Letter Perfect ( Book #1) (47 page)

“You took a coin?” Ruth moistened her lips. “Well, we’re going to be family. If you need it, I don’t mind.” She glanced back at Toledo, then toward McCain. “I’ve figured it out. You go to the Nugget and gamble, don’t you?” She forced a laugh. “I won’t tell anyone about your little indiscretion. Compared to womanizing or getting drunk, I suppose a game of cards is just a mild diversion.”

“The only words I want from you are written ones.” He pushed her toward a shelf that jutted from the wall. A sheet of paper and the very pen and inkwell she’d used in the kitchen now rested on it. “You’re going to write a will.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Ruthie,” he cooed her name as he stroked her cheek once, then 368 slapped her.

She gasped and bit her lip.

“Nothing fancy. Just a few lines. You’re going to write that if you die, your dear friend Laney is your sole heir.”

Ruth glowered at him.

“Of course, you’ll date it from last week, before you and Josh decided to wed. No one will question it. Everyone knows how much you adore my daughter. Everyone does.”

“I won’t do it.”
You’ll kill me the instant after I sign my name
.

“Stubborn thing, isn’t she?” McCain asked Toledo.

“Just like her old man,” Toledo said.

McCain chortled softly. “In the end, he still lost out. You will, too, Ruth. Now cooperate.”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “Laney is going to come looking for me.”

“Not for a good long while. You were just at the stable. I’ll go back home and tell Hilda that you’ve gone ahead to the O’Sullivans’. She and Laney will dally, then head over there. By the time anyone figures you’re missing, I’ll have an alibi.”

Lord, help me
.

McCain’s fingers dug into her arm, and he forced her closer to the shelf. “Pick up the pen. I’ll dictate what you’ll write.”

Slowly, she lifted the pen, then dropped it and ground it into the earthen floor with the heel of her boot.

McCain raised his hand to strike her.

Toledo roughly jerked her. “Boss, time’s short. You’ve gotta get on the train. I’ll do what needs to be done. She won’t be able to write if she’s hurt.”

“True. True.” McCain lowered his hand. “First things first. Get her to write, then take care of her.”

Resolve rang in the ranch hand’s voice. “Taking care of her’ll be easy.”

McCain nodded. “You’ll be rewarded.”

“I’m countin’ on that.”

McCain left, and Ruth strained for a way to extricate herself. Nothing came to mind.
Lord, help me. Please, God, be my salvation
.

Toledo forced her to sit on a small stool. “He’s gone.” He listened for a moment. “Long gone. Won’t be back, either. That train ticket’s his alibi.”

“You won’t have an alibi.”

“I won’t need one.” Toledo hunkered down and looked her in the eyes. “I told him I’d take care of you. I didn’t lie.”

“I won’t write anything. If you harm me, Laney won’t get anything.”

“Listen to me.” Toledo’s voice sounded chillingly reasonable.

“You’re not going to talk me into anything.”

“I’ve been watching you. Shadowing you.”

Ruth shuddered.

“Your father was my friend, Ruth. When he died, I had no place to go, so I stayed on here. You showed up, and I knew right off that you were his daughter.”

She stared at Toledo, unsure of what to think.

He smiled. “You look just like Alan Caldwell.”

In a dress
. Tense as she was, that thought put her over the edge. Her laughter sounded hysterical.

“I couldn’t hurt you … never in a million years. In my time here, I’ve seen plenty and kept my mouth shut. McCain manages to fool most folks into thinking he’s a good man. I know better. Times he didn’t know I was watching, I could see the hate in his eyes when he looked at you. You can’t stay here anymore. It’s not safe.”

“You’ll let me go?”

“I’ll take you to Galen O’Sullivan. He’s trustworthy. He’ll help you get away.” He handed back her knife. “Let’s go.”

Still shaken, Ruth managed to activate the spring. The knife jabbed her as she tried to slide it up her sleeve.

Toledo pulled off the bandana he wore around his neck. “Here.” He bound up the small cut, tucked the knife up her sleeve and grinned. “Your daddy would be proud of you.”

“My father would be proud of you, too.”

