"I don't know," said Kent. "I just thought it was possible. The Lewis woman was there that day, and she was already holding a grudge against Andrew because of . . . of the baby."
"I know," Simone said, nodding. "I just never thought . . . My God, it could be true. But that would mean, when I shot Durand, that he . . ."
"Don't even think about that," Kent said firmly. "William Durand was a criminal. He was an outlaw just like that desperado Deke Strawhorn. They kidnapped you and Delia Hatfield and risked both of your lives. Who knows what other crimes Durand committed? Besides, if you hadn't shot him, Marshal Tyler and Mr. Sawyer would have."
"I know," Simone sighed. "But killing a man . . . that's not something I take lightly."
"Of course not."
Simone took a deep breath and decided to plunge ahead. "That's why I was so upset. Becky Lewis practically accused me to my face of killing Andrew myself!"
Now Kent looked more than surprised. He was absolutely thunderstruck. "You . . . killing Andrew? But . . . but that's insane!"
Simone smiled faintly as she wiped away more of the vestiges of her tears. "I'm glad you think so."
"Of course I think so! You're incapable of harming anyone except in self-defense. Why would she say such a thing?"
"She wanted money," replied Simone. "What else? And I got the feeling that something must have happened to her child, that she didn't have it to hold over my head as a threat any longer. That's why she came up with this crazy story about me killing Andrew."
Kent nodded, frowning in thought. "That makes sense. I suppose the child might have died, or perhaps even been stillborn. Such a horrible experience could make the woman even more bitter and vindictive."
"I suppose so. I've never had children, so I wouldn't know. But that would explain a lot, and so would what you said about Becky being the one who really killed Andrew."
"There's no proof of that, mind," Kent pointed out.
"No, but that would explain why Andrew—" Simone stopped, unsure whether she should go ahead or not. She had risked telling Kent the truth about Becky Lewis's visit, but should she say anything about the other matter that was troubling her? How much had Kent heard when he came into the parlor?
Simone came to the same conclusion she had always reached with every other problem that confronted her in her life: Bold steps were always the best.
"What were you saying, Simone?" Kent asked gently.
She took a deep breath again. "If Becky Lewis really killed my husband, instead of Durand, that would explain why Andrew's ghost has begun appearing to me."
There. She had said it. And once again Kent looked confused and gravely concerned.
"Andrew's . . . ghost?" he repeated.
Simone nodded. "That's right." Her voice grew stronger as she went on, "I've seen him twice now."
"And has this . . . ghost. . . talked to you?"
"He told me that William Durand didn't kill him. He asked me to find out who the real killer was. He said that he couldn't pass on to where . . . to where he was supposed to be until justice had been done."
Kent put his hands on her shoulders. "You're certain about this?" he asked solemnly.
Simone felt a flash of anger and pulled away from him. "You think I've lost my mind!" she accused.
"No, not at all. But I know how much of a strain you've been under—"
"No, Judson, this was real. I know it was. Andrew was right here in this room, and I talked to him. Think about it! If Becky Lewis killed him, it would explain everything!"
"Well . . . I suppose you have a point there. But it's very difficult for me to believe in . . . in spiritual apparitions!"
"I won't argue with you about that. You can believe whatever you want to about that part of it. The important thing is that I think you're right about that whore, Judson. She killed my husband!"
Kent winced a little, and Simone supposed it was because he wasn't accustomed to hearing such coarse language from her. He wouldn't think anything of it, though, knowing how upset she was at the moment.
"There's something else to consider," Kent said after a few seconds of silence. "If Miss Lewis's accusations against you became public knowledge right now, they could damage your bid for election a great deal."
Simone nodded slowly. "You're right. I wonder if that's why she showed up now. Maybe she thought it would be easier to blackmail me because I have more to lose." She began to pace back and forth agitatedly. "What am I going to do, Judson? I can keep paying her off, but she said she was going to want more than money. What could she have meant by that?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Kent said. "But I'm going to try to figure it out, and I'm going to find a way out of this mess for you, Simone."
