by Amanda Cabot
Thea gazed up at him, startled by the request. It was turning into a day for strange questions, but perhaps this was part of his attempt to defuse the tension that accompanied thoughts of death. “All right, and I’m Thea.”
For the first time since he’d knocked on her door, Ranger Guthrie—Jackson—appeared to relax.
Less than ten minutes later, he knocked on another door.
“Come in.” Doc Harrington was younger than Thea had expected, probably in his mid-fifties, a heavyset man with gray hair and brown eyes that looked as if he’d seen too much misery. He barely glanced at her when he opened the door, but then his head jerked, and his eyes widened with what appeared to be shock.
The doctor stood silent for a moment before muttering, “You must be the new midwife.”
Did he think she was too weak to do her job? That was the only reason Thea could imagine for the way he gazed at her. “Yes, I’m Thea Michener.” She started to murmur that she was pleased to meet him but stopped, realizing that the words would be meaningless. Thea was not pleased to meet the doctor under these circumstances.
At her side, Jackson shifted his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet, his impatience obvious. “Where is she?”
“The back room.” The doctor tipped his head to indicate the direction. “You don’t need me. Stay as long as you want.”
And so Thea walked toward the room where she’d be forced to confront what remained of Stuart’s mother. She’d seen dead bodies before, but Jackson’s obvious concern and the doctor’s unexplained reaction to meeting her made her apprehensive. This was no ordinary death, her instincts told her.
To Thea’s relief, Jackson laid his hand on the small of her back, as if he sensed that she needed that measure of comfort. When they arrived at the end of the short hallway, he reached in front of her and opened the door, revealing a room that held a desk, three bookcases, and what must be an examination table.
Jackson gestured toward the sheet-covered body that lay on the table. “Are you ready?”
Though Thea doubted she’d ever be ready, she nodded.
Carefully, Jackson pulled the sheet back, revealing only the woman’s face and throat. “Do you recognize her?”
Thea gasped as she took a step closer. No wonder the doctor had been shocked to see her. It wasn’t quite like looking in a mirror. The other woman’s nose was longer than hers, her chin a little less firm, but the woman who lay so cold and still on the table looked more like Thea than her own sister.
Instinctively, Thea’s hand moved to her own throat. There was no red gash there, no lifeblood spurting out the way it had from this woman. Thea’s instincts had been correct; this was no ordinary death. Stuart’s mother had been killed.
Still reeling from the evidence of violent death, Thea turned to Jackson. “I don’t understand. Who is she?”
“I hoped you’d be able to tell me.”
She stared at the woman again, a shiver making its way down her spine as she registered the similarities in this woman’s appearance. It was uncanny and deeply upsetting to realize that a woman who looked so much like her had been murdered.
“I’ve never seen her before,” Thea said, her voice wavering despite her best efforts to steady it. “I don’t understand how it’s possible, but we could be twins.”
Jackson nodded. “My older brothers are twins, and they look less alike than you do.”
“I’m sure she’s not my sister.” Sarah would have known if their mother had delivered two babies, and if Mama had, she would never have given one away. But that did not help explain the obvious resemblance between this woman and Thea.
“I once heard someone say that everyone has a double, but I didn’t believe it. Now I do.” It was the only explanation Thea could find.
Though Jackson was no longer touching her, he stood close enough to catch her if she fell. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and it provided a measure of comfort as her mind tried to make sense of what her eyes had seen.
“Are you sure you don’t have any relatives in Texas?” he asked. “Cousins, maybe?”
Thea started to shake her head, then reconsidered. “I can ask my sister Sarah, but as far as I know, the only relatives we had were in Pennsylvania, and they’ve all died. Both of our parents were only children with few cousins.”
Jackson nodded and covered the woman’s face again. After a brief good-bye to the doctor, he escorted Thea outside.
“What about your husband?” he asked as they descended the porch steps. “Was his family from this area?”
Thea turned her face toward the sun, trying to dispel the chill that had settled over her when she’d seen that too-familiar face. “You’re confusing me, Rang . . . Jackson. What does my husband have to do with that poor woman?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Probably!” Though Thea knew her outrage was out of proportion to his comment, she couldn’t help it. Seeing a woman who could have been her sister looking like a piece of marble left her trembling inside. It was almost like seeing her own death, and that was deeply disturbing.
Thea had heard that President Lincoln had had a dream about his own death a few days before he was killed. Was this how he had felt—both incredulous and frightened?
She clenched her fists, then released them as she tried to quell her fears. “Daniel’s been dead for more than three months. He couldn’t have killed her.”
“Of course he couldn’t have, but that’s no reason not to answer my questions, is it?” Jackson spoke slowly, his tone conciliatory.
To Thea’s surprise, his gently phrased question helped dissipate her fears. “I suppose not.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “I don’t know much about his family, because Daniel was an orphan. His parents died when he was an infant, and he grew up in an orphanage near Boerne.”
Though Jackson’s eyes widened as if something in her statement had startled him, he asked only, “How did you meet him?”