“Reckon no one ever gave me finer praise than that. Let’s go.”

“Just one last thing—could we keep this a secret? I don’t want Josh and Laney to know their father tried to hurt me.”

“Can’t agree to that. Your man has to be able to protect you. You can’t keep this from him.”

“Then we won’t let Laney find out.”

Toledo returned to the barn for horses and then took her to the O’Sullivans’ through the woods. When they reached the stable, Ruth could hear the low hum of male conversation. “Josh? Is that you?”

He came outside. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing!”

Toledo lowered her into Josh’s arms. “Your dad thought he’d talked me into getting rid of her. If he sees her, he’ll do something rash.”

Josh held her tight. “I’ll take care of everything.”

The next morning, Josh helped Ruth, his sister, and Hilda out of the carriage at the Sacramento courthouse. Rick Maltby, Mr. Farnsworth, and the Folsom sheriff joined them.

Farnsworth murmured, “One of my father’s friends from back home moved out here and is a judge. He’s graciously offered to let us wait in his chamber until our case is heard.”

Maltby waited until they were in the judge’s chambers before he revealed, “Additional charges have been added to the case. The judge can ask for a plea, but they won’t go to trial today.”

Josh nodded. Embezzlement. Murder. The very nature of the crimes in which his father participated left him aching to the depths of his soul.

The door opened, and the Folsom sheriff said, “Mr. McCain just entered the courtroom. We need to go in now.”

Maltby offered Laney his arm, and Farnsworth gallantly escorted Hilda. Josh took the lead with Ruth by his side. When they entered the courtroom, Dad turned and saw them. He jolted to his feet, then sank back into the chair as all color bled from his face.

Dad had hired a slick attorney. He started the case out by casting aspersions on Leticia Caldwell’s character and stated, “Alan Caldwell stated in his will he’d fathered no children. A man would know such a thing. Leticia Caldwell abandoned her husband and ran back East. Who knows what alliances she made with any number of men? Clearly, Ruth Caldwell cannot lay claim to a single speck of the Broken P inasmuch as not a single drop of Alan’s blood flows in her veins.”

Ruth yanked her mother’s fan from her sleeve. The thing was a tattered mess because of what McCain had done to it, but she opened it with great dignity and fanned herself in Ruth-fashion.

Josh didn’t stop her from smacking herself with it. If she found comfort in holding the fan, he’d let her beat herself black-and-blue.

Rick Maltby called Mr. Farnsworth to the stand. Mr. Farnsworth gave Leticia Caldwell’s character a glowing endorsement. He certified the entries of marriage and Ruth’s birth in Leticia’s Bible as being in Leticia’s own hand.

Next, he called Hilda to the stand. Hilda swore, “The day Mr. Caldwell went into a coma, I found a letter in his room. I reckoned since it was all addressed and sealed, I owed it to him to mail it.”

“Was this that envelope?” Rick handed her it to her.

She bobbed her head. “Yup. I know for sure it’s the same one ’cuz I set it in the kitchen for a spell while I was cookin’ and I splashed on it. Gravy. Chicken gravy. I wiped it off careful as I could, but the mark looked to me like a pear.”

“I object!” Dad’s attorney rose. “The contents of the envelope could have been replaced with whatever Miss Caldwell chose to insert.”

“I anticipated that objection,” Rick Maltby stated.

Dad snorted rudely. “If you’d anticipated much of anything, you would have written a better will. Your incompetence is at the heart of this whole mess.”

Maltby ignored Dad. He produced the will with Alan Caldwell’s signature at the bottom. “Your honor, as you can see, the penmanship on the letter and the formation of the signatures are identical.
Leticia
is on both the envelope and in the salutation. Alan Caldwell had a very unusual way of scribing a capital L.”

“The girl is rich. She could have paid someone to forge that,” Dad growled.

“Your honor, I object to the plaintiff’s producing this so-called letter here in court rather than having made it available for inspection beforehand,” McCain’s attorney said.

