Jane Bonander (25 page)

“It was a stroke of genius, my love. But then,” he added, his fingertips grazing her breasts, “I’ve always known you were smarter than I.”

She kissed him quick and hard and, with a wistful sigh, slid from the bed and left the room.

At Jackson’s door, she knocked quietly. When she got no response, she opened the door and peered inside. Although she felt like a voyeur, warmth stole over her as she watched them sleep.

They faced each other. Jackson had Libby cradled close to his chest, and Susannah could tell that Libby’s leg was thrown over Jackson’s hip.

Saying a quick prayer of thanks, she closed the door, then knocked again, this time loudly.

“Children?”

There was a rustling on the other side of the door.

“We’re awake, Mother.”

“Just barely,” Susannah said to herself, smiling gaily as she went to the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee.

A
fter leaving Libby at the boardinghouse, Jackson returned the rig, then went to the jail. When he opened the door, he noticed that Deputy Worth was there alone. Oddly, the cell door was open, and he was sitting beside the cot, talking quietly with the prisoner.

“Deputy?”

Axel Worth leaped from the chair and spun to face Jackson, his face a mottled red.

“Sheriff,” he began, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically, “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Have a nice trip?”

“Fine, thanks.” Jackson stepped cautiously into the cell, his gaze leveled at the prisoner. “What’s the cell door doing open, Axel?”

Again Axel’s throat worked. “I was … ah … just giving him some water.”

Glancing around the cell and finding no evidence of the water ladle, Jackson raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing. He crossed to the prisoner, who eyed him warily from the cot. At least he had regained consciousness.

“Where’s Vern?” Jackson continued to study the supine man, who had a large bandage on the side of his head.

“He … ah … went home for lunch,” Axel answered.

The air seemed charged with energy. It got Jackson’s hackles up. “Axel, why don’t you take a lunch break, too?”

“Oh, but, Sheriff, I think I should stay—”

“Take a lunch break, Axel.” Jackson wanted to talk with the prisoner alone. It bothered him that Axel had appeared almost chummy with the wounded man when he walked in. And that he’d obviously lied about what he was doing in the cell.

“I’d like to fill you in, Sheriff.”

“Thanks, Axel. Just one thing before you leave. Has anyone else been in here to see him?”

“You mean his family or something like that?”

“Anyone at all.”

Axel shook his head. “No, sir, no one at all. Just the doc.”

With a nod, Jackson replied, “All right. You can fill me in after lunch.”

Tossing the prisoner a furtive glance, Axel grabbed his hat and left the jail.

Jackson took the seat that Axel had vacated. The prisoner still hadn’t spoken, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off Jackson, either.

Jackson tried to appear comfortable, although he felt taut as a wire. He examined the bandage oil the prisoner’s head, noting that it covered his ear. “What’s your name?”

“Maybe I forgot my name. Maybe I have amnesia.”

The sarcasm in his voice told Jackson otherwise. He rose, left the cell, and locked it, then went to the desk and shuffled through the papers until he discovered what he was looking for. The prisoner’s name was Clebbert Hartman. Cautious excitement flowered in Jackson’s chest. Cleb Hartman was one of the monthly poker players at the Eureka saloon.

Vern’s notes indicated that Hartman, who lived ten miles south of Thief River, had once been treated by the local doctor—for a gunshot wound he’d suffered while trying to rustle cattle.

Interesting. Jackson scraped his chin with the memo, then returned to the cell and resumed his seat. The man glared up at him. His eyes were wary. His nose was narrow and sharp. His face was all angles and planes. He looked like a ferret.

“So, Mr. Hartman, it appears this isn’t your first brush with the law.”

The prisoner said nothing.

“What were you doing on Ander Bilboa’s land?”

Hartman shrugged his shoulders beneath the blanket that covered him. “Just passing through.”

Jackson gave him a predatory smile. “With a sack of poison in tow?”

“Got rats on my place.” The prisoner turned his face toward the wall. “The sack must have broke.”

Jackson heaved a hearty sigh. “You know, Mr. Hartman, I’d like to believe you. Really I would. But you live ten miles south of here. That stretch of land you were on is out near Nevada. Got a bad sense of direction, do you?”

“It’s the truth, and you can’t prove otherwise,” Hartman snarled.

Jackson shook his head, feigning sympathy. “It’s a shame you have to take the rap for the others.”

At that moment Hartman’s hand moved beneath the blanket, and Jackson instinctively grabbed it. A shot rang out, whizzing close to Jackson’s ear.

