Wyatt quickly put his hands in his lap. “Why, you don’t mean to tell me you believe what’s in here, do you?” Guilt crept up his spine like a spider skulking in Crazy Pierre’s root cellar.
“Maybe.” Candlelight flickered on Jewel’s face, more earnest than Wyatt had ever seen her. Eyes clear and dark like a winter sky, sparkling with starlight. He looked away, pretending to study a knot in the pine-log wall.
“You think faith never asks you to believe foolishly? Look at Abraham.” He flipped the Bible back to Genesis. “God told him to move to a new land—a land He hadn’t even shown him—and ol’ Abe packed up without a second thought. If that’s faith, then forget it. It’s not for me.”
“No. You’re missing it.” Jewel pushed the Bible closer to Wyatt, and her voice took on a reverent tone, almost husky—like the one she used when training horses in her native Arapaho. “God moved with Abraham one step at a time, never asking more than His just due. You’re right that God told him to move to a new land—but when he did, God blessed him. God promised him a son, and Abraham believed and waited years until it happened.” Jewel smoothed the page with her finger. “God didn’t throw everything at him all at once. He allowed Abraham to learn who He was, little by little, so that Abraham could make the hard decisions in the end.”
“Huh.” Wyatt scratched his head.
“I admire that. It took great courage on Abraham’s part to believe, but also on God’s—to wait and patiently reveal His character over time.”
Wyatt massaged his temples, feeling like he’d just stepped in a noose. “You said you were Hagar,” he said, switching subjects slightly. “How am I supposed to know that whole story isn’t a lie? I don’t know if I can trust you to tell the truth. About that or anything else.”
“Maybe you can’t.” She arched a dark eyebrow. “But you can do what Abraham did.”
“What, pack up and move?” Wyatt felt his patience wearing through, like a threadbare patch in his overalls.
“No. Wait and watch my character. Then you’ll know whether or not you can trust me.”
Wyatt leaned his elbows on the table and shook his head. “You’re a Christian, aren’t you?” His lip turned up slightly. “You’ve been pretending the whole time, just like you did with English. Why, I bet you know this whole book inside and out. Maybe you’re even a missionary.” He set his jaw. “Am I right?”
“What? I’m not a Christian.” Jewel folded her arms. “I’m not anything. I don’t know what I believe.” Her eyes seemed, for a moment, sadly empty. She looked away, firelight flickering on the lines of her face. “I don’t follow the gods of the Arapaho anymore. I fasted every year during the Sun Dance, and all my life I prayed to the Creator of the Arapaho who speaks through eagles. But I felt nothing. Heard nothing. Almost as if I’d died and my spirit ceased to exist.”
Tears shimmered briefly in Jewel’s eyes, and she blinked them back, keeping a stoic face. “When I heard the priest at the mission school speak about Jesus, the ice in my heart began to melt. And I longed to read the Bible. To soak up the stories and learn about the God who spoke not through eagles, but through people, through His Son, Jesus—and from His Book.”
Her eyelashes trembled closed. “But as soon as I learned to read, my father sold me to my husband, who neither approved of women reading nor listened when I asked for a Bible.” She rubbed at a scratch on the wooden table with slender fingers. “I asked God, if He existed, to let me hear His Word for myself and see if it was true.”
She looked up briefly. “And then you asked me to study English. With this.” Jewel passed her hand over the pages of the Bible.
Wyatt realized he was gaping and closed his mouth.
And you only offered to teach her because of the gold. Shame on you. Wyatt shifted uncomfortably in his chair, guilt weighing so heavily on his heart that he could hardly breathe. He stared down at the slats in the wooden table until colored lines glowed behind his eyes.
The wind rattled the window shutter again, and Jewel jumped.
For the life of him, Wyatt couldn’t think of a single word to say about the Bible. So he simply closed it and pushed it to the side, trying to bring his mind back to the gold. “Did the letter say anything else you feel comfortable telling me?” he asked in a gentler tone.
“It didn’t say much at all, Mr. Kelly. It was a short letter. Just the key and the note, and my husband thought it funny.”
“So your husband seemed to understand the letter?”
