Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (10 page)

Neither she nor Virgil seemed to be in deep mourning. But appearances were one thing. Proof was another. And right now it was all Matt could do to focus his attention on the funeral. Yesterday he’d spent hours searching for Jessie. He’d combed the woods and hillsides for miles around the burned-out ranch, but he’d found no trace of her. If she’d left any kind of tracks behind, the rain had washed them away.

In the hollow down the trail from the ranch, he’d met the neighbors who’d been given her cow and chickens. Mariah Hawkins had told him how Jessie had refused their invitation to stay with them because she had a plan and would be fine on her own. What that plan was, Mrs. Hawkins hadn’t been able to learn. But it was clear that she liked Jessie and was deeply worried about her.

As the grave dedication droned on, Matt’s focus shifted toward the mountains. Was Jessie up there, hiding out where no one could find her? Or could she be lying somewhere, injured, raped or dead? Al
though he hadn’t met them, Matt had heard about the hired guns who worked for the Gates Ranch. Matt’s stomach clenched at the thought of what they might do to a pretty, vulnerable woman like Jessie.

Lord, if only she’d told him where she was going. If only she’d left him some kind of message to let him know she was all right, some clue, even an accidental one.

But maybe she had, Matt realized suddenly. Maybe, the whole time he was searching, it had been right under his nose.

After the funeral he would go back up the mountain. He would look through the ruins again. This time he would take stock, not of what he found, but of what might be missing. Before the fire, he had seen the tools in the shed. He had seen the utensils and other things in the house, things that Jessie would need to survive in the wild on her own. If the metal remains of these objects were missing from the ashes, it would likely mean she’d taken them before setting fire to her own ranch. It wasn’t much to go on, but at least it might give him some peace.

The sound of earth hitting the lid of the coffin startled him back to the present. Lillian was turning away from the grave, brushing the dirt from her black kid-skin gloves. Virgil followed her, staring down at his brother’s coffin before dropping his own handful of rocky Wyoming soil into the hole. Others did the
same, but Matt, who was neither a friend nor a relative, did not join in the ritual. Neither, he noticed, did a lean, dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit who stood on the fringe of the crowd.

Something about the stranger—an air of grace and power—drew Matt’s attention and held it. As he watched, the man turned around, paused, then walked straight toward him.

The distance between them gave Matt a chance to study the stranger. His skin was a golden mahogany color, his features hawk-sharp, with high cheekbones that suggested Indian blood. A half-breed, maybe Shoshone, Matt guessed. Whoever he was, there was nothing ordinary about him.

As he came within speaking distance, the stranger extended his hand. His eyes were almost black, their gaze direct and confident.

“I make it my business to know every lawman in these parts,” he said. “We haven’t met. The name is Tolliver. Morgan Tolliver.”

Jessie lay belly-flat in a clump of sage, looking downhill toward the cemetery. She had come here to watch the burial, hoping to gain some insight into the circumstances surrounding Allister’s death. But she should have known the adventure would be a waste of time. She could recognize people at this distance, but she couldn’t see their expressions or hear any
thing they might be saying. And even if she could have done so, it would have made no difference. From the moment she’d seen Matt arrive, Jessie had been unable to take her eyes off him.

She could see him now, standing a dozen paces from the grave, talking to a man she recognized as Morgan Tolliver. Jessie had visited the Tolliver Ranch with her father a few times to deliver the horses they’d caught and broken. The Tollivers had always treated her family well. She had warm memories of sitting at their huge dinner table, overcome by the rustic beauty of the big log ranch house, the finery of the tableware and the bounty of mouth-watering food, served by the Tollivers’ Chinese cook.

Jacob Tolliver, Morgan’s father, had been alive then, a gruff, handsome old man whose frail body was confined to a wheelchair. Jessie had not been back to the Tolliver ranch since Jacob’s death. But she’d heard that Morgan had married a young widow with a daughter, and had fathered twin boys. The Tolliver Ranch must be a lively place these days, she mused.

But she hadn’t come here to remember the Tollivers. And she certainly hadn’t come to pine over Matt Langtry. The very fact that Matt was here, mingling with the wealthy ranchers and leading citizens of the county, was enough to set him apart from her. Matt was ambitious. He knew the advantage of having friends in high places. And he was not about to
alienate any of these people by looking for a murderer among them.

