Читать книгу Salvation in the Rancher's Arms - Kelly Boyce - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Caleb stood against the side wall of the church, closer to the front than he wanted to be. It gave him too clear a view of Rachel Sutter. The new widow sat flanked on either side by two boys. One he guessed was around fifteen, too old to be her son. The other he doubted was more than six or seven. Neither bore any resemblance to her or Robert Sutter.

The church was packed to capacity. It seemed everyone in town had come to pay their respects despite the short notice. Several men lined the walls with him. A few cast glances his way, though none addressed him directly. Just as well. He didn’t plan on staying longer than necessary, and the fewer people who remembered his face, the better.

The reverend stood at the front of the church, the pine box to his right. He cleared his throat, signaling he was ready to start the service.

It was easier to think of it as a pine box. Nothing special. Not something containing a body or a man or a life that used to be.

But try as he might, Caleb couldn’t erase the image of Sutter’s face when the bullet slammed into his chest. There had been an instant, a split second when the shock registered on Sutter’s face and he knew he was going to die. Caleb had seen that look on a man’s face before, but it still sent a chill straight to his core.

Sutter was dead before his body hit the filth encrusted floor of the Broken Deuce Saloon.

Caleb wished he’d never sat down at the card table. Never witnessed the man’s death. Never ridden into Laramie at all.

The reverend’s voice droned on. “Thou hast also given me the shield of thy salvation, and thy gentleness hath made me great...”

Caleb recognized the passage. It was from the book of Samuel. His grandfather had spent many nights twisting its words to suit his ends. Caleb gave his head a gentle shake. How many years would need to pass before he could bury those memories?

He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, letting the wall take most of his weight. He wasn’t sure why he’d come here today. He hadn’t been inside a church for so long it was a wonder he hadn’t burst into flames the moment he passed through its double oak doors. He didn’t know Sutter outside the brief hours before he’d died and hadn’t particularly liked what he had known. He didn’t know the man’s family or the people in this town. He could have ridden in, handed over the body and disappeared into the sunset.

Except he still had business to attend to. And some things a man couldn’t walk away from, no matter how much he wanted to.

His attention drifted away from the reverend and rested on the widow. Dressed in black, she wore a small matching hat perched forward on the top of her head. Her hair, a deep mahogany, was twisted into a simple knot at the nape of her neck, but whatever held it in place seemed destined to give in to its weight. Strands had worked their way free and curled down her narrow back.

She stared straight ahead at some point over the reverend’s shoulder, away from the pine box containing her husband. Her stoic expression never altered. Caleb tilted his head to one side and studied her, surprised to find her beautiful, though certainly not delicate. Bold, graceful lines and dark, almond-shaped eyes shaded by the short veil of her hat held a man’s gaze captive, but it was the wealth of inner strength that radiated from her strict posture and the way she hugged the young boy to her that he thought would endure in the mind long after.

To hear Sutter tell it, his wife didn’t possess a single redeeming quality to make a man look twice. Given what a pompous loudmouth the man had been, Caleb should have known his opinion wasn’t worth a lick.

She turned, as if sensing his attention. Caleb froze, unprepared for the potency of her dark eyes catching his. For several seconds, he forgot to breathe. Forgot not to stare. Forgot his reasons for being here.

Then, as quickly as her gaze had found him, it slid away. The effect of it, however, lingered like a shadow and he couldn’t shake the sense that she hadn’t looked at him, but into him. As if in those few brief seconds she had plunged inside the darkest recesses of his heart and taken a good look around.

A shiver crept up his spine and nestled at the base of his neck, making the hair prickle and stand on end.

That’s destiny tapping you on the shoulder, his mother used to say.

Caleb shrugged. He was not interested in destiny today. He wanted to take care of business and be on his way. More so now than ever.

“Heard he told her some cockamamie story about goin’ to Laramie to buy cattle.”

Caleb’s ears perked up. The man next to him stood half a head taller than his own six feet but couldn’t have weighed enough to matter soaking wet. He’d addressed the man beside him, who stood out of Caleb’s sight.

“Geez, Styles. Ain’t no way he could afford to be buyin’ more cattle in Laramie or anywhere else. ’Course, with Kirkpatrick breathin’ down his neck, guess you can’t blame the man for trying. Wouldn’t have done no good. Kirkpatrick’s bought up all of Bobby’s gambling debts. Jus’ a matter of time before he stops waitin’ on gettin’ paid back.”

Styles shrugged his bony shoulders. “Probably jus’ as well he got ’imself shot, then. Save Rachel the trouble when she finds out jus’ how much he owes.”

Caleb furrowed his brow. It sounded like Sutter had dug a deep hole and was about to drag his whole family down into it with him.

“Ain’t that the truth,” the other man said. “Still, cain’t say I’m surprised much. Bobby always was a gambler. Like my pappy always said, a man is what his past was.”

