by Gem Sivad
"My association with Frank Rossiter ended some time ago, Sheriff Potter. I received a note from him this afternoon, demanding that I meet him in the alley by the saloon this evening."
She reached in her pocket and pulled out the note, scrawled in Frank's elegant penmanship. It had been delivered by the old woman who lived in the shack next to hers.
Frank had been sure she'd follow him and in the note told her where to go.
Jewel, if you want the return of your valuables, meet me at dusk behind the saloon in Eclipse. Do not defy me in this or your treasure is gone.
An ugly brown stain of dried blood spread across the bottom edge of the paper.
Hiram Potter's frown changed.
"I understand that you and your husband were parted, but you'll need to tell me what you know about his killing anyway. Did he have anything else to say before I arrived?"
Sheriff Potter's question presumed that she would tell him Frank's whispered last words. She attributed that to her explanation and his memories of the gambler's unsavory stay in Eclipse.
Back alleys and shady companions had been Frank Rossiter's natural habitat. He spied on people, found their secrets, and then persuaded them to pay him to keep his mouth shut about them.
Jewel was not surprised that an unknown killer had finally ended her partner and husband's scheming and cheating. But murder was a hanging offense, so she shifted her gaze to the floor.
"Sheriff Potter," she continued quietly. "Anyone could have stabbed Frank Rossiter.
He was a card cheat and a drunk. He didn't scruple who he bilked, and if he couldn't steal a man's money in a poker game, he'd hide in the shadows and rob him of it afterward."
When she glanced up to see how her words had been received, the sheriff gave her a funny look, so she added, "I left him because of his criminal activities."
That is certainly true. His criminal ways got him killed, and I saw it coming. Frank was a greedy fool and tried to squeeze the wrong mark.
Jewel tried to school her face to grief since the sheriff thought she should be grieving over the gambler's death, but presenting a picture of sorrow for the sheriff's benefit wasn't possible.
I owe someone a debt of gratitude, but right now I need to be on my way. The sheriff can't be allowed to take up too much time. Frank said the girls are with family. Family means Ma Siler at the edge of town.
Jewel's panic threatened the harsh veneer of calm she maintained.
Once that horrible old witch hears that Frank is dead, she'll not keep the girls long.
Oh, God, she'll slip them laudanum if they cry.
Three and a half years of beatings and rough treatment had shown Frank's true character. When she'd realized she was pregnant, Jewel had been afraid to tell him, though it had been his drunken assault that had caused it.
He hadn't even looked up from shaving, scraping the razor over his jaw, but he'd still scented her fear like a fox after a rabbit. "Get rid of it."
He'd grabbed a towel and wiped the residue of shaving cream from his face and calmly buttoned on his shirt.
"I mean it, Jewel. There's no place in our lives for a squalling brat. Get rid of it. Ma Siler, at the edge of town, will take care of it. Go see her."
And then he'd gone to play poker and left the details of clean-up for her. So she'd lied and told him it was done, lacing her corsets tighter until she was well into her sixth month. It wasn't a condition hard to hide from Frank. He saw what he wanted to see—the mark. It was her job to distract and make vulnerable the prey.
He'd been so mad when he'd figured it out. But even the beating he'd administered hadn't shaken them loose. Her babies had survived. Now they were with the very woman who would have ended their lives.
Panic constricted her lungs as she considered asking the sheriff to get her twins from the hag. But before she could, he asked about Frank's business ventures.
"Uh, rumor has it, Miz Rossiter, that you and your husband have had some shady dealings here in Eclipse. Would you be able to list the folks who might have a grudge against him?"
So, my dealings were shady too. The irony of that almost brought a sharp correction.
It definitely confirmed her decision to keep quiet about the twins. Besides, there was no telling what Ma Siler would do to them if the sheriff rode up to her door.
"What do you want me to say, Sheriff Potter? I've already explained. My husband and I were apart. He took"—she paused and licked her lips, anxiety marring the calm demeanor she strove to present—"he took certain of my most valuable possessions in an attempt to force me to his will."
