There had to be something inside, some clue, some new lead. As Kate had pointed out, not only the ranch was at stake. He would need every possible bit of evidence to clear himself of the murder charge.
Mitch hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on the negative, but now he admitted silently that even Loretta’s testimony might not be enough to free him. A prosecutor would paint her as biased in his favor, perhaps even willing to lie on his behalf. He needed evidence of Billy Parkinson’s true character.
Kneeling, Sarah fiddled with the dial. She swore a couple of times at its obstinacy, before it finally creaked open.
From inside, she retrieved a sheaf of papers and a leather-tooled box. When she carried them out and spread them on the desk, they made a pitifully small pile.
“A lot got thrown away, or maybe Billy took off with it,” Sarah apologized, dusting her hands. “Here’s Dad’s will, leaving everything to me, and a copy of his last income tax form.”
With her permission, Mitch flipped through the rest. There was a home insurance policy, the deed to the cabin and other personal papers. “What’s in the box?”
Sarah unsnapped the lid and showed them. “His wedding ring. His captain’s bars from the army. A silver-and-turquoise tie clip Mom gave him for their twenty-fifth anniversary. And this.” She held out a worn blue bankbook stamped Bank of Gulch City.
Mitch accepted it gingerly. His fingers felt clumsy as he opened it. Inside was Doc’s full name, Myron Schwartz Rosen, and a list of handwritten deposits and withdrawals.
The last entry, a withdrawal, had been made fifteen years ago. The balance was seven dollars and fiftythree cents.
“I’m not sure why he left the account open,” Sarah said. “I kept meaning to close it, but I was always too busy, and that’s not enough money to worry about. It’s probably been confiscated by now, or whatever Texas does with unclaimed accounts.”
Mitch stared at the yellowing pages. Leaden disappointment weighted his chest.
For years he’d tried to find Sarah, and he’d dragged Kate through an ambush to get here. All for nothing. Whatever evidence Doc might have left when he died, Billy must have taken it.
“Was your father a careless man?” Kate asked. “Did he usually leave business unfinished?”
“Not really.” Sarah refolded and stacked the other documents.
“Then he may have had a reason for leaving the account open,” she said.
Mitch’s brain churned into motion. Kate could be right. Maybe there had been some activity in the account that didn’t appear in the book. “You mean my father might have been making payments into it?”
Excitement flickered across Sarah’s face. “I never thought of that! Probably part of the loan was paid off before Dad retired, but there could have been a balance left.”
“Dad would have kept paying on it, even after Doc Rosen retired,” Mitch said. “Possibly even after your father died. He’d have figured that eventually the account would go to you.”
“If we can prove your father was making payments and they aren’t reflected in the loan papers that Billy has...”
“...then we can make a strong case that the loan papers are outdated, and probably null and void,” Mitch finished. He remembered a couple of points from his lawsuit. “Billy’s never produced any record that he paid your father for the right to take over the loan. Also, he didn’t file the quitclaim until two years after the date Doc Rosen supposedly signed it. Add the facts together, and the weight of the evidence could shift to our side.”
The three of them exchanged glances. They seemed to share the same exhilaration, but also, he suspected, some wariness.
It was Sarah who gave voice to her doubts. “On the other hand, maybe Dad just left the account open as kind of a sentimental gesture, a tie to his old hometown. Maybe the loan had been fully paid before he left Gulch City. If it was, I don’t know how we could prove it.”
For once, Mitch hoped his father hadn’t been too quick to settle a debt.
KATE HUNG ON TO the armrest as they bumped down the trail in gathering darkness. This was an alternate route, one that met up with the highway farther along and should bypass the jam.
She wondered why Tiny Wheeler and his gang hadn’t come up the hill to the cabin. Maybe they’d been arrested, or injured in the crash.
Mitch had warned Sarah of possible danger, and she’d left a few minutes before they did, to spend the night in Sedona. By following her, Mitch had pointed out, they could make sure she didn’t get stuck somewhere in the dark.
