Come Back

by Melissa Maygrove

  Of course, he couldn’t. If he could, he’d know she was innocent.

  The first two witnesses scribbled their signatures and left. Next, the man who’d smiled at her stepped up to the desk.

  “What did she steal from you?” Hicks asked.

  His scarred brow shot up. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No. Nothing. That’s what we came to tell you.” He waggled a thumb back and forth between himself and his companion. “George and I traveled with Miss Gar— I mean Mrs. Emerson on the Pittman train. We heard she’d been arrested for theft, and we came to speak on her behalf.”

  Hicks frowned. “Just because she didn’t steal from you, doesn’t mean she’s innocent.”

  “Maybe not.” George said with a mild voice and steady brown eyes. “But she’s a good person. What I saw of her during the trip—she was kind and she helped a lot of people. That ought’a count for something.”

  A ripple of nodding heads and affirming murmurs skimmed over the crowd.

  “He’s right,” one of the men behind him said. “She was willing to help any time she was needed, and did so with nary a complaint. She cooked meals for my family five days in a row when my wife took ill.”

  Seth rose from the bench.

  Becca did likewise. She couldn’t believe her ears.

  “She helped my wife, too,” another man said. Phil. Phil was his name. “When Wilma caught her skirt in the fire, Miss Rebecca tended her wounds and took over her chores. She did all that and sewed my Wilma a brand new skirt without asking anything in return.” He dipped his balding head in Becca’s direction. “We’re mighty grateful, ma’am, much obliged.”

  Becca bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

  “I traded her a box of jelly for some corn,” yet another man said. Liam. “I didn’t know my wife had hidden our money inside. Mrs. Emerson returned the cash to us before Esther even knew it was gone—every last cent.” His eyes sharpened on the sheriff. “I ask you, would a thief do that?”

  A few people near the edge of the group began whispering among themselves and casting glances. The oldest man among them lifted a thin, gnarled finger. “That’s your thief. I’ll swear out a statement against her right now.”

  He was pointing straight at Charlotte.

  “What’s the meaning of this,” Harrison blustered. “My wife didn’t steal anything.”

  “Oh yes she did.” A short, scrappy wisp of a man pushed his way to the edge. “I seen her myself. She took a tin of tea from my wagon. I didn’t report her because I could manage without and I didn’t need no trouble on the train—but she took it. I seen her snatch it with my own two eyes.”

  “Come to think of it,” one of the women said, “I saw her loitering around quite a few wagons.” Murmurs of agreement went up again.

  “I also seen her snooping through the Garvey’s wagon,” the short man added. “She ‘uz friendly with them, so I didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time, but now I wonder.”

  Murdock hooked his thumbs into the belt of his holster. “Better start taking those witness statements, Sheriff. I’m going to need them when I transport Mrs. Bradford.”

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped as far as her husband’s. “Harrison, do something.”

  Harrison pressed his lips together, and fire flashed in his eyes. “You’re not taking my wife anywhere, especially with nothing more than the word of these—these commoners. My father is the mayor—”

  “Save your breath.” Murdock nudged his lapel aside, exposing his badge. “I don’t answer to you.”

  Harrison’s mouth gaped again, and then it clamped shut. His jaw bulged, and squiggly veins popped out along his temple.

  Hicks held up two papers. “What about the signed statements accusing Mrs. Emerson?”

  Murdock stared at them for a moment. “Send those, too.”

  Becca’s heart sank.

  “If,” he continued, “the complainants will stick with their stories, when pressed, and their travel with the train can be verified.”

  The sheriff looked to Harrison.

  He scrunched his lips into an annoyed knot, then sighed and gave a small shake of his head.

  Murdock grunted.

  Charlotte’s peachy skin turned the hue of used wash water. Next to her husband’s florid face, the peaked shade of gray looked almost white.

  A scruffy young man emerged from the crowd, dressed in a tattered blue shirt and pants covered with worn leather chaps. Piercing blue eyes peered from under shaggy brown, hat-dented hair and over a moustache and beard that looked no less unkempt.

