He said, “Patricia. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Back the fuck off, now,” Case said, but Franklin ignored this command.
My lips were stiff and cold, rendering me unable to reply. Franklin’s tone oozed with both familiarity and contempt; what the hell did he mean, I hadn’t changed a bit? He’d never met me before this moment.
Unless…
My brain churned through a dozen fragments of information, struggling to make a whole.
Franklin doesn’t exist.
Derrick tried to warn us. He told us we should go.
He’s dangerous, Derrick had said last autumn, and I thought he’d meant Ron – but maybe he was referring to Franklin. I sensed more than saw Derrick descending the final step to the sidewalk. The tension in the air grew dense, compressing my lungs. My skull seemed to be vibrating to a low-pitched frequency. But it was no time to be a coward.
Franklin doesn’t exist…
I located my voice, braved Franklin’s eyes, and took a chance. “What year were you born?”
A flicker of discomposure – but nothing more. A smile exposed his teeth and his tone became almost conversational. “It’s the eyes, I suppose. You can always tell a whore by her eyes.”
Case had Franklin in a headlock and on his knees almost before I could blink. Franklin struggled, grunting and cursing, elbows flying; his greatcoat gaped and I saw what Case was angled wrong to notice – a small black pistol in a holster strapped around his waist. The world shifted in a slow-motion phantasm; my ankles seemed chained to the ground even as a detailed image of what I must do – lunge and grab that gun before Franklin could use it – formed in my head. There was a flurry of movement from the corner of my eye, which didn’t shape itself into sense until Derrick, on the same intercept course, took Franklin flat to the cold pavement. Snow lay in thick swirls and Derrick’s momentum propelled their bodies a solid yard. Struck in the hip by Derrick’s shoulder, Case was jerked sideways, quickly righting himself.
I cried, “No!” and grabbed for him, terrified he would return to the fight.
But he had no intention of doing that, instead grabbing me around the waist. We fled. Cars continued scrolling along the busy street, headlights beaming through the gray light; no one paid us any attention even though I could hear Derrick and Franklin shouting furiously at each other, somewhere behind us. We didn’t slow down until we’d rounded a corner and dashed across two lanes. I tried to believe someone would have stopped had there been a shot fired.
“He had a gun…” My words and breath were all tangled together. I bent forward, straining to draw a lungful. I was wearing heeled boots and my ankles ached; my thoughts latched onto stupid things like my feet so they wouldn’t fixate on what might have happened if Franklin Yancy had drawn his pistol.
Case, shot in the gut, dying, his blood soaking my lap…
A low, aching groan escaped my lips and I dove into Case’s arms, holding him as tightly as I was able and pressing my nose to his chest, overtaken by sobs. St. Helen’s chapel remained in view but we were well away, blending with those exiting shops and cafes to hail taxis. Case sheltered me, easing to the side of a brick building, keeping us out of the bright, oblong square thrown by the business’s interior lighting.
“It’s all right,” he said. I could feel the trembling deep in his muscles but he kept his voice steady. “It’s all right.”
“He had a gun…”
Case waited for me to calm before getting us a taxi. Dad’s condo was dark and cold on this winter’s night, the vivid glitter of downtown Chicago the only illumination in the place, perfectly framed by the unadorned picture windows. I groped for a light switch. Case strode through the living room, shedding both his overcoat and suit jacket, yanking loose his tie; once in the spare bedroom, he began cramming our clothes into the travel bag. He was upset, jerking through his movements with none of his usual grace; away from immediate danger and having regained a tentative hold on my emotions, I watched in silence, not sure if offering to help would soothe him or only add fuel to the fire. I braced a hand on the leather loveseat and bent my right leg, slowly unzipping my boot; the sound seemed as loud as a buzz saw.
