Читать книгу Heart Of The Lawman - Linda Castle - Страница 9

Territorial Prison, Yuma.

April 1889

Marydyth fell onto her hard cot. Exhaustion and heat sapped her strength and dragged her toward sleep.

But she never rested

Night was the worst time in this place that men had named Hellhole. Night was when the specters of her past came to visit

She tossed and turned on the hard mattress, willing them to stay away for just one night.

But her guilt would not abate. Andre’s face floated before her. His eyes were hollow, dark sockets but his lips twisted into a hideous grin. Then Andre’s face shifted and changed.

It was J.C.

Oh, J.C., I didn’t do it—you know I didn’t kill you. But J.C. only stared at her with dark, haunted eyes until his face transformed and became Victoria. She was laughing. Laughing.

Go away!

Did Marydyth scream aloud or was it only in her head?

Next, Andre’s face returned and loomed closer, pale blue and lifeless. His eyes were empty holes.

I didn’t want to kill you. I didn’t want to kill anybody.

Rachel was crying. She was lost, somewhere just beyond Marydyth’s reach. She turned in a circle, searching, looking for her baby.

Where is my baby? Who will love my baby?

Marydyth woke to the sounds of her own frightened screams.

Hollenbeck Corners, Arizona Territory

April 1889

“Unca Flynn!” Rachel darted down the stairs, her black leather shoes clacking out a quick tempo while she ran. She launched her body at Flynn’s outstretched arms without a single doubt that he would catch her.

He spun her around and held her above the crown of his cream-colored Stetson hat.

“Whe-e-e-e!” The little girl squealed in delight

He gave her one last turn and then brought her to his chest. She was giggling and squirming in his arms.

“How’s my girl today?”

“I missed you.”

“I didn’t miss you at all.” He pulled a face. “Not even when I went to the mercantile on the way home.”

Her eyes widened. “Did you bring me somethin’?”

“Naw.” He grinned. “There is nothing in my shirt pocket for you.”

Rachel attacked his pocket like a hungry coon. She dug deep and came up holding the hoarhound stick.

“Shh—don’t let Mrs. Young know.” Rachel held one dimpled finger to her lips.

“Is it a secret?” Flynn whispered.

“Uh-huh. Mrs. Young made gingerbread men for our dessert, so you mustn’t let her know.” Rachel’s warm breath fanned out over his face as she whispered.

“Then it will be our secret. You can count on me.” He winked.

Rachel hugged him tight around the neck, and liquid warmth—love—exploded in his chest.

It had been this way for a long while now. Flynn and Rachel. Unca Flynn.

He deposited Rachel on her feet and she immediately wrapped her fingers around two of his. “I missed you,” she said for the second time.

“I had to move the cattle, honey,” Flynn explained. “It will take a few more days.”

“Oh.” Flynn felt as if the sunshine had been covered by a cloud when Rachel stopped smiling.

“Tell me about those gingerbread men,” he said as they walked through the parlor. The tall, narrow windows were open and the evening breeze fluttered the heavy, green tasseled draperies.

It was still hot

“I made a special one just for you, Unca Flynn. I saved it.” Rachel’s eyes darted toward the kitchen at the back of the house. She leaned close enough for him to feel the angel’s wing of her breath along his neck. “Mrs. Young didn’t like it, but I saved it anyway,” Rachel whispered into his ear.

“I am mighty beholden to you for the kindness. Gingerbread is one of my particular favorites.” Flynn folded himself into a chair, and Rachel scrambled into his lap. She sucked on her hoarhound when he patted her knee.

“I love you, Unca Flynn.”

That hot feeling expanded in his chest again. He swallowed hard.

If anybody had told him three years ago that he would give up his badge and become nursemaid and surrogate parent to a four-year-old charmer, he probably would have locked them up for drunkenness. But sure as God made little green apples, U.S. Marshal Flynn O’Bannion was now just Unca Flynn.

“I love you too, sugar.” His voice had gone husky with emotion. He cleared his throat “I’m hungry enough to eat the south end of a northbound bear.”