If Matt played his cards right, he could become a full-fledged U.S. marshal in a few years. From there, anything was possible. He could get a high-placed government job, run for congress, even be elected governor. The right connections would make all the difference—and marriage into a wealthy and powerful family would give him those connections, Jessie reminded herself. The last woman Matthew T. Langtry was apt to wed would be the orphaned daughter of a horse trader with no money, no property, and the threat of arrest hanging over her cropped head.

Matt had chosen his side—and it was not her side. The sooner she forgot him, the safer her heart would be.

Tearing her eyes away from his tall figure, she watched the people leaving the graveside. Virgil and Lillian Gates were moving down the slope together. She was leaning on his arm, her elegant head bending toward his. Could the two of them have been more than in-laws, even while Allister was alive? If the answer was yes, it could provide a powerful motive for murder. Marriage would give Virgil a glamorous wife and Lillian a younger, more virile husband. As a couple, they would own the entire ranch.

Finding Frank’s rifle would have given them the perfect chance to kill Allister and put the blame on
someone else. But how could she bring them to justice unless she could prove what they’d surely done?

Whatever the risk, she had to learn more.

Biting back his emotions, Matt studied the man who might, or might not, be his half brother. Apart from a similarity in build, there was little resemblance between himself and Morgan Tolliver. Morgan’s coloring and his sharp aquiline features had likely come from his Shoshone mother. Looks alone would not tell Matt whether he and this man shared the same blood.

What puzzled Matt now was the way Morgan had singled him out and come straight toward him, as if he’d been waiting for the burial service to end. Clearly the man had something to discuss. But what?

So far, Morgan had made polite conversation, asking Matt where he’d come from and how he liked Wyoming. Matt responded with equal courtesy, waiting for Morgan to get to the heart of what he had to say.

“I understand young Frank Hammond was arrested for Allister’s murder,” Morgan said abruptly, and Matt felt his heart drop.

“That’s right,” he hedged. “Frank Hammond’s rifle was found near the body. The bullets in the gun matched the one that killed Allister.”

Morgan scowled. “I did business with Frank’s father for years. Tom Hammond was one of the most
honest men I’ve ever known. You’ll never convince me his son’s a killer.”

“I agree with you there,” Matt replied cautiously. “The boy didn’t strike me as the sort who’d shoot a man in cold blood.”

“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” Morgan said. “I’ve offered to pay for Frank’s defense. Tomorrow I’ll be meeting with my lawyer in Sheridan. Before we talk to Frank, I’d like to hear your version of what happened.”

Matt had hoped to keep Frank’s death a secret until he heard from Sheriff Canton. But now, as he faced Morgan Tolliver, he knew the moment of truth had come. Whatever the consequences, he could not lie to this man.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said. “Frank died two days ago on his way to Sheridan. Walk with me down to the horses, and I’ll tell you what happened.”

Morgan listened in grim silence as the story unfolded. Matt forced himself to be brutally honest, sparing no details. “Frank’s death was my fault,” he said, knowing it was true. “It was my job to keep the situation under control and get him safely to the county jail. Things got out of hand, and I failed.”

Morgan’s cold black eyes held neither understanding nor forgiveness. “Then you should take it on
yourself to clear the boy. The Hammonds were good people. I’d bet my life their son didn’t do this.”

“That’s what I’m trying to prove. That’s why I’m here now.”

Morgan glared at him. He was clearly a man who valued action above empty words, and words were all Matt had given him.

“What about Jessie? Where is she?”

Matt felt his heart clench at the mention of her name. “Missing. Her cabin is gone, burned. I’m hoping she did it herself to spite Virgil, and that she’s hiding in the mountains. Otherwise…” Matt could not even voice the other, darker possibility.

“Find her.” Morgan’s look would have withered stone. “When you do, tell her she has a place with my family, on our ranch, for as long as she wants it. If she’s too proud to come as a guest, tell her we can use her help with the horses.”

“I’ll find her.”

“See that you do, Marshal.” Morgan donned his Stetson, untied his tall roan from the hitching rail and swung into the saddle. “Sheriff Canton will know where to get in touch with me. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow. Do you want me to tell him what happened to Frank?”

“He should know by now. I wired him this morning, as soon as the telegraph office was open. I’ll be back in Sheridan as soon as I’ve finished my business
here.” Matt squinted up into the sunlight, which had transformed Morgan into a towering black silhouette. “Canton will want a piece of my hide, I expect.”

“He’ll take it. Count on that.” Morgan tipped his hat, wheeled his horse and rode away.