  Murdock’s eyes narrowed on the newcomer.

  Charlotte’s eyes widened, twin black dots expanding to fill the green, and she grew even paler.

  After a cursory glance around the room, the man headed for the sheriff’s desk, his gate rolling and easy, and his spurs clinking as he walked. “I’d like to add my statement, too,” he drawled with a heavy Georgian accent.

  Hicks threw an uneasy glance at Harrison. “I think we have enough witnesses from the Pittman train.”

  “I’m not from the train. And Mrs. Bradford’s crimes on the trail are the least of her worries.”

  “Really,” Murdock said. “How’s that?”

  “She hired me to get rid of these folks.” He gestured to Becca and Seth. “Wanted me to lay in wait and ambush them, then dispose of the bodies.”

  A collective gasp came from the crowd as Becca’s breath froze in her lungs.

  “You can’t trust what he says,” Charlotte blurted. “That man’s a criminal.”

  “No, ma’am.” The corners of the newcomer’s mouth twitched with a smile that was trying to break free. “I just look like one.”

  Murdock lifted his chin in Charlotte’s direction. “Take her into custody, would you, Josh?”

  “J—what?” she sputtered. “You know him?”

  “Yup. Hired him myself, as a matter of fact. He’s my deputy.”

  Harrison looked on the verge of apoplexy. “You can’t arrest her for murder. She didn’t kill anyone!”

  “That’s true,” Murdock said, “but we have her on theft. That’s enough to get her in front of the judge.”

  His deputy smirked. “Maybe we should save ourselves some time, John. We could turn her over to the mob outside and let them decide what to do with her.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Charlotte screeched. “You can’t put my fate in the hands of those people!”

  “Why not?” Josh said evenly. “It was good enough for Mr. Cantwell.”

  Charlotte sucked her outrage back in on a gasp.

  A couple of the men from the train lowered their gazes. Becca didn’t draw attention to it, though. They had come to her aid. That was penance enough.

  Josh kept his eyes trained on Charlotte as he slowly circled her, like a cat stalking a grounded bird. “You thought you got away with that, didn’t you? I know quite a lot, Mrs. Bradford. Ever since you approached me two days ago, I’ve been doing some snooping of my own. It’s amazing the things a man can discover if he asks the right questions.”

  Murdock’s cheek creased, adding a look of annoyance to the permanent grimace he wore. “I wondered where you were when you didn’t meet back up with me,” he grumbled. “I coulda used your help with Cooley.”

  “I know.” Josh flicked a grin at his boss. “But when this prim and proper lady, in her East Coast clothes and her five-dollar shoes, lured me into the shadows and beseeched me to commit a double murder, I figured you’d want me to turn over a few rocks and see what crawled out.”

  Murdock grunted again.

  Josh clasped his hands behind his back and kept circling. The slow, steady clank of his spurs rang like a knell, and Charlotte’s shoulders twitched with each step. “Here’s what I think happened. I think you wanted something that belonged to Miss Garvey, but as long as she was around, you couldn’t have it. When you discovered an avalanche had blocked the path, you saw your chance.

>   “Tell me, Charlotte,” he said, leaning in near her ear. “Did you tingle inside when you told her the rocks were going to take all day to clear? Did you enjoy the shiver of danger when you lied?” He leaned a breath closer. “Of course, you did.”

  Harrison bristled. “Stop insulting my wife.”

  “Shut up.” The deputy resumed his methodical pacing. “All you had to do was get Miss Garvey left behind. You knew the train was splitting up. Even if she ran after it, she wouldn’t know which way to go.

  “And by concealing her absence until the next day, thus altering the location of the search, you made sure the scouts’ efforts were useless.”

  Charlotte moistened her lips and shifted uneasily.

  “Your fellow travelers never put the pieces together.” He tapped his head. “But I did.”

  Josh turned his eyes on Becca. His brow dipped and his gaze eased at the sight of her tears. When he focused on Charlotte again, his body hardened like that of a predator. “Those people aren’t stupid,” he told her, “just misled and distracted. You made sure of that.