A thought that had been tickling the back of Kate’s brain for hours finally popped into the forefront. “You know, Tiny Wheeler and his gang should have been nearly to Santa Fe by now. I wonder why they came back.”
“Getting rid of me must be their first priority.” Mitch slowed as a jackrabbit fled through the glare of his headlights.
“Yes, but why would they come back on the outside chance that you’d stop at the cabin?” Kate mused. “If we’d gone straight on, they would have missed us entirely.”
Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “Somebody must have tipped them off.”
“It couldn’t have been Sarah. She wouldn’t have deliberately turned us in,” Kate continued. “And anyway, she had no idea we were coming.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
She was about to shake her head, when she stopped. “I mentioned to Moose that we were going to see someone in Oak Creek Canyon. I just wanted him to understand why it was taking so long.”
Mitch gave a low whistle. “He’s the mayor, isn’t he? With no sheriff around, he might have taken a call from Chief Novo.”
Kate shivered. This ambush had been her fault. She’d given away information that could have gotten them both killed.
It wasn’t fair to blame Moose. If the Gulch City police chief asked him for information, he would have no reason to hold it back.
He didn’t understand the situation, and she knew she couldn’t convince him of the truth long-distance. From now on, it might be safest if she didn’t contact him at all. Until now, Kate had felt certain she would be back home within a few days, and that life would go on as planned. But long miles and a deep emotional rift were widening the gap between her and the world she had known.
The truck jounced as they moved onto the highway. In the dark, she couldn’t see much beyond the patch of roadway directly in front of them and, above the ebony cliffs, a cold, star-tossed sky.
She had never felt so far from home.
Chapter Nine
It was dark by the time they circled back to Flagstaff via the interstate. Mitch pulled into the first RV park they saw and, exhausted, Kate fell asleep almost instantly.
She awoke to find him dressed and making toast. He stared out the camper’s tiny side window with narrowed eyes, as if peering ahead to Santa Fe, and didn’t turn when she skimmed by on her way to the bathroom.
As she closed the door behind her, Kate registered the fact that he had his Stetson in place. The man was ready for action.
When she emerged, her coffee and toast had been set on the small table. Mitch leaned against the sink, lost in thought.
Morning light played across the planes of his face and raised golden highlights in his hair. The deep Texas tan testified that neither law school nor exile had made him any less a cowboy.
Where were his thoughts? At the ranch that he might never reclaim? With Sarah as she struggled to survive widowhood and financial setbacks? Or ahead, where the Tiny Wheeler gang might be laying yet another ambush?
Kate sipped her coffee and wondered when she’d become so involved in a stranger’s world. Or when her own world had begun to seem as if it belonged to a stranger.
For the first time in her life, the cozy illusion labeled future had blurred. She could no longer picture Moose’s house filled with her furniture, or the little boy who resembled him and the girl who looked just like her. Those children had been so much a part of Kate’s mental landscape tha
t it was hard to believe they had never actually existed.
Instead, she kept seeing her kitchen with its old-fashioned stenciled flowers, and Mitch sitting there polishing his boots. Every detail of the scene had been engraved in her memory with shining clarity. But that wasn’t the future either, she reminded herself, just a brief moment in the past.
After Mitch resolved his legal problems, she would return home to a town that hadn’t changed. She wasn’t sure how she was going to respond to all those people who expected her to be the same old Kate Bingham. But if she wasn’t the same person, who was she?
The foundation that steadied her was, as always, the thought of her work.
Each of the returning students held a special place in her heart. And, in a few months, there would be a new crop of kindergartners with scrubbed, open faces.
Kate had been given a gift. It was the gift of seeing individual needs without losing sight of the whole structure: curriculum, staffing and physical setting.
She had already made a difference in many lives. But there was more to do, and the gains could easily be lost. When the first bell rang the Wednesday after Labor Day, one thing was certain: Kate Bingham would be there. The new one and the old one.
