He removed his own ring from his finger, stuffed it in his pocket, and slid Evan’s ring onto his pinky. Shaken, he rose to his feet, determined to find out who had killed his brother. And why.
****
Chase waited in the semi-darkness of Alexander Barstow’s kitchen at Camp Verde. Moonlight streamed in through the window to make a crosshatch pattern on the floor. Light from a single kerosene lamp on the table cast a warm glow. Neither reached into the corner where he stood in perfect stillness.
Nervous energy filled him. He couldn’t sit, couldn’t rest. He couldn’t pace, either, worried the sound his hard-soled boots and their spurs might alert Alex’s sleeping wife of his presence. He dared not even breathe hard, afraid some small sound would bring the presence of Sarge, the mongrel dog he’d saved as a pup, running down the stairs again. They’d shared a warm welcome, the dog’s tail wagging furiously before Chase ushered him back upstairs.
Hands clenched into fists, mouth drawn into a thin line, he dreaded the task ahead of him, hated having to tell Alex his son was dead.
Moonlight brightened the room for a moment as the door swung open and closed. Chase remained motionless as Alex strode to the table and turned up the lamp Prudence, his wife, had left burning.
“Sir.”
Alex jumped. His Army-issue revolver cleared the holster as he spun around. Pistol trained on the shadows, his body stiffened as he peered into the darkness. A moment later, he uncocked the firearm and shoved it back into the holster. “Shit, Har—!”
Chase cut him off. “Careful, sir, you never know who might be listening.”
Alex glanced toward the ceiling and the room he shared with his wife. His voice a whisper, he asked, “Prudence?”
“Doesn’t know I’m here. No one besides Sarge does. I made certain I wasn’t seen.”
“Good.”
Chase squirmed as Alex eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension then sighed as the colonel pulled a chair away from the table.
“What are you doing here? We agreed―”
The spurs on his boots jingled as Chase crossed the kitchen and slumped into the chair. “I couldn’t wait until our appointed meeting time.”
Alex said nothing as he pulled a bottle of fine sipping whiskey from a cabinet and poured two shots. His hand shook and drops of the amber liquor spilled on the counter. With a dishtowel he pulled from a drawer, he wiped up his mess then placed the glasses on the table. He pushed one of them toward Chase before taking a seat.
Chase ignored both the glass and the colonel’s raised bushy eyebrow. His heart hammered in his chest and he opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. He tried again and still couldn’t find the right words. Nor could he look Alex in the eye. He took a deep breath to quell the tremor coursing through his body, fisted his hands against the anger taking control of him, and blurted, “They’re dead, sir.”
Alex stiffened. His face paled in the soft glow of the lamp. “Excuse me?” he wheezed, his voice as shaky as the hand he used to reach for his glass of whiskey.
Chase swallowed over the lump in his throat and tried to relax the tenseness in his body. He failed. His voice tight, he repeated, “They’re all dead.” He dropped Evan’s ring on the table. It bounced and rolled several times before coming to rest. Brass buttons, melted and misshapen, joined the onyx ring. “Your son. My brother. Wilcoxon. Hampton. All dead.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.” He placed the last item, a St. Christopher medal, in his commander’s hand. “I believe this was Jeremy’s.”
Tears shimmered in the older man’s eyes as he looked at the medallion then at Chase. “Where did you find this?”
“Dead Man’s Drop, a canyon outside Crystal Springs.”
Alex’s hand balled into a fist around the medal. “What happened?”
“I believe they were ambushed, sir.” He didn’t mention what he’d found at the bottom of the canyon, hoping to spare the man some of the grief he had not been spared.
The colonel cleared his throat. He stood and paced the kitchen, arms folded across his chest as if he held himself against the pain. He took a deep shuddering breath then another and another. “The rifles?”
“No sign of them, sir. I assume the rifles were why our men were killed.”
Chase watched him and waited. Alexander Barstow had always been a man in complete control of himself. Stoic. Rigid. Unemotional, except when it came to his wife and son. Anger glimmered in his eyes as he stopped pacing and met Chase’s gaze. His voice trembled when he asked, “How am I going to tell Pru?”