A woman in the pew next to them turned around and shushed the men. Both straightened and mumbled their apologies, but their words resonated through Caleb.

A man is what his past was.

The thought filled him with a deep sense of desolation. If that were true, there was no hope for him.

* * *

Rachel sat through the service focusing on what needed to be done rather than the words spoken by Reverend Pearce. If she listened, she would fall apart. Reality would settle in, take root and grow like a weed until it choked out everything else. She had to keep her mind on the future, not on the past or what might have been or all the things she’d done wrong. It couldn’t be changed now.

She had to think of the boys. They needed stability, a place to call home, a future to look forward to. Someday, a part of the ranch would be their legacy. Maybe all of it, given that she had no children of her own.

A prickling sensation tickled the hairs at the back of her neck, pulling her away from her ruminations. She turned to her left and scanned the faces of the congregation who had come to pay their respects. Her gaze swept the line of men standing along the wall and settled onto the stranger next to Jeremiah Styles.

He leaned against the wall, and though his manner appeared casual, Rachel sensed a predatory air about him, as if his posture was nothing more than a ruse. His sharp gaze spoke of a man well aware of his surroundings and any threats it might present. Lean and broad shouldered, he maintained an air of readiness, like a mountain cat about to strike. A frisson of unease tangled itself around her.

His gaze bored into hers, steady and unwavering. There was something in those eyes. Something hungry. Desperate. Haunted. It was like looking in a mirror.

Rachel’s breath caught and she turned back to face the front. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and forced her heart to slow.

She knew who he was. Strangers were easy to pick out in a town where so few passed through. He was the man who’d brought Robert’s body back from Laramie.

He was the one who would tell her the truth about what had happened.

After the ceremony, they convened to the graveyard and lowered Robert’s casket into the newly thawed earth. Rachel took a handful of dirt and dropped it into the gaping hole. It fell with a heavy thud onto the coffin. She didn’t think she’d ever heard a more lonely sound.

“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to the Almighty God our brother Robert Charles Sutter, and we commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth...”

Next to her, Ethan gripped her hand and squeezed, pressing his face into her arm.

“...ashes to ashes...”

Rachel’s stomach twisted. How had it come to this?

“...dust to dust...”

Eight years ago she had been full of hope. She pulled in her lip and took a deep breath, blinking back tears she refused to let fall. She would not break down. She would not give in.

“...the Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him...”

This was it. It was over.

“...and be gracious unto him and give him peace. Amen.”

It was done.

“Amen,” the congregation chanted back in subdued tones.

Robert was gone.

And all he’d left behind was questions.

Rachel searched the crowd for the stranger. She needed to understand, needed answers, and he was the only man who could give them to her.

She found him lingering in the shade of the gnarled oak growing in the far corner of the graveyard. He hadn’t joined the graveside service, but instead hung back near the road, away from the crowd. His hat, pulled low over his eyes, kept his expression hidden in shadow, but in her mind’s eye she could see the clear outline of his chiseled features. The deep-set eyes and wind-burned cheekbones. The firm set of the mouth against a few days’ growth of beard.

He was a handsome man, though not conventionally so. But something about his essence grabbed your attention and held it. This was a man who would be hard to forget, yet she sensed from the way he held back from the others and kept his face half hidden, being forgotten was exactly what he preferred.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the townspeople began filing past her, issuing platitudes and condolences. One by one, Rachel answered with the appropriate, “Thank you....I appreciate it....” And finally, most emphatically, “...no, we’ll be fine.”

The words had a strange, hypnotic effect, even if she didn’t believe them. Standing not too far away on the small crest of the hill, Freedom waited. Rachel sent the boys to her, giving Ethan one last hug before Brody led him away. She watched their retreating backs. What would they do now? The winter had been hard on them, but Robert had promised they had enough funds to replenish their cattle herd at the spring auction in Laramie.

Like a fool she had believed him.

The corner of her eye caught a motion coming toward her. A wall of black wove through the crowd with the determination of the Grim Reaper.

Shamus Kirkpatrick.

Her jaw tightened. Did the man have no compassion?

She could not deal with Shamus, today of all days. No doubt he would come to her dripping of sympathy with all the sincerity of a snake-oil salesman, sizing her up to find her weak spot before going in for the kill.

She had to get away, but panic paralyzed her limbs. The congregation had moved from the grave site to the courtyard in front of the church, leaving her alone.

“Come with me.”

The voice was low and husky, and hot breath tickled her ear. A hand gripped her elbow from behind with firm pressure. The sudden intimacy shocked her, causing her to stumble as she was maneuvered away from Robert’s graveside. She glanced up into the chiseled features of the stranger. Up close, the details of his face were even more captivating than from a distance. Tiny lines creased the edges of his eyes, and his full mouth pulled itself into a severe line. There was no give or softness to be found anywhere. He was all harsh angles and rugged maleness. It overpowered her senses, and she let him pull her along without protest.