Thea darted a glance at him as they turned onto Main Street. What a strange conversation. Perhaps this was Jackson’s attempt to keep her from thinking about the woman who was most likely Stuart’s mother. If so, it wasn’t succeeding—not totally—but it was helping.
“Daniel was a traveling salesman. He was trying to sell some new items to the owner of the Ladreville mercantile one day when I was there. We met, we fell in love, and we married.”
There was more to the story, of course, but Thea was not ready to tell anyone about the doubts that had crept in after she’d discovered the perfumed shirts. She would never admit how confused she’d been when she’d learned of Daniel’s death, how an inexplicable sense of relief had mingled with her grief. And so she shared only the barest details of her marriage.
Jackson slowed his steps and looked at her, concern radiating from his eyes. “It must have been difficult for you if he was always traveling.”
“But he wasn’t.” Thea shook her head, remembering how adamant Daniel had been about ending his old life once they married. “He started working at the mercantile so he didn’t have to travel so much. The only times he’d leave were when he went to San Antonio to buy supplies.” And to meet the woman who wore the same perfume as Belinda Allen.
“I see.”
The skeptical expression that flitted across Jackson’s face suggested he didn’t believe her, and that made no sense.
7
This is where my mother grew up?”
As Aimee looked around in astonishment, Lydia reached for Stuart. “Here, let me hold him,” she said, smiling as she cradled the baby in her arms.
When she’d invited Aimee to visit her, Lydia had insisted that she bring Stuart, claiming that she wanted to practice caring for a baby before hers was born. Practice was one thing, but the fact that Lydia had practically grabbed the infant as she opened the door told Aimee her shock was evident. Perhaps Lydia feared that she’d drop the baby as she stared at her mother’s home.
&
nbsp; “I thought I knew what to expect, but this is so . . .” Words failed her.
While it was obvious that no expense had been spared on the exterior of the house with the massive columns and large windows, that had not prepared Aimee for the interior. She had seen other Texas houses, but none had been this elaborate, this elegant.
Un palais. She shook her head slightly, dismissing the idea. This was not a palace. Instead, the polished stone floor and the curving stairway leading to the second story reminded her of the chateau that had dominated the hill overlooking Maillochauds. Though she’d never been allowed inside, Aimee had ventured up the hill one day and had peered into the windows before a groundskeeper had chased her away, declaring that commoners had no business there.
Amazingly, that building, which her parents had told her had been built more than three hundred years ago and which was the pride of the region, was no grander than her own mother’s childhood home.
“It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” Lydia asked as she rocked the now-cooing baby.
Overwhelming was a good adjective, but not the one Aimee would have used. As her eyes continued to adjust to the relative darkness, she studied the interior. Open doorways on both sides of the expansive hallway revealed a parlor and a dining room, each tastefully furnished and large enough to accommodate several dozen people.
“I doubt I’ll ever forget my first sight of it,” Lydia continued. “I’m not sure what intimidated me most—the house itself or your grandmother. She was like a whirlwind.”
“Domineering?” Aimee tried to picture the woman who’d forced her daughter into exile so that no one in Cimarron Creek would know she was expecting a child.
“No, although she certainly knew how to get her way. She did it so nicely, though, that no one seemed to mind.” Lydia led the way into the parlor and gestured toward one of the comfortable-looking chairs. “I wish you could have known Aunt Bertha. She would have loved you.”
Though Aimee wanted to believe that, it was not easy. “She sent her daughter away.”
Lydia nodded. “You need to understand. Things might be different in France, but in a town like Cimarron Creek, unwed mothers are shunned. Aunt Bertha believed she was protecting Grace by sending her to Ladreville.”
“Thea said the same thing.” Maillochauds may have had unwed mothers in the past, but Aimee wasn’t aware of any. What she remembered were rushed marriages and babies born six or seven months after the vows were exchanged.
“The important thing is to remember that Aunt Bertha loved her daughter, and she loved you, even though she never met you. I know that may be difficult to believe, but I grew very close to Aunt Bertha during the time I lived with her, and I can assure you of that.”
“Thank you for telling me.” The warmth that infused Aimee told her Lydia was speaking the truth.
“I wish Grace hadn’t taken your grandparents’ wedding portrait with her. You’d be amazed at how much you look like Aunt Bertha.” Her smile broadening, Lydia looked down at Stuart. “I don’t know which parent he resembles, but he’s the cutest baby ever.”
“I won’t tell your son or daughter you said that.”
The smile turned into laughter. “You’re definitely Aunt Bertha’s granddaughter. That sounded exactly like something she would have said.”
Lydia tipped her head to one side, her expression saying she was considering something. “You must have inherited her sense of humor, but you certainly didn’t inherit Aunt Bertha’s tendency toward long speeches. I used to have trouble getting in a word when she was talking, and Grace is the same way.”
But Aimee was not. For as long as she could remember, she’d been quiet. Because her parents hadn’t liked noise, she’d spent most of her time at home reading. Even when she’d laughed at something she found amusing, she’d learned to do it quietly to avoid criticism.
