Drawing her gaze away from the array of bright colors, Amanda tilted her head back and shaded her eyes against the sun. “I need to talk to you,” she called up to the farm’s owner.
Steckle peered down at her. “Well, talk.”
“What do you know about Cooper?”
“Cooper? You mean the dead man Cooper?”
“That’s the one.”
Steckle denied knowing Cooper personally. “All I knows is that the Rennick fella killed him.”
She persisted in her questioning, and he claimed he hadn’t stepped foot into the Golden Spur saloon for a month of Sundays.
“Why would I?” he asked, rubbing beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Pepper waters down the whiskey. I get better stuff at Murray’s place.” He looked down on her and frowned. “Why you askin’, anyhow?”
“I found a peacock feather at the scene of the crime. I also found one at the Golden Spur.”
“You don’t say?”
“You seem to be the only one in the area raising peacocks.”
“Yeah, well, I had to do somethin’ ’bout the rattlers ’round here. So far, those birds have done a good job ridding us of snakes, but they ain’t done nothing about those pesky possums on the half shell.”
What he called possums were actually armadillos. The strange animals dug up crops and stank to high heaven.
Steckle spit out a wad of tobacco. “The trouble with peacocks is, they’re noisy as all get out. Keep me up all night with their cries. Sounds like some female yelling ‘help me, help me.’ If you want to take ’em off my hands, you’re welcome to them. Just be sure to stuff your ears with cotton if you want to catch any shut-eye.”
She adjusted her hat to better shade her face. “I have no room for peacocks, but I do have a question. Like I said, seems like you’re the only one around raising peacocks.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So how do you suppose their feathers ended up at both the murder victim’s hotel room and Pepper’s saloon?”
“Beats me.” He continued greasing the windmill’s moving parts. “Maybe the wind blew them there.”
She left the Steckle farm knowing no more than she did when she arrived. She doubted the wind could blow feathers five miles to town. But as she raced back to court, something suddenly occurred to her—a more reasonable and compelling explanation. Now why didn’t she think of that before?
She rode into town in a hurry, frowning with annoyance when the mayor flagged her down.
“Miss Lockwood.”
In no mood to deal with him, she reined in her horse. She was anxious to get to the courthouse for the sentencing. Get to Rick…
The mayor stepped off the boardwalk.
“Mr. Troutman,” she said, giving him a bit of his own medicine.
He leaned on his cane with both hands, the gilded handle gleaming in the sunlight. “I just came from the courthouse. I think you should know that Judge Lynch has imposed the death penalty.”
His words hit her like a punch in the stomach. She drew in her breath. Knowing Judge Lynch, it came as no surprise. Still, she’d hoped and prayed for a different outcome.
“The hanging takes place next Friday at noon,” the mayor continued as matter-of-factly as if discussing something as benign as the weather. “That gives us a week to prepare.”
She wasn’t sure what the mayor meant by that, and she didn’t care. A squeezing pain in her chest almost took her breath away, and she felt sick to her stomach. He was still talking when she rode away.
* * *
Rick didn’t speak a word when Amanda and Scooter escorted him back to jail. Nor did he acknowledge the crowds lining the street.
The Red Feather posse followed behind, many of the women weeping. Miss Read embarrassed herself by bawling out loud, handkerchief fluttering in her hand. She was a far cry from the schoolmarm who could control a misbehaving pupil with a mere scowl.
Next to her, Mrs. Mooney wrung her hands in despair and murmured, “Oh, the poor, poor man.”
Mrs. Perl was so upset that for once, her knitting needles remained idle in her knapsack. She didn’t even sneak in a couple of stitches when they stopped to wait for a wagon to pass before crossing the street.
Even Scooter was unusually somber. “I never knew anyone who hanged,” he said.
Becky-Sue commiserated with a sigh and didn’t giggle.
* * *
Later that day, after everyone including Scooter had left the office, Amanda walked into the cell room and found Rick sitting on the edge of his cot, holding his head in his hands.
“Rick,” she whispered from in front of his cell. She’d encouraged him to fight, and look what it got him. She’d always believed that the truth never stayed hidden for long, that it always came out in the end. How naive of her. How foolish. He had every right to hate her. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
He lifted his head but said nothing, his eyes remote.
Moistening her lips, she tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. Never could she remember feeling so utterly miserable or helpless.
How she longed to open the cell door and go to him. Touch him. Hold him… The need to comfort him was so strong, she could hardly stand it.
Meg had planted a seed in her head, and Amanda had been able to think of little else since. Did she have feelings for him beyond the normal concern one human had for another? Is that why she felt all confused and twisted inside? Why Rick commanded her thoughts, her dreams, her very breath?