“Josh McCain, Jr. was aware of the letter,” Maltby said smoothly. He paused, then stated, “Your Honor, I object to the fact that this case was suddenly changed to this venue instead of the circuit court, scheduled for an earlier date, and no notice was given to me or to Miss Caldwell.”

“That’s not possible.” The judge scowled. “Letters had to be sent out.”

“Yes, but McCain, Sr. has been going to town to pick up all of the mail.” Maltby spread his hands wide. “If the letters were sent but never received, it poses the question as to what happened to them.”

“Hmm.” The judge frowned. “Well, I’m satisfied by the evidence that Alan Caldwell wrote this letter. My bailiff will read the contents into the record.”

After the letter was read, the judge declared, “Miss Caldwell’s birth took place six months after her mother departed from California. According to his own hand, Alan Caldwell sent her away—she was not running away to hide an indiscretion. He freely accepts Ruth as his own daughter. Indeed, since no divorce was sought, any child born while the marriage stood is attributed automatically to the husband. Caldwell writes all he owns is at his family’s disposal, thereby indicating he would wish to provide for Ruth. It is my decision that as Mr. Caldwell owned fifty percent of the Broken P, his share’s rightful heir is Ruth Caldwell.”

He pounded his gavel, then stared at McCain, who was spluttering in rage. “Mr. Joshua McCain, Sr., I have received charges of both embezzlement and murder of Alan Caldwell filed against you. How do you plead?”

Dad rose and turned on Josh. “Embezzlement?”

“I brought both sets of books Mr. McCain, Sr. has been keeping for the Broken P, Your Honor,” Maltby said.

Ignoring the attorney and the judge, Dad nearly spat, “You have the nerve to think I’ve cheated you out of anything?” His attorney tried to shush him, but Dad shoved him away. A nasty bark of a laugh escaped him as he locked eyes with Josh. “You should be grateful to me. Grateful. I reared you as my own. That’s right. You’re not my son. My brother married your mother first. When he died, I—” He pounded his chest, “I married her even though she was carrying his child. When you were born, your mother insisted upon giving you my name. All of these years, I’ve provided for you.

“I promised Anna Marie on her deathbed that I’d see to it Laney married well, and I meant every word of my vow. Laney’s my daughter, my only child. Every last dollar I have scraped together is going to make sure she gets everything she needs so she will find a wealthy man who can provide for her every whim. You can’t fault me for being a good father.”

Stunned by his revelation, Josh stared at the man he’d always thought was his father. Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “I love Laney. I’d gladly make any sacrifice to be sure she had anything she ever needed. There was never any reason for you to resort to dishonesty.”

“That’s not true! You just sided with Ruth against me. That takes half of the money from the railroad away from your sister. Half! Do you realize how much that land is worth?”

“Alan Caldwell’s life?” Farnsworth asked smoothly.

“Oh, you’re not going to pin that on me.” His father—or was it his uncle?—held up his hands. “No one can prove I did a thing to that old coot.”

The Folsom sheriff produced the cigarette case and the doctor’s report. “This case and the remaining cigarettes contain arsenic.”

Dad planted his hand on the table. “Josh could have done that. He had as much to gain as I did.”

“But Josh never rolled cigarettes for Alan. You did, Daddy,” Laney said.

“Yeah, and Alan took sick during the time Josh was gone on the trail,” Hilda shouted. “Nobody else ever set foot in the house.”

The judge said, “If Joshua, Jr. wasn’t present, then that leaves either McCain, Sr., the housekeeper, or the daughter, Elaine, as the suspects. Do any of the men present have a pouch of tobacco and papers?”

Dad’s attorney objected to the whole proceeding.

Dad promptly told him to shut up and leave.

Hilda was given the tobacco and a cigarette paper. She made a sour face as she took a big pinch of tobacco and placed it on the paper. After patting it across the length and most of the breadth of paper with the pad of her forefinger, she rolled it up. “Sorta like makin’ bitty little cinnamon sticky buns or a jelly roll,” she declared.

The judge accepted her effort and set it to one side. “Miss McCain, you’re next.”

“No!” Dad shook his head emphatically. “My daughter’s not going to touch tobacco. It’s beneath her. I won’t allow it.”