That was not a lie, but even so, she looked at her hands, avoiding the gaze of the lawman. For the first time, she noticed Frank's blood staining them. Bile rose from her empty stomach, and she covered her mouth with an almost clean spot on her sleeve, trying to stave off the ripples of nausea that threatened.
"Here now," the sheriff said sharply. "Maybe you should fix yourself up before we talk anymore."
Jewel sucked in a gulp of air trying to quell her roiling stomach and agreed eagerly.
"Please, yes. I need to get out of these bloody clothes."
She thrust her wrist at him where a patch of red was turning rusty on her sleeve. The bosom of her only dress clung to her, wet with blood and other matter.
Sheriff Potter stood up quickly and said, "I'll walk you to your room to get your things."
She didn't want him hanging around. Jewel looked at him, grimly measuring his dedication to job and town.
If servicing the sheriff would get her free, she'd pull up her skirts. Four years of hard living and taught her to use any weapon available.
She studied the sheriff. But she'd assessed the character of men frequently enough to know it was an offer better not made. I need to get on my way.
Besides, she wasn't staying at the hotel. She'd had no money for a room when she arrived in Eclipse and had stashed her canvas bag holding her few possessions in the alley where Frank had been killed.
"That's all right, Sheriff Potter. I can find my way back to the hotel."
"No, ma'am," was his quick reply. "There seems to be a number of folks who think your husband owed them money. One way and another, it wouldn't be safe for you to stay at the hotel alone."
He took her arm and started off toward the flophouse up the street that doubled as a hotel until she admitted, "I don't have a room there."
Her words seemed to make up his mind about something, and he tightened his grip on her arm, and set a brisk pace walking in the same direction. "Where are we going?"
She panted her question as his long strides half-dragged her down the boarded walk.
"I'm taking you to Comfort's Boarding House. It's at the end of the street. You probably saw it on your way into town. There are women there." He paused and for the first time seemed awkwardly unsure. "You probably need to have the company of females around you at a time like this."
Jewel was surprised. She hadn't figured Sheriff Potter for a sensitive man.
"I doubt if the ladies of Eclipse will appreciate you bringing them a woman of questionable virtue any time, but especially after they most certainly have gone to bed,"
she warned him dryly.
But, it didn't matter. The boarding house was closer to the stable. She'd tied her borrowed horse to the hitching rack behind the building, and as soon as the sheriff left, so would she.
Chapter Two
Her plan changed as soon as the sheriff pounded on the front door of Comfort's Boarding House. The owner, Comfort Quince, answered, and late as it was, the woman was dressed and alert. "Hamilton here, Comfort?"
She nodded at the lawman's question and ushered them inside, speaking to Jewel.
"You look like you've had a spell of trouble. Come on to the wash room. I've always got water heating. You can bathe and put on something more fit."
Jewel wondered at that. The woman acted like strays off the street commonly knocked on her front door. A
man stepped into the hall and inspected Jewel with his stare. She edged from his sight, standing between Mrs. Quince and Hiram Potter.
Her stomach tightened convulsively as her hostess led her down the hall, approaching the man who still silently watched. At the last moment, before Mrs. Quince brushed past, he stepped back into the room he had been occupying, closing that door with a click.
Jewel volunteered nothing, following her hostess to the bathing room. What would she say? Excuse my mess. I have my husband's blood all over me.
She felt guilty taking the time to wash, but the bath water was hot, and there were assorted soaps and scented oils on a chair beside it. Frank's dead. She'd have liked to savor the truth of her freedom, but hurried instead, pushing away memory of blood and last words.
Jewel concentrated on scrubbing her skin till it was pink, carefully soaping tender flesh, before rinsing and rising from the still-warm water to dress.
She used the towel her hostess had left, binding it tightly around her breasts that were already leaking milk, desperately in need of release. Then, since her dress was ruined, and her canvas bag of possessions still remained hidden in the alley, she dressed in the garments Comfort Quince had left for her.
