The Horseman's Bride (10 page)

What would her grandmother do if she knew her hired man was a murderer? Worse, what would her parents do?

Her mother appeared in the doorway with a silver tray. “I’ve brought you some chamomile tea, dear.” She bustled into the bedroom, and set the tray on the nightstand. “The doctor says we need to sit you up and get some fluids down you. You’ve got a nasty bump on your head, most likely a concussion, so we mustn’t let you go back to sleep for a while. Mercy, what a scare you gave us!”

“I’m sorry, Mama. And I feel terrible about the car.” Clara allowed herself to be propped up with pillows before she took her first sip of the steamy, honey-flavored tea. She had a vague memory of the doctor peering at her, shining a light in her eyes.

“Does Grandma know what happened?” she asked.

“She came as soon as she heard. I believe that new hired man of hers drove her. I wanted to thank him for saving Katy, but they left before I had the chance.”

Clara’s pulse surged. So Tanner hadn’t gone away after all. Maybe now she’d have a chance to talk with him again and learn the truth about what he’d allegedly done. She couldn’t believe he’d commit cold-blooded murder.

“Your grandmother said she’d be back to see you tomorrow, after you’d had time to rest.” Hannah shifted the pillow behind Clara’s head. “She looked worn-out. I do wish she’d agree to move in with us. Maybe you can talk her into it, Judd. She won’t listen to her own daughter. It’s like talking to a wall!”

“I’ll do my best, but your mother’s a stubborn woman.” Judd sighed wearily. “Now what’s this about somebody saving our Katy?”

Clara’s parents drifted toward the window, immersed in their own conversation. Judd would be more upset about Foxfire than about the Model T. The misuse of an animal always made him furious. Poor Katy would likely be in for a tongue-lashing, followed by loving forgiveness.

Clara cradled the teacup between her hands, grateful for a moment alone. There’d been way too much fussing over her. Except for the throbbing lump on her head, she felt fine. Tomorrow she was determined to be as good as new.

But what was she going to do about Tanner?

She’d given her word not to turn him in. But that was before she knew what he’d done. How could she justify protecting a cold-blooded murderer?

Closing her eyes, she let his image drift into her mind—the sharp lines of his face, the fathomless blue eyes that invited her trust, the firm, sensuous lips that fit so perfectly against her own. She remembered his gentleness, his tender regard for her grandmother and how he’d gone back to the bog to spend miserable hours digging a grave for Foxfire.

Cold-blooded? Those were the last words she’d have used to describe the man named Jason Tanner Denby. But then, how well did she really know him?

He’d told her that his crime had been necessary. So how could she judge him before she knew the whole story?

There was only one way to get his side. As soon as she was able, Clara resolved, she would go back to Mary’s place, confront Tanner with what she’d learned and demand that he tell her everything.

The confrontation could be dangerous, Clara reminded herself. If Tanner was really the killer the poster claimed him to be, there was no telling what he might do. But that was a chance she had to take. Whatever the cost, she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than the truth.

Clara’s musings were cut short by the sound of voices from the downstairs hall. She couldn’t make out words, but through the partly open door she recognized Rosa’s shrill Spanish accent and a man’s nasal voice—a voice that made Clara’s stomach sink. They seemed to be arguing, but the voices abruptly ceased, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Seconds later there was a light rap on the bedroom door.

Clara’s parents had turned away from the window. Her father was striding across the floor.

“Don’t—” Clara started to say, but it was too late. The door opened and Lyle McCabe stepped into the room clutching a bouquet of drooping yellow daisies.

“Deputy, if this is about the accident—” Judd began,
but then, seeing the flowers, he broke off and simply stared.

“I took the liberty of having your auto towed to the garage, Mr. Seavers,” McCabe said. “The things in the back will be delivered here before nightfall. But what I really came for was to make sure your daughter’s all right.”

Judd stood like a wall between McCabe and the bed where Clara lay. “As you see, she’s recovering. But she needs her rest. She won’t be up to having visitors anytime soon.”

“I see.” McCabe slunk backward a half step. Not many men could face up to a protective Judd Seavers. “Well, in that case, I hope you’ll give her these flowers and my best wishes. Tell her, when she’s feeling better, I’d like to talk with her more about that man she saw on the road.”

