Damn, but he hadn't seen this coming.
Bill was laid out on the doc's table, looking as dead as pan-fried steak. Doc Carr was ripping off what was left of Tucker's shirt and laying it aside for his examination.
"Don't take a doctor to see what's killed him," Malcolm snapped. "I didn't become a doctor to stick my fingers into a dead body."
"Then find another line," Jack said, equally sharp. "We need someone who knows what he's doing to check things out."
"He's dead!" Carr stormed.
"How? What went first?" Jack snarled back. "Did the knife get to his heart? Is that how he went? Or was it the gutting itself, did he bleed to death?"
"What does it matter? He's dead," Carr said stonily.
"It's not easy to get the heart, lots of bone in the way. That tells us something. He was gutted, that's for sure, but was his breastbone cut through? Did that knife hack at bone? Takes a strong arm for that. Can you tell which came first, the gut or the throat? Where's there the most blood? It all matters, it all tells us something, maybe something about the killer."
"You seem to know a lot about dead bodies," Malcolm Carr said.
"Yeah, well, I should, I've seen enough of 'em," Jack replied without apology.
The doc closed his mouth with a snap and bent to his "patient."
"Throat first, looks like," Blakes said, bending over Tucker.
"Didn't mar his face," Grey said.
"What difference does that make? Dead is dead," Carr said.
"Whoever did it didn't care that anyone would know it was Tucker that was found," Lane said. "Could have sliced him up and made it tough to know who it was."
"Maybe he wanted us to know," Jack said.
"Throat first," Lane said, "is easier if you have some height Tucker was a big man."
"So not a woman," Grey said.
"A woman? Why would a woman—" Carr said.
"Women have their reasons to kill," Blakes said.
"Throat first," Lane said, "so the rest was for sport. Or revenge."
"Them guts laying out," Grey said, "that tells me it was personal. Doc? Are them guts cut or whole?"
The doctor kept his commentary to himself and examined the cavity. "Whole."
"That means that they were lifted out with hands, not pulled out with a knife. Very personal."
* * *
Anne made a special trip to talk to Reverend Holt. He didn't seem surprised to see her. That in itself was plain embarrassing.
"Good day to you, Mrs. Scullard," he said with a smile.
"Good morning, Reverend Holt. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
"Of course not. I'm always happy to talk to you. How are you faring today?"
"Oh, fine," she said weakly.
"Has anyone yet told you...?"
"Oh, yes, I know about Bill. I feel just terrible about it. So guilty," she said, resisting the need to wring her hands.
"Guilty?" he said. "Sit down, Anne, and you tell me why you would have anything to feel guilty about. You can't mean that you feel responsible for Bill's death?"
Anne settled herself in the upholstered chair that faced the reverend's desk and clasped her hands in her lap; she had the look of a penitent pilgrim.
"I do. I do feel responsible," she gasped out. "Oh, Reverend, you don't know what I did, the awful, sinful things I did."
Holt sat down behind his desk and leaned across it, his big arms almost covering the desktop.
"Tell me. I'll listen."
"I provoked him, provoked him as often as I could."
"Bill?"
"No, not Bill. Jack."
Holt frowned and rubbed a hand across his chin. "What does Jack have to do with it?"
"I kept... kissing him," she whispered.
"Bill?" he asked on a high note.
"No, Jack."
"You are saying that you kept kissing Jack and that it provoked... Bill?"
"No, Jack," she said on a sigh. This confession was impossible. The reverend didn't seem to be following her at all.
"Why would Jack be provoked by your kissing him? Are you saying that he didn't like it? But that can't be so since he married you. Anne, really, just tell me straight out so I can make sense of what you're saying."
"I liked Jack, but Bill was my beau," she said, feeling like a Jezebel, "so I sort of... courted Jack, kissing him and such, and then I used Jack to sort of force Bill off, which made Bill mad and Jack got mad about that, too. I'm sure Jack wouldn't have asked me to marry him if Bill hadn't been about to do it himself. And then Bill and Jack had a fight, which they couldn't help but have what with the way I'd played them against each other, and Jack said he'd kill Bill. And now Bill's dead," she finished in a rush of breath, her eyes pleading for understanding and forgiveness.
"You believe Jack killed Bill?" Holt asked, his own eyes wide with horror. But Anne mistook the cause. "You believed he was capable of it all along, didn't you?"
She nodded, uncertain where the reverend was going.
"Anne Ross Scullard," he thundered, "you willingly married a man you believe capable of cold and ruthless murder?"
Was that what she'd done? She didn't answer because the reverend was building to a fine outrage.
"I would never have married you to any man I thought capable of such a thing. Yes, I know Jack Scullard's reputation and yes, I know the gossip, but killing in the line of duty is one thing and murder is something else again. And I can tell you one thing, if you sort the wheat from the chaff, you'll find that Jack is not a man to resort to murder, no matter how provoked."
"But everyone is saying—"
"Anne, you're a grown woman, or I never would have married you, but you've got to stop turning with the whim of the crowd. Do you have evidence of brutality in Jack?"
She thought of last night and all the days before when he'd been gentle and patient and protective. "No," she whispered, "but Miss Daphne always says, "Lean not on your own understanding.""
