A quick check on Rose showed her still resting easily, and Dixie was thankful. It seemed like Rose might be on the mend. And when she had fully recovered, Dixie wanted to be able to offer her the gift of never having to fear her son again. She added a couple sticks of wood to the firebox in Rose’s room, thankful that she’d insisted on extra insulation when they’d built this place that first year.
Taking the now-cold buckets of steam-water with her, Dixie hurried down the stairs to the boardinghouse kitchen. She wanted to quickly get the parson his breakfast so he would go to talk to Zeb before she changed her mind. In fact, if she could get him to eat quickly, maybe she could have the whole deed done long before this evening—even before Flynn arrived to check on the patients this morning!
She would cook an easy breakfast this morning of pancakes and eggs and fried ham. She used a splash of kerosene and the bellows to quickly bring the fire to life, then started two pots of coffee, good and strong. Between her rush and her trembling hands, she spilled coffee grounds all across the top of the stove. She brushed at them, singeing her fingers in the process. With a gasp, she snatched her hand back. She could clean that up later. Right now, she needed to hurry and get the griddle heating. That meant more wood, but when she went to reach for another stick, she realized that with all the cooking and water-boiling she’d done on Saturday, the indoor rack was nearly empty.
She groaned. It looked like the whirling dervishes would succeed in luring her outside, after all. But not in diverting her from her mission.
A quick glance at the clock proved that time was marching much too quickly for her comfort. What if the minister decided not to wait on breakfast, but just to go and see Mr. Heath first thing while she was cooking for her diners? Then he might return and rest in the room for the remainder of the day. Worrying about the timing of all of this threatened to send her heart into failure.
She yanked a scarf about her head and tugged on the large thick jacket that she’d purchased from the mercantile her first year in these mountains. She slipped her fingers into the soft kid-leather gloves and then took in a breath and opened the outer door. Even though she knew what to expect on a blustery December morning, the gusts of icy wind still took her breath away when she stepped outside.
She squeaked out a grumpy protest and squeezed the coat closed more tightly at the neck as she leapt through the blowing snowdrifts toward the woodpile. She loaded her arms with as many logs as she could manage and then spun back toward the boardinghouse, only to crash into someone.
Her shriek was more a reflex, and perhaps a reflection of her guilty plans, than a revelation of fear. It only took her a moment to realize it was Doctor Griffin. His eyes peered at her above the edge of a frosty scarf. “Sorry to have startled you. I thought I could bring in a couple loads and save you another trip.”
Teeth chattering from far more than just cold, she nodded her acceptance. “Thank you,” she said, before dashing back to the warmth of the kitchen. The vial of liquid in her pocket bumped against her leg, and she had a horrifying image of it somehow tumbling out and rolling across the floor to come to a stop against one of Flynn’s boots.
Flynn didn’t seem aware of her guilty conscience, however. He continued bringing in wood until he had the firewood rack filled to the brim and mounded up.
By the time he was done, Dixie had a plate stacked with three pancakes, two eggs and a thick slice of ham. She set it on the table next to a steaming cup of coffee and added a small pitcher of syrup and plate of butter from the icebox in case he wanted some. Perhaps she could run the parson’s breakfast up to him while Flynn ate here at the table. Now that she’d thought about just doing the deed quickly this morning and getting it over with, she’d realized that maybe she could pull it off, even with the minister in the room with her.
“Payment for services rendered.” She smiled at Flynn. “I’m just going to fill a tray and hurry it up to the parson and-and maybe give Steven a little something to drink as well.” She could make this work!
If he noticed her stutter, he didn’t comment. He also didn’t sink down at the table as she’d hoped. Instead he remained standing while he tugged off his gloves. “Thank you.”
There was a note of weariness in his voice that made her turn to look at him. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
She cracked two more eggs into the hot skillet, and flipped the four cakes on the griddle. As soon as these eggs were done she could take the minister his breakfast and get this over with.