“Not at first. But after a day or two he picked up the letter and read it again, and he laughed.”
“Wait a second.” Wyatt looked up suddenly. “Why didn’t your husband go after the gold then, if he knew Crazy Pierre died? He had the clues, and he figured out where Pierre hid the gold.”
Jewel scooted back in her chair, pressing her lips together. She didn’t reply.
Something awful thumped in Wyatt’s chest, like the Cheyenne war drums on the field where his father died.
“Mrs. Moreau?” Wyatt leaned forward. “Your husband. Why didn’t he go after the gold? And where is he? Why do you never speak of him?”
The clock on the mantel struck, and Jewel flinched. Her fingers twisted together, shaking like a leaf in the winter wind. “It’s late, Mr. Kelly.” She abruptly rose to her feet, sweeping her long skirts from under the table. “I think I’ve had enough studying for the evening, if you don’t mind. Good night.”
“Wait.” Wyatt scraped his chair back. He crossed the room in fast strides and stood with his back to the door, throwing his arm over the latch.
“Let me leave, please,” said Jewel in cold irritation, attempting to duck around him. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.” She reached defiantly over his arm to rattle the latch.
“Why won’t you tell me?” Wyatt kept his hand over the latch. “You’ve already told me your real name and the details about the letter. Why do you need to keep hiding?”
“I thought you said you knew everything about my past.” She raised her face to his boldly, but her cheeks had paled. “You’re the expert, right?”
Wyatt’s heart quivered in his chest, trying to remember what exactly he’d said to call her bluff. Something about the magistrate—and something about her sordid past. “I know enough. But I’d rather hear the truth from you—and not from everybody else in town.”
Jewel fingered the latch but didn’t move to open the door, even when Wyatt finally stepped aside. “So they’re talking about me here, too?”
“A little.” Wyatt cleared his throat. “Yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Do you believe them?”
He scuffed his boots on the pine floor, listening to Uncle Hiram snore in his chair. Wind whistled around the sides of the log house, rustling grasses.
“I see.” A line in Jewel’s slender neck bobbed as she swallowed. “So you do believe them. Your actions show it.”
“My actions show no such thing. I want the truth, and that’s all.”
“Why? Why do you want to know about my husband so badly?” Jewel turned to him, so close he could see the outline of each dark eyelash. “His whereabouts have nothing whatsoever to do with the gold.”
“Because I won’t partner with you if you’re doing dirty work for someone else. And that’s final.”
Jewel’s eyes widened in what looked like surprise—and perhaps even relief. “I’m not blackmailing anyone, or stealing, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” She swept an arm toward Wyatt. “How do I know about you? How do I know you’re honest and not working against the law yourself?”
“Because I’ve got nothing to hide.” Wyatt spoke gently. “You talked about character earlier, Mrs. Moreau. Ask anyone about me and they’ll tell you everything. No secrets.”
Dark strands of hair had come loose from Jewel’s braid, falling in soft lines around her ears, and he longed to brush them back from her smooth forehead. But he stuffed his hands in his pockets instead, h
oping the rush of color stayed out of his face.
“Then why do you care where my husband is? What business is it of yours anyway?” Jewel’s cheeks glowed an unusual pallid pink, and for a second she looked small and vulnerable there against the rough pine door. Clad in the blue-and-white cottons of a people not entirely her own and gossiped about by townsfolk she’d never met.
“Listen to me, miss. If I’m going to work with a criminal, I need to hear your side before I make up my mind.” Wyatt leaned forward.
“So you can turn me in?” Something in the way she said it held a warning. A fearful quiver but with a dagger beneath.
Wyatt’s heart pounded in his throat, and he breathed through his nose, trying to keep calm. Thinking through his words. “I don’t want to.” He spoke gently, meeting her eyes. “I truly don’t.”
He reached out and put a hand on her arm, trying to still the frightened look in her eyes. “Tell me. Where is your husband? You wear his ring.” He gestured to her plain silver band. “Where is he, then?”
Jewel glanced down at his pale hand on her arm, but she did not pull away. “Will you believe me if I tell you the truth?”
Wyatt licked his lips nervously and then nodded.