In the next moment, he crossed the room so fast, Chase jumped out of his chair. They stood face to face. A muscle thrummed in Alex’s jaw and matched the one Chase felt throbbing in his own.
“I want you to find the thieving bastards who murdered my son and kill them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Chase replied automatically though the order went against every fiber of his moral being. He opened his mouth to argue the point, to let Alex know it would be better to have the men stand trial and let the law execute them, but one look at the colonel’s shining eyes and hard features changed his mind. Alex would never hear the words.
He saluted, slipped into the darkness and left the camp, his heart heavy. As difficult as it had been to tell Colonel Barstow about his son, telling his parents and Evan’s fiancée would be a hell of a lot worse.
Chapter Three
“Stop playing with your hair,” Emeline scolded as she pulled the bell. “You look beautiful.”
Kathryne gave one last pat to the twist of auburn locks, took a deep breath to steady her pounding heart and forced her shaking hands to her sides.
This interview with the Crystal Springs Ladies’ Society held more importance than anything she’d ever done—she needed this job. As she stood at the front door of Francine Maitland’s home, uncertainty rippled through her to dampen her palms and twist her stomach. Even wearing her best suit, a light gray pinstripe, which had survived the crash without much damage, didn’t help settle her frayed nerves.
She wondered if it was wrong to want something so badly, but didn’t express the thought aloud.
“Are you ready?” Emeline gave her hand a comforting squeeze.
“I think so.” Kathryne nodded then brought her hand up and chewed on a nail, unable to help herself. “What if they don’t like me, Emy?” she asked around the nail between her teeth. “What if they don’t think I’m qualified for the job?”
She’d already peeked through the windows of the one room schoolhouse and the small cottage called the teacherage on the other side of a babbling brook, which would be her home if the Ladies’ Society decided to hire her. Though they both needed a thorough cleaning, she’d fallen in love with them on first sight.
“You worry too much, Kate.” As always, Emeline remained her staunchest supporter and the voice of reason. Nothing had changed with their long time apart. “They’ll love you as much as I do.”
The door swung open to reveal a young woman not much older than Kathryne’s twenty-five years. Glistening brown eyes and the wide smile on her face appeared warm and welcoming. She gave Emeline a hug then extended her hand. “You must be Kate. I’m Laurel Stewart.”
Kathryne heaved a sigh as she grasped the woman’s offered hand. The tension in her shoulders eased a bit. Perhaps it would be all right. Perhaps she did worry too much. Perhaps, she wouldn’t throw up on Mrs. Maitland’s fine carpet in the foyer and make a total fool of herself.
“Come in, please, and meet the other ladies.”
The door closed and Laurel led them down a hall to a formal dining room. Lace draperies fluttered in the breeze from the open windows, but the press of too many bodies in a small room with oversized furniture made the space stuffy and warm.
Emeline squeezed her hand one more time as five pairs of eyes turned and pinned her to the doorway. Bastions of Crystal Springs’ society, the women regarded her with a confu
sing mixture of suspicion, distrust, and welcome.
In an instant, Kathryne felt over-dressed and out of place. Though she had traveled in the best circles in Washington, these women seemed different. More critical, more serious, less inclined to forgive. Very much like her father.
After a whirlwind of introductions with too many names she tried to commit to memory, Kathryne sat at the end of a long table. Coffee, tea and an assortment of petit fours on crystal dishes covered the fine lace of the tablecloth and even though every one reached for something sweet, she couldn’t. Her stomach revolted at the mere thought of food.
“Tell us about yourself, Miss O’Rourke,” Laurel, who sat to her left, prompted. Her smile was still warm and managed to quell some of Kathryne’s apprehension. “We know Emy is your sister, but who is your family?”
“My father is General Galen ‘Fighting Irish’ O’Rourke, special consultant to the President of the United States.” She couldn’t help the thrill of pleasure the simple statement gave her. Though her father could be a stern, unforgiving man, she remained proud of his accomplishments and thought perhaps his position might help her cause. “My mother’s people hail from South Carolina. You may have heard of Peabody Shipping?”