Rachel giggled as he hauled them both up from the chair.

“Are you done with that sweet stick yet?” he asked as she crunched the last bite.

“Now I am.”

“Then let’s go see what old Mrs. Young has for us tonight.” He levered her up onto his shoulder and gave her a ride down the carpet-lined hall.

“Unca Flynn.”

“Yes, sugar?” he asked while he ducked the fancy chandelier. The flickering lamps made long-fingered shadows on the ornate wallpaper as he passed.

“You smell funny.” Rachel wrinkled her nose when he glanced at her.

He laughed. “Yep, I guess I do. It was mighty hot out there today.” Too damned hot to have to wrestle cattle all day, but there was nobody else to see they got moved to the high country for summer grass and water. When he took over caring for Rachel he had mingled his herd in with the Hollenbeck beeves. Come fall he would cut out enough for his walking-around money, and the Hollenbeck profits would go into Rachel’s trust fund.

“After dinner I’ll see about a bath.”

“Good,” Rachel agreed as Flynn reached the kitchen. He swung her down to the floor while the rowels on his spurs jingled. The smell of gingerbread and wood smoke filled his nostrils.

“Miz Young,” he said to the wide back in front of the Monarch cookstove.

Mrs. Young allowed her attention to stray from the pot she was stirring for only a moment. “Evening, Mr. O’Bannion.” She turned back to the bubbling pot. Her gray hair was pinned tight but one or two disobedient strands had worked free in the heat of the kitchen.

Flynn shoved his hands in his pockets. It was damned awkward but she had greeted him in exactly the same way for close to three years.

“Come lookie, Unca Flynn.” Rachel pulled one hand free and yanked on his finger. He moved to the scrubbed pine table, glad for something to do until Mrs. Young was ready to leave. Rachel pointed to a blue-sprigged china plate. In the center lay a slightly gimpy, somewhat misshaped gingerbread man.

It was the prettiest thing Flynn had ever seen.

“Do you like it?” Rachel asked.

“I do, I surely do.” Flynn smiled down at her expectant face. It took no effort to act as if he were pleased. He had grown a mighty soft spot for Rachel since Victoria had drawn up the papers and roped him into becoming the child’s guardian.

Her voice grew serious. “It isn’t very good-not like Mrs. Young’s.” Rachel’s gaze slid to the closed pie safe with the pierced tin panels. Flynn was sure inside must lie a treasure of perfectly formed gingerbread men in precise rows upon the scrubbed wood.

Flynn’s heart contracted at the searching expression in Rachel’s cornflower-blue eyes. “Dumpling, I think that is the finest gingerbread man in town—probably the whole territory.”

Some of the strain left her small shoulders. “Mrs. Young said it was crooked.”

Flynn’s eyes slid to the housekeeper. She was in the process of folding a dish towel. When she had folded four layers she used the towel to pull a black Dutch oven out of the front of the Monarch stove. Then, as she had done every night for three years, she stripped off her apron and turned to Flynn.

“Dinner is roast beef. There is a pan of biscuits and a bowl of gravy on the warmer.” She laid her apron aside and retrieved her brown bonnet from a hook by the back door. “Yesterday’s loaves are in the pie safe if you take a hankering for some.”

Without another word she tied the bonnet on her head and shuffled out the back door. Heavy, determined steps thudded alongside the house. The iron gate in front creaked once when it opened and once when it swung shut. They would see no more of Mrs. Young until seven o’clock in the morning.

The huge house seemed to sigh in relief.

“I’m glad she is gone,” Rachel whispered.

Flynn frowned and rubbed his rough palm against Rachel’s satiny cheek. “It’s just the two of us again, partner.”

“Uh-huh,” Rachel said with another relieved sigh.

Flynn knew that Rachel was uneasy around Mrs. Young. Most of the time he was home and things were fine, but when he had business to take care of or the herd to move, then he saw Rachel become unhappy.

Maybe it was time to make a change. Mrs. Young was old and set in her ways. Rachel had all the energy and curiosity of a normal child.