Feeling like a whipped dog, Matt watched him canter the horse down the road and vanish around the bend. Only now that he’d failed did he realize how badly he’d wanted to win Morgan’s approval. Maybe he’d been too honest about what had happened. Maybe he should have glossed over Frank’s death, blamed it on the vigilantes, then tried to steer the conversation toward something pleasant. But no, he sensed Morgan would have seen right through him. He’d had no choice except to tell the raw, unpolished truth.

But what difference did it make now? It was too late to change anything that had happened. As for Morgan’s being his half brother, the whole idea was best forgotten. Even if the blood tie could be proved, Morgan would never accept him, let alone welcome him. His manner had made that clear enough.

Turning away from the road, Matt mounted his horse. He’d wasted enough time brooding. What mattered now was tracking down Jessie and bringing her safely back to the Tolliver Ranch.

Morgan Tolliver had offered her a new home and a new life with friends who were powerful enough
to protect her. But if Jessie was alive, she could be playing a dangerous game. Everything hinged on his finding her before she took one chance too many.

A
gibbous moon, waning from fullness, hung like an unplucked peach above the eastern plain. The wail of a coyote quivered through the darkness as Jessie crept along the fence line. The grass beneath her thin boots was cold and wet.

She’d spent the afternoon hiding in the hills above the Gates Ranch, watching the funeral guests come and go. The two-story ranch house appeared grander than she remembered, with a newly finished portico standing where the front porch had been. Today the portico was elegantly draped in yards of black bunting—Lillian Gates’s idea, Jessie surmised. Virgil certainly wouldn’t have thought of it. He and Allister had lived like bachelor cowboys before she came into their lives. It would take a woman with expensive tastes and a strong, demanding will to make such changes.

And now, perhaps, Lillian had made the biggest change of all.

Ranchers had come from all over the county for the funeral. Many of them had stopped by the house afterward to visit and enjoy a meal of barbecued beef. Jessie had watched for Matt, but he hadn’t shown up. Neither had Morgan Tolliver. As the afternoon faded into twilight, she had crawled back into the trees, curled up beneath a clump of willows and fallen into a restless sleep.

Now, with the darkness around her, she was fully awake. At the end of the drive, she could see the house. The guests had long since left, taking the horses and carriages that had crowded the yard. Now only two lamplit rooms were visible from the front of the house. The downstairs light, she calculated, would be coming from the front hall. The lighted room upstairs, to the left of the portico, was undoubtedly a bedroom, either Lillian’s or Virgil’s.

Gauging the moon’s height above the horizon, Jessie reckoned that it was a little after ten o’clock. The tired servants would have long since cleaned up after the meal and gone to bed. Lillian and Virgil would be alone.

Were the two of them lovers? That was what Jessie had come to find out.

She paused as she crept past the barn, with its at
tached corral. This, she knew, was where Allister Gates had died.

Dropping to a crouch, she settled herself against the corral fence, where a dozen horses drowsed in the moonlight. She tried to picture Frank coming out of the barn leading the stallion as Allister emerged from the house with his pistol. How scared Frank must have been. The stallion was a skittish, sensitive animal. As Allister came close, Frank’s fear alone could have made the horse nervous enough to rear.

Where had Allister fallen? And where had he died? If she’d known that much, at least, she might have been able to search the ground for evidence. But what was she thinking? The ground where Allister died had been trampled and rained on for the past three days. There would be nothing left to find.

And there was no one to help her, she realized. Frank was gone and Matt Langtry was out of her reach. She was groping in the dark, with nothing to go on except Frank’s story.

When she looked toward the house again, she saw that the light on the first floor had gone out. Only the glow in the upstairs bedroom remained. If she wanted to see what was happening inside the room, she would have to get high enough to look through the second-floor window.

Moving carefully to the foot of a tall pine tree that grew on the east side of the house, she spat on her
hands, crouched and sprang for a lower limb. Swinging hard, she caught a higher, sturdier limb with her feet and pulled herself up until she could sit on it. The tree was even rougher than she’d feared. By now her hands were bleeding, but never mind, she was almost high enough to see over the sill. A few more grinding inches and she was there.

The shutters were open, and there were no blinds on the window. Only a thin lace curtain veiled Jessie’s view of the room. She could see the lamp with its rose-tinted glass shade sitting on the night table. A few steps away, Lillian sat at the dresser in a peach satin robe, brushing her glorious red-gold hair.

She was alone.