Several smiles and nods from the women seated around the table and Kathryne cheered on the inside as she scored a single point in her favor.
“Have you taught school before?” The question came from Jennifer Graham, the lovely blonde-haired, green-eyed woman who ran the General Store with her husband. A dimple appeared in her cheek when she smiled and her eyes glowed with warmth.
“No, ma’am, I never had the opportunity.”
“Why not?” This from Mrs. Abigail Cabot, who, if Kathryne remembered correctly, owned the Twisted River Ranch. The gentle curve of her lips seemed genuine, as did her curiosity.
Kathryne debated telling the truth and how much of it. She decided a partial truth would best appease these women. “I was engaged to be married. Neither my father nor my future husband thought it seemly for me to work.”
In a flash, all eyes focused on her left hand to look for a wedding ring. Of course, no ring gleamed on her finger. Kathryne swallowed hard and hid her hands beneath the table. “My fiancé passed before we could wed.” The lie fell from her lips before she could stop it.
She glanced at Emeline in time to see her shapely eyebrow cock over a blue eye, which twinkled with mischief.
“Ah, vous cher pauvre,” Noelle Fournier exclaimed, lapsing into her native French. “I’m so sorry.”
Kathryne bowed her head, accepted the sentiment with as much grace as she could muster and offered a silent prayer for forgiveness.
“How do you know Chase Hunter?”
The direct question, delivered with a sharp tone, came from Francine Maitland. According to Emeline, Mrs. Maitland considered herself the leader of this small group of women.
Kathryne couldn’t help flinching beneath the woman’s cold-eyed stare. She knew most of these women had seen her ride into town with Chase. Or heard about it from someone else. She had looked liked she’d been compromised in the most damning way and wondered if “damaged goods” now graced her forehead. If possible, her palms grew clammier. Perspiration moistened her underarms and trickled between her breasts. Even her back, pressed against the chair, felt damp.
Mortified, she could only whisper, “I don’t know him. He saved me from a runaway stagecoach, but before that moment, I’d never met him.”
“It’s true,” Emeline spoke for the first time. “Mr. Hunter told me what happened when he brought Kate to me.”
“My husband told me about the stagecoach and the poor driver,” Mrs. Jessup added, turned bright red then popped another sweet confection into her mouth to cover her embarrassment.
“You know he’s not welcome in Crystal Springs, given what he is.” Mrs. Maitland stared straight through her with her cold, dark eyes. The chill seeped right down to Kathryne’s bones.
“Mr. Hunter was very kind. A complete gentleman,” Kathryne replied as she returned Mrs. Maitland’s unrelenting glare. She’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t her fault the man who saved her was a notorious outlaw. She hadn’t chosen her savior—he’d simply appeared out of nowhere and just as quickly disappeared. Still, having been the one all fingers pointed to not all that long ago, she felt she had to stand up for the man no one seemed to like, despite the consequences.
With a voice strong and full of conviction, she said, “Regardless of who and what he is, I owe him a debt of gratitude. If not for his timely rescue, I wouldn’t be here now. I’d be at the bottom of Dead Man’s Drop.” Even now, days after the incident, the memory of how close she’d come to losing her life still had the power to make her shake and thank God Chase came along when he did.
Mrs. Maitland harrumphed, raised an eyebrow over one beady brown eye and folded her arms across her thin chest, but made no further comment. She did, however, nod to Laurel. Without a word, the woman slid a piece of paper across the table.
Kathryne glanced at the document then picked it up for closer inspection. It was a list. A short, concise inventory of rules she must sign and—heaven forbid—obey, if the Ladies’ Society offered her the position of teacher.
No drinking.
No smoking.
No late hours.
No unseemly behavior.
Proper dress, appearance and decorum at all times.
And the last rule, written bolder and bigger than the rest: No keeping company with the opposite sex.
