Breed True (3 page)

Jewel volunteered nothing, following her hostess to the bathing room. What would she say?
Excuse my mess. I have my husband's blood all over me.

She felt guilty taking the time to wash, but the bath water was hot, and there were assorted soaps and scented oils on a chair beside it.
Frank's dead.
She'd have liked to savor the truth of her freedom, but hurried instead, pushing away memory of blood and last words.

Jewel concentrated on scrubbing her skin till it was pink, carefully soaping tender flesh, before rinsing and rising from the still-warm water to dress.

She used the towel her hostess had left, binding it tightly around her breasts that were already leaking milk, desperately in need of release. Then, since her dress was ruined, and her canvas bag of possessions still remained hidden in the alley, she dressed in the garments Comfort Quince had left for her.

The underclothes were finer than any Jewel had owned for a long time, but she pulled on the stockings and chemise reluctantly, not wanting to take what she couldn't return.

The soft cloth caressed her clean skin, reminding her that exquisite luxury could be had for a price. But it was a price she'd been unwilling to pay, and Frank's pursuit of such had gotten him killed.

When she stepped into the gray dress that buttoned up the front, it fit surprisingly well, other than the tight pressure across her swollen breasts and the three inches of extra cloth that dragged the ground. Her hostess was a taller woman than Jewel's five and a half feet.

She tried not to see the mottled bruise on her cheek. Now that she'd washed away the powder she'd slapped on before coming to Eclipse, the marks of Frank's fist were obvious.

She eased out of the wash-up room and headed for the back door, but she was met there by the sheriff, who seemed to be expecting her. He took her arm and escorted her back up the hallway where the rumble of male voices interrupted the night's quiet.

"Thank you, ma'am," Jewel said to Comfort Quince, who stood by the entrance, listening to the conversation in the room. "I appreciate the use of your bathing facility."

Then in an unusual burst of candor she added, "Recent events have interfered with my travel. I will be gone as quickly as possible. Please forgive my late-night intrusion."

The elegant woman nodded at her as though she did understand.

Inside the parlor, Jewel discovered that Hiram Potter and two other men were waiting for her to return from her bath. Sheriff Potter pointed at the broad-shouldered rancher, seated on the couch. "Hamilton Quince, ma'am."

Jewel murmured a halfhearted greeting and turned, following the sheriff as he continued making introductions as though conducting a bizarre social hour. Inevitably they reached the stranger who had stood in the hallway inspecting her earlier.

"Miz Rossiter, this man is Grady Hawks. Mr. Hawks owns Hawks Nest Ranch, a piece of land that stretches over a sizeable piece of ground and reaches high into the mountains." Sheriff Potter seemed to ramble without a point.

What possible difference does it matter to me if Grady Hawks owns half of Texas?

Jewel tried to school her derisive thoughts when the man who was being introduced stepped forward.

Even though she was surrounded by the safety of civilization, she recognized brutal power and edged away. He spoke to her, and his voice compelled her to look directly at him, proving that she was right.

His personal tone surprised her as much as his apparent interest in her well-being.

The stranger ignored the others in the room and held her gaze, looking her over as though for damage. "Are you hurt?"

She had a moment of deja vu, remembering a stranger asking the same question years before, only that time, Frank had been alive and bleeding in the dirt. "Do I know you?"

"We met at the Eclipse Fall Social awhile back. Remember?"

She caught her breath, and looked at him closer.
Of course.
Her cheek ached just thinking about the public slap that Frank Rossiter had delivered when she'd tracked him down and found him at the dance.

She hadn't really known her husband then, although they'd been married long enough that ignorance had been a personal choice. He'd stolen the last of her money—money she'd brought with her when they'd married three months before—and money she'd planned to use to return, contrite and humbled, to her mother and stepfather.

The innocent girl who had been Julie Fulton had fumbled the bottom from her music box—the hiding place for the money she'd set aside from her inheritance as soon as she realized that Frank was determined to gamble it all away. When she'd discovered the money gone, she'd been furious and determined to get it back even if she had to embarrass him in public.

