“He said he’s been in California for years and had forgotten about your father’s bragging until he met me on the boat. After
getting to know me, he thought I had a right to know the truth.”
“For a fee.”
A shoulder lifted in a tired shrug. “He said, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ ”
Lottie gasped. “He—he said that?”
Dyer knitted his brow and nodded. “Why?”
“That’s what the blackmailer said to me.”
“What blackmailer?”
Lottie sat down on the settee beside him before her knees could give out and send her to the floor. “A man said he had evidence
that would send my father to prison for murder. He said if I paid him fifteen thousand dollars, he wouldn’t tell the authorities.
I couldn’t believe my father would kill anyone, but I couldn’t take the chance of him going to trial. That’s why I went to
the boat to gamble. The blackmailer said those exact words to me when he demanded the money.”
“You didn’t see him?”
She shook her head, then buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before.” She dropped her hands
and laid her head back against the wall. “The blackmailer was on the boat. He left a note under my pillow, and I thought it
was that horrible Mr. Johnson, but it was Wayne Dawson.
He
was the blackmailer.”
“And when you lost the tournament, he came after me.”
Lottie nodded. “You were the one with the money.”
“But how did he know about the murders, and why would he lie about your father?”
“I might be able to answer that,” Lottie’s father said as he wheeled into the foyer.
“Daddy, you shouldn’t be involved in this. You need your rest.”
He shook his head. “It sounds like I’m already involved.” He looked at Dyer. “You said a redheaded Confederate soldier killed
your family?”
Dyer nodded.
“I had a man with bright red hair in my unit. His name was Dawson McKnight. But everyone called him Red. He served under me
for about a year before I had him removed from his duty.”
“Why?” Dyer asked.
“He was no gentleman.” To Lottie’s father, that was as low as a man could get.
“He had this crazy notion that we should fight the Yankees by going after their leaders,” her father said. “Dawson believed
if we destroyed their properties, they’d leave their posts and go home, and without leaders, their armies would fall. The
fool thought he was going to be a general someday, and he threatened to kill me when I had him removed from the army.”
“But Wayne Dawson doesn’t have red hair,” Dyer said, frowning.
“Dawson dyes his hair,” Lottie said, the pieces finally falling into place.
“How do you know?” Dyer asked.
“I saw the dye running down his face once when he removed his hat. I thought he was just hiding gray hair.”
“How do you know he wasn’t?”
“Because the hair on his knuckles is red. I noticed it
the first time we met. I thought it was odd, but I didn’t know you were looking for a man with red hair.”
Dyer slapped his hands against his legs and stood. “Damn! I had that murdering son of a bitch in my hands and let him go.”
The thunder rattling the house couldn’t hold a candle to the fury vibrating through Dyer. He paced across the foyer, hands
clenched at his side, his teeth gritted in rage.
He slapped the door with his open hand, and the sound made Lottie flinch. She was no longer afraid of him, but she was afraid
for
him. If ever there was a man at the point of breaking, she was looking at him.
“Did you give him the money?” Lottie spoke calmly in hopes the sound of her voice would bring him back from his hell.
He turned his head toward her. His glazed eyes cleared. Taking a deep breath, he gave himself a moment to calm down before
he answered her question. “I told him I’d pay him as soon as I found your father.” His voice still shook, but he appeared
to be in control again.
“Does he know you’re looking for a man with red hair?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. I didn’t say anything about it because as soon as he mentioned the tree carving, I thought I’d
found the killer.”
“So Dawson thinks he’s gotten away with murder, gotten you to kill a man he hates and is going to get paid for his crimes
to boot,” Lottie’s father added in an unusually keen moment.
“Evidently stupidity isn’t one of his sins,” Dyer said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” her father answered. “You figured him out, didn’t you?”
“Not before scaring you and your family out of their wits.”
“It’s all right, son. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.”
Dyer dropped his head. “Thank you, sir.”
Lottie’s throat closed with emotion. She wanted to sob and was grateful Dorothy wasn’t in the room. Her aunt wouldn’t have
hesitated to tear up, and there was too much to do for that luxury. Dyer still needed to find the murderer, and Lottie was
going to help, whether he liked it or not. Wayne Dawson had almost destroyed both their lives, and it was time he paid.