He led her away from Shamus, down the hill toward the church, his hand solid and firm where it gripped her arm. It had been a long time since a man had touched her. Warmth spread through her and she cursed her body’s weakness. So much like her mother.

She gritted her teeth against the thought and found her voice. “Where are you taking me? The boys—”

“Boys are fine,” he said, casting a quick glance behind them to where Ethan and Brody stood with Freedom.

So close, his eyes were even more potent, neither brown nor green but a mottled shade of both, and set above a pair of razor-sharp cheekbones burned by the elements. Poking out from beneath his hat, thick brown hair curled up at the ends and whiskers, tinted red where the sunlight touched them, prickled his jaw.

“You’re the man who brought Robert home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She waited for more as he directed her around Mrs. Lyngate and her brood of eight children, but the man was silent as a church on Monday morning. She struggled to keep up with his swift gait, gathering her skirts in her free hand.

“Do you mind telling me what my husband was doing in Laramie that got him shot?”

His gaze drifted over her, making her tremble, as if he had reached out and brushed his fingertips against her bare skin. The sensation left her unsettled.

“Maybe that question is best answered at another time. I’ll be at the Pagget this evening. Seven o’clock.”

Before she could respond, the stranger propelled her into the crowd in the courtyard and the pressure on her arm disappeared, leaving her staring at the broad expanse of his retreating back. Another round of platitudes began. Rachel accepted the condolences, realizing he had left her safely ensconced in the bosom of the mourners where Shamus wouldn’t dare accost her.

But Shamus waited, standing near the outskirts of the crowd. His pale blue eyes pierced her. Then he smiled, all arrogance, before turning and leaving. She had avoided him today, but it was a temporary reprieve.

She wasn’t as blind as the townspeople believed. She knew all about Robert’s gambling debts. Shamus made sure of it. She also knew that, if he decided to call in the markers, she would have no way of paying them back save to sell him her land.

And Shamus Kirkpatrick was not the type of man to let a little thing like Robert’s death keep him from taking it.

* * *

Caleb sat in the dining room of the Pagget Hotel wishing he had picked another location for his meeting with Mrs. Sutter. He’d chosen it out of convenience, since he was staying there, but the tired-looking décor and even more tired-looking waitress made him rethink his decision. The place had a faded and worn-out feel to it, as though its heyday had come and gone years before.

For himself, he couldn’t have cared less. A campfire and can of beans were all he needed, but a lady like Mrs. Sutter deserved nicer surroundings. And given the news he was about to deliver, a comfortable setting was the least he could provide. But it was too late now.

He motioned for the waitress to refill his cup of coffee, hoping this one would taste better than the sludge served earlier. The dark liquid she poured into the chipped mug reeked of tree bark scorched in the fire. He’d seen warmed tar with a more appetizing consistency.

Mrs. Sutter appeared at the threshold separating the small dining room from the main lobby, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. An air of vulnerability lingered around her as she stood on the precipice as if trying to decide whether to continue on or retreat. The urge to protect her against what he needed to do surged up, and he struggled to stuff it down as Mrs. Sutter dropped her hands to her sides, straightened her narrow shoulders and stepped forward.

Caleb stood as she approached his table.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” He nodded, then remembered his manners at the last minute and rounded the table to pull out her chair. She was already half seated by the time he reached her. Apparently Mrs. Sutter didn’t stand on ceremony.

“Thank you for meeting me, Mr.—” She stopped. Confusion marred the clean lines of her face. Again, he was struck by her simple beauty. She shook her head and folded her hands primly in her lap. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

He hesitated. He’d had used many over the years. But for some reason he didn’t want to lie to her. He didn’t delve into why.

“Beckett,” he said. “Caleb Beckett.”

She smiled, a small, halting expression lost in the dark depths of her eyes. “Mr. Beckett.”

The name sounded foreign. Like returning home after years away and finding the landscape had changed shape. Yet, when she said it, her tone and the small hint of a smile made him remember the boy he used to be. For a brief moment, a sense of belonging enveloped him.

He quickly shook it off and returned to his seat across from her. “Would you like something to eat?” A pale cast marred her skin. The shock of the past twenty-four hours had exacted a toll, he suspected, despite her outwardly calm demeanor.

“No. Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.” She pursed her lips and two narrow lines formed between her brows. He curled his hand into a fist to keep from reaching over and smoothing them out. She didn’t deserve to be put through this worry and distress.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Although he had little choice. They had business to discuss and the sooner he got it done, the sooner he could leave.

Mrs. Sutter let out a slow breath, her shoulders slumping on the exhale. “I am hoping you can give me some answers.”