That would certainly explain the trembling limbs, pounding heart, and quickening pulse whenever he came into view. Still, her feelings for him were too new and tender to label. It could simply be compassion she felt. Or maybe even sympathy and sorrow. Not love. Please don’t let it be love…
Shaken by the possibility, she tried to think of something that would break the unbearable silence between them. “Do you remember the day we first met?”
His hands fell to his lap, and a shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Oh, I remember all right.” His eyes had a faraway look in them. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you standin’ in the middle of nowhere dressed to the hilt in a blue suit and wearin’ a silly hat. I thought you were the most…beautiful woman I ever saw.”
Her cheeks flared. No man had ever called her beautiful. Not the way Rick did. “And I thought you were…rude,” she said, hoping her flippant air would break the sudden tension between them.
His eyes brimmed with something she couldn’t define. “I was wrong about the hat. That wild bunch of feathers did indeed suit you. I just didn’t know it at the time.”
She sucked in her breath and looked away. It was the only way she could gather her thoughts. In actuality, she’d thought him handsome and the most masculine man she’d ever met. But admitting that out loud would take her perilously close to admitting more. Much more.
“Speaking of my…hat…” She turned her gaze back to him. “I found a feather in Cooper’s room. A peacock feather, just like the ones on the hat I lost that day.”
He frowned. “Don’t tell me Cooper liked crazy hats too.”
“No, but… What if he was one of the men who tried to rob us that day?”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s a mighty big if.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Cooper was known to drop big bucks on faro, women, and whiskey, yet he had no visible means of support. He had to get his money from somewhere.”
“And you think it was from robbing stages?”
“And banks.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “And you based this theory on a feather?”
“Not just any feather. A peacock feather. Some people think they are good luck. What if Cooper was one of them? What if he or someone he knew kept the feathers from the hat that blew off my head that day?”
> Rick rubbed his chin. “Seems far-fetched. Even if it’s true, it won’t be easy to prove. Not with Cooper dead.”
“No, but that does give us more suspects to consider. What if he was killed by one of his partners in crime? Someone planted the murder weapon in Cooper’s room after we searched. Who else would have done that but the real killer?”
Rick studied her. “You’re scaring me. You’re starting to sound like a real sheriff.”
“Is that so bad?”
“It could be. Especially if the killer gets wind that you’re on to something.”
She drew in her breath. She was so focused on Rick, she hadn’t considered the danger to herself. “Right now, all I have are a couple of peacock feathers. The killer has nothing to worry about.”
* * *
Rick paced his cell into the wee hours of the morning. If Amanda’s peacock theory was right, it could take weeks—maybe months—to prove it. Even if such a thing were possible, he didn’t have that kind of time. Even if he did, he didn’t want her putting herself in danger. Whoever killed Cooper would have no qualms about killing again.
He thought back to the night of Cooper’s murder and the man he saw leaving his room. Everything about that night was clear as crystal in his mind. Everything, that is, except the one thing that could save him—a full description of the killer.
The gnawing feeling that he had forgotten something—some telling detail—persisted. No matter how often he revisited that moment in time outside of Cooper’s room, the memory continued to hover out of reach.
Maybe he tried too hard to remember. Perhaps if he cleared his mind. Thought of something else. The problem was that whenever he tried to think of something other than that night, Amanda came to mind.
He never thought to love another woman. He certainly never thought to fall for a female sheriff, of all things. But it was becoming more and more apparent that’s exactly what he’d done, crazy as it seemed.
She was everything he loathed in a woman.
His father had married an independent woman, and Rick swore never to make the same mistake. He recalled little about his mother, only her unhappiness, which hung over his early childhood like a dark cloud. The one thing he did remember was his mother’s eyes. They never focused on him; rather, they looked past him or through him as if he were invisible. He now knew her dream had been so real and all-encompassing that it had blinded her to everything else. Even her own child.
The cloud of sadness hung over the family long after she’d left to make a life for herself on the stage.
He swore that no child of his would ever know the stigma of abandonment. In that regard, Christy was the perfect wife. Her only ambition was to make a home and raise a family. It was what he wanted, what they both wanted. But after little more than three months of wedded bliss, that dream died with her, along with a dream of any sort of meaningful future.
What would he have done had he found Cooper alive? That was the thing that weighed most heavily on his conscience. Would he have killed the killer? God forgive him, but he sure had wanted to.
As for Amanda…
He grimaced. What a mess. He had intended to win her support but never her heart—and he sure in blazes never meant to lose his own.
Thirty
The bell over the Lockwood Watch and Clockworks shop rang out the hour precisely at noon. Like a scolding parent, the carefully spaced gongs made people scurry past Amanda’s office window to complete errands, hurry to appointments, or rush home for a midday meal.
Seated at her desk, Amanda checked her pendant watch.
No sooner had the bell stopped ringing than the hammering began. Friday was still three days away, and already they were putting up the gallows in the empty field behind the jail. Each strike of the hammer was like a blow to her heart.
