On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2)

by Lynnette Bonner

  He let the boy stand by the pine box for as long as he seemed to need to. And then, feeling like the lowest man alive, he motioned back toward the cell. “Your pa’s burying can wait a few days. I’m sorry but we can’t let you go just yet. We need you to stay here until we decide if criminal charges will be pressed and if not, make a decision about who you will stay with.

  A bit of fire flashed in the boy’s eyes. “I can take care of myself!”

  Joe nudged him toward the cell. “I know. I’m sure you can. We can talk about that, you, me, and the sheriff. But for now, you have to stay here.”

  With a weary sigh, Kin sank onto the cot.

  And Joe tried to close the cell door as quietly as he could.

  Dixie paced feverishly to the window in the entryway of the boardinghouse, waiting for Flynn to get back from the logging camps. He still wasn’t in sight down the street. She dropped the curtain back into place with a frustrated groan. Flicking her fingernails against one another, she spun on her heel and paced across the room to the desk, where she turned to retrace her steps. How was she going to tell him what she’d done? She pictured the look of betrayal that was sure to cross his face.

  With another groan of despair, she hefted her skirts and headed up the stairs. She might as well spend her time doing something useful. She would see if Rose needed anything.

  Just this morning, Flynn had determined that Rose no longer needed the benefit of the steam, so he’d removed the tenting sheets.

  Rose was propped up against her pillows when Dixie poked her head into her room. Her favorite book of poetry rested on a bolster before her.

  Rose put down the book and motioned her over.

  Dixie sat on the counterpane next to her. “Can I get you anything?”

  Rose shook her head. “Is Steven really here?”

  Dixie’s throat closed up, just at the mention of him. She nodded. “I’ve not been in to see him, today. But yes. Though he’s hurt very badly.” She didn’t add that part of the reason for her staying away stemmed from the fact that she’d planned to kill him.

  Tears glistened on Rose’s lower lids. “He wasn’t always as insufferable as he is now. I wish you could have known him when he was a young boy. He would bring me daisies from the garden, and sit and listen to me read for hours. Something changed inside him when his father died. It was as if he chose to be a different person. And I never could reach him after that.”

  Dixie didn’t know what to say so she reached out and squeezed Rose’s hand.

  “I have to see him,” Rose said emphatically.

  Dixie felt her eyes widen. “I’m not sure you should be up and about. Flynn has been fighting for days to bring you back from the brink.”

  Rose leaned her head back, seemingly exhausted just from having this conversation. “It’s only across the hall and it’s important to me.”

  Dixie lifted the cup of now-cold tea from Rose’s bedside table. “Here. Try to finish your tea. Dr. Griffin should be back from the camps soon, and I’ll ask him Will that suffice to keep you abed until then?”

  Seemingly too exhausted to fight for more, Rose nodded and took a sip of her tea.

  “You should try to rest in the meantime.”

  Rose’s gaze looked troubled. “Do you think he might die before I get a chance to see him?”

  Dixie’s first thought was that Steven was entirely too mean to ever die, but the truth was, she didn’t know. She shook her head. “Flynn says he’s hurt bad but he’s taking a lot for the pain and seems to be resting. I’ll try to get Flynn to let you go over to see him this evening.”

  A knock sounded on the door just then and Dixie’s heart lurched. She knew that knock. Flynn was back from the camps.

  Feeling like her feet were made of lead, she made her way to the sitting room door and opened it.

  Flynn stood, hat in hand, looking weary. Dark circles beneath his eyes revealed that he was operating on too little sleep.

  Dixie motioned him inside. “Come in, please. We were just talking about you.”

  “Oh?” He brushed past her and headed for Rose’s room, tossing a questioning glance over his shoulder to indicate she should explain.

  Dixie pushed the door shut and followed on his heels. “Rose is hoping to go across the hall to see her son.”

  Flynn stopped and spun toward her so quickly that Dixie almost crashed into him. Searching her face, he lifted one broad brown hand to scrub at the back of his neck.