“Answers?” He stared down into his coffee cup and turned the mug around in his hands. This was the part he had dreaded.

“Do you know why my husband was in Laramie? He told me he was purchasing cattle at the auction, but...”

But purchasing cattle didn’t get a man shot in the chest and stuffed in a pine box.

Her gaze did not waver; even without looking at her, he could feel it on him. Despite Sutter’s unflattering description of his wife, Caleb found her straightforward manner appealing. He found her appealing, a fact that disturbed what little peace he had. He chose his words with care.

“Could be he did attend the auction.”

“But that’s not where you met him.” She lifted her chin. “I would prefer if you would be honest with me, Mr. Beckett. Do not feel you need to spare my sensibilities or protect me from the truth. I’m quite capable of handling it, whatever it is.”

He didn’t doubt it for a second. Rachel Sutter didn’t strike him as the type to shirk from the storms life threw her way.

“I met your husband at the Broken Deuce. There’s a poker game held there every year during the auction. A lot of money can change hands. Fortunes won or lost at the turn of a card.”

“And my husband,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Was he—?”

Caleb nodded. “He played at my table, ma’am.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Did he win?”

He could tell from the way she stared down at the table with a hard set to her mouth she already knew the answer. Caleb didn’t bother to sugarcoat it for her. He doubted she would appreciate being pandered to on top of everything else.

“No, ma’am.”

A bitter laugh shot out of her as her head dropped back. She stared at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a long breath and recapturing his gaze. “No. Of course he didn’t.” She licked her lips, the motion mesmerizing him for a moment, shooting heat to parts he tried not to think about.

She had plump, full lips. Again he was struck by the contrast between the vision sitting before him and the wife Sutter had described. Had the man been blind as well as stupid?

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

She waved off his apology. “How did he get himself shot?”

Caleb rubbed at a stain on the tablecloth and debated glossing over what had happened. No woman should have to hear the details of this. But she had asked him not to hold back, and he figured he owed her that much. “Your husband got upset when the game turned against him. He accused a man of cheating. I think by then he had lost so much, maybe he figured he had nothing left to lose. He made a move to draw his gun, but...”

He peered across the table at her. She stared at the spot on the tablecloth he had been rubbing with his finger. When he stopped speaking, she filled in what he left unsaid, her voice quiet. Beaten.

“I take it whoever he planned on shooting was a faster draw.”

Caleb nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Who?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Do you know the name of the man who shot my husband?”

He debated lying. Nothing good could come of this. But, she had asked him for the truth and again, he felt compelled to give it. “A man by the name of Sinjin Drake.”

“What happened to him?”

Caleb arched an eyebrow. “Drake?”

“Yes. Did they...did they hang him?” Her bottom lip quivered, the first breach in the stone wall she had built around her emotions. She pulled the errant lip into her mouth catching it with her teeth.

“No. They said the shooting was self-defense.”

“Was it?”

Caleb shrugged, wishing she would let it go. It did her no good to hear this. And it did him no good to tell it.

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood floor. Caleb rose to his feet.

“I thank you for your time, Mr. Beckett. For bringing my husband’s body home—” her hands fisted together in front of her until he could see the white of her knuckles “—and for telling me the truth.”

He said nothing.

“Will you be staying in town long?”

He wasn’t sure why she asked. Politeness perhaps. Although she had risen to leave, she now seemed uncertain of where to go or what to do.

“Unlikely.”

She gave a curt nod. “Well then...I should—”

“There’s another matter I need to speak to you about.”

Confusion flitted across her features. “Another matter?” Then it cleared and realization dawned in her eyes. “Oh. Oh, of course. You wish payment for—” She let out a small laugh and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “How stupid of me.”

“No, ma’am. I don’t expect payment.” He wished she would sit down. She was looking paler by the minute and what he had to tell her was not going to improve matters. “Please.” He motioned to the chair.

She waved him off. “If you don’t expect payment, then forgive me, but I see nothing else we would have to discuss.”

Lord help him, but there was no easy way to do this other than telling her straight out. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the folded papers. He set them on the table and slid them toward her.

* * *

Rachel stared down at the folded papers, her heart pounding. She reached out a tentative hand and picked them up, unfolding them with deliberate slowness. The words swam before her eyes and a strange buzzing rang in her ears. This wasn’t happening.

It couldn’t be.

“He put your land up as collateral.”

Except it was.

“It appears I’m the new owner of the Circle S ranch.”

The room swayed and tipped and swerved.

“Ma’am?”

Mr. Beckett sounded far away. She tried to find him, but it was hard to keep her eyes focused. She couldn’t catch her breath. Why couldn’t she catch her breath? Blackness encroached at the corners of her eyes and her legs turned weightless.

“Ma’am?”

Something scraped loudly across the floor. A blur passed before her eyes before something solid enveloped her.

Then there was nothing.