Texas Hold Him

by Lisa Cooke

  A crack of thunder drew her to the window, where her view from the second story allowed her to see the street more clearly. A carriage rolled up in front of the house and stopped. It was difficult to see the shadowy figure who stepped from the coach, but when the lightning lit the sky enough for her to see his tall form, there was no mistaking his identity.

  “Oh no!” She ran from her room, down the hallway to the stairs that led to the first floor. “Don’t open the door!” she shouted to her aunt, but it was too late.

  Dyer Straights was already in the foyer, and her aunt was saying, “Yes, this is the home of Harold Mason.”

  “Dyer!” Lottie shouted, running down the steps to intercept him.

  He frowned in confusion. “Lottie, what are you doing here?”

  “She lives here,” Dorothy said, her expression as confused as Dyer’s.

  “Why would she live here?” He directed his question to Dorothy, but his eyes never left Lottie’s face.

  Dorothy sputtered and glanced at Lottie for help. There was no getting out of it now. The truth was going to come out, and it would probably be best to come out of Lottie’s mouth. “Because I’m Harold Mason’s daughter.”

  She stopped at the foot of the stairs and squared her shoulders, readying for what ever he had to dish out.

  Slowly, his head shook in disbelief. “You knew? You knew he murdered my family and you didn’t tell me?”

  She stepped toward him. “No, Dyer, I didn’t know—”

  He put up his hands to stop her. “You set me up from the beginning. You were trying to keep me from finding out the truth, but it didn’t work, did it?” His voice was calm, but the underlying rage was palpable. “I’ve got to admit, you’re a great little actress. I actually believed you were a damsel in distress.” The scathing look he gave her took her breath away.

  “Dyer, he didn’t do it. I’m sure there’s a mistake.” She grabbed his arm, but he yanked away from her.

  “No more, Miss Mace. I’m going to kill the murdering son of a bitch.”

  “Dyer, no!” She reached for his arm again, but he moved quickly past her.

  “Where is he?” His anger matched the thunder of the heavens as he rushed up the stairs to the bedrooms. “Mason!” he bellowed, jerking open bedroom doors in his attempt to find her father.

  Lottie ran to her father’s study and crossed the room to his desk. She rummaged through the drawers until she found his gun. With trembling hands, she loaded the revolver and followed Dyer’s shouts, realizing with horror he had moved his search downstairs. And based on his rampage, he was near her father’s room.

  She ran down the hall carrying the cold, heavy pistol, praying to God that she would not have to shoot one man she loved to save the other. Holding her breath, she stepped into her father’s room, where she pointed the gun with shaking hands at Dyer’s back.

  “Who are you?” her father asked him. “What are you shouting about?”

  Dyer stood facing her father, unaware of the gun trained on his back. The clenched fists at his side were the only indication of the anger he held in check.

  “Are you Harold Mason?”

  Lottie’s father nodded. “And who are you?” he asked.

  Dyer’s shoulders slumped. “No one, sir.” He tipped his head. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. My apologies.”

  Lottie dropped the gun to her side as Dyer walked past her without speaking.

  “It’s all right, Daddy,” she said, sounding as calm as she could under the circumstances. “I need to speak with him. I’ll be back in a moment.” She hurried to catch Dyer at the front door.

  “Thank you,” she said to his back. “Thank you for sparing him. I know he wouldn’t have killed your family—”

  Dyer spun to face her, interrupting before she could continue. “Your father isn’t the man I’m looking for.”

  “I heard Mr. Dawson’s claims. How do you know it’s not my father?”

  Dyer leaned his back against the door and ran his hand down his face. His sagging shoulders and drawn expression tugged at her heart.

  “One of the neighbors saw the murderer leave the scene. He gave me a description, and that’s what I’ve been going on for the last four years.” He sighed. “The man I’m looking for had red hair.”

  “Did you ask Mr. Dawson if Harold Mason had red hair?”

  Dyer shook his head. “When he told me about the word ‘traitor’ carved on the tree, I was sure it was the right man. No one knew about that except me and the killer.”

  “How did Wayne Dawson know?”

  “He claimed your father got drunk one night in a saloon in Natchez and bragged about teaching a Yankee traitor a lesson.”

  Dyer stepped across the foyer and sunk into a settee by the door. The raindrops still glistened in his disheveled hair, and the shadow of a beard bespoke the haste in which he had rushed to find her father.

  She glanced at him, not sure if she wanted to know the answer to her next question, but she had to ask.

  “Would you have killed my father?”

  Sighing heavily, he leaned his head against the back of the settee and stared up at the ceiling. “Not without more proof, but if your father had been the murderer, I would have made sure he hanged.”

  Lottie felt his exhaustion as well as she felt her own. Even though she was relieved her father was innocent, part of her sympathized with Dyer’s plight. He had been so sure his search was over, and now . . .

  “Why did Dawson wait so long to tell you what he knew?” she asked.

  “He said he’s been in California for years and had forgotten about your father’s bragging until he met me on the boat. After getting to know me, he thought I had a right to know the truth.”

  “For a fee.”

