She squelched the urge to squirm. He sounded anxious to be rid of her. Again, she briefly wished she could say something flirty such as, Wouldn’t you miss me if I were gone? But that in itself would be hilarious. She was quite possibly the only woman on God’s earth who didn’t know how to tease a man. And, if the truth were known, quite possibly the marshal’s presence was the only thing that kept her from scurrying away like a frightened rabbit.
The doctor was, indeed, menacing, although Rachel had the feeling it was an automatic reflex with him, not necessarily done to frighten her.
“I… I suppose it could,” she answered, hating the insipid sound of her voice, “but I—” I have no place to go. “I feel that… that it will be here soon. Otherwise, if… if I change my address now, it could take months for the army to get it to me.”
Marshal Tully looked at her strangely. She caught his gaze, hoping to signal him to stay quiet. He gave her a look of disapproval, but said nothing.
Tully pulled out his pocket watch. “Well, time for me to get back.” He shoved himself away from the table and stood.
There was no way Rachel was going to be stuck in the cafe with the imperious doctor. “I’ll go with you, Marshal. I want to see Mrs. Weaver, remember?”
She hurriedly grabbed Ivy’s cape off the coatrack near the back of the cafe and rushed past the table. When she got to the door, she turned and looked at the marshal, who was staring after her.
“Are you coming, Marshal?” The question was a plea; she hoped he got the message. She didn’t want him telling the doctor her private business behind her back.
Earl Tully scratched his chin and shook his head. “Right behind ya, Rachel.”
Jason watched them leave. A slow, disparaging smile spread across his face. Damned if the widow hadn’t already wrapped Tully around her little finger. He’d followed her out of the cafe like a lag-tongued pup.
There was that familiar tug again. But it sure as hell wasn’t her voice. For some reason, her Yankee twang had surprised him—and disappointed him. But the tug was there, just the same, and it was stronger, now that he’d seen her up close and without something covering her head. The fire in her hair had drawn him. It was a more powerful lure than he could have imagined.
Nancy Brown, one of Ivy’s helpers, ambled into the cafe from the kitchen. “Mornin’, Doc. Coffee?”
Jason nodded. “Do you see much of the Weber woman?”
Nancy came out from behind the counter and placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him. “Oh,” she said with a shrug as she removed Rachel’s cup and the plate that held the uneaten piece of pie, “now and then. I don’t pay much attention to her. She’s quiet as a mouse.”
Jason laughed softly. “Seems the Widow Weber leaves everyone with that impression.” He still wondered if it was real or contrived.
Nancy shrugged again. “Maybe she’s just scared. She’s real good at avoiding Jessie and me.”
Or maybe, Jason thought, taking a drink of coffee, she didn’t like Indians any more than her husband had. The woman was a damned puzzle. But why? She didn’t appear to have any more depth than a sheet of paper. He didn’t know why he couldn’t figure her out. But if she was going to stay around Pine Valley much longer, she bore watching. She couldn’t possibly be as innocent as she appeared. No one married to Jeremy Weber could be. And besides, Jason admitted with a wry smile, he was curious.
Chapter Three
Rachel stiffened on the wagon seat as she and Ivy approached the cabin. An odd sense of detachment spread through her as she looked at the small, square building; she prayed the sensation would continue when she was forced to step inside.
It was strange that she hadn’t noticed just how badly the place needed repair. The adobe, chipped away around the windows, was cracked along the length of the wall that held the fireplace. Huge chunks of the hardened clay had fallen away where the outside surface met the beetling eaves of the roof.
