Читать книгу The Lady Who Drew Me In - Thomasine Rappold - Страница 8

Five more minutes. That’s all he’d give her. Jackson sat in the driver’s seat of the old buckboard he’d rented in town, gazing down the deserted road through the middle of nowhere for any sign of the Widow Lansing. Involving her was a damn foolish idea, and the longer she gave him to think about it, the more tempted he was to snap the reins and move the bucket of bolts beneath him toward the mountains without her.

As he’d discovered while investigating this case, there were no guarantees, and her assistance could put her in danger. He pushed through his reservations about dragging her into his business. He was desperate.

A moment later she appeared in the distance, her slender form moving briskly through the early-morning fog. A basket in one hand and a small case in the other had left her unable to adjust her bonnet, which the breeze of her pace had blown to the nape of her neck.

Jackson jumped down to meet her.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile. A flush of exertion highlighted the sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of her nose. She looked as young as a school girl. “I’m not late, am I?”

He reached for the basket still swinging in her hand. The smell of fried chicken wafted through the checkered napkin inside. Jackson frowned. “This isn’t a picnic.”

Her smile faded. “I know that, Mr. Gallway. But it’s a long trip. I tend to get surly when I’m hungry.” She handed him the case that he assumed contained her sketching supplies. “What’s your excuse?” she mumbled as she made her way to the side of the wagon and climbed aboard, unassisted.

With a shake of his head, he placed the case and the basket into the back of the wagon and hopped up to join her. The floral scent of her hair was difficult to ignore. He sat for a long moment, entranced by the smell, staring down at the reins in his hands. He couldn’t go through with this. He had no right to jeopardize her safety, especially when he’d misled her about the real purpose for the trip.

He inhaled a long breath. “I’ve withheld from you an important detail of this case. By doing so, I’ve understated the—”

“Withheld? Understated?” She stared incredulously. “Lawyers,” she said, shaking her head. “So what is this detail you’ve withheld?”

“I believe the boy witnessed the murder.”

She gaped. “But you said he was out in the fields—”

“The neighbors said he was in the fields. They questioned him.”

“And you think he’s lying?”

“I think he’s afraid. I think his father suspected trouble when the killer arrived at the house and told him to hide.”

“To protect him.”

“Yes. Which means he may have seen the killer from where he was hiding.”

She winced as this registered. “He’s so afraid he can’t speak,” she uttered.

“Now you understand my dilemma. And discretion,” he said.

She nodded slowly, her gaze soft and contrite. “You’re protecting him too.” Her blue eyes shone with admiration, and he was struck by a sudden longing to be worthy of it.

“It’s best you go home—”

“No.” She straightened her spine. “If the poor child saw something, I can get it down in a sketch.”

“It could be dangerous.” He spoke with a fondness he’d felt for her the moment he laid eyes on her. “If I’m right…”

“You must let me try. The boy needs help.”

How anyone could refuse the woman anything, he didn’t know. Her eyes could melt ice. Not that he’d ever been a glacier when it came to women, but the young widow had a fire inside her.

“Besides, I know a shortcut,” she said. “There’s a logging trail straight through to the mountains.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come. Like it or not, he needed her help. He snapped the reins, refusing to dwell on misgivings. He’d tried to dissuade her, what more could he do? The woman was a stubborn advocate for children. Even without a change in her late husband’s will, she’d succeed with her plans for a day home, somehow. He didn’t doubt it for a second.

Jackson had a job to do, too, and he couldn’t afford distractions. Or another mistake. His scandalous affair in Troy had cost him more than his last position, but it could have been worse. He was lucky to be alive to regret it, and he’d never again let his weakness for the fairer sex overpower common sense.

His attraction to Daisy Lansing would be a challenge, but tonight he’d be miles away. That he might have a sketch in hand when he returned to the city would make everything worth it. Nothing mattered more than his need to clear Randal Morgan’s name. And in the process, reclaim his own.

* * * *

The ride along the logging trail was rough as hell. Jackson’s faith in the old buckboard dwindled with every mile, dip, and bump. Large boulders protruded through the narrow path; an overgrowth of thorny bushes scratched and clawed as they passed. Uttering a curse, he swatted furiously at another swarm of insects.

“That’s Cuffy’s place over there.” Daisy pointed toward a small shack up ahead.

“Cuffy?”

“He works at the lumber camps. He’s a giant of a man but terribly slow-witted. Always wears a cap with a set of antlers on top. Perhaps you’ve seen him around town?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Jackson uttered as he eyed the shanty nestled between the tall pines. Two neat stacks of chopped firewood flanked the door, but no smoke rose from the chimney. “He lives alone out here?”