  A shoulder lifted in a tired shrug. “He said, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ ”

  Lottie gasped. “He—he said that?”

  Dyer knitted his brow and nodded. “Why?”

  “That’s what the blackmailer said to me.”

  “What blackmailer?”

  Lottie sat down on the settee beside him before her knees could give out and send her to the floor. “A man said he had evidence that would send my father to prison for murder. He said if I paid him fifteen thousand dollars, he wouldn’t tell the authorities. I couldn’t believe my father would kill anyone, but I couldn’t take the chance of him going to trial. That’s why I went to the boat to gamble. The blackmailer said those exact words to me when he demanded the money.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  She shook her head, then buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before.” She dropped her hands and laid her head back against the wall. “The blackmailer was on the boat. He left a note under my pillow, and I thought it was that horrible Mr. Johnson, but it was Wayne Dawson. He was the blackmailer.”

  “And when you lost the tournament, he came after me.”

  Lottie nodded. “You were the one with the money.”

  “But how did he know about the murders, and why would he lie about your father?”

  “I might be able to answer that,” Lottie’s father said as he wheeled into the foyer.

  “Daddy, you shouldn’t be involved in this. You need your rest.”

  He shook his head. “It sounds like I’m already involved.” He looked at Dyer. “You said a redheaded Confederate soldier killed your family?”

  Dyer nodded.

  “I had a man with bright red hair in my unit. His name was Dawson McKnight. But everyone called him Red. He served under me for about a year before I had him removed from his duty.”

  “Why?” Dyer asked.

  “He was no gentleman.” To Lottie’s father, that was as low as a man could get.

  “He had this crazy notion that we should fight the Yankees by going after their leaders,” her father said. “Dawson believed if we destroyed their properties, they’d leave their posts and go home, and wi
thout leaders, their armies would fall. The fool thought he was going to be a general someday, and he threatened to kill me when I had him removed from the army.”

  “But Wayne Dawson doesn’t have red hair,” Dyer said, frowning.

  “Dawson dyes his hair,” Lottie said, the pieces finally falling into place.

  “How do you know?” Dyer asked.

  “I saw the dye running down his face once when he removed his hat. I thought he was just hiding gray hair.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t?”

  “Because the hair on his knuckles is red. I noticed it the first time we met. I thought it was odd, but I didn’t know you were looking for a man with red hair.”

  Dyer slapped his hands against his legs and stood. “Damn! I had that murdering son of a bitch in my hands and let him go.”

  The thunder rattling the house couldn’t hold a candle to the fury vibrating through Dyer. He paced across the foyer, hands clenched at his side, his teeth gritted in rage.

  He slapped the door with his open hand, and the sound made Lottie flinch. She was no longer afraid of him, but she was afraid for him. If ever there was a man at the point of breaking, she was looking at him.

  “Did you give him the money?” Lottie spoke calmly in hopes the sound of her voice would bring him back from his hell.

  He turned his head toward her. His glazed eyes cleared. Taking a deep breath, he gave himself a moment to calm down before he answered her question. “I told him I’d pay him as soon as I found your father.” His voice still shook, but he appeared to be in control again.

  “Does he know you’re looking for a man with red hair?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. I didn’t say anything about it because as soon as he mentioned the tree carving, I thought I’d found the killer.”

  “So Dawson thinks he’s gotten away with murder, gotten you to kill a man he hates and is going to get paid for his crimes to boot,” Lottie’s father added in an unusually keen moment.

  “Evidently stupidity isn’t one of his sins,” Dyer said.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” her father answered. “You figured him out, didn’t you?”

  “Not before scaring you and your family out of their wits.”

  “It’s all right, son. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.”

  Dyer dropped his head. “Thank you, sir.”

  Lottie’s throat closed with emotion. She wanted to sob and was grateful Dorothy wasn’t in the room. Her aunt wouldn’t have hesitated to tear up, and there was too much to do for that luxury. Dyer still needed to find the murderer, and Lottie was going to help, whether he liked it or not. Wayne Dawson had almost destroyed both their lives, and it was time he paid.

  “How are you supposed to get the money to him?” Lottie asked.

  “I’m supposed to leave it in an abandoned stable off Bourbon Street at midnight to night. He said he thought it was best if we weren’t seen together. It made sense at the time, but now I realize he just wanted to keep his distance in case we figured everything out.”

  “So now what do we do?” Lottie asked.

  “We’re doing nothing, but I’m going to find the son of a bitch.”

  “And I’m going to help.”

  “Lottie—”

  “You’re not the only one who wants to see him hang. Don’t you think I have a score to settle too?”

  Dyer narrowed his gaze in thought as he rubbed his hand across his chin. “You have to promise to do exactly what I tell you.”

  “I promise.”

  “My guess is he’s watching the house now to see if he managed to fool us.” The deadliness of his gaze sent a tingle of apprehension down her spine. “Just how good of an actress are you, Miss Mace?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Red Dawson McKnight watched Captain Mason’s house with unflinching fascination despite the rainwater pouring on his head from the eaves above. He dared not move for fear of being seen. Straights had entered the house several minutes ago, and by now he’d killed Harold Mason or discovered the truth, one or the other. Red should know his answer soon. He was either about to become rich, or about to be hunted for the rest of his life.