Maybe if he talked to Mrs. Young…

He wasn’t sure how to ride herd over her. Still, the notion that he needed to make changes for Rachel nudged at the corners of his mind.

He yanked out a kitchen chair and helped Rachel into it. She straightened her petticoats over legs as straight and slender as a yearling filly’s.

“Are you eating man-size or little girl-size tonight?” he asked as he lifted the heavy iron cover from the Dutch oven.

“Man-size,” Rachel said.

He looked at her from under lifted brows. “How about we start small and work up?”

“All right, Unca Flynn.”

He dished up two plates. “Did Mrs. Young snap at you again, punkin?”

“No, not ’xactly.” Rachel squirmed in her chair.

“Truth?”

“No. She isn’t like you, Unca Flynn,” Rachel explained patiently in her young-old voice.

“I should hope not.” He chuckled and tried to make light of what she had said. “I’m a tough old range bull.”

“You’re not old, Unca Flynn.” Rachel laughed but then her expression turned serious. “You’re not old like Grandma Hollenbeck.”

“No, I’m not old like that, Rachel, but your grandma is very sick.” Victoria probably seemed aged beyond counting to Rachel since the woman had been ravaged by her strokes.

Flynn sat down at the table. He picked up a fork and rotated it between his finger and thumb, chewing on the question that he knew had to be asked. Finally he just spit it out.

“What did Mrs. Young say to upset you today, Rachel?” He stared at his food, while he waited for her to find the words.

“I asked her why I didn’t have a mama like Becky Morgan and Maizie Duncan and all the other little girls in town.” Her voice was a quivering whisper as she stared down at her lap.

A hard knot took up residence in Flynn’s belly. This was a day he had long dreaded.

“What did she say?”

“She said I didn’t have a mama.” Rachel’s voice was dry and whispery. “But how come, Unca Flynn?” She looked up at him and tears swam in her blue eyes. “How come I don’t have a mama?”

“Oh, honey, don’t listen to Mrs. Young. She is a grumpy old sage hen who has forgotten how to raise a little girl.” Flynn reached out and rubbed her soft cheek with his thumb. He made up his mind then and there. Mrs. Young would have to go. He would not have a woman in the house who had so little compassion.

Rachel swallowed hard and toyed with her food Flynn tried a piece of meat but it tasted like sawdust while he chewed.

He had known this day would come—that eventually Rachel’s curiosity would bring him to this point, but he was unprepared. What could he tell her?

Rachel had grown up in a town full of secrets. Victoria Hollenbeck’s power and money had silenced the tongues of the residents of Hollenbeck Corners. As far as Flynn knew, Rachel had never even heard her mother’s name spoken. He had said nothing because he just didn’t know what to say. But as he looked at Rachel’s tight little face, he knew he was going to have to find the words.

And soon.

“You do have a mama, Rachel,” Flynn said softly.

Her head lifted. She stared across the blue-flowered china with a look of hope and bone-deep hunger. Her pale blue eyes burned into him.

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. You look a lot like her, in fact. She has blue eyes, just like yours.”

I remember, because she turned and looked at me with those amazing eyes before she walked through the gates at Yuma.

“You—know her?” Wonder tinted every word.

“Yep, I know her.”

Rachel’s eyes scanned his face, as her mind gauged his words, searching for truth and meaning.

“Where is my mama, Unca Flynn?”

Straight as an Apache arrow, her question pierced his heart.

Flynn swallowed hard. Now he had opened Pandora’s box and all the misery that came with his answer would come flying out.

How could he tell Rachel that her mother was in prison for killing her daddy?

Her world would shatter.

No. The world he had built around this tiny girl would shatter, if she learned what part he had played in taking her mother away.

“She had to leave when you were just a baby.” The half truth rushed past his lips.

“Why?”

Something cold and mournful, like wind out of the Superstitions, swept over him. “Sh—she just did. There are times when adults have to do things—even if they don’t want to. I—I can’t really explain it all to you now. Maybe when you are a little older.”