"I know the line well," he said briskly. "Would you like to know what the whole verse says?"
Before she had a chance to answer, his Bible was on his desk, flipped to the page, and pushed over to her. With a finger he pointed to the line while he recited from memory.
"Proverbs, Chapter three, verses five and six:
"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart,
And lean not unto thine own understanding.
In all thy ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall direct thy paths.'"
Anne read the lines with him. It was nothing like what she'd been taught all her life. She'd been instructed that she was a foolish child, given to acts of reckless disobedience, and that she had to lean upon the wisdom of her grandmother, not of God. Some days, she thought that God would have been an easier taskmaster.
"Do you understand this verse, Anne?" Reverend Holt asked. "Do you see that what you have been doing is leaning on your own understanding? You listen to Powell, to McShay, to Sheriff Lane, to Miss Daphne, but do you listen to God? Have you ever asked Him which path He has for you? He's the only one you can listen to and trust, Anne, because He's the only one who knows everything and who truly has your best interests at heart."
No, she had never thought to ask God... for anything. She went to church twice weekly, sat and listened to the sermons, participated in the ladies' circle, and tried not to make anybody mad at her; that's what she did, all of what she did. She had stopped talking to God right after her father had left her; she'd prayed once, hard, for God to bring her daddy back. But God hadn't done it and so she'd stopped asking for anything. Not because she was mad at God, but because she was learning that what she wanted didn't matter and that nothing she did, no matter what prayer she whispered in the dark of her bedroom or how good she was, changed that.
She had never trusted the Lord with all her heart. The only thing she'd done with all her heart was be afraid.
"Anne," he said gently, "do you love Jack? Beyond the passion that God crea
ted as surely as He created everything else?"
Did she love Jack? She didn't want to love Jack; loving Jack would make everything all the harder. Why didn't he ask if Jack loved her? That would be easier to answer because she knew he didn't. He'd never spoken of love, he'd only spoken of kisses, of passion. She didn't want to love a man who didn't love her. Not again.
"I don't know," she answered.
"Why?"
"I don't think I want to love," she said, lifting her chin and staring into the reverend's large brown eyes. She half expected a rebuke. She got a smile.
"Love is a choice, Anne. Always," he said. "It's not earned, but given, and never to anybody who deserves it."
"I didn't say he didn't deserve it," she said, lifting her brows. Reverend or not, she wasn't going to let him insult Jack.
"No, you didn't." He smiled. "And didn't you vow, just yesterday, to love him all the days of your life, as well as to honor and obey? How's it going?" He had a huge grin on his face. She smiled back and relaxed in her chair.
"A bit rocky," she said.
"Usually is," he said.
"Really? Did you and Constance ever—?"
"All the time." He grinned. "The first year she must have cried once a week and I left the house in a rage just as often."
"You seem so happy now."
"We are. We worked it all out. I'd come back, she'd stop crying, and then we'd start talking."
He'd come back. It all rested on that. But Jack would leave and he wouldn't come back. No matter what anybody said.
"Anne," the reverend said, coming around from his desk and taking her by the hand, "'...love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.' Honor your marriage vows to Jack; he doesn't deserve any less."
"He'll leave me," she said, not quite aware she had spoken the words out loud.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"No, you only know that you believe he will. Give him a chance to fulfill the vow he gave you, the vow to love, honor, and cherish. A man doesn't leave someone he cherishes."
But he didn't cherish her, did he? That was the whole trouble; she didn't know. She didn't know what love was supposed to look like in a man. But she wanted to believe that if anyone could show her, it would be Jack. Maybe that was something.
* * *
After a tearful hug in the bearlike embrace of Reverend Holt, Anne started home. She had a lot to think about and she wasn't in any hurry to get where she was headed; Miss Daphne always had a pile of work to be done and she just needed some quiet time to ponder all that the reverend had said, especially about that verse, "Lean not unto thine own understanding." She hoped she had the guts to tell Miss Daphne that she knew the whole verse now.
She didn't have long to ponder; the streets were busy, everyone sharing the news about the murder. She didn't want to think about the murder anymore, much less talk about it, since it would only force her to defend Jack and she wasn't sure she could do that right now. She was flat exhausted.
"Good morning, Anne Scullard!" Martha O'Shaughnessy called out as she walked toward her from the mercantile. "How does it feel to be a married woman?"
She obviously hadn't heard about Bill's murder or she wouldn't have asked what it felt like to be married to the town's top suspect.
"It feels just fine, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy," Anne said, smiling politely.
"Anne Scullard," Martha repeated under her breath and then her breath caught in her throat and she reached out for Anne.
"Are you all right, Martha?" Anne asked, taking her basket of packages. "Do you need to sit?"
"No," she gasped, then grinned. "I knew that name was familiar. I kept telling Shaughn and he kept waving me off, but I'm not likely to forget that name, now, am I? No, things like that don't happen often, praise the Lord."
"Amen," Anne murmured, completely lost as to Martha's meaning.
"I'm so glad he turned out well after such a bad start. I had my doubts, sending him off like that, had half a mind to keep him for myself, but that wouldn't have been right, his having family and all. Family first, I always say."