  “First, you had to keep them from missing Miss Garvey too soon. The story you told her mother—that she’d gone to help Mrs. Godfrey with her children—was perfect, wasn’t it? Telling her that, and saying Rebecca had gone to bed early, kept her from looking for her daughter for nearly a whole day. Then, while everyone was out searching, you went to work hiding Rebecca’s things in Melvin Cantwell’s wagon, throwing them off your trail.”

  The deputy stopped in front of her and glared, just inches from her nose. “You must have a godforsaken pit where your heart should be. You left an innocent girl to die, and then you cast suspicion on an honest man and said nothing when you could have spared his life. You had best hit your knees tonight and pray for the fate of your worthless soul.”

  “You’re wrong about me,” Charlotte cried. “I didn’t know they planned to kill Mr. Cantwell. I thought they were just going to beat him up—you know—teach him a lesson. And I didn’t leave Rebecca to die. I made sure she had a canteen and a knife. I even left some of her rations behind so she’d have food.”

  Becca clapped a hand to her mouth.

  Charlotte turned her pleading eyes on her. “Why did you stay there, Becca? I never meant for you to stay. You were supposed to get rescued. All you had to do was ask for a ride with someone on the next train.”

  “You didn’t mean for her to die,” Josh said from beyond Charlotte’s far shoulder.

  “No. Never.”

  “That’s why you hired me to kill her.”

  Charlotte snapped her eyes to him, quivering.

  “Time to go, Mrs. Bradford,” Murdock interjected. “I suggest you change into something more comfortable. We’ve got a long ride.”

  She grabbed the sleeve of her husband’s coat with both hands. “Harrison, do something.”

  He shook free, his face stiff and his eyes glacial. “I’ll have the maid bring you your traveling clothes.”

  Charlotte whimpered as if he’d struck her.

  She spun her head around so fast, her hat tipped sideways and some of her fiery curls tore free. “Look what you’ve done,” she spat. “Miss Rebecca’s so kind, Miss Rebecca’s so good—you’re nothing but a glorified peasant.”

  Her wild eyes suddenly narrowed and raked Seth up and down. Charlotte fixed her gaze on Becca and curved her lips into a wicked smile. “It’s fitting you ended up with a penniless drifter. You wouldn’t know what to do with a rich man anyway.”

  Becca reached for Seth’s hand and found a fist. She rubbed the bulging muscles of his arm with her fingers. As Josh brought Charlotte’s hands together and bound her wrists with rope, the lumps began to soften.

  One by one, the witnesses began writing their statements.

  A man who had squeezed in the door earlier with the crush of people removed his hat. When he turned and straightened to his full height, Becca’s heart clenched. Nathan. She was wholly devoted to her husband, but she would never forget her first love.

  Seth’s arm snaked possessively around her waist, and she was glad for it. Her wobbly legs had grown so weak, she feared they’d give out.

  Nathan scanned the room until he found her. A slurry of emotions churned in his cobalt eyes—the most notable of which was pain. Whether it arose from seeing her wronged or seeing her with another man, she wasn’t sure.

  Seth tightened his grip and lifted his chin, drawing Nathan’s attention to him.

  Nathan’s lids lowered briefly. When they opened again, pain had given way to resignation and wordless appeal. He didn’t have to say a thing. The message take care of her was heartrendingly clear.

  Becca’s throat burned with bittersweet pride as Nathan made his way through the crowd. He stood tall and self-assured, like a single sunflower amidst a field of wheat.

  “Mr. Murdock.” His rich baritone infused the room as he extended his hand. “My name is Nathan Keating,” he said as the marshal gave a cursory shake. “I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Emerson. I traveled with the Pittman train.”

  “You’ll need to give your statement to the Sheriff.”

  “I will.” Nathan reached into his coat pocket. “But first I’d like to give you this.” He handed Murdock a small card. “My uncle is a senator. Everything needed to contact him is there. I’m sure he’d be grateful if you passed this on to the federal judge.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “My uncle has been working to gain support for a change of law—a bill that would expand the felony statue to include solicitation of murder. Mrs. Bradford’s case would be perfect for his cause.”