Rachel’s bottom lip trembled. She drew in a ragged breath in an effort not to cry. “Oh.”

He swallowed hard. This little scrap of flesh and bone could wound him with a look. Her tears destroyed him and turned him to a babbling fool.

“She loved you, honey. That is what you need to remember and think about. Don’t listen to Mrs. Young, just remember that your mama loved you.”

Her face took on a sullen hurt look that cut him deep. “If she loved me she wouldn’t have gone away. If she loved me she would come back,” Rachel said softly.

The edges of his heart withered. “No. That isn’t always true, honey. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that she didn’t have any choice. She had to go.”

Rachel flew out of her chair and crumpled against his body like a fragile flower seeking shelter from a hard frost. He cuddled her while the sound of her sobs tore a hole right through him.

Someday he would have to explain it all to Rachel. And then he would have to live with the consequences of what it meant to have worn a badge.

A half hour later a knock at the door brought Rachel’s head up. Flynn slowly rose from the chair with Rachel still cradled in his arms.

She had cried for a long time.

Her tears ate at him like acid. He was ill equipped to be a father—but he was the closest thing she had to family now.

“I wonder who would be coming to call?” He hoped he could draw her from the pain she was in.

“Don’t know,” she said with a hiccup.

“Well, let’s me and you go find out.” He gave her a kiss on the top of the head and set her on her feet. Together they crossed the carpeted parlor to the front hall.

Rachel’s ragged hiccups tore at Flynn every step of the way to the door. He was too old and too much a lone wolf to be caring for her. She needed more.

She needed a mother.

When he reached the door she looked at him with such an expression of loneliness that he scooped her up in his arms again.

They looked through the frosted pane of glass and saw the glow of a lantern. Flynn opened the door and discovered Charlie Parker, Hollenbeck Corners’s aging postmaster. He gripped an ancient-looking mining lantern in his deeply tanned, gnarled hand.

“Charlie?”

“Evening, Mr. O’Bannion. Sorry to bother you.” Every time he spoke his Adam’s apple bobbed like a cork in the water.

“No bother. Come inside, Charlie. What brings you out so late?” Flynn lowered Rachel to the floor and stepped back so Charlie could enter, but the man hung back. “Is something wrong?”

Charlie glanced down at the thick Chinese carpet beneath Flynn’s feet. He dusted his boots on the backs of his pant legs before he stepped over the threshold into the big house. “Not ’xactly, Mr. O’Bannion.”

The postmaster was acting so jumpy that Flynn found himself looking both ways down the steep hill toward town. J. C. Hollenbeck had built his mansion on a rocky knoll near the San Pedro River. Flynn could stand on the front porch and view most of Hollenbeck Corners below. Right now the place was pretty quiet. A horse nickered, a dog barked and a furious-sounding cat answered, and there was a faint tinkle of barroom music floating on the dry spring breeze. But there was nothing to account for Charlie’s nervousness.

“Would you like some supper, Charlie?” Flynn asked as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Mrs. Young left us a pot full of prime Hollenbeck beef.” Charlie always looked as if he could use a hot meal and an extra night’s sleep.

“No, thank you kindly. I am here on business.”

Rachel looked at Charlie from her position behind Flynn’s knee. He could feel her little fingers, curling into the fabric of his Levi’s.

“Business?” Flynn frowned and shot a glance at Rachel. “And it couldn’t wait until the morning?”

Charlie’s Adam’s apple worked up and down a couple of times real fast. “I—I wasn’t sure. Uh—a—a letter has come—” Charlie glanced toward Rachel and swallowed hard.

“A letter?” The short hairs on the back of Flynn’s neck rose of their own will.

“It—it ain’t ’xactly for you—” Charlie subtly nodded toward Rachel once again “—if you catch my meaning.”

Flynn didn’t catch Charlie’s meaning, but the way he was acting the letter must have something to do with Rachel.

Marydyth.

An icy finger traced a line up Flynn’s back. He was hard-pressed to keep from shivering. He looked down at Rachel, still hiding halfway behind his leg. The salty outline of dried tears was still evident on her little cheeks.