She should have known better—Frank had already proven himself beyond shame many times. He'd punched her in the face in front of a crowd of people. No one had protested or come to her aid until this man had grabbed Frank and shoved him out the door, with an excited crowd of half-drunk men following.

Jewel assessed the man who had played the gallant that day, the way she would have had he stood on her shanty stoop to hire her laundry service today. His clothes were well made, his hat was a Stetson, and his gun belt wrapped around his waist anchored his gun in place, ready to draw if needed.

It was obvious he was a man who could pay to have his clothes washed, ironed, and delivered. But, then, Frank had looked like that too. If Grady Hawks had knocked on her door seeking her laundry services, she wouldn't have answered.

He frightened her. Frank had worn his public veneer of civilization like a well-fitted coat, hiding his violence for private, unwitnessed moments. This man didn't bother to hide his savage nature; his gaze tracked her like a predator stalking prey.

There was more afoot than a gambler's debt settled. The last evening she'd spent in Frank's company, he'd put together a private game of poker in their suite so she could make sure his
luck
continued. Indian land ownership had been the topic of discussion, and Frank had listened avidly.

The consensus had been that the local families of mixed blood, who still controlled large sections of Texas grassland, would lose them. So, Jewel suspected that Grady Hawks, an Indian who owned a sizeable ranch, was one of the men being talked about.

Not until his slate gray eyes met her own green ones in a stare-down, did she realize that he was part white.

Sheriff Potter cleared his throat uncomfortably and said to the room at large. "It appears someone would like to plant the idea in everyone's head that Mr. Hawks killed your husband. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Miz Rossiter?"

I've got to get out of here and to the twins. Ma Siler might …
Jewel forced down panic. She couldn't let her mind dwell on that, or she'd start screaming.

Ma Siler wouldn't scruple at disposing of them when they became an inconvenience, and the swell of undelivered milk in Jewel's breasts reminded her that the babies were already hungry.

Jewel wanted to snap at the sheriff, but she put on her befuddled expression instead.

Most men seemed inclined to believe all women stupid, and as a defense, pretending to not comprehend worked more often than not.

"I don't believe I understand your question, Sheriff Potter." And for once, that was the truth.
I don't know
Grady Hawks from a hill of beans, but if he killed Frank, I hope he
gets away with it.
"Why would you think Mr. Hawks implicated in the murder of my husband? There are at least a hundred men who have been cheated, extorted, or beaten in a back alley by Frank Rossiter and his cronies. Was Mr. Hawks one of them?"

The sheriff motioned toward the elegant cherry table that decorated the room. A knife with a long blade and a fancy, wrapped handle lay there. She stepped closer, to peer more intently at it.

"That's the knife that Frank was wearing." Jewel paused and then looked away, catching Comfort Quince's sympathetic gaze. "In his chest," she added for explanation.

The blade was still bloodstained.

"That knife belongs to Hawks." The sheriff nodded at the dark-skinned man who stared at her from slate gray eyes.

"Well, arrest him if he stabbed Frank. But I'm not a witness. I didn't see who used the knife." For a minute the picture of Frank's chest rising and falling and the blade's handle sticking out with blood bubbling fresh from the wound, resurfaced in her mind.

She stared hard at Grady Hawks. "Did you kill my husband?"

She was prepared to thank him, if that proved to be so. She knew that he was interested in her; hard gray eyes followed her movements, assessing her.

He also tracked the position of every man in the room. His impassive stare neither denied nor took credit for Frank's death.

"Trouble is, ma'am…" Hiram Potter's tone was deferential. It had been a while since Jewel had been treated with respect, and his tone caused her to look suspiciously at the sheriff. "Grady was here at Comfort's Boarding House all evening talking business with Hamilton Quince. There's a whole house full of people who saw him."

"Well, then, someone else used his knife to kill Frank." She felt as though she was talking to the weak-minded.
What do they want? Does the sheriff think I stabbed Frank?

Impatience replaced politeness as the clock on the wall indicated her need to hurry.