“He spends much of his time at the camps, but he calls this place home. I met him for the first time when I came out here to collect ferns.”

“Ferns?”

“Barston has the best fancy ferns. Many shops in the city purchase their ferns from the local farmers, but they’re free for the picking to anyone inclined to make the journey this deeply into the woods.”

Jackson couldn’t imagine ever being so inclined. The isolation of the forest had always made him uneasy. Trudging through the woods to hunt for game was one thing, but fancy ferns? Ridiculous.

“You strike me as someone who prefers the city to the country,” she said.

Jackson swatted at a buzzing horsefly. “I prefer buildings and people to trees and insects. So yes, Mrs. Lansing, you can say I prefer the city.”

His sarcasm did nothing to dim her sunny chitchat. “I find nature so peaceful.”

He smacked another horsefly from his head. “There’s nothing peaceful about being a feedbag for a horsefly.”

Craning her neck, she peered over his shoulder. “Or a bear.”

He flinched, spinning around.

She laughed at his panicked response to her joke, and he couldn’t help smiling. There was something in the sound of her laughter he couldn’t resist. The honest-to-goodness joy she seemed to get from everything around her. She was bright and beautiful, and he found himself wondering about the circumstances behind her marriage to Lawrence Lansing. Surely a man of Lansing’s advanced age was no match for this vibrant woman. This passionate, sweet-smelling woman.

Jackson shook off his musings. What the hell was he thinking? He tugged off his hat, then ran a hand through his hair. He knew damn well what he was thinking, and it was lucky for him that she didn’t. Daisy Lansing made it easy to forget his fiasco in Troy—and getting caught with his hands up the skirts of a married woman, by her husband no less, was difficult to forget.

He was relieved when they finally made their way to the edge of the forest and into a sprawling field. Jackson steered the wagon onto the narrow road, which led to some semblance of civilization. At the four corners of the small intersection sat a blacksmith shop, a general store, a church, and a tavern. Everything required to call it a town, but not much more.

“The Rhodes house is up ahead, past the saw mill.” She pointed toward a large farmhouse behind a row of birch trees in the distance. Whitewashed stones lined the short drive to the house, where an elderly woman sat in a rocking chair on the porch. A small boy played at her feet.

“Are you Mrs. Rhodes?” Jackson called to the woman, who stood to scoot the child inside. She waited until the screen door slammed shut behind the boy before turning back to the wagon.

She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, a wary expression etched on her weathered face. “What’s your business here, sir?”

“My name is Jackson Gallway. And this is Mrs. Lansing. We’re here to see the boy.”

“What for? They already caught that murdering devil who orphaned the child. Leave him be.”

“It’s important, Mrs. Rhodes. We want to be certain the right man is brought to justice. You want to be certain as well. For the boy’s safety.”

“He didn’t see nothing. And he won’t say nothing, either.”

Jackson nodded. “I know. But we’d still like to try to talk with him.”

She studied him for a long moment before her gaze settled on Daisy. “Come on in then,” she said, her stern face softening a bit.

Jackson hopped from the wagon. He grabbed Daisy’s case of sketching supplies and then reached to help her down. Her small hand held his firmly as he assisted her. Their eyes met, a silent exchange that unified their mission, and the strength of her grip tightened inside his palm. He ushered her up to the porch where Mrs. Rhodes stood, holding open the door.

A shaggy black cat scurried from the house, and Daisy stopped short as it whizzed by her skirt. “Thank you, Mrs. Rhodes. We’ll do our utmost not to upset the child.” She gave the woman a reassuring smile. “What’s his name?”

“Andy.”

They stepped inside, where two more cats sat like gargoyles on the deacon’s bench in the foyer. Jackson harbored no fondness for felines, and seeing so many in one place was unnerving. Staring straight ahead, he did his best to ignore their keen eyes on his back as he followed the women to the parlor. A stream of sunlight poured across the faded rug in the center of the room. Lace curtains blew softly on the breeze from the open windows. Andy sat nestled against the arm of the sofa, stroking the tabby cat on his lap.

“Hello, Andy,” Daisy said as she peeled off her gloves. “My name is Mrs. Lansing.” She waved a glove toward Jackson. “And this is Mr. Gallway. We’ve come to visit with you.”

The boy’s timid glances moved from Daisy to Jackson before he lowered his blond head and returned his focus to the cat on his lap.