Feeling foolish, Jessie slid lower, but the strap on her overalls had caught on a sharp limb. She was straining upward, trying to get it loose, when the bedroom door opened from the hall to reveal Virgil, clad in a dark woolen dressing gown.

Jessie stared, half-afraid to believe her eyes as he walked into the room, moved behind Lillian and put his hands on her shoulders. There it was—had to be—the reason that Allister had died. If Lillian and Virgil were lovers, that would give them every reason to want Allister dead. Now all she needed was a way to connect them to his murder.

Intent on the scene before her, Jessie didn’t see the huge owl, flying in to roost, until its wing struck her
cheek. Startled, she flung up her arm to shield her eyes. If the owl hadn’t been gripping a gopher in its massive talons, it could have ripped her arm or torn a gash in her face. As it was, the creature went at her with its snapping beak and powerful wings, trying to drive her out of the tree.

Struggling wildly to protect herself, Jessie lost her hold. Down, down she slid, grabbing at limbs to slow her fall. Bark scraped her. Limbs and needles jabbed her. She clenched her teeth against the pain, biting back a scream as she crashed to the ground.

For a moment she lay stunned and bleeding on the thick bed of pine needles that had cushioned her fall. Then she heard the front door open and saw the flash of a lantern from the portico.

“Who’s there?” Virgil’s voice bawled. “Come on out in the light before I pull this trigger and blow your damnfool head off!”

Any second, Jessie knew, he’d be coming around the house. Torn between hiding and running, she chose to run.

Disregarding the pain that shot through her bruised body, she scrambled to her feet and raced for the scrub oak that grew in clumps behind the house. To run in the open on this moonlit night would be to risk a bullet or a crippling blast of buckshot.

She glimpsed the light swinging around the corner of the house. If Virgil fired his gun, the whole
ranch would be awake. She could only hope his desire to be alone with Lillian would outweigh the need to chase down an intruder.

Flattening herself under a bushy oak, she lay still, listening as Virgil rummaged beneath the pine tree. The pine needles wouldn’t show her tracks clearly, thank heaven, but he would see the spot where she’d landed on the needles. If he checked the sharp, broken branches he would likely find blood or shreds of her torn shirt and overalls.

He was moving again. Jessie could see the light of the swinging lantern as he prowled the yard. She held her breath as he walked within a stone’s throw of where she lay. Her heart crept into her throat as he paused, swung the lantern in a sweeping arc and moved on. Thank goodness the family didn’t keep dogs around the house. A dog’s sharp nose would have found her in seconds.

“I know you’re out there, you bastard!” Virgil snarled into the shadows. “Come on out now, and I might let you live!”

Jessie lay frozen against the leafy ground. She could feel something crawling along her leg. She hoped to heaven it wasn’t a rattlesnake. Closing her eyes, she moved her lips in a silent prayer.

At last, with a grunt of disgust, Virgil moved on. Jessie could hear the crunch of his boots as he walked the rest of the way around the house and mounted the
steps of the portico. Even after she heard the front door close, she lay still, knowing he could still be there, waiting for her to come out into the open.

Only when she saw the light in the upstairs window flicker and go out did she dare to move. The crawling sensation along her leg had gone away. Maybe she’d only imagined it. But she could feel danger all around her in the night.

Making a wide circle through the scrub, Jessie cut back toward the road. Her left ankle was beginning to swell. A bad sprain, she guessed. But she couldn’t take time to stop and look at it. She needed to get back to the horse she’d left hidden in the hills above town. She needed to get home, if the leaky little cabin in the high meadow could be called a home.

The shortest route back to the horse would take her straight through town. On any other night, Jessie wouldn’t have gone that way, but the hour was late and her ankle screamed with every step. The longer path, which cut through the cemetery, would add at least another mile to the trek. In her condition, she knew she’d never make it that far.

The stores and offices along Main Street were dark and silent. Only the saloon, which spilled a pool of light through its swinging doors, contained any life at this hour. Drunken laughter, the clink of glasses and the slap of cards on a wooden table trickled through the darkness as Jessie limped past on the op
posite side of the muddy road. The place would be closing soon. She didn’t want to be here when the saloon emptied its customers into the night.

As she passed the general store, she glimpsed a bedraggled figure moving alongside her in the moonlit glass. Jessie gasped, then bit back nervous laughter as she realized she was looking at her own reflection. Her wild tumble from the tree, with its bumps, scrapes and scratches, had perfected her disguise. She looked like a ragged, homeless beggar boy who’d been beaten and kicked from door to door, bitten by dogs and pelted by mud. Her own dear mother wouldn’t have known her.