Flynn scrunched his eyes tightly closed and then opened them wide. He reached for the coffee cup first, and took a hearty sip as he tucked his gloves into his coat pocket. “Steven is touch and go. I’ve checked on him several times throughout the night. So I’m just going to take this up to the room if you don’t mind. I’ll let the parson know you are bringing his up momentarily.”
Dixie felt her shoulders droop.
He dropped a quarter on the table and lifted the plate in one hand, mug in the other.
Doing her best to hide her disappointment, Dixie flipped several pieces of the ham. “You don’t have to pay,” she chided him. “It’s the least I could do since you are doctoring my…” She cleared her throat. “…husband.”
“Keep it.” Flynn’s jaw bunched. “He can pay for his own doctoring, if he makes it.”
Dixie looked away from the pain in his eyes and tried not to give life to the hope his words produced. Maybe she didn’t need to try and kill Steven. Maybe he would die on his own. A headache flared to life at the base of her skull. What kind of woman wished for the death of anyone, much less her husband? She rubbed at the hollow of her throat and stilled, staring at the bubbling eggs for a moment. If she were any kind of upright woman, she would have been the one by the man’s side through the night, not the one who had tossed and turned while planning how she would murder him. But the truth was, it terrified her a little to even be in the same room with him, no matter that he was weak as a newborn mouse. She felt the need to explain herself. “Doctor Griffin, I wish I could, but—”
He blew out a sound of dismissal. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” A muscle in his cheek moved in and out, in and out.
She released a tremulous whoosh of air and scooped the pancakes onto a waiting plate before dropping four pats of butter onto the hot griddle and then ladling more batter over each one. There was some relief in knowing that she’d been too late to carry out her plan, at least for this morning. Perhaps Flynn’s untimely arrival was the good Lord’s way of closing a door—at least that was what her mother would have said when she was a girl.
Flynn had started from the room, but he hesitated. “How is Rose?”
“Rose seemed to have a wonderful night. She slept clean through. I think she’s on the mend.”
He smiled a genuine smile. “That’s good to hear.”
He had started away again when she realized she didn’t know what to bring for Steven. “What should I make for Steven?”
Flynn shook his head. “Still no food for him for at least a couple days. If you could drop a slice of that ham into about two cups of water and let it simmer real low for thirty minutes, we could try to get some of the broth down him. Otherwise, just keeping water in him will be the biggest challenge for the next few days.”
He left her then, and her hands trembled as she dropped the ham into the boiling water. Would it be brown enough to disguise the laudanum? She pursed her lips. No. She couldn’t risk it. Flynn likely wouldn’t force him to drink all the broth at once, and then her whole plan would be shot and all her laudanum gone.
He was still watching her, she realized. “Will that be enough for you to eat?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll just go up and see to the patients now. But remember I have to ride out to the logging camps today. It’s my normal day for visiting out there. I’ll leave you with the laudanum for treating Steven. But you’ll need to dose him very carefully. In his weakened condition especially, to
o much could kill him.”
Dixie felt a prickle creep across her scalp and sweep down her neck. She looked up at him, but he was already through the batwing doors and out of sight. She didn’t relax until she heard his footsteps crossing into the boardinghouse entry.
Then she slumped into one of the chairs at the table. All that sneaking and hurry and terror over being caught and he was going to give her some before he left! My, how the tables had turned. Because he was sure to walk her through the dosages, so if she gave Steven too much she would be the first to be suspected.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Zane Holloway stood for a long time outside Jacinda Callahan’s home, just staring at the evergreen wreath hanging on her door. Holding his Stetson by the crown, he tapped it against one leg. He’d known the moment Steven Pottinger had arrived in town that a trip east to backtrack and investigate the man was in order.
Dixie Pottinger had sure told a convincing story yesterday morning. He’d run into his fair share of liars, and he didn’t think she was one of them—especially not with the proof etched into the skin of her arms. That still might not let her and her mother-in-law off the hook for shooting the man and then fleeing the scene, even though he was alive. But if he could prove that they’d needed to act in self-defense, he could probably get the charges against them dropped.