She glanced at the dried-up hollyhocks and sunflowers. Someone had planted them long before she had come, and now they seemed to grieve, their heads drooping like graveside mourners. And the weeds… she’d meant to get out there and pull them so they wouldn’t choke the roses…
A sad smile played on her lips. This run-down adobe cabin wasn’t what she’d had in mind for her dream house. A whitewashed cottage with upstairs bedrooms, a paneled parlor, and big kitchen had always been her dream. And flower beds. At least six, scattered here and there over the landscape… And a swing hanging from an oak tree, for the children…
She sucked in a ragged breath and quickly looked away as the wagon stopped in front of the building where Jeremy had been killed. She sat, unmoving, for a long, silent minute, no longer feeling detached. She wouldn’t have thought she’d feel any affection for this place. But deep down, she knew she did, and she knew why. It had been her last chance to make her marriage work. And this tiny, sorry-looking cottage would have been a place of her own—something she’d never had, not with her uncle and his family who had raised her, and not with Jeremy, who had insisted she live with his parents these past two years. No, it wasn’t her dream cottage, but it still would have been a place of her own.
She’d come West wanting to start all over again, hoping to bring about that special something her parents had had in their marriage. That something she’d never known in hers, because she and Jeremy hadn’t had a chance to make it work.
Ivy shifted beside her. “You sure you really wanna do this? I can get your things for you, honey.”
Rachel sniffed and cleared her throat. “That’s all right, Ivy. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. If I don’t face the place sooner or later, it will haunt me forever.”
“Want me to go in with you?”
Grateful, Rachel nodded.
Ivy stepped down and started toward the building, stopping when Rachel didn’t follow.
“There’s nothin’ inside that can hurt you,” she said softly.
Oh, but there is, Rachel thought, the collection of noises and smells rushing back at her like swill water.
Don’t be a coward. The voice in her head was so loud, it startled her. Pulling her shawl tighter around her, she walked to the door, stopping as it loomed in front of her. Closing her eyes, she briefly pictured the room as it had been the last time she’d seen it.
“I’m sorry… I can’t,” she whispered, tossing Ivy a plaintive look.
“Take your time.” Ivy gripped the heavy metal handle, pressed on the latch and pushed the door open. Dust that had settled on the mantel and the tabletops suddenly came to life, moving in whorls as the room filled with sunlight and air.
Rachel stood rooted to the entry, and stared inside. The room hadn’t been cleaned very well. Swallowing convulsively, she stared at the cedar floorboards, which still bore the stains of blood, dark and dry. Though someone had tried to wash it off, the blood had soaked permanently into the wood, just as the memory of the massacre was carved into her heart. A brief, violent picture of that morning flashed into her mind, but she shook it away.
She looked around the rest of the room. Everything else was as it had been then. Shuddering, she glanced again at the spot where Jeremy had fallen. His handsome face floated before her, the ugly death grimace that haunted her sleep now obsessing her conscious mind.
Choking back a small cry, she ran into the back room, pulling in great gulps of air. Fighting back tears, she pulled open the small country wardrobe and yanked out her clothes, tossing them onto the bed.
Ivy came in behind her. “Where are your bags?”
Not trusting her voice, Rachel pointed to the shelf on the wall next to the window.
Ivy lifted off her valise, put it on the bed and opened it. “I just wish I could afford to hire you at the cafe, honey.”
Rachel tried to control her emotions. None of this was Ivy’s fault. She didn’t want her to feel guilty.
Fingerin
g the scalloped trim at the edge of her heavy white cotton slip, she answered, “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll find something, I’m sure of it.”
But she wasn’t sure at all. Mrs. Weaver at the general store had been her last chance, and she’d told Rachel she had just hired her niece. Every merchant in Pine Valley was sympathetic, but no one needed any help.
She pushed down her panic. The enormity of Jeremy’s debts still staggered her; she didn’t know if she’d ever get over the shock. And she had no idea how she was going to pay them. But discovering that he’d stolen her brooch had been the deepest blow of all.
“I’m so sorry you have to go through this, dear.” Ivy’s motherly voice broke into her reverie. “Must be just awful to have to keep thinkin’ about that awful mornin’.”
“I just want to get it over with,” she answered with shaky determination. Her figured batiste garden dress with the soutache braid and open oversewn lace lay crumpled on the bed. A brief, happy memory of her wedding day—the last time she’d worn it—danced on the fringes of her mind. She quickly rolled up the garment, shoving it into her bag.