  Was he simply surprised that Rose wanted to see Steven? Or was he considering if it was a good idea?

  After a long moment, he eased out a breath and his shoulders seemed to sag. “Yes, I suppose she would want to see him. I’ll set up a chair for her to sit in. I think she’s past the point of danger now, thank the Lord, so a few minutes sitting with him shouldn’t hurt her.”

  “She’ll be happy to hear that.” Dixie curled her fingers together so tightly that she felt her fingernails biting into the flesh of her opposite hands. There was more that needed to be said. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. She snapped her jaw closed and pressed her lips together with her teeth.

  Flynn tilted his head, studying her. “Was there something more you wanted to say?”

  Dixie managed a nod. “But it might take a while, so please”—she tipped a nod to Rose’s room—“feel free to check on her first.”

  The tiniest flicker of a frown touched his brow before he gave a nod and turned for Rose’s chamber once more.

  Dixie loosed a breath and fairly collapsed onto the settee. How was she ever going to make it through this conversation?

  He was back much too quickly for her comfort. Setting his doctor bag and his hat on the table near the door, he smiled over at her. “Her pulse is steady and she’s no longer running a fever. I can still hear a little of the infection in her lungs, but with continued treatments of the acetylsalicylic acid, I think she will make a full recovery.”

  “I’m so relieved to hear it.” Dixie wished she could relish the good news. She really was happy about it, but her stomach was in knots because all she could think about was the confession she needed to make.

  He rested his hand on the wing-backed chair across from her. “May I sit here?”

  Dixie leapt to her feet. “Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive my manners.”

  Flynn sank into the chair, searching her face even as he offered, “Please don’t concern yourself.”

  Dixie wanted to pace, but she forced herself to return to sitting primly on the settee. Her hands couldn’t seem to be still, however. Her fingers fidgeted as though she were sitting before the piano in McGinty’s Alehouse.

  “Dixie.” Flynn’s voice was soft and bolstering. “Whatever it is, out with it.”

  Yes. She’d better do just that before she lost her nerve all together.

  “I stole some laudanum from your bag because I wanted to kill Steven with it!” She dropped her eyes closed, not wanting to see the look of disappointment on his face.

  “And did you?” There was an underlying note of panic in the question.

  She shook her head, finally daring to meet his gaze once more. “I couldn’t go through with it. I talked to Parson Clay instead, and he took all the laudanum from me and has been administering it to Steven today.”

  She was surprised to see a soft look of understanding touch Flynn’s expression. “I almost let him die myself, you know.”

  She held her breath and searched his face.

  He nodded. “I know. I’ve never before been tempted to ignore my Hippocratic Oath. But the temptation was sore upon me. Then I realized that despite all the evil he may have done, he’s still God’s creation. And that it wasn’t my place to take his life. But, I want to assure you again, if he lives I’m going to do my very best to see that he comes to justice for all that he did to you and his mother.”

  Dixie swallowed and nodded. “Can you forgive me?”

  Flynn narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps it is I who shoul
d ask you to forgive me. I never should have tasked you with administering such delicate medicines.”

  Dixie cringed. “You did hear me say that I stole some laudanum?”

  He nodded.

  “Before you gave me some, I’d already taken some.”

  “I forgive you. But more importantly, have you asked the Lord to forgive you?”

  She nodded. “I already did. I’ve been running from Him—not hoping in Him—for quite some time now. But those verses you recited to me from Isaiah instilled in me the realization that it wasn’t the Lord who had abandoned me, but I who had abandoned Him.”

  Flynn nodded, then stood. “I’m glad to hear it.” He picked up his hat and clasped the handle of his black doctor bag. “If that was everything, I probably should get across the hall to check on how Steven is doing.”

  Dixie held up one hand. “If I may, there’s one more thing.”

  He waited silently, but tipped his head for her to continue.

  “I really should go in and see him. But I’ve been—well, I wondered if you would mind staying with me when I go in to see him later? I need to get dinner going right now, but after?”