“How are you supposed to get the money to him?” Lottie asked.
“I’m supposed to leave it in an abandoned stable off Bourbon Street at midnight to night. He said he thought it was best if
we weren’t seen together. It made sense at the time, but now I realize he just wanted to keep his distance in case we figured
everything out.”
“So now what do we do?” Lottie asked.
“
We’re
doing nothing, but
I’m
going to find the son of a bitch.”
“And I’m going to help.”
“
Lottie
—”
“You’re not the only one who wants to see him hang. Don’t you think I have a score to settle too?”
Dyer narrowed his gaze in thought as he rubbed his hand across his chin. “You have to promise to do exactly what I tell you.”
“I promise.”
“My guess is he’s watching the house now to see if he managed to fool us.” The deadliness of his gaze sent a tingle of apprehension
down her spine. “Just how good of an actress are you, Miss Mace?”
Red Dawson McKnight watched Captain Mason’s house with unflinching fascination despite the rainwater pouring on his head from
the eaves above. He dared not move for fear of being seen. Straights had entered the house several minutes ago, and by now
he’d killed Harold Mason or discovered the truth, one or the other. Red should know his answer soon. He was either about to
become rich, or about to be hunted for the rest of his life.
He pulled his cape closer around his neck to keep the water from running down his spine. The thought of Straights hunting
him sent a chill through him only intensified by the rain. Of course, there was no reason for Straights to suspect Red had
anything to do with the murders.
Neither Lottie nor Straights knew who he really was, and even if Straights figured out Captain Mason was innocent, he still
wouldn’t have reason to believe that Red had been the guilty one. Or at least he hoped not. Dyer Straights was not a man he
wished to spend his life running from.
Straights would never believe the death of his family had been accidental. Red had thought for sure the woman and child would
run out of the house and away from the fire. But all in all, it still wasn’t his fault. The almighty Captain Straights shouldn’t
have fought for the
Yankees in the first place, and he had no one to blame but himself for the consequences.
The sudden opening of the front door of Mason’s house sent a flood of excitement through Red. Straights stormed out of the
house with a sobbing Miss Mason holding on to his greatcoat.
“He deserved to die!” Straights yelled, jerking his arm away from the crying woman. “He killed my family!”
Miss Mason fell to her knees, weeping into her hands as the furious Captain Straights strode away into the storm. An older
woman came into the street and helped the devastated young lady to her feet and back inside her home.
Red smiled. Finally he would receive retribution for the countless injustices he had met at the hands of Mason and the Yankees.
In just a few hours, the great Captain Straights would give him enough money to go west and live in comfort for the rest of
his life. Maybe he’d go to Texas. There was an abandoned ranch in Jasper he imagined he could get pretty cheaply.
Aunt Dorothy, quit wringing your hands or you’re going to rub your fingers plumb off.” Lottie slipped her derringer into her
reticule and crossed the room to get her cloak from the chifforobe.
“Oh dear, Lottie, please stay here. Mr. Straights seems more than capable of handling this on his own.”
“Mr. Straights is more than capable of a great many things, but I can’t sit back and take the chance that he’s walking into
an ambush.” She pulled her cloak over her shoulder and headed to the hallway.
Dorothy’s hand went to her forehead, and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh my—”
Lottie didn’t slow down. “If you’re going to swoon, make sure you hit something soft. I have to leave now to make it to the
stable in time.”
Dorothy dropped her hand and followed Lottie from the room, confirming Lottie’s suspicion that Aunt Dorothy’s swoons were
more often manipulative than medical.
“But why must you carry a gun?” Dorothy asked.
“Would you rather I went unarmed?” Lottie spoke over her shoulder, continuing down the hallway and stairs to her father’s
study. She needed more protection than her little derringer could provide.
“I would rather you didn’t go at all,” Dorothy said. “Does Mr. Straights even know you’re coming?”
