He gave Jason a familiar smirk. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just don’t give a goddamn.”
Jason washed his hands again, then turned to leave. Reasoning with Buck was like trying to argue with a stone. “Say goodbye to your folks. I have to tell Tully about the murders and arrange for their burial.”
“If you need someone to friggin’ dance at the funeral, let me know.”
Jason gave him a look of disgust.
“Ah, c’mon, Jason.” Buck’s teasing had a sharp edge to it. “Get that ramrod out of your ass. Don’t you ever have any fun anymore? When was the last time you had your dick out of your pants for anything besides taking a leak?”
Jason gave him a grim look. “Life’s one big drunken brawl to you, isn’t it?”
Buck shrugged, tossing him a dismal half-smile. “If I can get away with it.”
Jason left, but all the way to town he worried about Buck’s impulsive behavior and his excessive drinking. Some of his attitude could be excused. He was, after all, still in mourning. It hadn’t been quite a month since Ritter had forced himself on Buck’s young wife, Honey, beating her into submission before raping her. It wouldn’t have mattered if Ritter had known that Honey bled and bruised easily. But it would have mattered if she’d been found before she bled to death.
Jason dismounted outside the smithy, flipped a coin at the young boy who took his mount, then headed for Marshal Tully’s office.
Jason left the jail, feeling the winter chill in the air for the first time all morning. Maybe it was because of Tully’s ominous premonition regarding the deaths. Damned right there’ll be hell to pay. How d’ya think it’s gonna look for two government officials to be slaughtered that way, right under our noses? We’re in for some serious inspection, Jason, and I mean serious.
He jogged the last few hundred yards to his office and stepped inside. Ivy Masterson, the owner of the cafe, sat on his cot, cradling a young girl in her arms.
“Ivy?”
“Lord, Jason,” she answered, pulling the child closer. “Where have you been? I found this here gal stumbling along the road from the reservation. She’s got cuts and bruises everywhere. I tried to clean her up,” she added, “but you know I ain’t much good in a sickroom.”
Jason crossed to the washstand and washed his hands. As he poured clean water over them from the pitcher, he studied the girl. It didn’t surprise him that Ivy, the bleeding heart of Pine Valley, had found another child in need. But they were usually abandoned or orphaned half-bloods, children whose parents had been killed by the Whites. This one didn’t look much like an Indian. A tangle of wild light brown hair hung over her face, wreathing her tiny head. She moved, just enough so that the sunlight caught a fat curl, touching it with fire.
Her dress, or robe, or whatever the hell it was, was dirty and smeared with blood and dirt and her hands were folded, prayerlike, in her lap. He noticed that her nails were grimy. The soft slippers on her tiny feet were dirty and dusty, and her bare ankles looked as though they hadn’t seen soap and water in a month.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen her around here before.” The girl kept her head down, her unruly curls hiding her face. From the sound of her sniffles, Jason imagined she’d been crying off and on for hours.
“I came here just… just last week,” she said in a meek, teary voice.
“Her name’s Rachel. Rachel Weber,” Ivy offered.
The towel he was using hung suspended for a brief second. Weber? He crossed the room, crouched down and stared at her. She still wouldn’t look at him, her gaze seemingly frozen on her dirty hands, which were still folded in her lap. “I didn’t know Weber had any children.” He tried to keep the surprise from his voice.
The girl raised her head and looked at Jason through her spiral of brownish curls. There was a vacant look in her light gray-blue eyes, a look he’d seen many times before. He had no doubt that it masked something she didn’t want to think about, or remember. God, if she saw what happened…
“She’s not Weber’s daughter, Jason,” Ivy admonished. “She says she’s his wife.”
Shock flooded him. He lifted her chin to get a better look at her. “Good God,” he whispered, his voice laced with disbelief. “You’re just a child.”
Shaking her head, she pushed his hand away. “I’m… I’m not. We’ve… been married over two years.” She appeared to run out of breath. Then, after a few seconds, she added, “He… he just didn’t want me to come out here.… too uncivilized.” Her voice rattled with tears. “Oh, God…” The words caught in her throat as she dissolved into tears.