Mitch removed the dishes as soon as she was done. “Time to hit the road.”
“Think we’ll make Santa Fe by tonight?” she asked.
“Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise,” he quoted an old saying.
“Then we’d better get started. I hate rising creeks.”
MITCH STEERED EAST across the high desert plains. Rocky and harsh, the land guarded ancient secrets: the ruins of prehistoric Indian dwellings as well as a vast meteor crater and lava tubes left by long-silent volcanoes.
Quite a few travelers turned off at the exit for the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert.
Mitch had no interest in sightseeing. He had wasted too much time already.
The bankbook burned in his pocket. It might be the key to recovering the High C and perhaps, he hoped, one of the keys to his redemption.
Loretta, the only honest witness to the shooting of Jules Kominsky, was the other.
He wished he had gotten to know his cousin better. In his memory, she remained a gawky teenager with curly chestnut hair and clear eyes that came to life when she rode horseback, or when she sang.
If only Mitch had explained to her about his legal problems with Billy Parkinson and how he was trying to solve them, maybe she wouldn’t have taken matters into her own hands. True, then he might have had no witness at all to the fact that he had acted in self-defense, but he would prefer that to risking his cousin’s safety.
Yet here he was, risking Kate’s safety. She could have been killed in the ambush yesterday, Mitch thought.
Reluctantly, he allowed himself to steal a sideways glance at her.
One elbow on the lip of the window, she sat with chin in hand, studying the severe sweep of land. Sunglasses masked her eyes.
Unlike his cousin, who at twenty-five was still dewy with inexperience, Kate understood the dangers and was prepared to face them. She had come on this trip of her own free will, Mitch reminded himself.
He tore his attention away. He must not allow himself to dwell on her compact figure and the curve of her mouth. He particularly did not want to remember how soft and yielding she’d felt when he arched over her yesterday, bracing for the impact of the RV.
Even after he fell asleep last night, his senses had carried her imprint. It had overwhelmed his dreams, in which fiery shotguns and careening trailers vanished to leave him and Kate magically alone.
Alone, with his body cupping hers. Alone, with her blue eyes widening as his hands traced along her rib cage to the small, firm breasts. Alone, when his mouth came down on hers and her tongue licked fire into his soul.
Swallowing a groan, Mitch gripped the steering wheel and squinted into the harsh light. It was well past noon and they were nearly to New Mexico.
“Hungry?” He hoped she would attribute his ragged tone to weariness.
The sunglasses swung toward him. “Starved.”
“Not too many places to eat around here,” he admitted, almost sorry that he’d brought up the subject. “We could make sandwiches.”
Kate winced. “The fridge is empty.” She’d fixed a hurried meal of odds and ends the previous night and, he now recalled, had mentioned something about stopping by a store this morning.
“We’ll be in Gallup in less than an hour,” he said. “Plenty of places to eat there.”
Kate nodded. “Let’s restock the glove compartment while we’re at it. There’s something to be said for junk food.”
Ten minutes later, Mitch spotted a turnoff and an oversize sign announcing a trading post. In the hopes that the store sold food along with Indian crafts and souvenirs, he headed down the ramp.
A scattering of vehicles punctuated the gravel parking lot, including two beefy motorcycles. There was no sign of the rusty van.
Mitch wondered if Tiny Wheeler’s gang had gotten ahead of them. With luck, they might have been detained by the police, but he wouldn’t count on it.
When they entered the trading post, they discovered that it comprised one huge ramshackle room stuffed with postcards, headdresses, moccasins, beadwork, pottery and bumper stickers bearing mottos from the amusing to the annoying. A section at the back formed a small dining area.
Mitch followed Kate to a cracked plastic booth. They both ordered grilled cheese sandwiches for speed’s sake.
He tucked his menu away behind the salt and pepper shakers and surveyed their fellow diners. A couple of senior citizens sat absorbed in each other.