Once right after Victoria had persuaded Flynn to become Rachel’s guardian he had seen a pile of letters tied with a black ribbon. They had been addressed to Rachel and sent from Yuma.

Flynn and Victoria had some strong words on the matter before she ended the discussion by tossing them into the flames of her fireplace.

“Sugar, why don’t you go clean the dishes off the table? I’ll finish with Charlie, then we’ll wash them up and have some gingerbread and milk.” Flynn gave her a wink.

“All right, Unca Flynn.” Rachel unclasped her fingers from his pants and walked slowly down the long hall. She looked small and way too vulnerable as she passed beneath the crystal chandelier.

“Thanks, Mr. O’Bannion, I didn’t wanna say nothin’ in front of the child.” He pulled an envelope from his vest pocket. His fingers worked nervously around the outside edge. He seemed undecided about whether he wanted to keep it or give it to Flynn.

“Is it a letter for Rachel?” Flynn finally asked when Charlie’s fingers had trodden the same ground for the third time.

“No, not precisely.” Charlie’s lips parted but no sound came out. Then he took a deep breath. “It’s—it’s, aw hell, the letter is addressed to—to the Black Widow.” The words spilled out in an awkward rush.

“I don’t like that name, Charlie.” Flynn took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I never did.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and his Adam’s apple worked up and down. “It is to Mrs. Marydyth Hollenbeck,” he corrected himself, and thrust the letter at Flynn. “Now who would be a-writin’ to her here? I said to myself. Well, nobody who knew what happened, I answered myself. And then I says, well, I says, I better get this to Mr. O’Bannion, right away.” Charlie was staring at the paper as if he thought it might come to life.

“I figger you’d best be the one to have it—since Miz Victoria is—well, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Flynn glanced at the envelope in his hand. It was dirty and ragged. There was no return address and the postmark had been blurred by dirt, greasy stains and the passage of time. It was an old envelope, and had passed through a lot of hands.

Flynn glanced back at Charlie. A hundred questions raced through his mind.

“What do you suppose you’ll do with it, Mr. O’Bannion?” Charlie was still staring at the paper. “I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, Mr. O’Bannion, I am mighty happy I don’t have to do nothing with it. That Black Wi—I mean that Mrs. Hollenbeck, she came to no good, and everythin’ that touched her was the same way.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought,” Flynn interrupted, strangely annoyed to hear Charlie condemn Rachel’s mother in her own house.

“I knew you’d know just what to do, I mean you takin’ care of the little one and all. Yep, that was why I brought it to you. Well, I best be going.” Charlie suddenly turned and shuffled toward the front door, as if he had used up all the words inside him and was anxious to escape.

“Thanks for coming all the way up here. I appreciate it.”

“Just wanted to get it to you right off.” He glanced at the envelope once again. “I figger it might be important—or it might be bad news of a kind. Bad news seemed to follow that woman.”

Flynn ran his finger over the stains and dirt on the yellowing envelope. “Charlie, I’d like for you to keep this quiet.”

Charlie looked at Flynn and blinked. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, Mr. O’Bannion, I’d be happy to oblige. It’s a load off my mind just to put in your hands.” Charlie ducked his head and pulled his shapeless hat back on his head. “I told myself that Miz Victoria wouldn’t like me waitin’, nosirree, she wouldn’t like it a’tall.”

“Thanks again, Charlie, and good night.” Flynn closed the door behind Charlie.

He glanced down at the envelope, allowing the questions to come unhindered.

Why would somebody be writing to Marydyth at this address? The papers had been full of the details of her trial—the details and those names: the Black Widow and Murdering Mary.

The public had turned on Marydyth with the same vigor they had once pursued her. And the very ones that had been so happy to be guests in her home, to have attended the fancy dances and dinners, suddenly didn’t know her name.

“Unca Flynn, the table is all cleared.” Rachel’s voice drifted down the hallway.

He shoved the letter in his pocket. He would have to deal with the letter later. Right now his main priority was caring for Rachel.