“Son of a bitch” he whispered, his voice thick with surprise. He pulled back the blanket and wrestled the gun from Hartman’s grip.

“How in the hell did you get this?” He glared at the prisoner, who merely met his angry gaze with one of his own.

Jackson slid the pistol into his waistband, then frisked the belligerent prisoner. “Got any more surprises for me, Clebbert?”

Finding nothing, Jackson left the cell, locking it securely behind him. His heart was still drumming his rib cage, and his ears were ringing from the shot as he went to the window and stared out into the street.

Surely Vern wouldn’t have let anyone smuggle a gun in. And no one had been to see him but the doc. What were the other possibilities? They came down to one: Axel Worth.

The question was … why? Inhaling deeply, he decided to take a wild chance.

“It’s foolish to take the fall alone, Hartman. I haven’t been sitting on my hands, you know. I’ve been a busy man. I was in Eureka and made all sorts of fascinating discoveries.”

He returned to the cell, talking to Hartman through the bars. “For instance, I discovered that you’re only a fair poker player.”

Fear leaped into Hartman’s beady eyes. “So what? I ain’t the only player in that game, you know.”

Another hungry smile. “I know.”

Hartman clenched his jaw and looked away.

“Your good buddy Ethan Frost loses quite a bundle from time to time, doesn’t he?”

Hartman’s breathing accelerated
,
his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he didn’t answer.

“Oh, by the way, are you aware that a railroad is going to be built between here and Fort Redding? Interesting, isn’t it, that Mateo and Bilboa should be the only ranchers having trouble with the gunnysackers. Oh,” he continued with a wave of his hand, “it’s probably a coincidence that they’re the only two who own land along the track site.”

Hartman almost turned toward him, but caught himself. Still, he said nothing, but he appeared to struggle for breath.

Jackson merely laughed. “Such loyalty. Do you think for one minute that Frost would protect you? He’s not the type, you know. If he were in your shoes right now, he’d be singing like a bird.”

Hartman tossed him a frantic glance, but quickly looked away.

“That’s right, Clebbert. You think about it. Think about what Ethan Frost would do in your place. Fortunately for you, we can’t accuse you of murdering Danel Mateo.”

This time Hartman did turn, but he merely stared at Jackson, a sly expression on his face. “No, you can’t pin that one on me, can you?”

The door opened and Vern limped through. “Jackson! Good to have you back.”

Jackson nodded. “I read your report on the prisoner. Anything to add?”

“Not yet,” Vern answered. “The Mateo family is having a private service and burial for Danel today. Guess the rest of us can pay our respects toward the end of the week. At the graveside.”

“Yes. Well, do you mind if I go home and grab a bite? I came directly here from the road. Oh, by the way, Vern,” he began, knowing full well the answer to his question before he asked it, “who around here rides a Tennessee high-stepper?”

“Well, Ethan Frost does.”

Jackson’s gaze was on Hartman. “Anyone else?”

“Not to my knowledge. They ain’t a good cattle mount for these parts. Why do you ask?”

With Hartman’s beady eyes piercing him, Jackson lied, “No reason. I saw a high-stepper at the livery and wondered who it belonged to, that’s all.” With a smile and a wave, he left the jail and crossed to the livery to retrieve his mount.

He hadn’t told Vern about his tussle with Hartman over the gun. Wrapping up this case was something he had to do himself. And though he admired Vern a great deal, he wasn’t sure he could count on him to keep his mouth shut. Axel Worth was up to something, and Jackson didn’t want to scare him off.

Dawn’s absence had left Libby anxious for her return. Although she was expected home today, Libby tried to concentrate on the preacher at Danel Mateo’s memorial service. The family had held a private burial first. Now, a week after his murder, friends and family gathered at his graveside. Danel’s eldest son, Dominic, stood stalwart beside his newly widowed mother. Her younger children formed a protective arc around her.

Although they were about the same age, Libby hadn’t seen Dominic Mateo in years. She’d almost forgotten what a handsome man he was, with his unfashionably long black hair and his thick, dark eyebrows and eyelashes. Of all the Mateo children, Dom was the one Libby had felt wouldn’t stay on the ranch. Yet he’d helped his father over the past years, despite having graduated from a prestigious eastern college.

Now, standing at his father’s grave, Dom appeared remote and resolute.

Libby and Jackson approached him. Libby hugged him. “I’m so sorry, Dom. Your father was a good man.”

He stood within her embrace, stoic as a statue.

She pulled away, noting that his gaze was on her husband.

“Have you caught the murderer?” His voice had the hard edge of one who could barely contain his anger and his grief.

“It’s only a matter of time, Dom.”

