Читать книгу Undercover Sheriff - Barbara Phinney - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Exactly thirty-four hours after Zane Robinson had agreed to assume his brother’s identity, and in the light from the lamp outside her front door, Rachel toyed with the telegram she’d just received. The mayor’s young errand boy had brought it over just as she was leaving for her ministry work, as she did most nights. There was no accompanying comment from the mayor, a fact that attested to Mayor Wilson’s sharp disapproval.

Rachel swallowed. The mayor had done the sensible thing. He’d checked on Zane Robinson’s background. The answering telegram from the mayor of Canaan, Illinois, had only taken a day, and its clipped tone told as much as the harsh words of accusation.

Oh, dear. She had erred once more, this time in her assumption that since Alex was a good sheriff, his twin would also be upstanding. Hadn’t he come here to find his brother? He’d been anxious for him. They wrote regularly. Those were good qualities, and Rachel had taken them at face value as testimonials to his character.

In the dim light above the door, Rachel reread the telegram, hoping it wasn’t as bad as a moment ago.

Ref. your inquiry of Zane Robinson, he was released from duties, guilty of theft and bribery. Recommend you not hire him.

Her heart sank again. Proud Bend had taken on a thief as sheriff. Would the mayor dismiss him outright? Or wait until Alex was found? All she could hope for now was that regardless of his reputation, Zane would be sufficiently motivated to find his brother before the proverbial ax fell on his limited career here in Proud Bend. Rachel made a mental note to call on the mayor tomorrow.

And hopefully Zane would find Rosa and her son, too.

Keep them all safe, Lord. Please.

“Thank you,” she murmured to the errand boy in front of her. With a nod, he hurried away, no doubt anxious to be home.

A breeze rose and chilled Rachel’s hot cheeks enough to make her shiver. The weather had turned frigid. Icy air warned of early winter snow, heavier than the skiff that dusted the ground now. Rachel bit her lip, being careful as she stepped down onto the icy gravel that was her home’s driveway. In the yard to her left was her late father’s coupé, sitting abandoned. It was really a silly conveyance, being so small. Mother had wondered if they should sell the fancy little horse-drawn vehicle.

At the thought of her father, Rachel felt tears spring unbidden into her eyes. She blinked them away. She mourned his death, but she knew that Walter Smith hadn’t been the finest citizen of Proud Bend, and had died a victim of his own evil devices.

Father had been accidentally trampled in a stampede just a month ago while trying to blackmail Mitch MacLeod, cousin Victoria’s fiancé, into signing over his ranch land’s mineral rights. Later that same night, Clyde Abernathy had tried to poison Rachel and her mother, Louise Smith.

While they lay dying in their rooms, Abernathy had hoped to force Victoria into marrying him as part of a plot to cheat Walter Smith’s family out of their inheritance. Thankfully, working together, Victoria and Mitch had been able to stop Clyde and save both Rachel and her mother.

Rachel set her basket down on the driveway. From a small pocket, she tugged free her black handkerchief, the only tangible reminder that she was still in mourning. She dabbed her eyes, in part because of the sadness of losing a father and in part because of the sadness of the whole evil affair.

To add to the stress, an hour ago her mother had bemoaned again that Rachel would depart for the evening. It was too soon, she’d complained, but Rachel had told her mother flat out that she had souls to win and that mourning shouldn’t stop the work. When Louise had reminded her of her health, compromised by Abernathy’s attempt at poisoning her, Rachel had assured her mother that she felt fine. Work was the best remedy for her, Rachel believed.

Tonight, though, there would be no escort. Five years ago, when Pastor Wyseman had given her his blessing for this ministry to reach out to the local soiled doves, he’d also insisted she never go out alone at night in the vicinity of the saloon. Tonight, her escort was supposed to have been Jake Turcot, a local ranch hand who worked for Mitch MacLeod. Jake couldn’t make it this evening, having caught an early-winter flu.

There was no time to find another escort. It didn’t matter. What could possibly go wrong on a cold, quiet evening like this? The men in the saloon knew her and would assume she had brought someone with her as she always did. So one night without one wouldn’t even be noticed.

Taking up her basket again, Rachel struck off, her feet crunching the gravel underfoot with even more dogged determination. She had to go. What if Rosa turned up tonight? What if tonight was the night others finally found the courage to leave their profession?

The sounds of harsh piano music rolled down the street toward her as she drew closer to its source. The saloon’s entertainer struggled through the song, the sour notes and shaky tempo enough to make even Rachel cringe.

She was only a few yards from the source when something made the hairs at her nape rise. And it wasn’t from that one difficult chord.

Stalling her march for a moment, she glanced around the dark and deserted street, but saw no one. With a swallow, Rachel began again, only to stop after a yard and spin back. A dried leaf danced past her, its soft scrape obviously not responsible for the feeling that she was being followed. Perhaps it was just the errant breeze that had caused her hair to rise?

No. She could hear a person’s feet crunch the dry ground between the haberdashery and the barbershop. Errant breeze or not, someone was following her.

“Jake? Is that you? Come out at once. Stop this foolishness or I shall report your behavior to Mitch and to Pastor Wyseman.”

No answer. Heart thumping in her chest like a giant drum, Rachel hesitated. Should she continue on? Or dash back home and hide?

Fear chilled her core, attempting to nail her feet to the wooden sidewalk. To force her to become a victim once again.

Forget it. She’d come too far with her ministry to run away in fear. She’d seen God’s protection time and again, especially with all the terrible things that had happened to her.

Through all of them, God had protected her, and she refused to dismiss His protection now. If the night she’d been poisoned by Abernathy had taught her anything, it was to seize the moment, for time was short. She had to return to her ministry, and no one hiding in the shadows would force her out.

Shoving away her fear, Rachel turned and took a few short, forceful steps, more stationary stomping on the faded wooden planks of the sidewalk with her fur-lined boots than marching forward.

Then, stopping, she spun and waited, her back stiff and her jaw so tight it ached.

A man stepped out of the shadows. And though he froze when he realized his error, she had already seen his face.