“What? What man?” Judd’s response was fierce enough to make McCabe take another step backward. Clara cringed under the pink eiderdown. Why couldn’t McCabe have stayed away?

“Ask your daughter. She can tell you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” McCabe thrust the flowers into Judd’s hand and retreated down the stairs. Judd strode back to Clara’s bed, holding out the flowers.

“Do you want these?” he asked.

“No, Papa. Take them away. And there was no man on the road. It was just something I said to get rid of Mr. McCabe this morning. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

Muttering something that sounded like “Thank goodness,” Judd turned away from the bed and dropped the flowers into the wastebasket. Clara gulped the last of her tea and set the cup on the nightstand. What had she set in motion this morning—and what danger could it pose for Tanner? McCabe might not be long on courage, but he possessed a weasel’s cunning. He’d noticed her reaction to the poster, and she’d lay odds that he hadn’t believed her lie. If McCabe had his suspicions up, Tanner could be in trouble.

Clara knew Tanner was wanted for murder. But the thought of his being brought in by McCabe to be tried and hanged was more than she could stand. She had to warn him—even if that warning meant he’d leave and she’d never see him again.

Jace had told Mary about the oil on the way home from the Seavers Ranch. He’d shown her the oiled leaf he’d wrapped in his handkerchief, but by then, most of the oil had soaked into the cloth. Mary had declared that she wanted to see the oil in the ground for herself.

“Might as well take a look at it,” she’d said. “But if you think I’d welcome a herd of strangers with noisy machines running around digging holes in my land, think again. Oil’s like gold. It makes people crazy. Once word got out, this peaceful little valley would never be the same again.”

Jace had turned the buggy up the drive. The setting sun cast streaks of purple shadow across the fields and tipped each grass blade with glowing amber. Mary’s
attitude hadn’t surprised him. This was beautiful country, and oil had a way of turning things ugly—not only landscapes but people.

It had been too late in the day to get a good look at the oil, and Mary had planned another visit to Clara in the morning. “We’ll go when I get back,” she’d said. “No need to hurry. The oil isn’t going anywhere.”

They’d eaten a quiet supper of bread and milk, and Mary had retired early. Too restless to sleep, Jace had stood at the paddock fence, watching the moon rise above the craggy peaks. Tonight it was a whisker’s breadth short of full. Tomorrow night it would be a perfect golden circle.

Beyond the fence, the stallion and the two young mares shifted in the darkness, the light breeze fluttering their manes and tails. He would give them one more night, Jace had resolved. Then, whether nature had taken its course or not, he would take Galahad and leave. He had stayed far too long. Long enough to put himself in danger. Long enough to fall in love.

Now it was mid-afternoon. Mary had taken the buggy and driven back to the Seavers Ranch. In her absence, Jace had finished the pasture gate, nailed down the loose floorboards in the granary and built a new corn crib in the barn. He’d done his best to wall Clara out of his thoughts, but she was there the whole time, flashing like a rainbow in the shadowed corners of his mind.

Would he ever see her again? But that didn’t matter,
he told himself. She was safe and well, her future open to the happy life he would wish for her. And he would have her memory to hold on lonely nights—her luminous eyes, her ripe mouth and willing body; her intelligence, her fiery spirit, her tenderness.

The man he’d been before he walked away from Hollis Rumford’s bleeding body would’ve had something to offer a girl like Clara. He could have courted her properly and gone to Judd Seavers to ask for her hand, knowing that he had ample means to provide for her and their children. But that man no longer existed. Jace had long since come to accept his new self—raw and running like a hunted animal, counting his survival by minutes, hours and days.

Clara would forget him in time. She would marry a good man, God willing, and with the passing years become as strong and wise as her grandmother. That was the best he could wish for her.

He could see Mary now, coming up the drive in the buggy. As she drove into the yard, Jace came forward to help her climb down. “How’s Clara?” he couldn’t resist asking.

“Much better. She wanted to ride over here and see her mares this morning, but her parents wouldn’t hear of her leaving the house. Oh, I almost forgot—” Turning, Mary lifted a covered dish off the buggy seat. “My daughter wanted to thank you for saving Katy and burying the colt. She baked you this cherry pie.” She lifted the corner of the clean towel to reveal a glimpse of flaky, golden crust.

