Puzzled, Rachel nodded as he took the seat across from her.
He shook his head sympathetically, then reached across the table and pulled her hand into his. His hands were soft—a rather unpleasant sensation from a man, she discovered. She also decided it was an inappropriate gesture from a stranger, but she didn’t pull her hand away.
“First of all,” he began in that slow, deliberate drawl, his brow knitting genially, “I am so sorry to hear of your loss, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” His touch was warm and firm, no doubt meant to put her at ease. It didn’t. There was something ingratiating about his behavior.
“The lieutenant—your husband—was a good friend of mine. A good friend.” He patted her hand, then released it at the same time she’d decided to extricate her fingers herself. “I want you to know that.” Watching her carefully, he added, “I feel sort of responsible for what happened.”
“Oh? Why is that?” She couldn’t imagine why he should feel it was his fault that Jeremy was… murdered.
Putting his elbows on the table, he steepled his long, lean fingers and looked at her over the top of them. “We were savin’ him a chair at the poker table that night. It had been planned for weeks.” He gave her a small, knowing smile. “I guess he sort of forgot about his old cronies when you swept into town, lightin’ up his life again.”
Oh, dear heaven. If only Jeremy had done what he’d planned, he might not be dead in the ground right now. If only… Dreams were built and shattered on those words.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I don’t know any way of doing this that won’t be a shock, so I won’t pussyfoot around it.” He shoved the folded paper toward her.
Rachel reached for it. “This is for me?”
He straightened his immaculately tailored waistcoat. “In a manner of speakin’.”
She unfolded it and looked down at the familiar script. “This… this is Jeremy’s writing,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She glanced across the table at Mr. Justice, then down at the paper, and read: I owe Bram Justice and the Western King Saloon $3,000. Jeremy A. Weber, Lieutenant, U.S. Army.
Rachel’s stomach dropped. “Jeremy owed you money? Why?”
Mr. Justice took a deep breath. “Well, you know he was a mighty heavy poker player—”
“Did Jeremy play poker a lot?” she interrupted. Her stomach continued to twist into knots.
“Uh, yes, ma’am, he did. And he owed me a bundle of money because of it.”
Frustrated and confused, she continued to stare at the note, then at Mr. Justice. “I don’t understand. Why would you let him play cards if he didn’t have the money?”
The saloon owner gave her a condescending smile. “It’s part of the deal, ma’am. It doesn’t do me any good to have my friends stop patronizing my place just because they’re out of money.”
Rachel stared at him. His words made absolutely no sense. It wasn’t logical to give people money just so they could lose it. She turned back to Jeremy’s signature. Her husband had made a reasonably good salary, she knew that for a fact. Not that she’d seen much of it, but she’d always figured he was salting the bulk of it away for their future. At least, that’s what he’d told her…
She kept her head lowered, but peered at the man sitting across from her through the thick veil of her lashes. She was usually uncomfortable around all men. This one was no exception, but the situation gave her a certain amount of strength to overcome it.
“I… I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Justice. Perhaps when I get Jeremy’s final pay voucher, I can pay you part of this. But,” she added, feeling her chest tighten and tears well in her eyes, “I don’t think there will be enough to cover such a huge debt.” Tears clogged her throat, and she wanted to scream. When was she going to stop this infernal blubbering?
Bram Justice muttered something under his breath. “I’m real sorry to have to hand you this problem, ma’am. But you have to see this from my side. If I were to forget about every IOU that crossed my desk, I’d be out of business.”
Rachel swallowed hard, trying to get control of herself as she waved away his concern. “I understand, Mr. Justice. I really do. I… I’ll do the best I can, but please,” she said, giving him a pleading look, “give me some time.”
Justice stood. “Of course. And, again, I’m real sorry for your loss.”
Rachel nodded and watched him leave. When he was gone, she took out her handkerchief, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Gambling? Jeremy had been gambling with their money?