“Sit.” Mrs. Rhodes gestured toward the table. “I’ll get some cider.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

Jackson pulled out a chair for Daisy, then took a seat across from her. Andy watched closely as Daisy placed her case on the table and opened it wide. The boy craned his neck, his eyes narrowing in a curious expression as Daisy removed a tablet of paper and a charcoal pencil, then placed them on the table in front of her. She gazed across the table at Jackson, studied him for a moment, and then started sketching.

“What are you doing?” Jackson murmured.

“I’m sketching you,” she said. Her hand moved between glances at him and the sketch pad.

Jackson turned to the boy, who now stood and was moving closer. Very clever. Instead of approaching the boy directly, Daisy was luring him to her. She worked quickly, her slender wrist gliding the pencil across the page with swift, adept strokes. She used the tips of her fingers to smudge the lines into the desired effect, her lips pursed tight in concentration.

Before long Andy stood at her side, watching the sketch on the page emerge before his eyes.

Daisy held up the pad to the boy. “What do you think? Does it look like him?”

Andy smirked, and Daisy broke out laughing. Jackson watched the pair, wondering what they found so amusing.

“May I see?” he asked, feeling like the butt of some joke.

Daisy leaned toward Andy. “Should we show him?”

Her love for children was evident in her effortless talent for putting the boy at ease. With a nod, Andy smiled broadly, exposing a missing front tooth. She turned the pad toward Jackson. The sketch was a remarkable facsimile to him, except for the gigantic pair of ears protruding from his head.

Daisy and Andy absorbed Jackson’s reaction, giggling harder. “I don’t think he likes it, Andy,” she said playfully.

The boy shook his head in answer.

Jackson leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Bravo, Mrs. Lansing,” he said with a smile. “You’ve captured my likeness to a fault.”

Daisy laughed, dropping the pad to the table as Mrs. Rhodes returned to the room with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of cider.

“Would you like me to sketch you, Andy?” Daisy asked as Mrs. Rhodes placed the tray on the table.

With an eager nod, Andy slid into the chair at Daisy’s side.

Daisy glanced to Jackson. “Perhaps you and Mrs. Rhodes can enjoy your cider on the porch.” She gestured with her eyes toward the door.

Jackson took the hint and rose from the table. “Join me, Mrs. Rhodes?”

The woman glanced to Andy. Seeing the boy was in good hands, she nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ll be right outside, Andy.”

“We’ll let you know when we’re finished,” Daisy assured Mrs. Rhodes. She glanced at Jackson. “Please allow us some privacy until then.”

* * * *

Daisy added a set of large ears to her sketch of Andy, too, enjoying the sound of his laughter when she showed him the finished drawing. The boy seemed completely at ease as he nodded or shook his head in response to her general chatter. While she dreaded causing him any distress, she couldn’t stall any longer. In one last-ditch attempt to avoid using the cursed ability that had cost her so much, she asked, “Can you tell me what happened that day your father was shot?”

Andy’s small shoulders stiffened.

Daisy sighed. “You were there, weren’t you, Andy?”

He nodded, lowering his head.

Daisy drew a sharp breath against the ache in her chest. “Can you tell me about it?”

He shook his head hard.

“Or perhaps you’re too afraid to talk about it?”

She couldn’t blame him, and her heart filled with sorrow for what he had witnessed. A part of her wanted to leave him in peace, but she couldn’t. He was a threat to the killer, and in real danger now. She had to do what she must. “If you don’t want to speak about it, Andy, you don’t have to. But perhaps you could think about it for a few moments instead.”

He glanced up.

“Can you do that for me?” she asked. “Can you close your eyes and think about it?”

He gave a wary nod.

“Good boy.” She smiled. “Now take my hand and close your eyes.” She held Andy’s hand between hers. “I know how difficult this must be for you. And I know it hurts to remember.” She squeezed his small hand in hers. “But you are safe with Mrs. Rhodes. The man who hurt your father can’t hurt you here, so you don’t have to be afraid.”

She slipped her hand from his, then reached for her pad and pencil. Her hands trembled as she prepared to do what she’d sworn never to do again. Closing her eyes, she staved off her own fears. The memory of the last time she’d traveled this path, the horrified faces and the scandal that followed, detoured the way. She focused harder, forging past the shame and regret and into that desolate place where it all opened wide. She emptied her mind to accept the boy’s thoughts. Her fingers twitched on the page. Her tingling hand moved, ceding to the powerful force, as she let the pencil—her ability—take full control.

Andy’s fear flooded through her. Submerged in the current, she plunged deeper and deeper into his memories, into the unstoppable movement of her hand and whatever images she was pulling from his mind.