The underclothes were finer than any Jewel had owned for a long time, but she pulled on the stockings and chemise reluctantly, not wanting to take what she couldn't return.
The soft cloth caressed her clean skin, reminding her that exquisite luxury could be had for a price. But it was a price she'd been unwilling to pay, and Frank's pursuit of such had gotten him killed.
When she stepped into the gray dress that buttoned up the front, it fit surprisingly well, other than the tight pressure across her swollen breasts and the three inches of extra cloth that dragged the ground. Her hostess was a taller woman than Jewel's five and a half feet.
She tried not to see the mottled bruise on her cheek. Now that she'd washed away the powder she'd slapped on before coming to Eclipse, the marks of Frank's fist were obvious.
She eased out of the wash-up room and headed for the back door, but she was met there by the sheriff, who seemed to be expecting her. He took her arm and escorted her back up the hallway where the rumble of male voices interrupted the night's quiet.
"Thank you, ma'am," Jewel said to Comfort Quince, who stood by the entrance, listening to the conversation in the room. "I appreciate the use of your bathing facility."
Then in an unusual burst of candor she added, "Recent events have interfered with my travel. I will be gone as quickly as possible. Please forgive my late-night intrusion."
The elegant woman nodded at her as though she did understand.
Inside the parlor, Jewel discovered that Hiram Potter and two other men were waiting for her to return from her bath. Sheriff Potter pointed at the broad-shouldered rancher, seated on the couch. "Hamilton Quince, ma'am."
Jewel murmured a halfhearted greeting and turned, following the sheriff as he continued making introductions as though conducting a bizarre social hour. Inevitably they reached the stranger who had stood in the hallway inspecting her earlier.
"Miz Rossiter, this man is Grady Hawks. Mr. Hawks owns Hawks Nest Ranch, a piece of land that stretches over a sizeable piece of ground and reaches high into the mountains." Sheriff Potter seemed to ramble without a point.
What possible difference does it matter to me if Grady Hawks owns half of Texas?
Jewel tried to school her derisive thoughts when the man who was being introduced stepped forward.
Even though she was surrounded by the safety of civilization, she recognized brutal power and edged away. He spoke to her, and his voice compelled her to look directly at him, proving that she was right.
His personal tone surprised her as much as his apparent interest in her well-being.
The stranger ignored the others in the room and held her gaze, looking her over as though for damage. "Are you hurt?"
She had a moment of deja vu, remembering a stranger asking the same question years before, only that time, Frank had been alive and bleeding in the dirt. "Do I know you?"
"We met at the Eclipse Fall Social awhile back. Remember?"
She caught her breath, and looked at him closer. Of course. Her cheek ached just thinking about the public slap that Frank Rossiter had delivered when she'd tracked him down and found him at the dance.
She hadn't really known her husband then, although they'd been married long enough that ignorance had been a personal choice. He'd stolen the last of her money—money she'd brought with her when they'd married three months before—and money she'd planned to use to return, contrite and humbled, to her mother and stepfather.
The innocent girl who had been Julie Fulton had fumbled the bottom from her music box—the hiding place for the money she'd set aside from her inheritance as soon as she realized that Frank was determined to gamble it all away. When she'd discovered the money gone, she'd been furious and determined to get it back even if she had to embarrass him in public.
She should have known better—Frank had already proven himself beyond shame many times. He'd punched her in the face in front of a crowd of people. No one had protested or come to her aid until this man had grabbed Frank and shoved him out the door, with an excited crowd of half-drunk men following.
Jewel assessed the man who had played the gallant that day, the way she would have had he stood on her shanty stoop to hire her laundry service today. His clothes were well made, his hat was a Stetson, and his gun belt wrapped around his waist anchored his gun in place, ready to draw if needed.
It was obvious he was a man who could pay to have his clothes washed, ironed, and delivered. But, then, Frank had looked like that too. If Grady Hawks had knocked on her door seeking her laundry services, she wouldn't have answered.