She took a sip of her now lukewarm coffee, trying to make some sense of what she’d learned. The acidic brew burned as it rolled around in her stomach. Where was she going to get that kind of money? Suddenly, she knew. The bank. Of course. Jeremy certainly had a bank account.
A bud of hope flowered in her chest. Maybe there was money, after all. Maybe there would be enough to pacify Mr. Justice, at least until she could get settled somewhere and find a job. Oh, Lord… this was all so new to her.
Fighting a sudden feeling of panic, she shrugged into Ivy’s cape and left the cafe, heading toward the bank. That would be a logical place to look, wouldn’t it? Surely the bank would know about Jeremy’s finances.
Rachel was ushered into the bank president’s office. The thin, bespectacled man with the receding hairline looked up at her from behind his pedestal desk, the center panel adjusted at a special height for reading.
“Morning, Mrs. Weber. So sorry to hear of your loss.” He was unconvincing.
“Th-Thank you, Mr. Bailey,” she answered, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the chair in front of the desk.
He continued to work on some papers. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Rachel nodded and clasped her hands in her lap. That was the best way to keep them from shaking. Glancing around the room, she noticed that the furnishings were expensive and highly polished. She stared at the walnut Eastlake bookcase and cabinet, noting the shiny brass hinges and pulls. The books behind the glass doors stood in an orderly fashion, as if they hadn’t been disturbed in years.
Glancing at the side wall, she found her reflection in a large, rectangular mirror that hung over a shiny walnut single-door commode. She quickly looked away and sat up straight, hating the image of herself cowering in the chair like a beggar.
“Now,” the banker said, setting his papers aside. “How can I help you, Mrs. Weber?”
Rachel looked into his cold blue eyes. He didn’t like her. And he didn’t even know her. “I… I’ve come to see about my husband’s account.” Her voice actually sounded confident. Maybe there was hope for her after all.
“His account?” Abner Bailey smirked.
Her confidence crumbled. “I assume he has an account with you. You’re the only bank in town,” she added with more assurance than she felt.
The banker pushed his chair back, rose and adjusted his brown morning coat. He walked around to the front of his desk, and leaned casually against it. “Mrs. Weber, your husband’s account exists only on paper. There’s no money in it.”
Rachel’s hand automatically went to her throat. “I… I don’t understand.”
Mr. Bailey cocked his head and sighed. “I don’t know what else to tell you. Your husband spent money faster than he could earn it.”
Rachel slumped back against the chair. “All of his army pay?”
He nodded. “I can show you the paperwork.” He shoved back from the desk. “I’m afraid he also had an outstanding loan with me.”
“A loan?” Rachel couldn’t believe it. Not another debt.
He nodded again. “And, because he had no other collateral to put up, he gave me this.” He crossed to the floor safe, returning with a small black box which he handed to Rachel.
Rachel held the box, almost afraid to open it. Willing her hands not to shake, she lifted off the cover and looked inside. Her heart
dropped to the tops of her shoes.
“My mother’s cameo!”
She threw the banker a look of confusion and despair. “I… I thought I’d lost this.” She picked up the brooch and lovingly touched the pearl-encrusted border.
Abner Bailey shook his head. “I’d like to give it back to you, Mrs. Weber, but you must understand,” he said, retrieving it from her shaking fingers, “that until the loan is paid off, it belongs to me.”
Rachel was aghast. Jeremy had purposely taken the only thing that had meant anything to her, the only thing that she had left of her mother’s, and exchanged it for money. Money for—what? More gambling?
“I… I guess I understand,” she said, refusing to let him see her cry. “If… if I can pay you the money, it’s… mine again?”
He nodded, then slipped the cameo back into the box.
She swallowed hard, dreading the answer to her next question. “How… how much did he owe you?”
“One thousand dollars, plus interest.”