She knew she should move on, but a poster in the lower corner of the window seized her attention. Printed in block letters below the silhouette of a galloping horse was the following notice:

SHERIDAN OPENING HORSE RACE

$50 Prize, Winner Take All

May 20, Two o’clock p.m.,

Sheridan Race Course

Picnic to Follow

The monthly horse race was a regular event from late spring to early fall. This race, which was ten days off, would be the first of the season. Pausing a few seconds longer, Jessie tucked the date and time
into her memory, although she no longer had reason to do so. Frank had been planning to race Midnight and win some much-needed cash, but now neither he nor the stallion would ever race again.

Tearing her eyes from the poster, Jessie moved closer to the window. The interior of the store was dark, but Jessie had been inside so many times that her mind held an exact picture of the goods on their shelves—canned meats, fruits and vegetables, dry beans and rice, bullets, tools, salves and bandages and medicines—things she desperately needed.

How easy would it be to creep around to the back and find a way inside? She wouldn’t take much—just some ointment for her scratches, maybe a few nails and bullets, a comb, some salt…

But what was she thinking? She was no thief. If she wanted more supplies, she would get them the honest way—with money. And she would get the money honestly as well, Jessie vowed. If only she could find a way.

“You! Boy!” The gruff shout rasped out of the darkness behind her. Spinning around, Jessie saw three men coming out of the saloon and into the street. Her legs went watery beneath her as she recognized the roughnecks who worked for Virgil Gates.

“Boy! You stealin’ something? You even thinkin’ about it? We’re gonna fix you good!”

They laughed as they pounded toward her, splash
ing through the mud. The fact that they’d been drinking made them all the more dangerous. If they got their hands on her and discovered she wasn’t a boy at all…

Fear shot energy into her tortured limbs. Leaping away, she sprinted around the store and into the alley between the store and the boardinghouse next door. The strain on her ankle was excruciating, but she was too terrified to feel it. She ran for her life, dodging among the discarded boxes, crates and refuse that littered the narrow space. Her pursuers lumbered after her, enjoying the sport. If only she’d brought her pistol—but no, it was just as well. Even with a weapon, she couldn’t take on three experienced gun-fighters and expect to come out alive.

Jessie could feel her strength ebbing. If she couldn’t find a hiding place, they would simply run her down, chasing her until she dropped.

Ahead of her, the alley ended at the rear of the store. She would round the corner ahead of the three men. For a few seconds she would be out of sight. Those seconds could provide the only chance of saving herself.

A six-foot stack of empty wooden crates stood against the side of the store. Risking precious time, she pushed at the crates, knocking them over behind her as she ran. She heard a crash and a vile curse, but she dared not look back to see what was happening.

Rounding the corner, she saw a big tin laundry tub propped against the back of the boardinghouse. Without pausing to think, she dived under it and pulled it down over her body. Curled on her side with her head against her knees, Jessie filled the entire space beneath the tub. There was scarcely any air to breathe, let alone room to expand her lungs. Confined places had always bothered her. Already, after only seconds, her nerves were screaming for air and space.

The ground quivered beneath her as the three men came pounding around the building. They paused, swearing. The tub muffled their words, but Jessie sensed that they were standing right next to her.

“Now where did the little bastard go?” Jessie recognized the cultured voice of the gunman called Ringo.

Jessie heard a belch and a raw laugh before a second voice answered. “Hell, we probably scared the little bugger to death. Come on, let’s get back to the ranch. Mr. Virgil wants us up at first light to start the brandin’.”

“Sure, now, Lem,” a third voice interjected. “And if you was in Mr. Virgil’s shoes, would
you
be up at first light?”

The question was greeted with raucous, ribald laughter that grew distant, then faded into stillness.

Were they gone? Teeth chattering, Jessie huddled against the cold mud beneath the wash tub. Unless she’d heard wrong, the men had hinted that they
knew about Virgil and Lillian. If questioned forcefully enough, they might be able to back up what she’d seen with her own eyes. But she was the last person who could approach Virgil’s hired ruffians. Such a dangerous errand called for someone stronger. Someone like Matt Langtry.

But Matt would be off somewhere with his powerful friends by now, she told herself. Why should he try to prove Frank’s innocence when it would cast his own reputation in a bad light? She could not count on him, or anyone else, for help.