  Flynn nodded. “Certainly.”

  “Thank you.”

  He slipped his hat on and tipped the brim in her direction, then silently left the room.

  Dixie collapsed back against the settee. She’d managed it. And she hadn’t died in the process. She angled a glance toward the ceiling. “Thank you, Lord.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Zane Holloway stood in the hotel room in Beaufort where Steven Pottinger had apparently lived for quite some time. He tapped his hat against his leg and turned a slow rotation in the middle of the room. His belief in Dixie’s story had just increased one hundred-fold, because three days after Pottinger—whom the hotel staff had known as Abraham Johnson—checked out, the maid had found the dead body of a woman, yet unidentified, beneath the bed. Though there really weren’t any clues left to be found, the fact that Pottinger was leaving dead bodies in his wake, proved he had plenty to hide.

  The dead woman had already been buried in a pauper’s grave since no one knew who she was or where she came from.

  Zane would bet he at least knew in which town to start searching for her identity. He lifted the sketch the local officer had commissioned of the woman’s face. Though Zane hadn’t seen her for himself, the artist looked skilled, and he hoped he’d be able to use the sketch to get good information about Pottinger that might clear Rose’s and Dixie’s names.

  Releasing a breath, he tipped his hat back onto his head and tugged it into place. After another futile glance around the room, he decided it was time to head down to Birch Run and have a chat with the sheriff and townsfolk once again. Seemed he’d come full circle on this investigation.

  The train ride took two hours, so he leaned in to the corner of his seat, settled his hat over his eyes, and caught some shuteye.

  By the time he arrived in Birch Run he was feeling almost human again, if a bit gritty-eyed.

  He started at the post office. Everyone had to gather mail at some point, right? What better place to see if the dead woman was from these parts. He unfolded the sketch from his pocket and smoothed out the creases, but he didn’t slide it toward the elderly postmistress yet.

  Instead, he leaned into his heels and smiled at her. In all his years of working the law he’d learned that a little flirting with women—even if they were twice his age—produced a sight more information than if he just got down to business. And the two years he’d been married to Sarah had taught him a good bit about flirting. He swallowed away the melancholy that always came over him at the thought of Sarah. But this time the thought of her was overlaid by the visage of a spunky seamstress with eyes blue enough to remind a man of summer skies on a cloudless day.

  The wrinkled woman before him squirmed and blushed beneath his scrutiny, and Zane realized he was still smiling at her. He cleared his throat and looked down. Turning the sketch so it faced her, he slid it across the counter. “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m US Marshal Zane Holloway, and I wondered if you might recognize this young woman and give me her name?” He dropped his badge onto the counter next to the sketch.

  The woman lifted a pair of spectacles from the counter and unfolded them, then settled them on the bridge of her nose with all the speed of a tortoise. But the moment she focused on the image, she gasped and snatched up the page. Tears immediately burgeoned in her eyes. She stroked a finger over the face on the sketch, as though she might be caressing the face of the deceased in her mind’s eye. “This is Miss Prissy Singleton. She’s been missing for some three weeks now. She used to work here at the post office.” She lifted hopeful eyes. “Do you know where she is?”

  Zane shuffled his feet, mindful of how quickly gossip could spread in a small town like this. He would hate for word to get to the girl’s parents before he could ease the news to them. “Do you know if Miss Singleton had family in the area?” Too late, he realized his use of the past tense might have already given away Miss Singleton’s demise.

  And the matron’s eyes did indeed widen a bit before the tears spilled over. She tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve. “H-her ma and pa run Golden Vittles.” She pointed south. “Just next to the bank.”

  “Thank you. Do you know if Miss Singleton knew Mr. Steven Pottinger?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed this time, and she dabbed slowly at her cheeks with the cloth, then shook her head with a frown. “Mr. Pottinger was shot and presumed killed nigh on two years ago now. What does this have to do with him?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, ma’am.” Zane nodded his thanks and folded up the sketch. With a heavy heart, he stepped back onto the boardwalk. That had been surprisingly easy. Now to see if the girl’s parents knew if she had a connection with Steven.

