tell me the truth."
She stared up at him, willing him to believe her. She shook her head, fresh tears spilling from her eyes, marking fresh trails to her ears. "I can't."
He let go of her only to flick his bowie knife free, placing it at her neck. "The truth."
"I would never offer myself to Albert," she whispered. "I couldn't."
"Why?"
She swallowed and answered, "Because I'm--."
"He didn't want your body so you swung the hammer at his head in jealous anger. Is that it?" Twisted distaste wrinkled his handsome features.
"No," she gasped. "I'm not a murderer."
"But you kilt Old Curly." Quinn glared at her, daring her to lie.
"That depends on how you plea and your defense attorney. Technically, I could plea self- defense and get off while you would be found guilty. I'm only an accessory."
"How do you know that?"
"You wouldn't believe me." He applied pressure to her skin with the knife.
"Try me."
Her eyes grew wide, straining to see his hand. "Put your knife away and pull up a chair."
He looked around her scantly furnished room. "You don't have a chair."
She forced a weak smile, "Details… the knife, put it away? Please."
With a flick of his wrist, the knife disappeared. "It’s where I can get to it if you don't tell me the truth."
"Then you better find yourself a really comfortable place to sit and have an open mind."
Quietly, Trish told him how she hadn't noticed anything was wrong when she returned to the livery. She'd had her hands full with a flighty Yedi. Quinn listened, his usual calm returning.
"I heard someone coming and panicked. It was like I'd never--" her hand went in the air as if her next words would make complete sense-- "studied a murder case before. I went into survival mode and ran."
"Whoa. You study murder?" He scowled at her, his eyes flashing.
"Murder cases, felony cases, misdemeanors. Yeah, I had to." Her words trailed off. She took several deep breaths. "That doesn't sound good, does it?"
"Murder." Quinn's eyes burned with fury, his posture stiff.
Trish reached for his arm, touching him lightly. He stared at her hand but didn't move. "I've gone to school to study law. It’s my dream to be a defense attorney."
"This is what you've pretended not to remember?"
Trish grasped the partial truth, reminding herself to only answer his questions. No more. "Yes."
"Then you know who killed Albert."
"No. At least not for sure."
"What ain't ya tellin' me? The truth, Trish."
"That is why I went to see Milton Moore. I heard them arguing."
"You went to Moore to see if he wanted what Albert didn't," he sneered.
"No. To try and find proof I only have the button. It could have come from any coat or vest. I have to find the vest that matches the button and the threads attached."
&
nbsp; "Then find them, find the murderer."
"I can't. I tried and failed. All I did was rule out who it wasn't or that Moore wasn't wearing that vest."
"You have to help me find the murderer."
"I don't--" Trish couldn't bring herself to deny him. He looked so hopeful and yet determined. A contrast to the deadly approach he'd taken earlier. "I will if I can, but I don't even know how he was murdered."
Quinn's lips twitched. "I do."
The jangle of spurs, Zelda's coarse laughter and a drunken bumping across Trish's door caused her question to wilt on her lips. She froze. This wasn't a conversation that either of them could afford to have eavesdropped upon. Her attention flashed to the door before returning to Quinn. She held her breath as Quinn stood, tiptoeing across the floor to the door. He pressed his ear to the door. Seeming satisfied, he moved to the wall adjoining Zelda's room.
"Hand me that glass," Quinn whispered, pointing at the bottle of whiskey and the single glass on her small table. Trish rolled over the bed, causing the springs to announce her movements before gaining her feet and reaching for the glass. "Quiet!" Quinn hissed.
She chuckled and sauntered over to him, taking her time before handing him the glass. "This is as close to a brothel as it gets. A certain amount of bed springs creaking and--" She cleared her throat, handing him the glass. "Other sounds are expected."
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than such noises from the next room announced Zelda's activities with her companion. Trish watched Quinn place the glass against the wall and his ear to the glass. He stood stock still to listen.
She watched his eyebrows raise before extending her hand for the glass.
"May I pour you a drink? Your turn to answer a few questions. But instead of using a carving knife, I'll offer you a drink."
Quinn's glare warned her that he didn't care for her abrupt attitude change or her teasing to lighten the tension in the room. She took the glass from him and poured it half full before offering it to him. He shook his head, refusing it. She pressed the glass with the cool liquor to her pounding forehead.
"What I wouldn't give for an icepack right now."
Quinn stared at her.
"I know." Trish did her best to cover her foible. "It's May and the snow is melted, but even a handful of snow sounds good right now. You know, for this bump on my head."
Apparently, her ploy worked because Quinn relaxed and moved to the bed to sit down. The springs creaked.
"Make yourself comfortable because I need answers."
"I've still got my knife."
"And I could scream. Neither of us would come away satisfied." She carefully rolled the glass across the goose egg on her head. "Tell me how you think Albert was murdered."
Quinn scowled at her, clearly not liking her nonchalant way of furthering their discussion. "With a crosspein hammer."
"What's that?"
"It's a hammer with a cross at the top that Albert uses at the smithy."
"And you know this--how?"
"I felt the holes in the back of his head."
Trish paced the floor once and asked, "How do you know the holes were caused by the crosspein hammer?"
"'Cause I gave it to him, right after I fashioned a handle out of leather fer it to keep it cool and so's he could grip it tight."
Trish stopped mid-step, turning to face him. She peered at him intently. "You gave it to him. When?"
Quinn shrugged. "Last month fer his birthday."
"Did anyone 'see' you give it to him?"
"Lucinda, maybe. Why?"
"Who knows you gave him the hammer?"
"Couldn't say. Don't know if'n he told anyone I gave it to him. He used it right regular. Said it was the best tool in the smithy. Unique and with lots of things to use it for."
Trish turned to the open window, staring at the barely fluttering leaves in the trees for several minutes. A squirrel scurried across the ground. The possible murder scenario played in her mind. It was entirely possible that the brothers had fought. It didn't matter over what.
She encouraged the scene to play out in her head. Quinn and Albert argued. Quinn grabbed the hammer and hit Albert. Seeing Albert fall, Quinn got on his horse and rode to the swimming hole. Maybe that was why he scrubbed his clothes with such a vengeance. At the time she couldn't tell if his clothes had blood stains or not. Feeling guilty, Quinn returned to the livery to apologize. His apology came too late and Albert was already dead.
It fit. She closed her eyes, trying to envision Quinn with a crosspein hammer raised in anger at Albert. She only succeeded in envisioning Quinn as she had seen him earlier, without his shirt and pants. She let her mind linger, lifting the corner of her mouth. If only…
She shook her head. No, those imaginings had no place here now.
Maybe it would help if she knew what a crosspein hammer looked like. Her pivot toward Quinn stuttered. Her head continued to throb from her collision with the livery door. Her knees buckled but Quinn caught her, easing her to the bed. The room went black.
Chapter 32
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 40