“Fine then.” Jewel closed her eyes. “My husband is dead.”
Chapter 5
Wyatt lay uneasily in his bed, unable to sleep. Every whistle of wind around the corner of the house haunted him, and the steady creaking of the pine floor made him jump. All his rusty red hairs were standing on end.
If Jewel had killed her husband—a sinister guess when he put the ugly pieces together—then might she not just as easily kill him, too? A business partner with 50 percent of the goods she’d like to have all for herself?
She’d already gotten the key from him. What purpose could he possibly serve her now?
Wyatt fingered his Colt revolver under his pillow and wondered, with a tight pinch of his stomach, if he should warn Uncle Hiram—and maybe get Jewel off the ranch before she struck again. Not long ago a disgruntled cattle driver in Buffalo had set fire to an entire ranch, taking the lives of six ranch hands and nearly killing the ranch owner himself.
Was that why Jewel had taken the job? To seek out all the information she could about Pierre’s gold and then get rid of the evidence?
Black widow indeed. Wyatt pulled his revolver from under his pillow and checked the chamber, then loaded in an extra round. He put the gun down and flopped back on the bed in misery, staring up at the darkened plank ceiling. He didn’t want to think the worst. Not at all. Not about Jewel, with her earnest black eyes and long scar on her forearm.
After all, she’d trusted him with her name—her story. Even the contents of her private letter. Why would she deceive him now?
Or maybe the whole thing was a lie. What if her name was not Collette Moreau after all, and she was merely stringing him along—hook, line, and sinker?
Because goodness knows, he wanted to believe her.
Badly.
So much so that his stomach curled into a quivery knot, and he felt the blood rush up his neck, pulsing in his throat. He saw her standing in Crazy Pierre’s root cellar with tears in her eyes, her fingers briefly brushing his as she handed him his glasses. Her dark head bent over the Bible.
She was different, this strong-minded Indian girl, from the giddy, empty-headed females he’d seen in Cody and Deadwood, swilling whiskey and banging on cheap player pianos. Fanning their ample cleavage with feather fans and giggling over ignorant jokes.
“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and your own good gifts and strengths,” Jewel had said at his uncle Hiram’s kitchen table.
And something deep inside him wanted desperately to believe that, too.
The courthouse in Cody—that’s where he needed to go. He’d make up some excuse for Uncle Hiram and leave first thing in the morning. His motives were twofold: First, to request a map of the area from five years ago, when Crazy Pierre would have written the letter. And second, to ask a few questions about a certain Collette Moreau, otherwise known as Jewel.
“Mornin’, Clovis. Got any news for me today?” Wyatt tipped his dusty hat and leaned against the counter. A stripe of sunlight glanced off the polished wooden desk, making his sleepy eyes wince. His room at the boardinghouse in Cody had been cold and dirty, and metal bed slats poked him in the spine all night long.
“Well, well, well. Look what the wildcat drug in.” Clovis peered at Wyatt through tiny wire spectacles, which reflected the dirty window glass and city street lined with hitching posts, empty with late fall. He grinned and leaned over to shake hands. “Wyatt Kelly. Ain’t seen you in a while. How’s that ranch? And that uncle of yours?”
“Oh, fine. He’s thinking about investing in sheep these days.”
“Sheep, huh? They’re a lotta work, you know. Well, I don’t have any news for ya, unless you count the drunkard who got thrown in jail yesterday for walkin’ the railroad track.” He chuckled together with Wyatt. “What brings you to town?”
“Nothing much.” Wyatt rubbed his fingers together to warm them from the cold. “But listen, I need a favor.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice, leaning both elbows on the counter. “I need some maps of the land around, say, East Fork River or thereabouts—on the other side of the Shoshone reservation. Older maps.” He scratched his shoulder and stretched. “How far back do you go?”
“Old maps? Why, you ain’t prospectin’, are ya? Or fightin’ with somebody over boundary lines?”
“Don’t be silly.” Wyatt straightened his hat and tried to produce a posture of ease, slouching against the counter. “I’m just looking for a couple of places is all.”