At last his frenzied energy propelled him to the doorway between the two rooms, where he grasped the frame on either side. Pinning me with his gaze, he rasped, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s –”
“Don’t tell me it’s all right,” he requested harshly. “Don’t pacify me, oh God, I can’t bear it. I’m angry at myself, not you, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”
“Case, listen to me…”
“You ran into the barn after me!” His words fell like halves of a split log, husky and raw. “You ran into a burning barn to save me when I should have been the one saving you. Oh Jesus, sweetheart, I can’t bear what could have happened. Just the thought fucking destroys me. It’s my job to protect you. I love you so goddamn much, I’ve longed for you for so long now, even when you didn’t know it, for so many years…”
“I’m right here,” I whispered, hating how he was punishing himself. “I’m not the girl in a picture anymore and I will never be her again, the girl who’s distant from you and who doesn’t know how much you love her. I’m here with you and I love you. You are the love of my lifetimes, Case. Come here.” He closed the distance between us, wrapping me in the security of his arms. Tears blurred my sight as I whispered, “It’s like everything around us is threatened, like everything we know could just vanish. Camille feels the same way.” “I know, I’ve talked to Mathias about it.” Case rocked me side to side; my eyes were closed and he softly kissed each one, as he was often inclined to do. I spread one hand on his warm, lean belly, reassuring myself it was intact; no bullet hole leaking blood had appeared there. I heaved a shuddering sigh, possessively closing my fist around the material of his shirt, and he buried both hands in my hair.
“C’mere,” he murmured, lifting my chin, the soft sounds of invitation rising from my throat caught between our mouths. He bracketed my jaws and tilted my head, our tongues joining and stroking. Shifting, he scooped me into his arms without breaking our kiss and carried me to the couch. I had just yanked the bottom of Case’s shirt from his pants when I heard my father in the outer hallway, the keypad beeping as he engaged the code and threw open the door.
“Dad,” I said lamely.
Case discreetly withdrew his right hand from beneath my long black skirt, drawing the hem safely south and resituating, keeping me on his lap but in a less intimate position.
Dad stormed to within three feet of us and demanded, “What happened? Why did you leave so suddenly?”
“I was about to have a panic attack. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before we left, Dad, I really am.”
“I left as soon as I could.” Dad all but collapsed into a nearby armchair. He covered his eyes with one hand. “It was terrible, all around.”
He wore his overcoat, along with a scarf and matching gloves, and I was struck by a sudden memory, an old one from many years ago, of Mom sitting on Dad’s lap and helping him remove his scarf, unwinding it in a way I now realized was seductive, one slow loop at a time; it had been a winter’s evening and they thought Camille and I were sleeping. Camille had been dutifully snoozing but I’d crept from our room at the sound of the front door, which meant Dad was finally home, and spied my parents kissing. Dad took the scarf from Mom’s hands and draped it around her like a shawl, tugging her closer.
I’d felt so safe back then, reassured that my parents loved each other and always would. And now, sitting near my father, whose poor choices had led to him being alone, I felt a pang of stinging sympathy.
Did you pick Christina Turnbull because she looks like Mom?
I was dying to ask but couldn’t bear to hear the answer.
Dad indicated the spare room. “Are you leaving?”
“By tomorrow, remember?” I said. “We want to get home.”
I sensed Dad’s restrain
t; he wanted to ask us to stay, knowing he could not. He narrowed his eyes but not in an angry way; it was an attempt to glean from my tone and posture what was really going on, just as any well-trained lawyer would.
It was now or never. “Dammit, Dad, I know about you and Christina.”
Dad blinked twice. Then he stood and stalked to the kitchen, disappearing around the corner and slamming a cupboard, then the freezer door; I heard ice rattling into a glass.
“Don’t walk away from me!” I leaped to my feet, stumbling over my long skirt.
Case steadied me with one hand around my hip; his eyes said, Maybe now isn’t the time…
It has to be, I said back.
Dad reappeared, clutching a scotch. “That is none of your business!”
“It is my business! Don’t treat me like a child. You cheated on another wife, Dad, how low can you possibly –”
Dad pointed a finger at my nose. “I am your father and you will not –”
“What does she know?” I interrupted, changing tactics, fists on hips. Case moved his hand to my lower back, patting gently; I forced a calmer tone. “What has she told you?”