Jewel let her eyes flicker to the stranger since he seemed to be the reason she was being detained. Blue-black hair cut short, dark brows that framed light gray eyes—eyes that were piercing, cold, and direct.

His skin wasn't really brown; it was more bronze, or copper. When their glances crossed, rather than meet his gaze, she looked down, trying for submissive.

Jewel had learned that by not making eye contact with men, a woman could sometimes avoid unpleasantness. But not this time—he stalked toward her, and she felt the chill of dread.

He was dressed like every other man in the room, in ranch denim and work boots.

Grady Hawks had added a heavy duster, lined with what looked like wool. She envied him the coat and shivered, aware suddenly that her hands were ice cold.

She tried to control her spontaneous retreat, but couldn't as she nervously edged farther away from him, letting her gaze slide to the other people in the room.

But they watched him too, and it was obvious that help was not on the way. She realized then that as usual she was on her own. And for some reason, everyone was herding her toward the rancher.

The two white men and the woman named Comfort moved to one side, leaving Grady Hawks with her on the other. It gave them an air of intimacy, as though Jewel and the Indian rancher were somehow aligned.

She couldn't tell what was about to happen, but her practical side knew to get close to a door in case there was a fight. She looked around and inched a little nearer to the room's only exit, other than the big picture window that fronted the street. He shifted, but didn't bother to intercept her. He didn't have to; she was boxed in.

Instead, he picked the knife off the table and pulled out a handkerchief to methodically wipe the blade clean of Frank's blood.

She expected Sheriff Potter to keep the knife since it had been used for murder, but the lawman seemed indifferent when Grady Hawks reclaimed it.

"Thanks," he said. "Glad to get this back." He left his post at the door and walked away down the hall, carrying the weapon with him. Everyone in the room seemed to breathe easier.

They were silently listening for him to leave. Instead, they heard Comfort's back door open, followed by words spoken in a language foreign to her, and then the sound of the door as it closed, before he returned to the boarding-house sitting room.

"How is it your knife came to be in the hands of Frank's murderer?" It was a bold question, but there was a sheriff in the room, and if he wouldn't ask, Jewel would.

But Grady Hawks answered readily enough. "Last time I saw it, it was sticking out of a man's shoulder as he rode away."

Sheriff Potter interrupted. "Grady Hawks came into my office last October and reported that he'd been shot at outside of town. He told me then that he'd wounded the shooter when he threw that very knife and stuck the fellow."

The sheriff was no help at all in pursuing the questioning that Jewel felt should be directed at Grady Hawks.

"Did Frank owe you money?" Jewel hadn't been close enough to hear the conversation that night four years before, but if the Indian claimed Frank had cheated at cards or stolen a valuable, it wouldn't surprise her.

She'd not even thought to ask Frank that night. There hadn't been much talk on the way back to the hotel room, besides Frank's promises of abuse that he later delivered.

She had avoided Grady Hawks then, embarrassed by the entire incident. Now she locked gazes with him and quickly wished that she hadn't.

His black eyebrows were thick, and when he lifted one, he looked even more arrogant than she'd first thought.
Indian or not, this coyote thinks he's somebody.

She'd been wrong about his eyes; they weren't exactly slate, but an odd light grayish/blue made more startling by the way they pinned her with their intensity.

When Grady Hawks ignored her question, she told the sheriff, without dropping her eyes from the staring match they were in, "I didn't stab Frank or see who killed him, but I'm not sorry to be free of him."

For some reason, Rancher Hawks wanted to play stare-me-down. She dropped her eyes, although his familiar appraisal of her raised her hackles and brought on defiance.

She clenched her hands, willing her anger deep
. Playing meek will get me free sooner.

When the sheriff didn't comment on her words, it irritated her. It was as though the entire room waited breathlessly for something. She had a schedule to keep and no time for foolishness. Clearing her throat, she spoke to Grady Hawks.

"Please excuse my poor manners. I'm sorry I didn't say
thank you
the night of the social." In spite of her efforts, she couldn't keep the dry sarcasm from her voice, "My husband needed my attention after your conversation with him."