As if she realized that Aimee needed something to dispel less than pleasant memories, Lydia rose. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to show you your mother and grandmother’s rooms. Grace’s hasn’t been used since she went to Ladreville, because she lived with Catherine when she returned, so it looks the way it did more than twenty years ago, but Aunt Bertha had her own room repapered after her husband died. She told me she needed a new look for the next phase of her life.” Lydia chuckled. “It must be contagious. I’m starting to ramble on the way your grandmother did.”
The distraction worked, and before she’d reached the second story, Aimee was laughing again. She admired the well-appointed bedchambers, although she couldn’t dismiss the tinge of disappointment that rose when she felt no connection to either her mother or her grandmother as she stood in the same places where they’d spent so much time. The rooms were lovely, but that’s all they were—lovely, empty rooms.
It hadn’t been like that in Ladreville. When Pastor and Mrs. Russell learned who she was, they’d insisted that she stay in the room that had once been her mother’s, the room where Aimee had been born. And while she’d been there, Aimee had dreamt of a woman great with child, a woman who’d cupped her abdomen as if she cherished the life growing inside her. Her head had been bent, leaving Aimee unable to see her face, but she had had no doubt that the woman was her mother. That dream had buoyed her with the hope that she’d been loved, a hope that Lydia’s stories had transformed into reality.
As she crossed the street several hours later, Stuart once more cradled in her arms, Aimee smiled. Her second full day in Cimarron Creek had been even better than the first. While she had made a new friend in Patience yesterday, today not only had she cemented her friendship with Lydia, but she had gained some insights into her mother and grandmother. What a wonderful day!
Jackson rubbed his hand across his eyes, trying to dislodge the grit that accompanied fatigue. The combination of a night with very little sleep, finding the body, and seeing the murdered woman’s resemblance to Thea had left him exhausted. He could—and probably should—return to Warner’s house and sleep for a few hours.
Jackson blinked again as he thought of the comfortable bed awaiting him. Though the pharmacist had told him to make himself at home, he was reluctant to do that without at least stopping by the pharmacy to say that he was going to the house.
His decision made, Jackson turned right and headed back to Main Street. Thea was safely inside her home, and while he did not doubt that she was disturbed by what he’d been forced to show her, there was nothing more he could do for her right now. He needed time to think about what she’d told him and to choose his next steps, but first he needed rest to clear his head.
As he entered Warner’s store, Jackson was surprised by the number of customers. When he’d come to Cimarron Creek two days ago, Warner had been alone, making Jackson wonder if business was slow. It appeared that had been only a lull, because today six women stood in line at the main counter, while two others studied the contents of one of the tall glass-fronted cabinets.
Unwilling to bother his host, Jackson waited until he caught Warner’s eye, then moved to the far side of the pharmacy. Feigning an interest in the multicolored bottles of patent medicines displayed behind the glass doors, he kept his head turned slightly so that he could observe the town’s apothecary at work. Though his customers made little attempt to hide their impatience, Warner remained unflappable.
“That’s the Ranger over there,” one of the two women who stood in front of a second cabinet announced to her companion. “I heard he’s the one who found the woman’s body just outside of town.” Though she did not shout, her words carried clearly, causing a sudden silence in the room.
Her companion, a stout woman with unnaturally black hair, shuddered. “It makes me think we ought to start locking our doors. What if this turns out to be like last year, only more serious? Killing people is worse than stealing a few things.”
The first woman laid a reassuring hand on Black Hair’s arm. “The sheriff will keep us safe.”
“But it’s only him and his deputy.�
� Black Hair wasn’t easily mollified. “What if we need more protection?”
“Sheriff Whitfield will call for help if he needs it. He’s promised to keep Cimarron Creek safe.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The words sounded perfunctory rather than heartfelt. “Now, which of these tonics do you think is the best?” As she pointed toward two bottles, the other women resumed their conversations.
Jackson took a deep breath and let it out slowly in a technique he’d learned would calm him. He wasn’t surprised at how quickly the news had spread or that the facts had been distorted. The body hadn’t been close to Cimarron Creek, but saying that it had been discovered hours away was less dramatic than claiming that the townspeople were in danger. Active grapevines thrived on sensational news, and people being put in jeopardy was definitely sensational.
Though he wished he could assure the women that Stuart’s mother’s death had no impact on them, that everyone in Cimarron Creek would be safe, Jackson could not. He didn’t have all the facts yet. He frowned as he realized how few facts he actually had.
The more time he spent with Thea, the more convinced he was that she hadn’t been involved with the Gang. If she was telling the truth—and his instincts told him she was—she had no idea what her husband had done under the cover of being an itinerant salesman. Jackson had to admit that it had been a good cover, yet another indication of just how canny the Gang was. Going from town to town was an excellent means of learning when wealthy people would be traveling and when shipments of gold and silver were being transported.
Jackson took another breath, trying to tamp down the frustration of knowing he was no closer to finding Micah’s killers than he’d been four and a half months earlier. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, now he had another killing to solve.
As weariness settled over him, he stared out the store’s front window. Days like today made him wonder if he was becoming too old for this life.