She resisted the urge to giggle and wondered if she would be able to comply with these rules or if she would fail in this as she had at so many other things.
“Can you live within the rules, Miss O’Rourke?” Mrs. Maitland asked, her mouth pursed as though her diet consisted of only lemons.
“Of course,” Kathryne replied with a confidence she didn’t quite feel as she glanced at Emeline, who knew her so well. All her life, though she’d never sought bad luck, the dark cloud of trouble hovered over her.
“Do you have any questions?” Mrs. Jessup asked as she popped another confection into her mouth. White powder sprinkled onto the bodice of her dark blue gown and stuck to a drop of cream filling already there. The woman attempted to wipe off the mess but only succeeded in making it worse—her massive bosom jiggling as much as her three chins as she moved the napkin over the spot, smearing the stain more.
Kathryne licked her dry lips. “How many children attend school?”
“Nineteen,” Laurel replied. “Some of the children work their families’ farms before and after school. My son, Walter, helps me in the post office. Mrs. Graham’s daughter helps in the general store.”
Kathryne absorbed the information and wondered if she was up to the challenge of teaching nineteen children. After all, she’d never had a classroom of her own, had only observed other teachers as part of her training. “What are their ages?”
“The youngest is Laurel’s son, Walter. He’s six,” Mrs. Cabot replied. “The oldest, Joe Rawlins, is sixteen, almost seventeen.”
“Are there supplies or does the teacher provide her own?” Kathryne tried not to squirm in the hard, uncomfortable chair beneath her, tried to remain calm, but the sudden feeling she’d failed this interview rammed into her. The lump in her throat grew in proportion and she swallowed, but it stayed lodged. Tears threatened and she blinked behind the lenses of her glasses, hoping to avoid the telltale shine.
“The Ladies’ Society has set up a fund of sorts,” Mrs. Cabot continued. “Each of the businesses in town donates something. Paper. Pencils. Chalk boards and chalk. And of course, the salary. It isn’t much, but the teacherage comes with the position and the Wagon Wheel has generously given a coupon for dinner a few nights a week.”
“Well, then, Miss O’Rourke, if you have no more questions,” Mrs. Maitland narrowed her eyes as she spoke, “We’ll give you our answer within a week.”
Kathryne knew the tone—she’d
heard it often enough. She had been dismissed. With as much dignity as she could muster, she rose, bid good day to the women who held her future in her hands, and left Mrs. Maitland’s home.
****
“I thought we agreed to get rid of him.” Cassandra Kinsbrough pushed the sheriff off her and rose from the bed.
She picked up the silk robe from the chair where she’d carelessly thrown it. The fabric felt cool against her skin as she slipped her arms through the sleeves. Leaving the robe untied, she flounced onto the small stool in front of the vanity.
A smirk twisted her lips as she patted her perfectly coifed hair. After enduring fifteen minutes of Sam’s clumsy rutting, not a lock was out of place. She hadn’t even broken a sweat, but had completed a mental list of needed supplies and decided the ceiling of the bedroom needed to be painted.
A red rash covered her face and neck from Sam’s whiskers. The smirk on her face disappeared, replaced by a frown that made creases in her forehead. He could have at least shaved before he’d come to her, but he never thought of it, never considered her feelings for a moment. Hate, an emotion more familiar to her than love, settled in the pit of her stomach and made her tremble.
Sam Townsend propped himself up on some pillows piled against the headboard and sighed. He reached for a cheroot on the bedside table, lit the thin cigar and inhaled deeply as she watched his reflection in the mirror. Smoke curled to the ceiling. “Come on, Cassie, Hunter hasn’t done anything. What more can I do than keep an eye on him?”
Cassandra hid her distaste and asked herself, not for the first time, why she kept inviting him back to her bed when the man she really wanted was the mysterious Chase Hunter. To her utter humiliation, he hadn’t given her a second glance. She pushed the thought from her mind and caught the last few words of his recitation.
“Besides, it might be good for him to stay. His presence could be useful.”
A Good Man for Katie Page 3