Ivy gasped. “What did you just do to that beautiful gown?”
“Oh, what does it matter?” Rachel stuffed her blue cotton skirt with puffing, tucking, and eyelets into the bag on top of the dress.
Ivy pulled out the dress and the skirt, folding them carefully before putting them back in the valise. “Your life isn’t over, honey.”
Tears clogged Rachel’s throat again. Darn. When was she going to stop this abysmal sniveling?
The raucous cry of a hawk exploded outside, and Rachel jumped, bringing her hand over her heart. She shook herself and began packing again. “You don’t know how much I wish someone had come along to help us,” she said, swallowing her hurt. “Why couldn’t someone have… have been driving by?”
“Those are the kinds of questions that just can’t be answered, dear.” Ivy sighed, then asked, “You hadn’t been here very long before this happened, had you?”
“No. It’s been less than two weeks since I stepped off the train, and I hadn’t been here a week when…” Rachel wondered how twelve days could seem like such a lifetime.
“Did you know your man real well?”
“What a silly question. Of course I knew him,” Rachel answered, a little too quickly. “We were married for over two years.” Again, the memory of her shock at discovering Jeremy’s gambling debt sifted through her mind. It was hard to admit that she really hadn’t known him at all. She’d loved him desperately, but she hadn’t known him. The realization that you can’t truly love someone you don’t know spread through her, but she pushed it away.
Ivy cleared her throat. “We haven’t talked much about Harry Ritter.”
Rachel briefly stopped her frenzied packing and gave Ivy a sad smile. “Poor Harry. He was so sweet and shy.” Rachel remembered how timid he’d been around her. Barely said a word to her, always ducking his head to avoid looking at her when he came inside to talk to Jeremy.
Ivy cleared her throat again. “Well, to be perfectly honest, dear—”
“Afternoon, ladies.”
Rachel turned toward the door just as Marshal Tully entered the room. He was so tall, he had to stoop to get through the door or he would have hit his head.
“Lord in heaven, Earl.” Ivy’s voice was tinged with impatience. “I tried to find you when we left. What the devil are you doin’ out here?”
“Had to check on some reservation business. Saw your wagon, and thought you might need some help.”
“ ’Course we could use the help. You don’t expect we can haul that trunk out of here ourselves, do your?”
“Now, Ivy, I’m here, no need to nag me.” Tully actually appeared to blush.
“Somebody has to,” she retorted.
Rachel felt a tug of envy as she listened to them. Over the past week she’d discovered that the bristly way Ivy talked to the marshal was only for the benefit of others. She’d often caught the warmth in Ivy’s eyes when Earl Tully entered or left the room. It was sweet, this quiet love they seemed to have. Rachel’s envy deepened.
“I got a few more questions, Rachel, honey. Somethin’s come up. Now, I know you’ve told me everything you can remember, but,” he said, running his forefinger along his steel-gray mustache, “I thought that mebbe you’d remember somethin’ else now that you’re in the house again.”
Rachel fiddled nervously with the bodice of her borrowed green and brown calico print housedress, remembering the picture that had flashed through her head shortly before. Not wanting to think about it further, she folded another skirt and pushed it into her bag. “I… I’m really sorry, Marshal. I’ve told you everything.”
“Earl, don’t badger her,” Ivy scolded. “She’s been relivin’ the nightmare from hell to breakfast every day since it happened. Can’t we just let it lie?”
Tully stepped to the window and looked outside. “I’d like to, you know I don’t enjoy browbeatin’ women, Ivy.”
Rachel’s heart bumped her ribs. “I… is it that important?”
He turned, giving her a sympathetic look. “ ’Fraid so. We don’t have a notion as to who killed your husband, Rachel. Any little thing you can remember will help. For instance,” he added, “d’ya know whether or not he had any valuables stashed in that safe of his? It’s standin’ empty in the other room, if you noticed.”
She hadn’t. “You think the savages stole what was in it?”