Rachel gasped. “A thou—” She couldn’t even get the words out. She hadn’t the foggiest notion where she was going to get the money to cover this debt, much less three times the amount to cover the debt to Mr. Justice. Suddenly, she realized that Jeremy was a man she hadn’t known at all.
She stood, nervously straightening the folds in Ivy’s cape. “I see. Well, then I guess I’ll have to make some arrangements. Would it…” she added when she reached the door, “would it be possible to pay you in installments, Mr. Bailey?”
“Any way you like. But I’m afraid the brooch is mine until the full sum is paid off.”
Rachel bit her lip and nodded, then left his office. Once outside the bank, she sank onto a wooden bench beside the building, so weak she was afraid she’d topple to the ground.
She dared not concentrate on the amount of money she had to come up with. All she knew was that she couldn’t leave Pine Valley without setting things right. Her marriage hadn’t been perfect. But still, the words had been spoken before the minister, and she knew full well that marriage, good or bad, meant sharing everything. Including Jeremy’s debts.
Jason stood at the window and watched Rachel Weber sit down on the bench in front of the bank. She pressed her hand over her mouth and leaned back against the building. Somewhat concerned, he watched her carefully, wondering if he should go to her and ask if she needed help. Obviously, something she’d learned from Abner Bailey had shocked her.
His gaze roamed over her figure, partially hidden beneath the voluminous cape, and he remembered the gentle swell of her breasts as the wind had caressed them at the funeral. No, she was no longer the dirty, bedraggled urchin he’d imagined after first meeting her. Now, there was a frightening, haunting familiarity about her. He hadn’t wanted to dwell on it then, and he didn’t want to now.
As she got up slowly from the bench and made her way down the street, he wondered what she’d learned at the bank. The longer she stayed in town, the more puzzled Jason became. Each bit of bad news she learned about her husband—if, in fact, she hadn’t known it before—should have sent her scurrying off, leaving her husband’s creditors in her dust. He really felt it was just a matter of time. At least that was his fervent hope. Unwittingly, this innocent-appearing child-woman was playing havoc with his senses.
“Oh, Marshal, you’re going to spoil me.” Rachel sniffed the sweet aroma of the hot chocolate that Marshal Tully had put in front of her, along with a piece of Ivy’s apple pie. “You keep this up and I’m going to get fat as a toad.”
Tully pulled up a chair and sat across from her. “That’d take some doin’, Rachel. A healthy gust of wind’d blow you clean off your feet.”
Rachel gave him a wan smile. “I’m hardly that small.”
“You’re about swimmin’ in Ivy’s dresses. Sure you don’t want me to go out and get your things from the cottage?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “I… I have to do that myself. I have to. I’m… I’m just not ready. Not yet.”
The thought of stepping into the room where Jeremy had been murdered frightened her more than anything. She’d ruminated about it for hours on end. She even woke up in a cold sweat many nights, dreaming she was still inside the crawl space. But, more often than not, during those dreams savages usually found her and hauled her out, dragging her by the hair.
No, she was positive she couldn’t set foot in that place ever again. She also knew that meant that she had to. She had to start facing her fears.
She took a sip of the chocolate, closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, I know it’s silly. But if I don’t… don’t try to get over this awful fear I have, it will haunt me forever.” She opened her eyes and gave him a warm smile. “Do you understand that? Foolish as it may sound?”
He took her hand and squeezed it between his two big, rough paws. “’Course I do. An’ you’re about the bravest little gal I ever met.”
Rachel shook her head. “I’m not brave. I’m frightened, Marshal.” Her newfound anger enabled her to fight back her tears, although she’d discovered that she cried just as easily when she was angry as when she was upset. It was ironic that she didn’t feel confident enough to do much of anything well, but one thing she could do better than anyone was bawl. “I’m so very, very frightened.”
Marshal Tully’s gray eyes softened even more. “Here,” he said, taking her cup. “Let me warm that up.”
“Oh,” she answered, finally getting control of herself. “Thank you, but really, I have to check with Mrs. Weaver at the general store to see if that job is still open.”