“That’s right nice of her.” Jace managed an awkward smile. “You and I can share it.”

“Judd wanted to thank you, too.” Mary started toward the porch. “He says if you’re looking for good, steady work, come over and talk to him.”

Jace felt his chest tighten. “It’s a generous offer. But I’m planning to leave tomorrow. I was going to tell you this afternoon.”

Mary’s step froze. She turned back around to face him. “But why not stay? Judd’s more than fair with his hired hands, and I know for a fact you could use the money.”

Jace shook his head. “It’s time for me to move on. You’ve been a good friend, Mary, but I’m hoping you won’t ask my reasons.”

Sadness flickered in Mary’s pale blue eyes. “I’ve never asked you about anything, Tanner, and I won’t ask now. Just know that you’ll be missed, and not just by me. Clara and Katy both asked about you.”

“Then I hope you won’t mind saying goodbye to them for me. Tell Clara I’m sorry about the mares. I waited as long as I could.”

Jace turned away so she wouldn’t see his expression. Against his better judgment, he’d let himself become attached to this place and these people. He was already paying the price.

“Are you ready to go for a ride?” he asked, changing the subject. There was no buggy trail to the bog. They would have to go on horseback.

Mary sighed. “Oh, I suppose so. I’ll take this pie into
the kitchen and freshen up a bit while you put away the buggy. Remember to saddle me a slow horse.”

Jace unhitched the buggy and wheeled it into the shed, then saddled both geldings. Because of Mary’s rheumatism, they’d be taking the horses at a walk. It wasn’t worth rounding up the stallion for such an easy outing.

By the time Mary emerged from the house, Jace was waiting with the horses. He helped her mount, pretending not to notice when she grimaced in pain. She would need to see the oil so she could show it to Judd later. The decision to exploit the oil or leave it alone was bound to be a family matter.

“The bog isn’t on your land, is it?” he asked as the horses swayed along through the grass.

“No. The boundary line falls about fifty yards short of the bog. Everything beyond that line is government property. Is that a problem?”

“That depends. Judging from the lay of the land, I’d say most of the oil is under your property and the ranch. You might decide not to drill. But you’d have no control over the government land. Somebody else could lease the drilling rights, and you’d have all the things you don’t want, right next door.”

“Unless we leased it first. I’ll talk it over with Judd.” Mary shifted in the saddle to ease the pain in her arthritic hip. “How did you come to know so much about oil, Tanner?”

“Oh, I’ve worked on a couple of rigs,” Jace answered, hating the half-truth. If he weren’t masquerad
ing as a drifter, he could do everything for them—read core samples, draw up cross sections, even negotiate the lease of the federal land. Repaying Mary’s kindness would give him a lot of satisfaction. But why even think about it? He was a wanted fugitive, and he had no choice except to keep running. Run or hang.

They crossed the low fence that marked Mary’s property line. From here they could see the mound of earth where Jace had buried the colt. Beyond it lay the bog with its sickly yellow grass, dank odor and clouds of swarming black gnats. Swallows dipped and darted, catching the insects in the air.

“We’ll need to leave the horses and walk into the bog,” Jace said. “Will you be all right?”

“I’d rather walk anywhere than spend another minute in this miserable saddle,” Mary grumbled good-naturedly.

Jace laughed. “In that case, we’ll dismount right here and walk the rest of the way.” He swung off his horse and helped her ease to the ground. Stiff from riding, she tried a few tottering steps, then gladly accepted the arm he offered her.

“Getting old,” she muttered, looking ahead. “So that’s where you buried Clara’s poor colt. My word, I can’t believe you did that alone, right off your sick bed. That Katy! I only hope she learned her lesson! It broke Clara’s heart, having to shoot the poor animal. She said you offered to do it for her.”

“I did. She insisted on doing it herself.” Jace steeled himself against the memory—Clara trembling in his
arms, clinging to him, needing all the things he couldn’t give her.

“She had such hopes for that horse, always said he had the makings of a champion. She—” Mary broke off. “What’s the matter?”

Jace was staring at the soft ground at the edge of the colt’s grave. The prints of his own round-toed English-style riding boots were there from his earlier visit. But there were other prints as well—long, narrow pointed boot prints, far too large to be Clara’s—prints that followed his own, straight to the spot where oil was seeping into the bog.