“There, there,” Ivy soothed. “Lord have mercy, Jason. Ain’t you got something you can give her? She’s shakin’ like fish jelly. And get something on her hands. Just look at them,” she added, turning the girl’s palms up and presenting them to him.
Jason saw the deep gouges and knew they’d been made by her fingernails. He went to the tall cupboard with the glass doors and took out a jar of salve. Returning to the cot, he pulled up a chair and straddled it, then he reached for the girl’s hands.
She was listless, allowing him to smear the salve on her palms even though he knew it must sting. Suddenly her small shoulders shook and she started to cry again.
“I… I’m s-sorry,” she whispered, swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “I… I can’t seem to stop…”
A number of emotions surged through Jason. But pity, though she was obviously in a pitiful state, was not one of them. Whether she knew of her husband’s dirty dealings or not made little difference. Jason knew it wasn’t fair, but to him, she was guilty by association.
“Is she staying with you?” he asked Ivy as he wrapped the girl’s hands with a light bandage.
“Well, of course she’s stayin’ with me. Where else would the poor dear go?”
He shook his head. “I had to know before I gave her a sedative. What happened to her, anyway?”
“Someone came in and killed her man, that’s what happened to her.”
The memory of the massacre, fresh and harsh, swelled before him. “Was she… hurt in any way?”
“Oh,” Ivy muttered. “Oh,” she repeated, giving Jason an understanding nod. “I don’t think so. ’Course, I ain’t sure, but she says her man shoved her into the storage hole beside the fireplace before the ruckus started.” She turned to the girl sitting beside her. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
The frail-looking thing on the cot bobbed her head but said nothing.
Jason swore. He’d had the strangest feeling when he’d stepped into that cottage that he wasn’t alone. He even remembered staring at the fireplace, sensing something, but he’d shrugged it off.
He swung himself off the chair and crossed to the glass cupboard again. Rummaging through the clutter of bottles and jars, he found the small white packet he was looking for. He handed it to Ivy.
“Take her home and put her to bed. Mix half of this in water and give it to her now, and the rest tonight, before she goes to sleep. That is,” he added, not attempting to hide his disdain, “if she really needs it.”
“Your bedside manner is lackin’,” Ivy said, her black eyebrows arched at him.
He swung away from her. “Ask me if I care.”
“Now, Jason, I—”
“Bring her back in a couple of days and I’ll change the bandages,” he interrupted. He tossed the stethoscope back over the chair and waited for them to leave. When he heard the door close, he realized that he felt some shame, but he couldn’t dredge up any sympathy for the pathetic creature who claimed to be Weber’s wife.
He walked to the window and watched them cross the street, his eyes following the small, mousy woman as she leaned on Ivy’s arm.
His wife? He swore under his breath, imagining how hard it must have been for Weber to see this creature arrive on his doorstep. They didn’t appear much of a match, but then, looks could be deceiving. She could just be a consummate ac
tress. He refused to get suckered in by her helplessness like Ivy had. Hell, no doubt she’d have the whole town feeling sorry for her in no time at all.
He wondered if she’d seen her husband’s killer. Had she seen him? If she were really as troubled as she seemed, she probably hadn’t seen much at all. Or at least, nothing that registered. He shuddered as he pictured her stumbling from her hiding place into the bloody, body-strewn room.
Shaking his head, he left the window and crossed to his desk where he made out a chart with Rachel Weber’s name on it. After jotting down a few notes, he slipped the chart on top of the others and thought about Weber’s activities. It occurred to him that his little wife might know nothing about them. She appeared naïve and a little simple. He wondered if she’d even noticed that her husband’s hands were missing, or that the little bastard Ritter’s genitals, balls and all, were gone.
He cleared his throat, feeling a little foolish at where his thoughts were going. If he wasn’t careful, she’d have him in her pocket just like she had Ivy. And no doubt the marshal would be treating her like a long-lost daughter.