Her hand finally stilled, and she opened her eyes. She’d no idea how long she’d been drawing, but Andy’s wide-eyed expression told her it had been a while. She glanced down at the sketch pad.

She’d no real recollection of producing the images that had rushed through her mind. The drawing had poured onto the page of its own volition. But now the boy’s horrible memories, each vivid detail of what he’d seen, chased the air from her lungs. She closed the pad quickly. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded.

She gave him a moment, then opened the pad. “Is this the man you saw shoot your father?”

His gaze fixed on the page. Lifting his trembling chin, he gave a firm nod.

She smiled, drawing him into her arms. “You’re a very brave little boy,” she said as she reluctantly released him. “But we mustn’t let anyone know about what you saw, or what occurred here today. Not yet, anyway.” She took hold of his hands. “Understand?”

Andy stared up at her with frightened eyes. His lips quivered. “Will… Will he go to jail?”

Daisy swallowed hard. The hoarse words he had summoned from the depth of his fear spurred her to tears. She stared into his little face. Swelling with a fierce urge to protect him, she offered a promise she hoped Jackson could keep. “Mr. Gallway will see to it.”

* * * *

Jackson sat in one of the spindle-back rocking chairs on the porch, wondering what was happening inside. The sun disappeared behind the thickening clouds in the distance. Tall birch trees swayed in the breeze. The sound of wind bells chimed through the yard.

“She likes you.” Mrs. Rhodes nodded to the cat weaving between his legs.

Jackson watched as the friendly creature brushed against one ankle, then the other, purring loudly. Jackson had known several women whose advances were less subtle, and as usual, he couldn’t resist. “So it seems,” he said, obliging the cat with a slow stroke to its fur.

Mrs. Rhodes began talking, and to his dismay, she didn’t stop. Her rambling gossip about people he didn’t know droned on until his neck cramped from the constant nods he used to conceal his total lack of interest. Even the cat nestling his boot seemed bored.

Jackson couldn’t wait another minute longer. He stood, interrupting Mrs. Rhodes mid-sentence. “I’ll go see if they’re finished,” he said, walking to the door. He slipped inside the house.

He took a few steps on the carpet runner, then stopped, awed by the scene. Amid the stark silence, Daisy sat, vacant eyes open, entranced in some spell. The pencil she held flew over the page, striking this way and that, up and down, side to side.

An eerie chill ran down his spine. The instinct to call out her name and awaken her from the disturbing state was hard to resist. He retreated from the room, wishing he’d heeded Daisy’s advice to remain on the porch.

He stepped outside and returned to his seat next to Mrs. Rhodes, bracing himself against the emotions roiling inside him. Whether Daisy’s attempt with Andy was a success or a failure, in this moment, after witnessing the bizarre scene inside, Jackson couldn’t summon the wits to care.

A few minutes later, Daisy emerged from the house. Jackson shot to his feet. She looked slightly pale, but otherwise, she seemed no worse for the wear. Jackson shifted his weight from foot to foot, lost for something to say.

“Andy is speaking,” she announced.

Mrs. Rhodes pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “How did you do it?”

“He was ready,” Daisy said. “I merely happened to be present.”

Jackson regarded her closely, admiring her modesty.

“Thank you for allowing us to visit with him, Mrs. Rhodes,” Daisy said. “We’ll be on our way now.”

The woman tossed a nod skyward. “I think it’s best you stay for supper. Those clouds mean business.”

“Thank you, but I must return to the city as soon as possible,” Jackson said.

“I think Mrs. Rhodes is right,” Daisy said. “Perhaps we should wait it out here.”

“We’ll be fine.” Jackson tipped his hat to Mrs. Rhodes. “Thank you, again,” he said as he took Daisy’s arm.

He helped Daisy into the wagon, then hopped up to the driver’s seat. With a snap of the reins, he urged the horse to move, waiting until they were out of view of the house before stopping the wagon and turning to Daisy.

“What did he say? Did he see anything?”

“You were right.” Her blue eyes brimmed with tears. “He saw everything.” She opened her case and pulled out her sketch pad. “The poor child saw everything.”

Jackson took a deep breath.

“This is the man he saw shoot his father.” Daisy handed Jackson the pad.

He glanced at the sketch. The spatter of bold slashes and strokes conveyed the violence of the crime, and his blood turned stone cold in his veins. He focused on the face centered amidst the random images on the page. His heart shot to his throat. He swallowed hard, unable to pull his eyes away from it.

“You’re certain?”

“I am certain,” she said. “What does it mean?”

Her tone dipped with concern for the boy. Jackson swallowed again. “It means my client is innocent,” he said finally. “And a killer walks free.”