And if Pottinger had been playing dead for the past year and a half, that likely meant he had something to hide. The trick would be in getting someone in Birch Run to verify that the women had indeed been misused.
He grinned at himself. Not a week ago he’d ridden into town set on hauling both women in for the murder of Steven Pottinger. My, how a week had changed his mind.
When Zane had spoken to Zebulon Heath last evening, the gentleman had told him Pottinger had boarded the coach under the name Orin Wells. Traveling under a false name certainly wasn’t the sign of an upstanding citizen. And with that detail he had his first clue that would hopefully lead him back to wherever the man had been hiding out before he showed up in town yesterday.
But first, he wanted to say goodbye to Jacinda. And yet he was standing outside her house like a still-green-behind-the-ears lad experiencing his first infatuation.
He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled at himself. What was he doing here, anyhow? It wasn’t like the woman had given him any hope. And it wasn’t like he could just up and quit his investigation of this case right in the middle. It was probably best that he just leave town and get on with his business.
He sighed and plunked his hat back on his head, then adjusted it down against the cold blustery snow that had been falling all morning. He needed to ride to Cle Elum by tonight, but first he needed to go see Dixie Pottinger back at the boardinghouse.
He took the alley between the jailhouse and McGinty’s and then pushed into the entryway of Dixie’s Boardinghouse. The entryway was empty. She was likely in the kitchen or upstairs. A quick trudge through the dining room to poke his head into the kitchen showed she wasn’t there.
Upstairs helping to care for the patients then.
Zane trudged up the stairs, feeling every one of his forty-five years. He’d had moments of loneliness over the years since he’d lost Maria, but he’d never considered himself a lonely man. He’d always been able to compartmentalize these feelings and rationalize his reasons for never having taken on another wife. His job was dangerous and required long hours away from home. That was no life to ask a woman to share. At the same time, he met few intriguing women, so it had never been a hardship. Yet now… Jacinda Callahan intrigued him in spades. By the barrelful. By a train-carful.
He smirked. Yes, indeed. It was probably good that he’d be riding out of town within the hour before he made a fool of himself somehow.
Once in his room, he packed his haversack with his few extra things and then glanced around the room. What would it be like to have a permanent place to come home to each night? He’d never had that in all his years. Yet, with no family to support, he’d saved up more than a substantial sum of money. And he’d been feeling the weariness of the trail, lately. Maybe it was time to settle down?
He slung the haversack over his shoulder.
Yes. Maybe it was.
He was definitely going to think about that as he concluded this investigation. He would have to return to Wyldhaven at the end of it, no matter what. And maybe settling in this area wasn’t such a bad idea. He was definitely going to think about it.
He stepped back out into the hallway that stretched the length of the building. The room the patients were in was just two doors down, but when he looked in, Miss Pottinger wasn’t in sight. The minister was finishing up a tray of breakfast, with his Bible open on his lap. And Doc Griffin was leaning over Pottinger, listening to his chest with a wooden stethoscope
Zane tipped a nod of greeting to the minister, then strode across the hall and rapped soundly on Mrs. Pottinger’s door.
It was only a moment before Dixie pulled it open just a little and peered around it. When she saw it was him she started a little, but after only a moment she opened the door a little more. He noted that she held a bowl of scrambled eggs in one hand.
“Marshal.” She stepped back and invited him in. “I was just feeding Ma some breakfast. Please, won’t you come in?”
He cleared his throat and hesitated. He really only wanted to ask her if she had a picture of her husband that he might borrow, but he was reminded that the man was just across the hall. Severely injured or not, Zane didn’t want to give him any ideas about running. “Thank you.” He took off his hat and stepped over the threshold.