Tully put her cup on the table and clucked his tongue. “Shore wish I could come up with somethin’ for you. There was a nursin’ job outside of town, but I’m afraid Nellie Bluehorse took it just a couple of days ago.”
A nursing job. That sounded so perfect. At least it was something she could do without any instruction. Working for her board and room in North Dakota as her uncle’s nurse had prepared her, and she had proven competent, once she’d gotten used to the blood.
“Well, something will show up, I’m sure of it.” No, she wasn’t sure at all. Mrs. Weaver was her last chance. She’d checked every single shop in town; no one needed help.
The cafe door opened, and a tall, well-dressed man in a dark gray morning coat and light gray trousers stepped into the room. He looked vaguely familiar to Rachel.
Marshal Tully looked up and smiled. “Mornin’, Doc.”
Rachel studied the man. Of course. He was the doctor Ivy had taken her to the day of the massacre. She’d also seen him at the funeral. She continued to watch him, an odd feeling in her chest. It had to be fear, for he was a forbidding sort of man.
He walked toward them, his gait easy and fluid. He was as tall as the marshal, but wider through the shoulders. And his clothes appeared to be just a facade—something to hide the fact that beneath them he had the instincts, though possibly calloused, of someone well acquainted with the wild. That’s what made him frightening. Her assessment surprised her. She didn’t usually look at a man long enough to make one.
“Earl,” the doctor answered, giving Rachel a slow, lazy glance.
“You remember Miz Weber, don’t ya?”
Rachel’s neck was warm, and probably red—a familiar peculiarity of hers when she met strangers, especially if they were men.
“Of course. How are you doing, Mrs. Weber?” he asked politely.
Rachel had the sensation that he wasn’t sincere, although he wasn’t as obvious as the banker. “I’m… I’m fine, thank you,” she said.
“I had told Ivy to bring you back. How are you healing?” He sat down across from her, obviously expecting her to show him her hands.
For some inexplicable reason, her hands shook. Still, she turned them over on the table and showed him her palms. He made her feel like a child being scrutinized for dirty fingernails.
His touch was firm and warm. He ran his thumb
gently over the flat expanse of her palm, sending exciting little shocks up her arm. Immediately she felt guilty that his touch didn’t repulse her. Her hands began to sweat, and she felt further embarrassment creep up her neck into her cheeks.
“Has Ivy been medicating them for you?”
A bristle of annoyance germinated in her chest, almost overriding her embarrassment. “I’m… sorry, but I’m quite capable of doing it myself.”
He glanced up at her, one cynical black eyebrow raised. Staring at him, she realized she’d never seen eyes like his before. They were deep brown, almost black, and it was as if his lashes were so heavy, they pulled on his sloping lids. It gave him a look of superiority, as if he were looking down his nose at her. But that hadn’t been her first thought, the one that accompanied the odd fluttering in her chest. That had been that she’d never seen such slumberous, stirring eyes. It was as if he’d just tumbled out from between warm, rumpled sheets.
Shame! Those kinds of thoughts were inexcusable. Her guilty flush deepened, and she was grateful he couldn’t read her mind.
He still hadn’t let go of her hand.
“Rachel’s lookin’ for work, Doc. Seen anything around?”
The doctor finally released her hand, sat back in his chair and stared at her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. It was most disconcerting.
“So you’re going to stay around here a while?” He spoke with an indolent drawl. He didn’t seem to like her, either.
“Well,” the marshal started to say, “she’s had a bad—”
“I need some traveling money, that’s all,” she interrupted, giving the marshal a stern glance. She was surprised that she could get the words out, but she had no intentions of airing her dirty laundry in front of the arrogant doctor.
“And,” she added, hoping to keep the marshal from saying more, “I have to wait until my… my husband’s final pay voucher arrives.”
The doctor quirked that wicked black eyebrow at her again. “It could be mailed to you.”
Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two Page 4