She covered her face with her hands. Her brother-in-law Grant agreed to go over the trial transcripts and look for grounds for appeal. But what if he failed to find anything? The thought made her sick to her stomach.
The door swung open, and Mayor Troutman barged in. Amanda’s already low spirits dropped another notch. Could the day get any worse?
He dropped a stack of cards on her desk. Picking one off the top of the pile, she frowned. “What are these?”
“Why, invitations to the hanging, of course.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Invitations?”
“Don’t look so worried. They’ve already been delivered to all the important people,” he said, his stogie bobbing up and down in his mouth. “Those are the extras. Thought you might want to invite friends or family.”
She stared at the black-trimmed paper in disbelief. The invitation read:
Honored Guest:
With feelings of profound sorrow and regret, I hereby invite you to attend and witness the private, decent, and humane execution of R. B. Rennick, a.k.a. Barrett, guilty of murder in the first degree. We ask that all guests deport themselves in a respectful manner. Your help in making this a pleasant affair will be greatly appreciated.
It was signed Sheriff Amanda Lockwood. Upon seeing her name in flowery script, her jaw dropped. The mayor couldn’t bring himself to call her sheriff to her face but saw fit to sneak behind her back and include it on the invitation that she wanted no part of.
She tossed the card stock on her desk. “You had no right putting my name on this!”
The mayor jerked back with a look of surprise, stogie clamped between his teeth. “No right?” He jabbed the floor with his cane. “As much as it wounds me to say this, you are the sheriff. As such, you’re in charge of the day.”
Her heart practically stopped. “What do you mean, in charge?”
He looked surprised by the question. “Why, it’s your job to see that the execution goes smoothly and in accordance with the law.”
A horrible realization came over her, and her mouth ran dry. “What…what does that mean exactly?”
“It means, of course, that you’ll escort the prisoner to the gallows and read the death warrant. The prisoner will be given a chance to say a few words before you blindfold him and…”
Shock waves rushed through her, and she could hardly find her voice. “Isn’t that the hangman’s job?”
“The town no longer hires a hangman. We had to fire the last one so as to afford a dogcatcher.”
She gripped the edge of her desk. “Does that mean I also have to—” The words stuck in her throat.
“Either you or your deputy.”
He said more, a lot more. Something about a doctor and undertaker, but she was in such a stunned state of shock, she could hardly make sense of it all.
Rapping his knuckles on her desk, he flipped the butt of his cigar into the wicker wastebasket and started for the door, cane in hand. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
After he’d left, she picked up the invitations and tossed them into the trash. The walls, the ceiling—everything—were closing in and forcing her to battle for every breath of air.
Hands on her head, she rocked back and forth. Fool, fool, fool! Whatever made her think she could do this job? The very thought of having to put Rick to death—of pulling the lever to the trapdoor with her very own hand—filled her with such anguish and despair, she thought she would die.
The office door flew open, and Scooter skidded inside, his face white as a ghost. “Holy smokes!”
Jerked out of her reverie, she followed his gaze. The wastepaper basket was on fire, and bright-orange flames shot up the wall.
“Oh no!” Gasping, she jumped to her feet. “Quick, sound the alarm!”
Scooter ran outside to summon the volunteer fire brigade, but already, tongues of fire had reached a second wall. Stomping the sparks on the floor with the soles of her boots, she looked around for something to fight the fast-spreading blaze.
“Here!�
� yelled Rennick from his cell. He pushed a woolen blanket between the bars.
She stumbled down the steps to grab it out of his hand and sped back to the office. Swatting at the flames with the blanket, she raced from one hot spot to the next.
Wanted posters caught on fire and fell from the wall, covering her hope chest with red-hot cinders. With a gasp of alarm, she quickly extinguished the sparks with the blanket but not soon enough to prevent the lid of the wooden heirloom from scorching.
Containing the fire seemed as hopeless as saving Rick.
* * *
By the time the volunteer fire brigade stormed inside to toss bucket after bucket of water on the blaze, not a salvageable piece of paper was left. The walls were scorched black and wanted posters burned to a crisp. An acrid smell hung in the air, stinging the eyes and nose. Soot carpeted the wood floor.
“I have to say there’s never a dull moment around here,” Rick called after everyone had left. He laughed.
She leaned the broom against her desk. “It’s not funny,” she said.
“Sure it is.” His eyes fairly danced as he gazed through the open door. It was his first laugh since the trial started, and she suddenly realized how much she’d missed it. Missed the way his laugh made her feel all warm and giddy inside.
“I consider a horse broken after three rides,” he said. “If the same holds true for a sheriff, I’d say you’ve earned the right to wear that badge.”
A couple of weeks ago, she might have appreciated the compliment, but right now, she would give anything to free herself from the shiny tin star.
He watched her drag her hope chest away from the charred wall. “I see your hope-a-thingie survived.”
A Match Made in Texas Page 20