  It had been ten hours since he had eaten anything, so his stomach rumbled at the tantalizing scents wafting from the kitchen when he stepped into Golden Vittles.

  He settled at a table and plunked his Stetson onto one of the spindles of the chair.

  A middle-aged woman approached with an apron cinched about her thick waist. She plopped pudgy hands against ample hips. “We’ve got batter-fried steak or fried chicken.”

  “Yes. The fried chicken will do. Thank you. And coffee, strong and black, please.”

  With a dip of her chin, she hurried away.

  Zane felt a little guilty not just spilling his knowledge right away. But he wanted to assess the couple first and see what they were like before he gave them the sad news. Not to mention, these conversations were always difficult for him.

  Zane pulled out the sketch of the dead woman and laid it face down on the table.

  When she brought his coffee cup and set it on the table with a distracted smile that he supposed was meant to be welcoming, he caught a glimpse of a troubled mother, hurting over the loss of her child. While he waited for his food, he prayed quietly for the couple. Their lives were about to be changed—had already been changed, even though they didn’t know it yet.

  When the woman brought his plate a few minutes later, he nudged his badge across the table. “Ma’am my name is Zane Holloway, I’m with the US Marshals. Could I have a word with you and your husband, please?”

  Her eyes widened as they bounced from him to the badge and back. “Hank! Get out here!” she called toward the kitchen.

  Zane pushed the picture across the table and turned it over. Though he already knew the answer, he asked anyway. “Can you tell me if you know this woman?”

  With a gasp, she snatched up the sketch, much like the postmistress had done.

  Zane’s heart constricted as he watched her face. She remained quiet for a long time, simply absorbing the sketch. Finally, she pressed the sketch to her chest and blinked up at the pinewood ceiling.

  “So, you know her?” Zane prodded.

  “Yes.” Her hand trembled visibly when she dropped the sketch ba
ck on the table, almost as if she didn’t want to be near it anymore. Her face was so pale, Zane feared she might faint.

  He stood and hurried around the table to pull out a chair for her. “Here. Please sit.”

  She collapsed into the chair and covered her mouth with one hand, still staring at the drawing. “How do you know our Prissy?”

  Before answering that, Zane wanted more information. “When was the last time you saw her, Mrs. Singleton?”

  She didn’t even seem fazed that he knew her name without introduction. “She went to Beaufort three weeks ago and hasn’t returned. Hank went up to look for her but couldn’t find her. Please”—she lifted her eyes to his, tears spilling—“what do you know?”

  A man wearing a grease-stained shirt stretched over his ample middle joined them, drying his hands on a piece of toweling. His gaze took in the sketch, the badge, and his wife’s tears. His Adam’s apple bobbed slowly.

  Zane picked up his badge with a heavy heart. “I’m sorry to inform you that your daughter was found…” He hesitated. Why did these conversations never get easier, no matter how many times he had to share them? He looked the father in the eyes, hoping he could see the sincere regret he was feeling. “She was found murdered in a hotel room in Beaufort.”

  The mother let out a soft mewl and the father yanked out a chair and collapsed into it.

  Zane gave them a moment to gather themselves.

  Finally, Mr. Singleton lifted his face from his hands. “What can you tell us about her death?”

  Zane stalled by taking a slow sip of coffee. If it were his child what would he want to know? He decided on, “It was quick. She likely didn’t even see it coming.”

  The shock must be settling in, because neither parent made a sound.

  Zane cleared his throat and eased in to his next question. “Do either of you know Steven Pottinger?”

  Both looked up, blinking at him confusedly. The father waved a hand. “Used to be mayor of Birch Run. Rumor was, he was shot and killed by his wife a couple years back.”

  Zane’s disappointment mounted. So he wasn’t going to get any answers from them. He’d hoped they might know something useful. Still, he had to try. “Actually, when I left him a few days ago, he was still alive, but I think he may have been the one who shot your daughter.”