Tully ran his big, callused fingers through his silver hair. “Well, now that’s puzzlin’. It’s empty, there’s no doubt about that, but it ain’t been broken into. It was opened clean.”
Rachel fiddled with a loop of her hair. “Maybe… maybe Jeremy had opened it himself.”
He nodded, digesting her comment. “Mebbe. But I just got word that he’d had some—” He shot Ivy a quick glance before continuing. “I heard he’d gotten a lump of money from… from some business deal. Now, we know the bank don’t have it on record. I have a strong hunch that money was in the safe that mornin’, and now it ain’t.”
“Then… then the savages stole it. What else could have happened to it?” Oh, Lord, what she could do with that money, no matter how much or how little it was.
Tully clucked his tongue. “I don’t know too many Injuns who can open a safe without blastin’ it to kingdom come. ’Course,” he pondered, “there are a few.”
“What… are you trying to say?”
“Oh, it’s nothin’,” he assured her with a wave of his hand. “Just a thought. Anyway, can you think of anything else that might have happened that mornin’ that might help us?”
“Now, Earl,” Ivy chided softly. “Can’t you see how upset all these questions are makin’ her?”
Rachel drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “No, it’s all right, Ivy. There is something else. Until I stepped back into this place, it had completely slipped my mind. I… I know I forced myself not to think about it. It was so… so awful…”
“Of course it was, dear,” Ivy crooned.
“Dangit, Ivy, quit treatin’ her like she was just whelped.”
Ivy clucked her maternal tongue and turned her back on him.
“Now, Rachel, what do you remember?”
“The Indian who murdered my husband.” The savage’s face blurred in her vision, but his eyes, so filled with hate, were sharp and clear in her memory.
“What about him?”
“Jeremy stabbed him.” She looked at the marshal, then pulled her gaze away. There was something terribly disconcerting in his expression.
“Your husband stabbed his killer?”
Nodding, Rachel swallowed hard. She brought her hand up to her right shoulder. “Here.”
Tully’s eyes were narrow slits. “On the right side?”
She nodded again. “Jeremy was left-handed.” She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. “I
’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner. I don’t know how I could have forgotten that. I don’t… I didn’t think I’d ever forget that savage’s face.” She shuddered, remembering the wild look in his eyes as the light from the kerosene lamp undulated across his features.
“I see,” Tully answered, turning back to the window. “Can you remember somethin’ about that face?”
Rachel closed her eyes, trying to picture it. Only the eyes remained. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s hard to describe. I know I said I’d never forget it, but you have to understand that I didn’t think about memorizing it at the time.” Shrugging her small shoulders, she added, “He was an Indian.” She gave him a doleful glance. “I… I haven’t told you, but one of the reasons I didn’t follow Jeremy out here sooner was because… because I didn’t want to be surrounded by… by savages.
“When I was just a little girl,” she said quickly, her face pinched with pain, “my family… was killed by Indians. Right… right before my eyes. Mama, Papa, Lucas, my aunt Billie and my cousin George. One of the Indians… was a man we all trusted. He was almost like family. At… at least, that’s the way we treated him.” Elbee’s face as she’d last seen it loomed before her.
She choked back a sad little laugh. “Now, my husband’s been killed by Indians. Just thinking about them scares me to death. I can hardly look at one without remembering that terrible, dark morning when… when they burned our cabin and chased us through the corn.”
Pressing her fingers against her lips, she turned away toward the window. Her fear and hatred of Indians had been fed first by Uncle Gabe, then by Jeremy and his father. She’d honestly tried to come to terms with her own feelings, and she’d made progress just by coming out here, where she knew she’d have to face many Indians. And now, they had killed Jeremy, and her bitterness toward every savage who walked the earth was compounded.
She turned back to the marshal. “They all look alike to me. Don’t you see? Every time I see one, I only see someone I’ve learned to hate and fear. Someone who might hurt me. All they’ve ever done in my life is hurt me.” Sobbing again, she put her face in her hands, loathing her weakness.
Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two Page 5