He’d check on her in a day or two and hope she’d be fit to travel. He wanted her out of town. Any trace of Ritter and Weber was going to leave a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth. Hopefully, now that Weber was dead, his frightened little rabbit of a wife would hightail it back to where she came from.
Chapter Two
A light drizzle descended on the gravesite. The lonely sprig of winter flowers from Ivy’s window garden clung to the wet brown casket cover. Rachel tossed a furtive glance at the lone woman who stood beneath the wide branches of an oak tree as she adjusted the hood of her borrowed woolen cape. She pulled it closer around her face, careful not to crush the flower she would throw on Jeremy’s coffin before it was lowered into the ground.
She glanced at the minister. His lips were moving, but she didn’t know what he was saying. She couldn’t concentrate. None of this seemed real.
Jeremy had been so vital, so handsome and strong. It just didn’t seem possible that he was… gone. Swallowing a sob, she tried to make sense of it all, but she couldn’t. She’d lost the one person who could have made her life happy. He’d been ripped from her side by the army and called to duty so quickly after their wedding, they hadn’t been allowed to even plan their life together. And now she was expected to live on without him.
Forcing her thoughts onto another path, she scanned the tiny group of mourners. Only a handful of people had shown up. The weather was bad, but that shouldn’t have mattered. It had been weather like this, maybe worse, when her parents, Aunt Billie, and her cousin George had been buried, and the circle of mourners around the gravesite had been wide, warm… loving. Where were all the Indians Jeremy had come to help?
Unappreciative savages. This was the gratitude he got for trying to civilize them and make them decent human beings. He and his father had been right. Indians were inferior. They didn’t appreciate the help they got, so didn’t deserve it. Why, then, had Jeremy put his life on the line trying to help them?
Oh, darling, look what your good intentions got you. The bite of anger and hatred she felt toward all Indians returned and churned in her chest.
She glanced at the few people scattered beside the grave, particularly noting the tall, dark man who stood with his coat collar turned up against the rain. The faces of the other mourners were covered, either by umbrellas, veils, or hats pulled low over their eyes. Ivy and Marshal Tully stood on either side of her, framing her, protecting her, holding her up. She was so obliged for their support these past few days, she didn’t know how she’d ever repay them.
Briefly, a blustery gust of wind coaxed out a ray or two of sunshine, whipping off Rachel’s hood. Pulling it back in place, she stood before her husband’s casket and closed her eyes, trying to forget what lay before her. The unknown frightened her; it always had. Fear of the future was what had kept her from attempting to change it, despite her unhappy, unfulfilled life. And she was well acquainted with grief. Long before she’d grieved for Jeremy, she’d ached with despair at the loss of her family.
But Jeremy was the reason she’d come to California—against his wishes, of course. She’d hoped to awaken something that hadn’t been allowed to bloom, to rescue something that might have taken a miracle to save. Hero that he was in her heart, Jeremy just didn’t understand what his absence did to her.
Ivy’s hand squeezed hers and she felt a wealth of love for this woman who’d been the mother she hadn’t known in twelve years. She and the marshal were the only friends Rachel had left in the world, and she hadn’t known them a week. It was a sad commentary on her life.
Once again, she sneaked a glance at the woman standing away from them, under the oak tree. Dressed all in black, including the veil that hung over her face, she shook visibly. Rachel thought she must be very, very cold. A blond curl had escaped from beneath her hat and now lay damp and limp on the woman’s shoulder. Rachel felt sorry for her, standing there all alone.
Suddenly she realized that the minister had stopped speaking.
“Rachel, the flower.”
Ivy’s whisper shook Rachel from her reverie. She stepped forward and tossed the flower on the casket. The minister said a final prayer, and it was over.
She stared down at the box that held her husband’s body. Oh, Jeremy. We could have been happy. We would have been happy. A brief picture of the stunned look on his face when he saw her on his doorstep flickered before her. She shook it away. He’d been surprised that she’d come and unprepared for her. That was all. She couldn’t blame him for that.
