Читать книгу Salvation in the Rancher's Arms - Kelly Boyce - Страница 8

Chapter One

Colorado Territory, 1876

Salvation Falls was like a hundred other towns Caleb Beckett had ridden into over the years, with its faded storefronts and hopeful name, likely conjured up by settlers who had great things in mind, only to be disappointed by the harsh realities of life.

People mixed and mingled on the streets and planked sidewalks as the buckboard he rode jostled over the ruts in the dirt road. A few stopped to glance up at him. He could feel the shift in the air the further into town he went. It was subtle at first, but soon grew to a deep murmur that buzzed like a hive of angry bees.

He guessed that could happen when a stranger arrived in town with a coffin loaded in the back of his buckboard.

Caleb’s eyes scanned the storefront signs. They were all the same. Mercantile, hardware, footwear, sundries and saloons. He knew from experience that down near the end of the road he’d find a livery and the butcher, probably a blacksmith or two. It never changed.

He’d spent time in a town just like this, and drifted into even more after leaving it. And if there was one thing he’d noticed, as he moved on from one to the next, it was the similarity of it all. People all wanting the same thing: a decent place to call home, somewhere to belong, a sense of control over their destinies.

He had wanted that once, too. But he’d learned his lesson on that account.

The sheriff’s office loomed ahead on the corner where a side street intersected the main road. It wasn’t the smartest of choices. Left the jail too exposed, in his opinion. But he would keep his own counsel. It was none of his affair. He had other business here. Business he planned on concluding quickly before moving on. The body in the coffin behind him did not alter this plan in any way.

It simply added a few complications that needed to be dealt with first.

He touched a hand to his chest. Beneath his sheepskin, in the pocket of his wool jacket, a piece of paper crinkled under the pressure.

He never should have played the hand. He should have listened when his gut told him to get up and walk away from the table when the desperation in Robert Sutter’s eyes hit a fevered pitch.

But he hadn’t.

The price was always hefty when he ignored his instincts. He had the scars to prove it. Both inside and out.

“Whoa.” Caleb pulled back on the reins, squinting as the late afternoon sun poked over one of the low buildings and hit him square in the eye. He tipped the brim of his felt hat forward to block the blinding light.

He stopped the buckboard in front of the sheriff’s office. He set the brake and jumped down, his muscles protesting after endless hours in the seat. He’d driven straight from Laramie without stopping. He wanted this business over and done with.

Jasper nickered. His horse hadn’t much liked being hitched to the back of the wagon for the trip, replaced by a sturdy draft, but Caleb hadn’t wanted to tire the paint. He needed him fresh and ready for when he left town.

Caleb left the coffin where it was and, ignoring the stares of those who had stopped to gawk, walked into the sheriff’s office.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness.

“Do somethin’ for you?”

Caleb blinked and shifted, moving his exposed back away from the open door. Slowly the shadows took shape. The sheriff sat behind a scarred desk, his feet propped up on top and a newspaper in his lap. The tin badge designating his position held a dull sheen in the pale light. Caleb judged the man’s age to be close to his own thirty years, though he lacked the hard-bitten look Caleb saw every time he looked in a mirror.

“Afternoon,” he said. Flicking the brim of his hat back with one finger, he took in his surroundings. The small office held a desk and chair. In front of the desk were two more straight-backed chairs. A potbellied stove took up the center of the wall he had his back to and it radiated heat, the crisp scent of burning wood almost enough to overpower the smell of leather, bacon and sweat. “I got a body for you.”

The sheriff folded the newspaper and unfolded his long limbs. His feet hit the wood floor with a thud. “Come again?”

From the man’s reaction, Caleb guessed they didn’t get a lot of dead bodies showing up unannounced in Salvation Falls. He hooked a thumb in the direction of the door. He could see a crowd gathering outside. The sheriff noticed, too, and took a few steps forward to peer over Caleb’s shoulder. The sun caught his hair, turning the black almost blue. Sharp, dark eyes slid in Caleb’s direction.

“Whose body you got in there?”

“Man by the name of Robert Sutter.”

Shock registered in the sheriff’s expression, a swift tightening travelling down his body like a bolt of lightning, straightening his posture. “Sutter?”

“Man was in Laramie, playing cards.” Caleb hesitated, unsure of how much to tell the sheriff. He decided the bare minimum would suffice for now. “Got himself shot.”

“Man.” The sheriff’s hand rubbed at his clean-shaven jaw until the tightness in his expression eased and filled with worry and uncertainty. “You came straight here?”

“Three days’ ride.” Caleb hesitated again. “Body oughta be buried straight off.” The sun had beaten down on him for the duration of the journey, and while April high up in Colorado Territory was a far cry from warm, he didn’t guess it did much good to a body stuffed in a pine box.

The sheriff nodded, his attention riveted to the buckboard outside. “I’ll send for his wife.”

Wife.

Caleb’s stomach churned. How had Sutter referred to her? A pants-wearing, mealy-mouthed ball buster.

Great.

He didn’t imagine she would be happy to receive the news he had to give. His hand absently brushed against his hip. It almost made him wish he still wore his guns. Almost.