"Who are you talking about?"
"Why, little Jacques!" she exclaimed with a huge smile.
"Oh," Anne said blankly. "Perhaps I can walk with you into the Demorest, it's right here and you might want to rest a bit before you go on down to your place," Anne said, seriously frightened for Martha, who had always been the most solid of women. This threadbare conversation was nothing like her.
"Oh, Anne, I'm all right! Don't you understand? Jacques's parents had been killed, murdered for their stock, and the little boy was all alone out there, sitting by the river like the lost child he was. Why, he couldn't have been more than four at the time and no more than a good stone's throw from where his parents lay. Sitting in a square of dirt, huddled and rocking and staring with big blue eyes down at all these lines he'd made. His house, he called it. I'll never forget that. Poor little thing, sitting in the dirt and pretending it was his house."
"You're the woman," Anne said, her face going white. "You're the woman in his dream."
"He dreams about me? Poor lamb, it must be a nightmare if he dreams of that day," Martha said. "I was down in Texas living with my brother. His wife had died and he needed a woman to keep things for him. I wasn't there long since he married again not a year later, but I was there long enough for that murder. Never caught the bandits, not that I ever heard, and of course, I never had any contact with Jacques after he went to New Orleans; his father's sister, I think it was, took him in. I never knew how that turned out, but I just couldn't imagine anyone not taking to that boy. Sweet as sugar with blue eyes that rivaled an angel's and the most polite manners I'd ever seen."
"How did you know?" Anne thought to ask. "How did you finally remember after all these years?"
"Why, it was saying your name." Martha smiled and clasped Anne by the arm. "That was his mother's name—Anne Scullard."
Chapter 24
Anne didn't even have time to let that knowledge settle before Martha was bustling off, full of excitement. Jack was walking down the street with Sheriff Lane and Grey and Blakes. A somber foursome they made, but Martha wouldn't be put off by that, not after years of worrying and wondering.
She reached them in front of her own place, the Mustang Saloon, and stopped them by the very force of her smile.
"I knew your name," she said. "The first time Shaughn told me about you, I knew I knew you but I didn't know how."
She was looking at Jack and it was Jack who responded.
"Ma'am?"
Martha reached out and touched his arm, sending him a grin as bright as a hundred candles. "Don't you know me? But I wouldn't expect that you would, being as you were smaller than a jackrabbit and twice as quiet. I declare, I never knew a boy so quiet and composed; please and thank you and not much else came out of his mouth that I ever could tell. My, but your ma was pleased by you; she thought the sun rose and set on you, that's a fact. I'm Martha, Jacques," she urged. "Martha Conner, back then. I was down on the Brazos, with my brother, Pete."
Jack just looked down at his boots and shook his head.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't recall... Did you call me Jacques?" he asked, looking at her face.
"Of course, child, Jacques Scullard, and your mama was Anne and your pa Eduard, God rest them both. It's been many a year I've prayed that all went well for you, Jacques, and now, here you are, as handsome and fit as any man has a right to be. Your mama would be so, so pleased," she said brokenly, tears welling in her eyes as she stroked his arm.
Jack looked at her hard, at the lined face and the large-bosomed shape of her; he could see nothing that was familiar, but the sound of her voice as she had spoken, the tears so ready to spring up, stirred something. Her hair was silver brown and she wore it in a coronet of braids. He liked the way that looked and, he remembered, he'd liked it once before....
"You us
ed to borrow flour and salt from my mama," he said softly.
"Yes, and she eggs from me. My brother had five good layers," she sniffed. "She loved to make you pies and crumbles."
Yes, she had. His mother had loved to bake for him, luring him into the house for a treat and a nap. She would watch his every mouthful, a smile wide on her beautiful face. Then she would lay him down and sit on the bed to take off his shoes and he would try to fight the sleepiness that tugged at his body, trying so hard to be like his daddy, who didn't need to take a nap in the heart of the day.
He remembered. He remembered it all.
Jack reached out and laid a hand over Martha's clenching fingers, pressing the touch of her into his arm, this dim and distant connection to all that he had lost in one splintered moment so many years ago.
"You look fine, Jacques," she said, looking up at him, tears welling in her eyes.
Jack smiled down at her and whispered, "Thank you, ma'am. And thank you for the lunch; it lasted me all the way to New Orleans and I savored every bite."
With a small cry of emotion, Martha threw her arms around Jack and embraced him with all the care and affection of a mother. As Jack wrapped his arms around her, he bent his head down and caught her scent; the same. It was just the same as when she'd wrapped her arms around a lost boy and carried him back into the world, buying him new shoes for his trip. It was the last hug he'd known as a boy and was the closest thing now to his mother's hug as he was going to get. So he let her hug him. Yeah, he let her, the deep joy of the act enfolding him as surely as her arms did.
"What are you doing, Ma?" Shaughn said, coming out onto the boardwalk.
She pulled away and sniffed and pushed a pin back into her high-bound hair. "I was saying hello and welcome to a man I knew as a boy. This is Jacques Scullard, Shaughn, and I told you that his name sounded familiar!"
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