He frightened her. Frank had worn his public veneer of civilization like a well-fitted coat, hiding his violence for private, unwitnessed moments. This man didn't bother to hide his savage nature; his gaze tracked her like a predator stalking prey.
There was more afoot than a gambler's debt settled. The last evening she'd spent in Frank's company, he'd put together a private game of poker in their suite so she could make sure his luck continued. Indian land ownership had been the topic of discussion, and Frank had listened avidly.
The consensus had been that the local families of mixed blood, who still controlled large sections of Texas grassland, would lose them. So, Jewel suspected that Grady Hawks, an Indian who owned a sizeable ranch, was one of the men being talked about.
Not until his slate gray eyes met her own green ones in a stare-down, did she realize that he was part white.
Sheriff Potter cleared his throat uncomfortably and said to the room at large. "It appears someone would like to plant the idea in everyone's head that Mr. Hawks killed your husband. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Miz Rossiter?"
I've got to get out of here and to the twins. Ma Siler might … Jewel forced down panic. She couldn't let her mind dwell on that, or she'd start screaming.
Ma Siler wouldn't scruple at disposing of them when they became an inconvenience, and the swell of undelivered milk in Jewel's breasts reminded her that the babies were already hungry.
Jewel wanted to snap at the sheriff, but she put on her befuddled expression instead.
Most men seemed inclined to believe all women stupid, and as a defense, pretending to not comprehend worked more often than not.
"I don't believe I understand your question, Sheriff Potter." And for once, that was the truth. I don't know Grady Hawks from a hill of beans, but if he killed Frank, I hope he gets away with it. "Why would you think Mr. Hawks implicated in the murder of my husband? There are at least a hundred men who have been cheated, extorted, or beaten in a back alley by Frank Rossiter and his cronies. Was Mr. Hawks one of them?"
The sheriff motioned toward the elegant cherry table that decorated the room. A knife with a long blade and a fancy, wrapped handle lay there. S
he stepped closer, to peer more intently at it.
"That's the knife that Frank was wearing." Jewel paused and then looked away, catching Comfort Quince's sympathetic gaze. "In his chest," she added for explanation.
The blade was still bloodstained.
"That knife belongs to Hawks." The sheriff nodded at the dark-skinned man who stared at her from slate gray eyes.
"Well, arrest him if he stabbed Frank. But I'm not a witness. I didn't see who used the knife." For a minute the picture of Frank's chest rising and falling and the blade's handle sticking out with blood bubbling fresh from the wound, resurfaced in her mind.
She stared hard at Grady Hawks. "Did you kill my husband?"
She was prepared to thank him, if that proved to be so. She knew that he was interested in her; hard gray eyes followed her movements, assessing her.
He also tracked the position of every man in the room. His impassive stare neither denied nor took credit for Frank's death.
"Trouble is, ma'am…" Hiram Potter's tone was deferential. It had been a while since Jewel had been treated with respect, and his tone caused her to look suspiciously at the sheriff. "Grady was here at Comfort's Boarding House all evening talking business with Hamilton Quince. There's a whole house full of people who saw him."
"Well, then, someone else used his knife to kill Frank." She felt as though she was talking to the weak-minded. What do they want? Does the sheriff think I stabbed Frank?
Impatience replaced politeness as the clock on the wall indicated her need to hurry.
Jewel let her eyes flicker to the stranger since he seemed to be the reason she was being detained. Blue-black hair cut short, dark brows that framed light gray eyes—eyes that were piercing, cold, and direct.
His skin wasn't really brown; it was more bronze, or copper. When their glances crossed, rather than meet his gaze, she looked down, trying for submissive.
Jewel had learned that by not making eye contact with men, a woman could sometimes avoid unpleasantness. But not this time—he stalked toward her, and she felt the chill of dread.
He was dressed like every other man in the room, in ranch denim and work boots.