“Might be Rachel can’t get here till morning. Their spread is a couple hours’ ride out. Be dark by the time someone gets there and breaks it to her.” The sheriff rubbed at his stomach, as if the idea of delivering the news that her husband had died in a card game threatened to dislodge his dinner. “You best hole up for the night,” he continued. “Mrs. Sutter might have some questions she needs answered. Better if you were here to accommodate her. Might make it easier.”

Caleb nodded. He doubted anything he had to say would improve the situation. In fact, just the opposite. But he had to speak to the woman either way. “Hotel?”

“Klein’s is the most decent. Pagget’s is the least expensive.” The sheriff’s hand waved in one direction then the other, the rest of him remained focused on the dead body in the buckboard. He seemed unduly affected by the man’s death.

“Sutter kin to you?”

The man snapped back to attention. “What? No.” He shook his head. “I knew him since we were boys, is all. And Rachel.”

“Expect she’ll be upset.”

The sheriff glanced from the buckboard back to Caleb, his expression unreadable. “I guess any woman would be.”

Despite his words, something in the man’s tone told Caleb not to expect a bucket of tears when the new widow came to town.

“If you could point me in the direction of the undertaker.”

The sheriff walked to the door and plucked his hat off the peg next to it, jamming it onto his dark hair. “I’ll ride down with you.” He turned before stepping over the threshold into the waiting crowd. “What were you doing in Laramie, anyway?”

Caleb pulled the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes, even though the sun had now dipped low enough to no longer be a bother. “Just passin’ through.”

* * *

Rachel Sutter gripped the edge of the wagon, partly to keep her behind from bouncing out of the seat and partly to keep her hands from shaking, as the large black woman known as Freedom Jones drove hell-bent for leather toward town.

“Slow down, Free.” She almost added that Robert wasn’t going anywhere, but managed to bite back the last bit, swallowing her anger. A tough pill, at best, and one that left a chalky residue as it went down. She could not believe it.

Robert was dead.

Killed.

The sheriff had delivered the news himself, arriving shortly after supper and pulling her outside where the boys couldn’t hear their conversation. The minute Hunter Donovan arrived on her doorstep, Rachel knew it was bad news. Dread filled the empty space inside her and made itself at home.

Breaking the news to the boys hadn’t been easy. She did her best to reassure them everything would be fine, but after they had turned in for the night, her numbness gave way, making room for fear to creep in. Curling up on the empty cot in the kitchen where Robert had preferred to sleep, she rocked back and forth with her head buried in her knees. The tears came of their own volition, angering her.

She had cried enough tears during the beginning of their marriage, back when she still believed she could make it work if she tried hard enough. But nothing she did had made a difference.

Robert wasn’t interested in her.

He’d had ambitions for her land, but his ambitions for their marriage became a well of empty promises.

Once again, it fell to her to pick up the pieces. But this time, there would be no reprieve. This time, Robert wasn’t coming back with yet another scheme for riches or promises of recouping all they had lost.

Rachel shook off her memories of last night and glanced behind her at Ethan and Brody. Both were dressed in their Sunday best, though it was only Tuesday. Brody, at nearly fifteen, had taken another growth spurt. The hem and cuffs of his suit betrayed the evidence that she had let them out as far as they could go. She’d have to get him a new one, but their credit at the haberdashery was overextended as it was.

“Maybe you could wear one of Robert’s,” she’d suggested. But the idea had been met with stony silence. In the past year, her brother had turned sullen and moody. The sudden distance between them pained her, but nothing she tried had bridged it.

“You warm enough, Ethan?” The little boy’s small body was pressed against Brody’s, seeking either warmth or comfort, maybe both.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

Freedom pulled back on the reins and cast a glance in Rachel’s direction. “It’ll be jus’ fine, Miss Rachel. Ain’t nothin’ you can’t handle. You jus’ remember, those boys—” she jerked her head back toward Brody and Ethan “—they be countin’ on you.”

Rachel nodded. “I’m fine, Free. Just get us into town.” She would have driven them herself, but Freedom had insisted. She didn’t have the energy to argue with the woman, who had been with her since Rachel was Brody’s age, coming to help out when Rachel’s mother fell ill.

She’d been a godsend, then and now.

“Hunter says the reverend is making all the arrangements,” Rachel said, peering out over the jagged landscape. In the distance, the rising sun hit the mountains, turning their peaks a golden pink. The early April air still held the bitter nip of winter here in the small valley. Pockets of snowfall had yet to melt away in some spots, but the promise of spring filled the air with the rich scent of wet earth.

“Yes, I ’spect everyone in town has heard the word.” Nothing stayed secret in Salvation Falls for long. No doubt by the time Hunter had reached her doorstep with the news, most of the townspeople already knew.

“When we get there, take the boys directly to the church,” Rachel continued. “Reverend Pearce will be waiting for them. I’ll walk to Doc Merrick’s from there.”