She stopped pacing and smiled up at him. "You'd do that for me? You'd help me again?"
"Of course. It's the very least I can do."
"You are the sweetest man, Doctor." Acting on impulse, Simone stepped closer to him. She put a hand on his arm and came up on her toes. Kent didn't pull back. Simone closed her eyes and parted her lips a little.
His mouth came down on hers, just as she expected.
* * *
Night had settled down completely over Wind River, and a light evening breeze had sprung up, tugging at Cole Tyler's long brown hair as he walked down Sweetwater Street. The land office had been closed when he went by there, and a quick stop at the Territorial House had told him that Simone wasn't there, either.
Michael Hatfield at the Sentinel had said that he hadn't seen Simone all day. That pretty much left just the big house at the end of Sweetwater Street.
Cole had stopped by Judson Kent's a little earlier to check on Jeremiah. The doctor hadn't been there, but Jeremiah had answered Cole's hail and told him to come on back to the bedroom.
The big blacksmith was propped up on some pillows, his Bible open on his lap in front of him. He had grinned at Cole, assured the marshal he was feeling better with every passing hour, and asked if Cole knew when Dr. Kent would be bringing him some supper. Cole had pleaded ignorance of that with a grin, adding, "If I see Judson, I'll tell him you're hungry enough to eat a bear."
"Not a bear," Jeremiah said, "but maybe a side of beef."
Cole hadn't run into the British physician on his way around town, either, but he didn't think anything of that. Kent could be most anywhere around Wind River, even though it was getting on toward suppertime. Sick folks didn't keep a regular schedule.
He wanted to see Simone for a couple of reasons. For one thing, he wanted to let her know that Jeremiah was doing all right; Cole knew she had been worried about the big man.
For another, he wanted to find out if she had had any more trouble with Hank Parker, or anybody she suspected of working for Parker. Cole planned to keep a close eye on that situation, still convinced that Parker would make a mistake sooner or later that would allow the law to move against him. Cole hated the feeling of futility that had begun to settle on him lately.
So Cole allowed his steps to take him toward Simone's house. He could come up with all the excuses he wanted, but deep down he knew he was looking for Simone simply because he wanted to see her.
He wanted to make one more attempt at figuring out whether the future held any possibilities for the two of them or not. The way he had been feeling about Rose Foster lately, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.
He opened the gate in the picket fence that ran around the big yard in front of the mansion. It moved silently on its hinges. The handyman who worked part of the time for Simone did a good job of keeping the gate oiled. Cole went up the walk and stepped onto the porch, moving with the habitual quiet grace of a seasoned frontiersman.
A lamp was lit in the parlor, and the curtains over the window stood partially open. Movement through that gap caught Cole's eye. Without meaning to be sneaky about it, Cole glanced in that direction, as anybody would have under the circumstances.
He saw Simone—in the arms of Judson Kent.
&
nbsp; He saw Kent kissing her, saw the way the doctor's arms went around her, saw the way Simone embraced him in turn. Cole stood there for a long moment, his feet seemingly rooted to the planks of the porch.
Then, with a sigh too soft to be heard, he turned and walked away, as quietly as he had come.
Chapter 11
The evening's festivities hadn't really gotten started yet when Hank Parker heard the faint tapping sound on the glass of the window behind him. He was in his office at the Pronghorn, but the door into the main room of the saloon was open.
Parker could see a lot of the room and hear the music and laughter. It would be a lot louder in an hour or so, once the patrons had had time to do some serious drinking.
This was just the prelude, he had been thinking, remembering the word that had been used by a whore he had known back in Council Bluffs who had been convinced that one day she would be a famous opera singer. She had died not long after Parker met her, a knife stuck between her ribs by a customer who didn't want to pay.
