“If the police knew who he was, why didn’t they arrest the man years ago?”
“They didn’t know. Not for sure. My grandfather refused to press charges. The…uh, the murderer left town, changed his name, changed his occupation, raised a family, became a model citizen.”
“That doesn’t seem possible, does it? A murderer becoming a regular person. How did you find him?”
“A newspaper clipping from a trial in California. When my grandfather died, I found it among his papers.”
“Your grandfather knew?”
Will nodded. “All along. He was…well, you would’ve had to know him. Grandfather was a grand old gentleman, of the old school, like they say. Neither he nor my grandmother would have considered dragging the family name through a public trial. I understand, in a way. My father was dead. Nothing could bring him back. But, you see, my father’s partner embezzled money from the firm. We suppose…I suppose…my father found him out, the partner killed him, then fled with the money. A sordid thing like that…well, it wouldn’t have been acceptable in Philadelphia society.”
“Society? Society is more important than bringing a murderer to justice?”
“In my grandparents’ day, yes. There were only three times when it was considered proper for a person to have his name in the newspaper: when he was born, when he married, and when he died.”
“Sounds rather pompous and stuffy to me.”
Will grinned, another sad sort of grin, filled with something she read as longing. “To you it would, Miss Priss.”
She held his gaze for a long time. “So, you’ve come to New Mexico to find your father’s killer. Is that what you’re trying to tell me? That your mission of vengeance is what you’ve claimed all along will keep us apart?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You intend to go out and get yourself killed to right a family wrong? Is this one of those feuds that continues generation after generation? Will your children—”
“Priscilla, that isn’t all. I mean, that isn’t right. I don’t intend to get anybody killed.”
“Then what do you plan to do with this murderer-turned-model-citizen?”
“I’ll take him back to Philadelphia.”
“But it happened so long ago.”
“Statute of limitations has run out,” he agreed. “But I intend to take him back, close the records, and make him face the consequences, whatever they turn out to be.”
Relief and pride mingled and swept over Priscilla, bringing a return of hope. “I should have known you wouldn’t seek blood for blood. You’re not like that, Will. You’re fair. I’ve never known anyone who believes in upholding the law more than you do. But what if he won’t go with you? What if he starts shooting?” Her fear for him returned. “I couldn’t stand to lose you. Your father’s dead. But I’m alive. I love you…I…”
“Priscilla, there’s more…the worst.”
“What could be worse?”
“The murderer’s identity.”
“Oh?” She felt like Sargeant had kicked her in the gut for absolutely no reason, out of the clear blue sky.
“His name was Charles Martin Kane. He changed it to…”
Fear turned to horror. It swirled in ugly black circles in her head. She barely heard Will speak her father’s name. But she knew he’d said it.
“…Charlie McCain.”
Priscilla clutched at a stall to stabilize her suddenly spining equilibrium. “No,” she finally managed.
Will nodded. His face was stiff, his eyes relentless.
“If this is some miserable joke…If you’re trying to pay me back for all those tricks I pulled on you on the trail…”
Will caught her arm. When she looked, he was staring at his hand on her arm. She felt like he’d caught her in a vise and was pulling her downward in a spiral toward oblivion.
“It isn’t a joke, Priscilla. It’s true.”
“No.” She struggled to breathe. “No.”
“I wish…Lordy, I wish it weren’t…but it is. I’m sorry, cowboy.”
“Sorry?” Her voice quivered, releasing each sound on a different octave. She jerked to free herself. Then she was running. Through the corral. Over the fence. Across the meadow. Running. Gasping for breath.
Will found her in a secluded glen beside a narrow mountain stream a hundred yards or so from the barn. She was lying on the ground and he could tell from the distance that she was sobbing.
He knelt beside her. When he tried to stroke her hair, she rolled away and sat up, fighting mad. She jumped to her feet. He rose, too. They stared at each other, Will in despair, Priscilla in anger.