The rushed burial couldn’t be helped. Three days had passed since Robert was killed. They had to get him in the ground without delay. Rachel understood. She welcomed it. It would keep her busy, keep her focused. Wouldn’t allow her time to stop and think and worry and fret.

If she kept moving, she’d be fine.

* * *

A strange sense that she was living someone else’s life crawled over Rachel as she walked down the pathway away from the white clapboard church. The structure shone like a beacon in the morning sun, but she turned her back on it once Freedom had taken the boys inside. Rachel had stopped at the bottom of the steps, refusing to go in. She wasn’t on good terms with God today.

The cool spring air cut through her thin shawl. She was used to wearing her heavy coat lined with buffalo hide, but it didn’t seem appropriate attire for burying one’s husband.

Not that Robert had proven to be much of a husband.

She stopped midstride and took a deep breath. That wasn’t fair. No, it was fair. It just wasn’t right. The man was dead. Best let the bad memories and disappointment die with him. It wasn’t going to do her any good hanging on to them.

Hunter had had little information to give her about how Robert had managed to get himself killed buying cattle in Laramie, but Rachel had her suspicions. And she suspected that, when she spoke to the man who had brought her husband’s body home, they would be confirmed.

Doc Merrick met her at the door to his office. Merrick wasn’t a real doctor, at least, not the kind who fixed broken bones and ailing stomachs. Dr. Bolger managed that end of things. Merrick yanked teeth and helped prepare bodies for burial. He might have been a regular doc at one point, but if he was, it was well before Rachel could remember. Either way, she was glad for him. It meant one less thing for her to do. And she’d seen enough death in her life, so she was happy for Merrick’s abilities.

“Got Bobby all set, Rachel,” he said, taking a deep draw on his corncob pipe. The sweet, pungent smoke wafted around them. “Can’t tell you how sorry I am ’bout this. Sad day to be burying a man this young.”

Rachel nodded, following Merrick inside to the cramped little room. Small glass bottles lined the shelves against the wall, and oddly shaped instruments, whose purpose she didn’t want to think about, hung on hooks near the table. A lump rose in her throat and grew to the size of one of the crab apples growing on the tree next to the barn.

“Sheriff Donovan brought over a suit for ’im.” Merrick nodded at the closed pine box coffin sitting atop the sturdy table. The pale wood stood out in the dim confines of the office. Light struggled in through the dirt-encrusted window, adding a weak glow to the room.

“I’ll be sure to thank him,” she said. No doubt Hunter had given Doc the one suit he possessed straight out of his own closet. She shouldn’t be surprised. Hunter and Robert had been friends since they were young boys. They may have had a falling-out years before, but Hunter wasn’t the kind of man to hold a grudge past death.

Rachel touched the edge of the pine, letting her fingers trail over the smooth surface. The estrangement had been her fault. Both men had paid court and she’d chosen Robert. She wondered how different her life would have been had she made a different choice all those years ago. Funny how she had known both men most of her life, yet the man she buried today was more of a stranger to her now than on the day they’d married.

Maybe she had never really known him at all. It was a sad thought.

“Can you open it?”

Merrick started. “Open—oh, Rachel, you don’t want to do that. It’s been three days, and...well...” He shook his head, the bushy white hair bobbing with the movement.

“I know,” she said. She knew what happened to a body after death. “But I need to see.”

Merrick hesitated but Rachel fixed him with a hard stare until he relented.

“Here.” He handed her a stark white handkerchief.

Rachel took a deep breath, the scent of formaldehyde and whatever else the Merrick kept in those bottles, stung her nostrils. She placed the handkerchief over her mouth and nose, and gave him a nod.

It took Merrick a minute or two to pry loose the nails and slide the top toward him, revealing the body within from the chest up. Rachel took a step forward and peered down into Robert’s face.

Except it wasn’t Robert’s face.

At least, not the one she remembered. Robert had had a sense of animation to him, whether he had been angry or excited or somewhere in between. This man, this face, was still and gray, the eyes and cheeks already sinking into the hollows in the bone. Even his pale blond hair appeared stiff and lifeless, darker even, as though the sun’s reflection had slipped beneath a cloud leaving it cast in shadow. The body in the box was not Robert. It was an empty shell he’d once filled.

“The sheriff said he was shot.” There was no evidence of a bullet wound.

“One to the chest. Straight through the heart. Probably died instantly. Guessin’ it would have taken a man handy with a gun to manage such a thing.”

Rachel bit down, forcing the lump in her throat back. At least he hadn’t been shot in the gut. Whatever their differences, she would have hated to know Robert had suffered. She closed her eyes and nodded once again, waiting until Merrick hammered the lid back into place before reopening her eyes.

“I’ll bring him up to the church,” Merrick said. “Reverend said the service would start at ten. I’ll have him there before people start arrivin’.”

“Thank you,” Rachel whispered. Something hollow filled her chest. Sorrow? Regret?

She let out a long breath and straightened her shoulders. She had no time for either.

“The boys and I will be staying at the Pagget tonight. You can send the bill over there.” She turned and left the undertaker’s office. She’d figure out how she’d pay it tomorrow.

Today, she had a husband to bury.