He put all of that out of his mind as soon as he heard the insistent little noise and turned around to see Becky Lewis peering through the glass at him. He made a gesture at her to wait, then 'stood up and closed the office door. Once he had shot the bolt so that they wouldn't be disturbed, he went to the window and slid the pane up.
"Come on," he said, extending his hand toward Becky.
"What do you expect me to do, climb in through the window?" she asked irritably. "It's bad enough you've got me sneakin' around this alley back here. I might've stepped on something sharp in the dark. I already stepped on something, but I ain't sure what it is. Sure smells bad, though."
Once a low-class whore, always a low-class whore, Parker thought, but he kept the reaction to himself. He said firmly, "Take hold of my hand. It won't be hard to climb in."
"Oh, all right," Becky groused. She grasped his hand, his big fingers practically swallowing up her smaller ones, then took hold of his wrist with her other hand. He hauled her up and through the window like she didn't weigh much of anything. When she was inside the office, she looked at the sole of one of her high-buttoned shoes and made a face.
Parker said, "I told you why we have to be careful. I don't want folks connecting up the two of us just yet. Bud's the only one who really noticed you coming here the other night, and he's not going to say anything if he knows what's good for him—and take my word for it, he does."
"You're ashamed of me, that's what it is," sniffed Becky.
"You know damned well that's not it. But that son of a bitch lawman Tyler is just biding his time, watching me and waiting for a chance to nail me on something. I don't intend to give him that chance."
"The McKay woman can't accuse me of blackmailin' her without sayin' what I'm blackmailin' her about."
"Maybe not, but I don't trust her, nor Tyler either. Just do what I tell you, Becky, and everything will be all right."
"Yeah, I guess." She sat down in the chair in front of the desk, flouncing her long skirt around her ankles.
Parker leaned forward, his knuckles on the desk. "You went to see Mrs. McKay this evening, like I told you?"
"Of course. Did you think I couldn't handle it?"
"What did you tell her?" Parker asked sharply.
"Just what we agreed on. I hinted around that I knew what she had done, killin' her husband and all on that railroad station platform. She gave me this." Becky's hand delved into the bosom of her dress and came out with a roll of greenbacks. She started to toss the money onto Parker's desk, then hesitated. "I reckon you want this?"
Parker surprised her by shaking his head. "You can keep it. There's a lot more than that just waiting out there for the taking."
"I suppose so." Becky tucked the money away in her dress again.
"How did Mrs. McKay react when you started hinting?"
"Well, she didn't break down and admit that she done it, if that's what you mean." Becky grinned. "But I could tell she was worried. She's guilty, sure enough."
Parker grunted. He wasn't convinced of that, but he didn't much care one way or the other. It didn't matter to him who had killed Andrew McKay. All that was important was that Simone had been willing to pay hush money to a whore. That was what he would use against her.
That and one other thing . . .
"What do I do now?" asked Becky, breaking into the pleasant fantasy that had filled Parker's head. "You want me to keep lyin' low?"
He nodded. "That's right. You can wait in here until later, then when nobody's paying any attention I'll sneak you upstairs to my room. I've got some more work for you to do, but not until tomorrow."
Becky stood up and sidled over to him, trying to look seductive. It was a pretty pathetic attempt, but Parker didn't tell her that. "We goin' to have some fun again tonight?" she asked.
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. "What do you think?"
"I think I'm mighty glad I came back to Wind River, Mr. Parker. Mighty glad."
So was he. Not because he got any great pleasure out of bedding a worn-out soiled dove like as Becky. Being the thousandth man to do that didn't mean much of anything.
Hank Parker was more interested in being first, and in only a few days now, he was going to achieve that goal.
He was going to be the first mayor of Wind River, and Simone McKay was going to be damned sorry she had ever decided to run for the office.
* * *
Michael Hatfield was whistling as he set type. He wasn't much of a whistler, but he tried to carry a tune as best he could. For some reason, it helped him concentrate on the delicate task he was carrying out. And it made him seem more Western, too, he thought.