Two muscular young men sporting tattoos dominated another booth. Seated beside them were two women with long stringy hair and maroon windbreakers. These, he assumed, were the bikers.
Many motorcycle clubs these days raised money for charity. These two couples weren’t wearing charitable expressions, however, so Mitch averted his gaze to a scenic wall calendar, on which the days had been x-ed out.
He took a second look. “Damn.”
“What?” asked Kate.
“Did you know today was Friday?”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t see what I could do about it.”
He gave her a halfhearted smile, then lapsed into gloomy silence. They wouldn’t arrive in Santa Fe until late. Since he gathered the Pocket Opera Company wasn’t actually in production yet, it most likely closed on weekends.
It might take until Monday to find Loretta. Mitch only hoped Tiny Wheeler had no more information about her whereabouts than they did.
The cheese sandwiches arrived slightly burnt. Mitch exchanged glances with Kate, shrugged and ate.
Since he preferred not to have to stop again in Gallup, they picked up some canned goods in the trading post’s mini-mart. They exited into the glare of afternoon light and the roar of revving motorcycles.
Kate winced at the noise. As they strolled toward the truck, Mitch caught a sneer on the face of one of the bikers. Evidently the guy had noticed Kate’s reaction, because he twisted his throttle even harder.
Mitch recalled their earlier conversation about macho men who felt compelled to flex their figurative muscles at any provocation. Apparently they had stumbled across just such a Neanderthal specimen.
Kate was picking her way cautiously across the gravel, paying no attention to the bikers and lagging behind Mitch. Shifting the groceries to his left arm, he reached to unlock the back of the camper.
The other motorcycle vroomed to the edge of the road. Mr. Macho jerked his throttle a few more times while his stringy-haired lady wrapped her arms around him.
Then his bike shot forward. It circled too close for comfort, spewing gravel that narrowly missed Kate.
Mitch fought down the impulse to get in the truck and teach the man a lesson about playing chicken. That was a great way to attract the attention of any passing police officer. Besides, it would mean stooping to
the jerk’s level.
Despite a beckoning gesture from the other biker, Mr. Macho wasn’t ready to leave. He swung around again, and Mitch saw the lady on the back shouting in his ear, egging him on.
“Kate!” He thrust the sack into the camper and turned toward her. If only she would take refuge between the truck and a parked car! Instead, as the motor noise intensified, she swung around, folded her arms and glared at the biker.
Oh, Lord, she was playing principal of the world again! As he lunged toward her, Mitch’s thoughts flashed back to the first time he’d seen her, standing in front of Harmon’s Department Store lecturing the Tiny Wheeler gang about seat belts.
Even then, he’d known she was someone special, if slightly crazed. That was before he’d fallen in love with her. Before he’d—what?
The bike leaped toward Kate. Mitch didn’t believe the cyclist actually intended to hit her, but he couldn’t take that chance.
He reached her with a split second to spare, caught her by the upper arms and thrust her out of harm’s way. At the same time, the biker whipped the motorcycle around, sending a spray of gravel slashing across one side of Mitch’s face.
He stumbled and fell painfully onto one knee. The cycle skidded sideways across the lot, raising shrieks from the female rider as Mr. Macho fought to keep from dumping them both. They came to an angled rest within a few feet of a parked RV.
The older couple emerged from the trading post and strode toward them. “Are you folks all right?”
The driver yanked his bike upright and let out a string of curses. The couple stopped in their tracks.
Mr. Macho’s ashen-faced companion had no choice but to hang on as he wheeled the bike around and shot toward the street. They and the other couple vanished in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
“Do you need some help, sir?” asked the white-haired man.
Mitch’s leg hurt and the side of his face felt as if a puma had raked its claws across it. He dusted himself off and straightened his hat. “I’m fine.”
The Cowboy & The Shotgun Bride (The Brides of Grazer's Corners #1) Page 13