Dixie lifted the bowl. “If you don’t mind, Ma doesn’t keep her strength long these days. I’d like to get a few more bites into her before she needs more sleep. Can we talk while I feed her?”
“Yes. Certainly.” He swept his hat to indicate that she should lead the way.
Dixie performed brief introductions between him and her mother-in-law. And once she was settled by her mother-in-law’s side coaxing another bite into her mouth, and he was leaning in the doorway, she prodded him to get down to business. “What can I do for you, Marshal?”
Was her hand trembling? Why was she suddenly so nervous when she’d seemed fine when they spoke yesterday? He was also hesitant to say too much in here. How much did the sick woman know about her son being in town but lying on death’s door??
Dixie must have noticed his pause, for she glanced his way. “I’ve told her everything, Marshal.”
He darted a glance at the older woman and noted the trickle of a tear streaking back into her hair. He looked down at the floorboards. “Yes. Very well. I’m here because I wondered if you might by chance have a picture of…your husband…that I might borrow? I need to trace his path back to the east, and I feel the picture will be of immense help.”
Dixie used a cloth napkin to dab the tears from her mother-in-law’s cheeks. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Marshal. I never had a photograph of Steven.” She didn’t once look up at him.
Though he was disappointed—it had been a long shot, after all, considering the story she’d told him yesterday—it would have made his investigation that much easier. “Well then, I thank you for your time. I’ll be leaving town. I thought you should know that I plan to backtrack your husband and hope to learn what he has been up to for the past year and a half. I don’t know if I will be able to clear your name, but I aim to try.”
She did look up then, a fathomless depth of emotion swimming in her eyes. “You believe me then?”
He nodded. “I do.”
She dashed at her own eyes with the napkin now. “Thank you, Marshal. You’ve no idea how much just that means to me.”
He could understand that. How frustrating it must have been for her to time and again go to the law in her town only to be turned away and disbelieved. And with that he knew just the person to question back in Birch Run. He gave her a nod and turned to head for the front door.
; “Marshal.” The quiet rasp from the older woman on the bed froze him in his tracks.
Slowly, he turned to face her.
She held a quavering hand out toward her bureau, indicating the top right drawer.
Dixie was on her feet, giving him a questioning look as she moved to the dresser. “This drawer?” she questioned her mother-in-law.
Rose nodded. “Bring me the box at the back.”
Dixie peered into the depths of the drawer and withdrew an old biscuit tin. She carried it to Rose.
With trembling hands, the older woman tried to remove the lid, but had to give up in defeat. She thrust it back toward Dixie, who tugged the lid free. Her eyes widened as she looked at the contents. She pulled out a stack of photo plates and sorted through them. Finally, she held one up toward Rose. “This one?”
The woman nodded, seeming to relax back into her pillows like her task was accomplished.
Dixie stepped over and handed him the flat cardboard rectangle.
And he couldn’t have been more pleased than to see a very clear image of one Steven Pottinger.
Joe had just stopped by the stove and started to make a pot of coffee when the door swept open to reveal Mr. Davis. The man had once again been so drunk when Joe had ridden to his place the evening before to tell him that Kin was in jail, that Joe hadn’t thought he would remember to ride in this morning. He felt some relieved to see the man. With all the questions he still needed answers to, namely from Washington Nolan and Zoe Kastain, it would have put a crimp in his day to have to ride out to the Davis place again.
He nodded to the man. “Morning, Mr. Davis, I’m just making coffee. Should be ready in about fifteen minutes. Can I interest you in a cup?”
The man’s jaw worked back and forth, his squinted gaze fixed on his son who sat behind the bars across the room. “No. Thank ye, just the same. We won’t be here that long.”
Kin’s feet shuffled, and Joe noticed that he’d scooted to the far end of the cot till he was nearly plastered against the outer wall. Joe looked back to the boy’s father. Did the man think he’d be able to take Kin home? “I’m afraid we can’t let Kin go home with you just yet. A man was shot. Questions still have to be answered.”
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 16