Lottie lifted her daddy’s heavy revolver from the desk drawer and tucked it into her cloak. “No, but I don’t have a choice.”
Dorothy laid her hand on Lottie’s arm. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Of all times for her aunt to gain insight. “Yes.”
“Does he love you?”
“Of course.” Lottie stepped around her aunt to leave the room. “I’m just not sure if he knows it yet,” she muttered, hurrying
down the hallway and out the front door.
It had rained nonstop for hours, and the rivulets of water rushing through the streets soaked through her shoes in a matter
of moments. At least now she didn’t have to worry about where she stepped. Her feet couldn’t possibly get any wetter than
they already were.
The lightning no longer flashed, and the heavy clouds kept the moon from lighting her way as she hurried through the dark
back streets and alleys on the straightest route to the old stable. She rounded the corner of a building just in time to see
Dyer slip into the back door from the alley side.
Dyer paced across the stable, barely able to contain his fury. Wayne Dawson had flaunted his crime under Dyer’s nose for weeks,
and somehow, Dyer had missed it. He ran through his mind every encounter he’d had with the bastard, searching for a clue he’d
overlooked. There were none.
Who would’ve dreamed someone had the audacity to talk and play cards with the man whose family he’d killed?
Dawson had. And to add insult to injury, he’d even befriended Lottie,
after
he’d blackmailed her.
Dyer shuddered.
Every time he thought of that son of a bitch near Lottie, his blood ran cold, and his determination to see him hang intensified.
It would be easier to kill him when he walked through the door, but Dyer didn’t want easy. He wanted Dawson to suffer in a
jail cell, knowing his death was coming and there was nothing he could do about it.
The door creaked open as the murdering son of a bitch stepped inside the stable. “Mister Straights?”
Dyer walked casually into the moonlight that slipped in through the open door. “Mister Dawson.”
Dawson smiled, though warily. “I trust you found your murderer?”
“Yes. And the bastard is going to pay.”
“
Going
to pay?” Dawson glanced nervously toward the open door. “Haven’t you already killed Mason?”
Dyer lowered his hand to his side, next to the gun hidden just inside his coat. “Why would I want to do that?”
“He murdered your family. He told me himself.”
Dyer could feel Dawson’s edginess. He was about to run. At least now he had enough sense to know whom to fear. “He tells a
different story.”
Eyes darting again to the open door, Dawson said, “Surely you don’t believe the ramblings of that old fool?”
Before Dyer could answer, Dawson bolted for the door. Dyer pulled his gun to kill the bastard just as Lottie stepped into
the doorway. Dawson grabbed her, jerking her in front of him a fraction of a second before Dyer could pull the trigger.
His gut twisted. He’d almost shot Lottie
Dawson smiled a sickeningly maniacal smile as he pressed a gun against Lottie’s throat. “Throw your gun aside, Straights,”
Dawson said, adding, “
Now!
” when Dyer hesitated.
“No!” Lottie said, but Dawson’s rough jerking of her against his chest convinced Dyer not to take any chances. He tossed his
gun to the floor.
Dawson chuckled, evidently enjoying the fact he was now in control. “I think it’s time you paid for being a traitor.”
“I’ve already paid.”
“Not enough.”
Dyer had to swallow the bile that had crept up his throat. His mouth went dry as his mind replayed his nightmares. He heard
the screaming. He smelled the smoke, only this time, it wasn’t Marianne’s face he saw in the fire—it was Lottie’s.
Dear God.
“I’ve got your money,” Dyer blurted, trying to distract him. “I have all twenty-five thousand I won in Saint Louis.” He didn’t,
of course, but Dawson didn’t know that.
“You know, it wasn’t just about the money,” Dawson said, a demented gleam in his eyes.
Dyer remained silent, not wanting to chance saying something that would push Dawson over the edge.
“I didn’t mean to kill your wife and boy, but it was just as well. At least now she don’t have to whore herself to a Yankee.
How does it feel knowing your wife died because of you?”
A rush of anger surged through Dyer’s veins. He wanted to rip that bastard’s head off with his own
hands, but Lottie’s life still hung precariously in the balance.