“Well, now, let me take a look. I’ll be just a minute.” Clovis adjusted his glasses and disappeared into a storage room, rummaging and pulling out boxes, and finally returned with his arms full of stuff.
“Looky here.” He dropped some dusty papers on the counter. “See if this is what you want.” He smoothed a paper with wrinkled hands. “Here’s a copy of the map drawn by the Hayden Geological Survey when they came through the area back in 1871. All the rivers and geological features and such, and some sketches, too, if you’d like to see them.”
1871. Back when Crazy Pierre was still digging holes like a mole. Wyatt straightened his glasses to see better.
“And here’s a later map of the Yellowstone River area back in ’81. East of here a bit. Why, close to your uncle’s ranch, probably.” Clovis carefully handed him a print. “Lotta details and such. The railroad lines and some businesses. Even some private property.”
“Let me take a look at that.” Wyatt pulled the paper closer.
He made space at the counter for an elderly man in a suit and studied the map, his eyes running over the lines and contours. Following the names with his finger. He read the tiny type from top to bottom and back up again—pausing only at a little place about ten miles from Pierre’s cabin, up in the mountains. About twenty miles from Yellowstone, up against a mountain ridge.
“Clovis,” Wyatt pointed to a square on the map as Clovis shuffled under the counter, “what’s this place here?”
“That?” He squinted, then took his glasses off and stuck his face closer. “Why, that’s old Crescent Ranch.”
Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his pulse pick up. “I remember that place. They had an inn, didn’t they? A boardinghouse or something?”
“Sure they did.” Clovis ran a hand over his balding head, his hairs grown as long as possible and combed over with some kind of waxy pomade. “Forgot what it was called now. Water in the well dried up and had to close everything up. Never rebuilt.”
The room seemed to shimmer suddenly as if through heat waves. “The inn had a big chair in the entranceway, didn’t it? Made of deer antlers or something?”
“Moose.” The white-haired man in the suit leaned toward Wyatt at the counter. “Antlers from a prize moose, and the rest elk.”
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br /> “You remember it.” Wyatt faced him.
“Sure I do.” The man’s eyes were nearly opaque, like pale blue ice. He turned a knobby cane as he spoke. “That chair stood more than six feet tall—and my father killed the prize moose himself. Nobody’s ever seen a bigger moose in these parts.”
“Do you remember the name of the inn?” Wyatt held his breath.
“Of course. The Monarch Inn. After the butterfly.” The man blinked, and those pale blue eyes seemed to drift away. “I was a boy when they built it.”
Monarch. Throne. Crescent. Wyatt held on to the counter with shaky hands. “Do you know what’s there now—in the place where the inn used to be?”
“What do you mean?” The man’s face twisted in a sort of confusion. “There’s nothing there. The whole place was boarded up like a ghost town. Been empty for years.”
“Anything else, Wyatt?” Clovis carefully stacked the maps together.
“Just one thing.” He tugged at his suspenders uncomfortably, not sure how much to say. “You ever hear about a fellow named Moreau? From Idaho?”
“Moreau. Moreau.” Clovis passed a hand over his thin scalp, patting his long hairs into place. “French fellow, ain’t he?”
“That’s the one.”
“A fur trapper, if I remember correctly. Mink and ermine. Made a good living up there with his kinfolk.”
Wyatt turned toward the window as Clovis talked, pretending to be absorbed in a man hitching up a cart along the street. Light snow blew in thin gusts like goose down, floating and whirling.
Clovis kneaded his chin with his knuckles as he thought. “Augustin Moreau, you mean? If that’s the man, sure. I’ve heard some talk about him.”
“What’s the word on him?”
“Word? He’s been dead for three years.”
Wyatt’s heart seized up, and he felt as if the blood had stopped pumping. Turning his fingers to ice. “What, was he shot?”
“No. Bludgeoned with a metal stovepipe on Thanksgiving Day.” Clovis stuck his head closer. “Funny you should ask, because just the other day the sheriff asked if any of us had seen an Indian girl in town. An Arapaho, I think. A young girl, he said, and pretty—looking for work. Said they were searching for her back in Idaho, and a few folks thought they might’ve seen her in these parts.”
The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection Page 39