“If you don’t love me, greenhorn, all you have to do is say so. You don’t have to make up some horrible lie about my pa.”
“It isn’t a lie, Priscilla. Lord knows how desperately I wish it were.”
“Then you’re as stupid as I first thought. Pa, a murderer? How could you even think such a thing? You’ve seen him, talked to him; for God’s sake, you even saved his life and rescued him from jail. Now you’re calling him a murderer. Is that why you went to Chimayo? To check up on Pa?”
“No, but it’s the reason I came to New Mexico, to find Charlie McCain.”
He watched her expression go wild. He wanted to hold her, but he dared not even try.
“You’ve known this all along?”
He nodded.
“Does he…does he know you’re accusing him—”
Will nodded again. “Your mother does, too.”
“They couldn’t.”
“They do. Charlie and I discussed it the first time we met.”
They fell silent. Will could see her remember his first trip to Spanish Creek. Lordy, he remembered it, too—the fiery sunset burning in her golden hair, the peppery humor in her teasing, the blazing passion in her eyes. He remembered it well. He always would.
“You came about Joaquín,” she objected. “You helped in the branding pen. You were so angry, so rough…”
“That was why. I introduced myself to Charlie even before he sent you and your mother from the courtyard. Remember? But I didn’t have to. People say I’m the spitting image of my father. Charlie recognized me the instant I stepped into the courtyard.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Priscilla stared him directly in the eye. “What did Pa say?”
“Say?”
“Did he admit it?”
“He didn’t have to, Priscilla. He knows and I know.”
“Then what’ve you been waiting for?”
The question was a cry of anguish, a plea for him to say it was all wrong, all a mistake, to take everything back. Lordy, how he wanted to. But he couldn’t. Because it was true.
“Charlie and I made a bargain that first night.”
“A bargain?” Her tone was one of unrelenting sarcasm.
“To keep it quiet until I cleared Joaquín.”
“Until you cleared Joaquín?” Priscilla’s voice trembled. “That was my deadline, too. By the time you cleared Joaquín, you would have fallen in love with me. After you cleared Joaquín, I would be able to convince Mama and Pa to accept you.”
Will held her anguished gaze until she turned away. It was as if her anguish was his punishment, or his punishment was to cause her anguish. Or both. “For what it’s worth, you succeeded in the first.”
He watched her shoulders jerk. He knew she was fighting tears. So was he. For the longest time she stood staring at the ground, and he stood staring at her, as if to engrave every facet of her into his mind, as if that were necessary. He wouldn’t forget Priscilla. Not as long as he lived. And he would never forget the pain he had brought her.
“Well, I’ll be going. I wanted you to know before I…before Charlie and I…” With a heavy heart he gave up and turned toward the house.
Eighteen
Before Will reached the house, Priscilla caught up with him.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.” He ne
ither broke stride nor glanced her way. She fell into step.
“I’m coming, Will.” She skipped to keep up with his long legs. “It’s all a mistake, you’ll see. A terrible mistake.”
“I don’t want you in there, Priscilla.”
They took the veranda steps. He stopped with a hand on the large iron door handle. “I mean it.”
“I mean it, too. I’m coming.”
She saw his jaws clench. His voice was strained, his tone pleading. “Please, don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I…I’ve hurt you enough all ready.”
She held his gaze, knowing he wanted to turn away. In her despair that seemed to be the only weapon left her, to force him to witness her anguish. “Do you think I won’t be hurt if I stay outside? Get your head out of the sand, greenhorn.” She jerked the door handle, squeezing his hand beneath hers. The door flew open and before he could stop her, Priscilla had sashayed through it, leaving him to follow.
“Pa,” she called down the corridor.
Kate materialized from the courtyard. Her face was ashen. “He’s in the library, darling.”
Mama knows, Priscilla thought. Will had said she did, but Priscilla hadn’t believed it—hadn’t wanted to believe it. Believing any part of the horrible lie would leave the door open for more of it to be true.