“C’mon, honey.”
She looked up, her eyes meeting Ivy’s. Ivy had a friendly face, one that appeared comfortable with the way the years had whittled away at the once-beautiful contours, leaving gentle lines around the mouth and fine crinkles at the corners of her warm, brown eyes.
“How are we doing?” Ivy put her arm around Rachel as they walked away.
“I’m fine, really,” Rachel answered, her voice quavering as she leaned into Ivy’s embrace. “I’m… I’m just so tired—” She pressed her lips together, hoping to stem the flow of tears.
They walked toward the buggy where the marshal stood, ready to help them in. “Well, of course you are. You ain’t slept good one night since you been stayin’ with me.”
Rachel smiled slightly. “Now, how do you know that?”
“These old ears still hear better’n most,” Ivy answered.
Rachel turned to respond and saw the woman in black walking slowly behind them. “Ivy?”
“Yes, love?”
Rachel nodded toward the woman. “Who’s that?”
Ivy looked in the woman’s direction, cleared her throat and lifted her head in the air. “I ain’t really sure,” she answered, pulling Rachel toward the buggy.
Again, Rachel thought about the few mourners. “It must have been the rain,” she said to herself.
“What, dear?”
She got to the buggy and the marshal helped her inside, giving her a fatherly kiss on the cheek. She gave him a grateful smile. “The service was so small. It must have been because of the weather.”
Ivy adjusted herself beside her. “Yes, might be that.”
Marshal Tully stood at the buggy door. “Ivy, maybe it’s time we—”
“Hush your mouth, Earl Tully. Just get up there and drive.”
Rachel smiled wanly at the bickering twosome. It seemed they did quite a lot of that, in spite of the fact that she could tell they really cared for one another.
The buggy lurched forward, gently swaying its passengers. Rachel looked out at the wet, gray day and shivered as they passed the harsh, flat slabs that stood sentry over the dead.
She wasn’t sure what she was going to do. There was really no reason to stay here, but she had no place to go, either.
Jason watched the buggy leave the cemetery. What a shock it h
ad been to see the mousy widow standing bravely between Ivy and Tully. For some reason, he’d envisioned her falling apart, throwing herself over the wet, brown casket and mewling like a whipped dog. But she hadn’t. And when the sun had caught shimmering strands of gold in her cognac-hued hair, and the wind had pressed her dress against her bosom, he’d suddenly been struck with the realization that she was neither a rabbit nor a mouse. She was flesh-and-blood woman, and he began to see what Jeremy Weber might have found desirable about her.
Rachel warmed her hands around the hot cup of coffee and brought her arms in close to her sides. The cafe was nearly empty; it was too early for the lunch rush. She’d confided her plight to Ivy, and the woman had been such a dear, assuring Rachel she could use the spare room for as long as she liked. She’d even told Rachel she really didn’t want to see her go, and if she could have seen any way to hire Rachel herself, she would have. But that wouldn’t have been fair to the two employees, both Indian women, on whom Ivy counted to help her run the cafe.
“Mrs. Weber?”
The masculine voice had a soft, Southern quality to it, for her name had come out sounding like “Miz Webbah.” She looked up at the tall, lean man who stood in front of her. His hair was a mass of barely tamed black curls, shot with gray, and his eyes were so dark they reminded her of unlit coals.
She suddenly realized he wasn’t as young as she’d first thought. He didn’t seem to be a threatening sort of man, but she felt threatened anyway. Men had always threatened her one way or another, ever since she’d had to move in with her mother’s brother, Uncle Gabe, and his family in Bismarck. It was Uncle Gabe’s callous treatment of her that had made her realize that all men weren’t as sweet and kind as her father.
“Yes?”
“Name’s Bram Justice.” He drew up the end of his name, making it sound like a question. Giving her a brief bow, he added, “I own the Western King Saloon. May I sit down?”
Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two Page 3