  Murdock smiled for the first time since he’d arrived. He slid his hand under the lapel of his jacket and tucked the card away. “Thank you, Mr. Keating. I’ll see that he gets it.”

  Nathan cut his eyes to Charlotte. The brokenness that had muted them earlier was gone. His humanity was still there, but it was eclipsed by the cold precision of justice.

  As witnesses signed their statements, they trickled over to wish Becca well. Nathan caught her eye again, but only to exchange a small smile before leaving. Anything more would have been too painful, for both of them. Becca watched him go, and then she tamped down her grief and gave her supporters the gracious reception they deserved.

  When the crowd finally thinned, a faintly familiar man approached them with tentative steps and his hat in his hands. “Miss Gar—” He nodded in deference to Seth. “Beg your pardon. Mrs. Emerson.” He had a deep voice that made Becca think of moss-covered gravel and weathered gray eyes that had seen at least twice as many years as hers. Wrinkles fanned out from their corners like cracks in drought-hardened farmland.

  “You may not remember me,” he continued. “My name is Frank Sanders. I traveled a few wagons back from yours in the train.”

  “I remember you, Mr. Sanders. How have you been?”

  “Very well, ma’am. Thank you for asking. I don’t wish to impose on your courtesy, but I have some information I think you might want.” His eyes twinkled as his lips lifted into a smile. “I know where your parents are.”

  As soon as they rounded the curve leading to the house, Seth knew they’d found the right place. The sharp rise of Becca’s chest and the tremble of her lips told of recognition—not of the house, but of something resting on its porch. Whatever the object was, her eyes were locked on it.

  The modest farmhouse stood eerily still. A straight-back chair and two rockers sat to the left of the door, and a water barrel to the right. Other than that and curtains barely visible through dingy windows, the place was bare. No rose bushes adorned the yard like the ones in Becca’s drawings of her childhood home, only a weed-riddled vegetable garden that had succumbed to winter.

  Seth drew the wagon to a stop and surveyed the rest of the property. The barn and the fields weren’t much better. If not for the presence of livestock, he’d have thought the place abandoned.

  He dismounted the wagon and helped Becca
down. “It’ll be all right,” he assured, planting a kiss on her temple and taking her hand in his.

  The barn door opened. A man came out and headed in their direction. He wasn’t Becca’s father—he was too young—but he held his shoulders square and strode with authority.

  Seth raised a hand in greeting and the man did likewise, stopping a few feet away, his expression guarded.

  “I’m Seth Emerson and this is my wife.”

  “Ma’am.” The man tipped his hat, his face softening. It hardened again as he returned his attention to Seth. “Augustus Lassiter. What can I do for ya?”

  “We’re looking for Levi and Martha Garvey. Have we found the right place?”

  Augustus frowned, his mouth matching the curve of his horseshoe-shaped moustache. “You might’ve. What do you want?”

  “We want to speak with them. My wife is their daughter.”

  The man’s thick brows lifted to the brim of his hat. He narrowed his eyes and studied Becca.

  “Well,” Seth said. “Is this the Garvey’s place or not?”

  “It is,” Augustus finally admitted, still eyeing her. “Stay here.” He walked over to a small shack near the paddock and stuck his head inside. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and shifted on his feet. A few moments later, he backed away.

  Becca made a strangled noise when her father emerged. Her grip tightened as he crossed the yard.

  The corners of Levi’s mouth drew down. At first it looked like a scowl, but as he neared, the quiver of his lips and the sheen in his eyes made it clear the man was struggling to control his emotions.

  “Pa?” The word was spoken so softly, Seth wondered if Levi heard it.

  He had. His arms lifted, and shaky, work-worn hands turned out in welcome.

  Becca let go and moved toward her father with tentative steps. Her steps quickly gained strength, and she ran to him with the candid devotion of a little girl.

  Home. She was finally home.

  Becca buried her face in her father’s coat and filled her lungs with the smell of hay and leather and tobacco, all the things she associated with him. “Pa...”