And it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Pa wasn’t a murderer. Not Pa. Not her Charlie McCain. Maybe someone else; someone else had taken that name. Hearing Pa’s name, they had claimed it.
Will was on her heels. They reached for the library door at the same time. His hand covered hers. It was cold. It trembled, like her own.
“I wish you’d stay out here.”
She shook her head.
“Priscilla, I…”
She looked into his eyes, eyes that bespoke the torment inside him. She’d seen that look before. Numerous times. Not as troubled as today, not as forlorn as today. But that same look—of a caged animal seeking freedom.
“If this is what it takes to set you free, Will Radnor, let’s get it over.”
Together they pulled open the door.
Charlie sat behind the desk. When they entered, his eyes fastened on her. “Miss Priss, what…?”
“I tried to get her to stay outside, Charlie.”
Charlie looked beyond her. “Kate…sweetheart?”
“Anything that affects you, affects us all, dear.”
Priscilla reached the desk ahead of them. “Tell him it isn’t true, Pa.” She watched pain etch his face. “He thinks you’re a…a murderer. Tell him it’s a mistake.”
She recalled the first time she’d realized Pa was getting older, the day she rode in from Chimayo. His sallow complexion, the wrinkles, his gray, wiry hair. At the time she’d thought it was from being confined to bed so long. The pain she saw today went much deeper. As she watched, a physical weight seemed to settle on his sagging shoulders, pushing him further into his chair.
Then Will moved. She watched the scene unfold as though it were a nightmare from which she struggled to awaken. He reached to his waistband, drew out the little pistol.
Strange, she thought, she hadn’t known he brought it. She tried to move toward him, to stop him, but her joints seemed locked in place.
Before she could react Will tossed the pistol to the desk. The clattering brought her to her senses. Recovering from the initial shock of thinking Will intended to shoot her pa, Priscilla focused on Charlie, who stared, as though mesmerized, at the small gun.
For the longest time, the only sound in the room was of four sets of laboring lungs; the four of them stared at the gun. Finally Charlie moved.
He unlocked the top right-hand desk drawer and withdrew…
Priscilla pressed her knuckles to her lips.
…a matching pistol. He tossed it to the desk where it slid into Will’s. She recognized it. It was the same gun she’d shot tin cans with that long-ago morning when she was ten years old.
Will was right, the guns were alike. A matched pair, he’d claimed.
“It may sound strange,” Pa was saying in a voice that didn’t sound at all like his own, “but I’m relieved to get this over. I’ve known it was coming since the day I rode out of Philadelphia.”
Priscilla thought she might faint. What did he mean? That he was guilty? That he had murdered Will’s father? She gripped the desk. A part of her was sorry she hadn’t listened to Will and stayed outside. Another part knew she had to stay right here and fight for the man she loved.
The dismal truth struck her a hard blow. For the two men she loved.
She stared at the guns. Will’s story came back to her in bits and pieces—he’d been ten years old when he found his father clutching that gun. She’d been ten when she found Pa’s gun. A matched pair, Will had said. His father had been dead; hers had been angry.
Dead, angry. None of it made sense. If Pa murdered Will’s father, nothing…But he couldn’t have. Not Pa. Not her beloved Pa.
Charlie moved again. Leaning to the side, he opened a larger drawer. With both hands, he lifted out an ancient ledger. As tenderly as if he were holding a baby, Priscilla thought. She stared at the ledger. The gold embossing had faded some but was still legible: Radnor, Radnor, & Kane, Attorneys at Law.
“The missing ledger.” Will’s voice drifted as on a hot summer breeze. “Old Mr. Peters said you’d taken it.”
Priscilla fought back tears.
“Peters knew the truth, Will. Did he tell you that?”
“We all know the truth, Charlie.”
“I don’t,” Priscilla cried. Will stared at Charlie, refusing to look at her.