  He pulled his cape closer around his neck to keep the water from running down his spine. The thought of Straights hunting him sent a chill through him only intensified by the rain. Of course, there was no reason for Straights to suspect Red had anything to do with the murders.

  Neither Lottie nor Straights knew who he really was, and even if Straights figured out Captain Mason was innocent, he still wouldn’t have reason to believe that Red had been the guilty one. Or at least he hoped not. Dyer Straights was not a man he wished to spend his life running from.

  Straights would never believe the death of his family had been accidental. Red had thought for sure the woman and child would run out of the house and away from the fire. But all in all, it still wasn’t his fault. The almighty Captain Straights shouldn’t have fought for the Yankees in the first place, and he had no one to blame but himself for the consequences.

  The sudden opening of the front door of Mason’s house sent a flood of excitement through Red. Straights stormed out of the house with a sobbing Miss Mason holding on to his greatcoat.

  “He deserved to die!” Straights yelled, jerking his arm away from the crying woman. “He killed my family!”

  Miss Mason fell to her knees, weeping into her hands as the furious Captain Straights strode away into the storm. An older woman came into the street and helped the devastated young lady to her feet and back inside her home.

  Red smiled. Finally he would receive retribution for the countless injustices he had met at the hands of Mason and the Yankees. In just a few hours, the great Captain Straights would give him enough money to go west and live in comfort for the rest of his life. Maybe he’d go to Texas. There was an abandoned ranch in Jasper he imagined he could get pretty cheaply.

  Chapter Thirty

  Aunt Dorothy, quit wringing your hands or you’re going to rub your fingers plumb off.” Lottie slipped her derringer into her reticule and crossed the room to get her cloak from the chifforobe.

  “Oh dear, Lottie, please stay here. Mr. Straights seems more than capable of handling this on his own.”

  “Mr. Straights is more than capable of a great many things, but I can’t sit back and take the chance that he’s walking into an ambush.” She pulled her cloak over her shoulder and headed to the hallway.

  Dorothy’s hand went to her forehead, and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh my—”

  Lottie didn’t slow down. “If you’re going to swoon, make sure you hit something soft. I have to leave now to make it to the stable in time.”

  Dorothy dropped her hand and followed Lottie from the room, confirming Lottie’s suspicion that Aunt Dorothy’s swoons were more often manipulative than medical.

  “But why must you carry a gun?” Dorothy asked.

  “Would you rather I went unarmed?” Lottie spoke over her shoulder, continuing down the hallway and stairs to her father’s study. She needed more protection than her little derringer could provide.

  “I would rather you didn’t go at all,” Dorothy said. “Does Mr. Straights even know you’re coming?”

  Lottie lifted her daddy’s heavy revolver from the desk drawer and tucked it into her cloak. “No, but I don’t have a choice.”

  Dorothy laid her hand on Lottie’s arm. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  Of all times for her aunt to gain insight. “Yes.”

  “Does he love you?”

  “Of course.” Lottie stepped around her aunt to leave the room. “I’m just not sure if he knows it yet,” she muttered, hurrying down the hallway and out the front door.

  It had rained nonstop for hours, and the rivulets of water rushing through the streets soaked through her shoes in a matter of moments. At least now she didn’t have to worry about where she stepped. Her feet couldn’t possibly get any
wetter than they already were.

  The lightning no longer flashed, and the heavy clouds kept the moon from lighting her way as she hurried through the dark back streets and alleys on the straightest route to the old stable. She rounded the corner of a building just in time to see Dyer slip into the back door from the alley side.

  Dyer paced across the stable, barely able to contain his fury. Wayne Dawson had flaunted his crime under Dyer’s nose for weeks, and somehow, Dyer had missed it. He ran through his mind every encounter he’d had with the bastard, searching for a clue he’d overlooked. There were none.

  Who would’ve dreamed someone had the audacity to talk and play cards with the man whose family he’d killed?

  Dawson had. And to add insult to injury, he’d even befriended Lottie, after he’d blackmailed her.

  Dyer shuddered.

  Every time he thought of that son of a bitch near Lottie, his blood ran cold, and his determination to see him hang intensified. It would be easier to kill him when he walked through the door, but Dyer didn’t want easy. He wanted Dawson to suffer in a jail cell, knowing his death was coming and there was nothing he could do about it.

  The door creaked open as the murdering son of a bitch stepped inside the stable. “Mister Straights?”

  Dyer walked casually into the moonlight that slipped in through the open door. “Mister Dawson.”

  Dawson smiled, though warily. “I trust you found your murderer?”

  “Yes. And the bastard is going to pay.”

  “Going to pay?” Dawson glanced nervously toward the open door. “Haven’t you already killed Mason?”

  Dyer lowered his hand to his side, next to the gun hidden just inside his coat. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “He murdered your family. He told me himself.”

  Dyer could feel Dawson’s edginess. He was about to run. At least now he had enough sense to know whom to fear. “He tells a different story.”