“What would Christina have to tell me?” Dad spoke with a deceptively level tone, almost as if he wanted me to start listing things so he could determine what I knew. I refused to believe Dad would conceal something of magnitude, even if his mistress requested it.
Misgivings growing by the second, I whispered, “Maybe I should ask what you have to tell me,” and sank back to the couch cushions. Case waited for Dad’s reaction in complete silence; I was afraid if Dad said the wrong thing, if he’d somehow jeopardized us, I could not be responsible for my husband’s actions.
“Christina and I have been seeing each other, yes,” Dad admitted, cupping the nape of his neck in an ages-old gesture of defeat. He directed his gaze at the carpet. “We’ve been in a relationship for over a year. We’re discreet. We never mention Ron. But it’s over now, unequivocally.”
“Jesus Christ, Dad. Where’s Lanny? When did she leave?”
Dad closed his eyes. “Three days ago.”
“Did Ron order him killed?” Unable to stop, my heart pounding like a hammer on a stubborn nail, I faced off with my father. My throat was dry and tasted metallic. “Tell me, Dad. Tell me if he ordered Robbie killed.”
Dad gaped at me with genuine shock. His mouth opened and closed, then opened again as he rasped, “I hope you know if I believed that to be true, Ron couldn’t hide from what I would do to him.”
“Like what?” I insisted. “What the fuck would you do?”
“I’d kill him,” he said tightly. “You’re my daughter. For Christ’s sake, Patricia, I once hoped you’d work for the man. Do you think I’d have let you work for someone I believed capable of such things?”
“You agreed he was a criminal,” Case said. I could hear in his tone he believed Dad’s words. He elaborated, “Last summer, in Jalesville, you told Tish that. What did you mean?”
“Ron turns a blind eye when funds are misappropriated. He’s an embezzler, not a murderer.” Dad sounded like he was on the witness stand.
“Does he pay you off?” I gasped.
“Of course not.” Dad was terse, on the defensive.
“Because you’re fucking his wife and don’t want his suspicion directed your way!” A small, more rational part of my brain registered bald shock that I would dare speak to my father in such a manner.
Dad’s eyes blazed and I tensed, ready to face his wrath. But then he deflated, sinking to his armchair and draining his scotch before asking, with quiet intensity, “What reason would Ron have to kill Robbie?”
“Because Robbie knew something.” Spurred by the insanity of this entire trip, by the horrible sensation of time running out, I gripped one of the plushy arms on Dad’s chair, leaning toward him. “Robbie was having an affair with her too, Dad. Did you know that?”
Dad’s eyes darted between mine, right, left, right, left, in obvious shock.
“Do you think Ron found out about them?” I pressed. But Robbie’s news, his final text, hadn’t been about Ron; it had referred to Christina…and Franklin Yancy.
Dad’s shock was morphing to outright horror. He rasped, “No. It can’t be true. I would have known.”
“How? Like either of them were planning to tell you?” I bit back the urge to really lash into him, imagining what my great-grandmother would have to say just now; Gran had never been fond of Dad. I knelt beside his chair so our faces were at the same level. “We saw Franklin Yancy tonight, at the funeral. What do you know about him? Who the hell is he, really? Why would Derrick be afraid of him?”
Dad was pale, the lines bracketing his mouth and creating grooves in his forehead appearing deep and heavily drawn. I floundered; despite my outburst of questions I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Did I mention outright there was a chance the man everyone believed to be Franklin Yancy was an imposter? Which begged the question – who the hell was he? What was he? Someone not restricted by the usual limitations of time?
Just like Ruthann…
Without intending it, I began to weep. Dad dropped his drink, ice fanning the carpet, and leaned over the chair to hug me.
“Ruthie,” I sobbed, overpowered by the force of my sadness. What if we never saw her again? What if Franklin had drawn his gun and fired on Case? How did he know us well enough for such hatred?
It’s because we’re all connected. The answer is right in front of you.
You have to see, you have to understand…
Dad was crying too, low and devastating. “Oh God, my sweet Ruthann, my baby girl. I can’t bear not knowing where she is, or if she’s alive…”
Case knelt beside me, resting a hand between my shoulder blades. I swiped at my leaking eyes, overheated with agony, and met my husband’s gaze. At his unspoken question, I nodded with two small bobs of my head.