“Well, sugar, I reckon it’s time to set the record straight.”
“You didn’t murder his father. That’s all you have to say, Pa. Not Will’s father. You…you couldn’t have.”
“William Radnor was my best friend. Hell, he was the best friend a man could ever ask for. I miss him to this day. To this day I dream about that afternoon and ponder the choices. There were only two, an’ many’s the time I’ve wished I’d made the other one. Many’s the time I’ve wished I’d let him kill me.” Charlie’s gaze traveled from Kate to Priscilla. Moisture glistened in his blue eyes. “But this is what I would have missed. You two ladies are more precious than…I know it’s selfish, but…not knowing you…loving you…both of you…”
This was a nightmare, Priscilla thought, a nightmare. Any minute now she would awaken and find none of it true. “You didn’t murder him,” she cried. “You couldn’t—”
“I’m getting to that, sugar. Will here and I are fixin’ to sit down at this desk and go over this ledger and when we’re done, he’ll know the truth.”
“Charlie, there’s no need—”
“Bear with me, Will. If for no other reason than to humor an old man, an old man who knew and loved you long before you grew to hate him.”
Priscilla clasped her head in her hands to still its mind-boggling spins.
“All right,” Will agreed. “I’ll listen.”
Priscilla watched him speak; his Adam’s apple bobbed, as though the words were physical objects that had trouble passing through his throat.
“Kate?” Pa asked. “Is any of that good whiskey left, or did we finish it off the first night?”
“There’s some left, dear.”
“Then bring it, would you? And a couple of glasses. You ladies’ll have to excuse us.”
“I’m not leaving this room, Pa. I want to hear, too.”
Sure you do. And you will. Your mama knows the story as well as I do. While Will and I go over the books, she’ll take you out to the courtyard and catch you up.
Priscilla held his steady, if solemn, gaze. She considered arguing but knew it would be wasted breath. Unwillingly she relented, but her fear was so great it weakened her legs, and she thought at first she wouldn’t be able to take a single step. Finally she managed to. Rounding the table, she hugged her father. He smelled of horses and catt
le and Pa. She thought how they’d hardly had time to celebrate having him home before they were beset by another threat.
She made a mental note to never again put off anything. Not laughing or crying or—“I love you, Pa.”
“I love you, too, sugar.”
Straightening, Priscilla looked at Will and found his eyes on her. Muted messages of alarm and desperation passed between them. Everything in her cried to be in his arms. He needed comfort, too. She moved toward him. Stopped.
Her arms tensed with the need to touch him, to hold him. But she couldn’t. And he couldn’t. She saw it in his eyes. One touch and all would be lost.
Her mother returned with the whiskey.
“Run along, sugar,” Charlie prodded.
“I’m going.” She glanced from one man to the other. Suddenly the abject hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed her. Her eyes alighted on the matched pistols lying in the middle of the desk. She reached for them. “I’ll take these with me, so you won’t use them to kill each other.”
Will’s hand covered hers, stopping her.
“Leave them, sugar,” Charlie said. “We’re gonna talk. That’s all.”
Then they were alone.
The sound of the slamming door rebounded from the thick adobe walls of the library, accompanied by the angry jangle of Priscilla’s retreating spurs. Will tried to shut out the sounds. He strove to exorcise the image of Priscilla, of her tears, of her pleas, of her hurt—if not for all time, at least for this moment.
This moment, for which he had lived his life, for which he had prepared since he was ten years old. At long last he stood before Charles Martin Kane, ready to confront him. Charles Martin Kane, murderer of his father—father of…
He watched Charlie pour whiskey into two glasses, hand him one.
“I didn’t come to drink with you, Charlie. I came to take you back to Philadelphia.”
Charlie set both glasses back on the desk. “Sit down, Will.” He nodded toward the ledger. “Read it. Then we’ll talk.”
Reluctant Enemies Page 33