Dom shook with unleashed fury. “Time? Sheriff, if you don’t do something damned soon, I’ll do it for you.”

Jackson put his arm around Dom’s shoulders and drew him away from the crowd.

Libby’s gaze lingered on her husband, for she knew he was trying to explain to Dom why the law appeared to work so slowly. Even now Libby found it hard to believe that Ethan was embroiled in cattle poisoning and murder. She’d had no idea he had a gambling problem. Jackson had assured her that people like Ethan would go to any lengths to cover their behinds. She knew she’d never be able to look at him the same way again.

Eager to get home before Dawn arrived from the ranch, Libby caught Jackson’s eye, motioning that she was going to walk home. Jackson blew her a quick kiss, then returned his attention to calming Dominic.

She’d just left the cemetery when she met Ethan’s rig on the road. Her stomach dropped, everything she’d recently learned about him making her suddenly fear him.

His smile was blinding.

She swallowed hard, hoping to show none of the emotions she was feeling. Although there was no tangible proof that Ethan had done anything wrong, Libby trusted Jackson. Even though she’d known Ethan for many, many years, she could no longer believe a word he said. That he could take money from an innocent child’s trust fund made her skin crawl. That he could slaughter hundreds of sheep for no reason other than his own personal gain made her sick to her stomach, and that he could kill a wonderful man like Danel Mateo made her angry and disgusted. How could he do such a thing? How
could
he?

“Want a lift home?”

Attempting nonchalance, she answered his smile, although her heart was pounding furiously. “Oh, no. Thank you just the same.” She lengthened her stride. “The walk will do me good.”

He stopped the team and jumped to her side. “Libby?”

She gave him a wide, innocent look, cursing the betrayal of her rapid heartbeat. “Yes?”

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

She tried to laugh, but it sounded strained. “Why, nothing. I’d rather walk, that’s all.”

He didn’t appear convinced. He grabbed her arm. “Something’s wrong.”

Wincing as his fingers pressed into her flesh, Libby tried to pull away. “Let go of my arm, Ethan.”

He complied. “It’s that husband of yours, isn’t it? He’s turned you against me.”

She looked at him, her pulse jumping. Something in his eyes frightened her. Something she’d never seen before. Turning away quickly, she continued her long strides, her heart in her throat. “Dawn’s returning today after a lengthy visit with her grandparents. I have to get home,” she explained.

She left him staring after her as she hurried home and sprinted up the boardinghouse steps. Relieved to find Bert and Burl rocking lazily on the porch, she said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Without breaking rhythm, both old men nodded.

Libby stopped to catch her breath and studied them.

“Why weren’t you at the funeral?”

Burl sucked air in through his toothless mouth. “Ain’t a good idea fer us to set foot in a cemetery, Miz Liberty.”

“That’s right” Bert agreed. “The Lord might see us there and remember we’re still kickin’. Don’t do a lick of good to tempt him, ya know.”

Rolling her eyes, she rushed inside. Corey met her in the foyer. “Where’s Jackson?”

Libby allowed him to remove her cape. “He’s spending some time with Dom Mateo. Oh, Corey, the man is so angry, I’m afraid he’ll do something he might regret.”

“He can’t put his father’s murder out of his mind, Libby. No doubt he feels guilty because he couldn’t prevent it.”

“I suppose you’re right. Poor Mrs. Mateo. Now she’s without a husband, most of their sheep have been killed, and they’re on the brink of losing the ranch. I hope Jackson gets this case solved quickly.”

Corey took her arm. “Just for a moment I want you to stop worrying about everyone else. Can you do that?”

She gave him a wry smile. “Maybe for a moment. Actually, I’m anxious to see Dawn. I’ve never been away from her this long.”

“We’ve been busy preparing a surprise for her.” He put his arm around her and led her into the kitchen.

Libby gasped, surprised and pleased. Mahalia stood over an elaborately decorated cake in the shape of a floppy, moppy-looking dog.

“I’ve been cuttin’ and piecin’ for near an hour now, pastin’ this thing together with icin’.”

“And Chloe Ann and I made this,” Corey announced, holding up a string of letters that said “Welcome Home.” “I thought I’d attach them to the porch so she’ll see them right away. Not only that,” he continued, dramatically rubbing his arm, “I’ve been making ice cream and my arm is sore from cranking the ice cream handle.”

“Oh, she’ll love a party.” Libby bustled around the kitchen, getting out plates and napkins. “I only hope Jackson gets here before Dawn does.”

Burl Bellamy stepped into the kitchen, his expression puzzled.