And then I whispered, “Dad, we have to tell you something.”
Chapter Fifteen
Montana Territory - 1881
“WE SHOULD BE THERE WITHIN THE HOUR,” MILES SAID, and there was an unmistakable note of anticipation in his voice. As though he understood his master’s words, Blade nickered and shook his mane. Miles patted his horse’s silver neck, stroking him with the knuckle of a bent thumb. I had grown familiar with the mannerisms of both horse and rider during our journey west from Howardsville; I’d even settled on a name for my sweet little dun mare, and now called her Flickertail.
“Is that a species of moth?” Miles had asked. “Or bird?”
“Not one I’ve ever heard of,” I said. “I just like how it sounds.”
“I’ve never seen anything like these rock formations.” I indicated southward, where a gorgeous T-shaped configuration soared out of the ground. I pictured imaginary roots, like those upholding a tree, sunk deep into the earth, anchoring it for centuries to come. The farther west we traveled the more varied the landscape, rocks stacked atop one another as though a giant playing with its toys had arranged them. The sharp scent of sagebrush hung suspended in the hot, motionless air; small pink flowers with five blossoms, which Miles told me were bitterroot, grew in thick patches along the uneven ground.
“They are quite awe-inspiring,” he agreed, removing his cigar to respond. He smoked all the time; I had grown accustomed to the scent of tobacco. I’d requested a drag last night around the fire, to everyone’s mild shock, and my subsequent coughing fit justified their surprise and gave us all something to laugh about. Miles continued, “That rock, in particular. I’ve always had an urge to camp beneath it, though Grant’s homestead is so near there’s no reason. Yonder,” and he nodded to indicate, “is where Henry Spicer intends to stake his claim. There’s some five hundred acres adjacent to Grant’s land.”
“You haven’t thought of claiming it for yourself?” I was wearing the same clothes I’d left Branch’s claim shanty in – Axton’s trousers, belted with a length of rope, one of my own blouses with
the sleeves rolled to elbows, my corset (which I detested with a red-hot passion, but not wearing it was out of the question), and a hat Branch had lent me, with a wide brim which kept my face shaded. I felt at ease as I rode, my blouse unbuttoned to just between my breasts, which might have been one button too far but I was so hot, my skin slick with sweat beneath my clothes; besides, no one out here cared about those kinds of rules.
Miles was also sweating under the glare of the sun, black hair tied at the nape of his neck, his shirt likewise unbuttoned and with sleeves rolled back. “I haven’t yet considered claiming my own land, to be honest.”
“Honesty is good.” I teased him a little, trying to coax a smile. His default expression was often a frown, eyebrows pulled low, even though I knew there was a sense of humor in him. But he was ultimately possessed of a very serious nature.
At last he offered me the half-grin I’d hoped for. He rode with effortless grace; I was no good at guile and therefore acknowledged the fact I was attracted to him. A lot attracted to him. Not that I would breathe this fact to a soul. I had no idea what exactly existed between Miles Rawley and me; I only knew I wanted to be around him. I craved his company and tried not to question it any further, at least for now. And, as he had hoped, I’d grown more familiar with him during our ride; we’d been at one another’s side since dawn.
“I meant, I haven’t thought of settling down in one place in the fashion of my brother,” Miles explained. “If Grant hadn’t been injured four years past, I believe he would not have considered such either. Though, married life suits him well.”
Grant, the oldest Rawley brother, had ridden with Miles, Cole, and Malcolm Carter in what Miles referred to as their ‘outlaw days,’ though he insisted they weren’t truly outlaws, only fancied themselves as such, back then. Grant currently raised cattle and made a good living selling beef to eastern cities. Now that the railroads stretched so far into the Territories, ranching had become a profitable business, according to Miles, and a respectable one. Miles had only related a small fraction of their former adventures, and I felt sure he downplayed much of it, but it seemed he, Grant, Cole, and Malcolm had been involved in no small amount of danger and trouble.
Way Back Page 19