Back in Cincinnati he had never whistled much, but out here it seemed as though everybody did. Besides, he was in a good mood. The election was less than a week off . . . the election that might never have taken place if it hadn't been for him and his editorials in the Sentinel. He liked to think that he had done his part to nudge Wind River down the path that led to civilization.
But then his good mood disappeared completely when the little bell over the front door of the newspaper office jingled and he looked up to see Hank Parker coming in.
Parker wasn't whistling, but he looked mighty pleased with himself. There was a smirk on his heavy features. He said, "Good morning, Hatfield. Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Michael's suspicions deepened. If Parker was this cheerful, something had to be really wrong. "What do you want, Parker?" Michael asked, not bothering to conceal his dislike for the man.
If Parker noticed the hostile tone in Michael's voice, he gave no indication of it. He said, "You've been pretty outspoken in your support of Mrs. McKay for mayor." Parker held up a hand as Michael started to say something. "No, let me finish. You've got every right to support Mrs. McKay and to say so in your newspaper. Or should I say, her newspaper. She does own the Sentinel, after all."
"Mrs. McKay gives me a free hand," Michael said stiffly. "She's never told me what to write or which causes to support."
"Well, that's mighty admirable. You pride yourself on being fair, don't you?"
"A journalist has to be objective," Michael said.
"That's why I'm bringing you this story." Parker took a cigar out of his vest pocket and rolled it between his fingers as he went on, "I figure you'll print the truth. And the truth is that Simone McKay killed her husband, Andrew, murdered him in cold blood."
Following that pronouncement, Parker calmly put the cigar in his mouth while Michael stared at him, thunderstruck. For a long moment Michael was unable to say anything. When he could finally speak again, he came to his feet and said, "That . . . that's insane! You'd better get out of here, Parker, before I go find Marshal Tyler and tell him you're spreading scurrilous lies about Mrs. McKay!"
"You mean you're not even willing to listen? What kind of newspaperman are you, Hatfield?"
"The kind who knows a lunatic when I see one!" Michael knew he wa
s treading on dangerous ground. Parker was well known for his short temper and violent tendencies. But Michael didn't care about that right now. He was too outraged by what Parker had said to be scared.
Parker just grinned and said around the cigar, "I can prove it."
The saloonkeeper's calm, confident demeanor took Michael by surprise. This wasn't the same blustery blowhard he had known for more than a year. He had never seen Parker quite so sure of himself.
Parker must have seen that reaction on Michael's face, because he asked, still grinning, "Want to hear about it?"
"Go ahead," Michael said cautiously, hoping he wasn't making a mistake.
Without being asked, Parker pulled a straight chair over in front of Michael's desk and sat down. Michael resumed his own seat behind the desk. Parker leaned back and said, "You were there that day at the railroad station. You know how much confusion there was on the platform when that fight broke out. What would you say if I told you there was a witness who saw Simone McKay slip a gun out of her bag, shoot her husband, put the gun away, and then start faking hysterics?"
"I'd say whoever claims to have seen that is lying," Michael said flatly. "And this so-called witness can't be you, Parker. You were still on the train that had just pulled in."
"Never said it was me who saw it."
"And the unsupported word of one witness doesn't mean anything, either."
"Maybe not." Parker was still unruffled. "But it would mean something if Simone McKay was paying this witness to keep quiet about the whole thing."
Michael felt a tingle of foreboding, but he tried not to let Parker see it. "You're saying that Mrs. McKay is being blackmailed?"
"That's what I hear," Parker replied smugly.
"You're admitting to blackmailing her?"
"How could I blackmail anybody?" Parker asked, his voice bland. "Like you said, I was still on the train. I didn't see a thing. But if you were to go up to that burned-out church tonight, you might see something, Hatfield."
Michael blinked in confusion. "What's the church got to do with anything?"
Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6) Page 11