Lorraine Heath (3 page)

“All these years I thought Duncan had shot Boyd and arranged the evidence to put the blame on me.” He glanced sideways at the friend from his youth, suddenly realizing that losing Cameron’s friendship hurt almost as much as losing Becky’s love. “But our paths crossed this evening and I realized I was wrong. Rawley said something, though, that got me to thinking. What if Boyd didn’t write my name in the dirt—”

“He did. Sheriff Larkin took me to the place where he found Boyd. He’d written your name in the dirt as plain as day.”

“What if he didn’t mean me, but meant the town? What if he didn’t know the name of the man who killed him, but he knew that he came from Austin?”

“That’s grasping at straws, isn’t it?”

“That’s all I’ve got,” Austin said. “People avoid me like I have tick fever or something worse. I knew the men on the jury had voted guilty because of the evidence, but I never thought they actually believed deep down that I murdered Boyd. I’ve got to prove I’m innocent, and I can only do that if I figure out who killed him. Did he have any business in Austin?”

“Boyd never confided in me. Sometimes he’d leave for a few days, but he never divulged where he went.”

Austin took a few steps back. “Reckon it won’t hurt to ride into Austin and see if I can find out anything.”

“Guess I’d do the same if I were in your boots, but watch your back. If the man who killed Boyd
is
in Austin, I don’t imagine he’s going to welcome the prospect of being found.”

Austin turned for the stairs, halted, and glanced over his shoulder. “If I ever hear that Becky isn’t happy, I’ll finish what I started out back this evening.”

Cameron held his gaze. “Fair enough.”

Austin hurried down the remaining steps. Some bastard had stolen five years of his life. Austin intended to make damn sure he paid dearly for every moment.

S
wearing viciously, Austin glared at the jagged cut on the underside of Black Thunder’s hoof. He released the horse’s foreleg, unfolded his aching body, and jerked his dusty black Stetson from his head. Exhausted, resenting the dirt working its way into every crease of his body, he stood beneath the April sun feeling as though he’d stepped into the middle of August.

Using the sleeve of his cambric shirt, he wiped the sweat beading his brow, grimacing as pain erupted across his back—from the middle of his left shoulder to just below his ribs. He had expected the gash he’d received during the brawl with Duncan to have healed by now, but he supposed riding all day, late into the night, and sleeping on the ground hadn’t been the best treatment for the wound. When he had ridden out of Leighton several days before, he hadn’t considered that he’d have no way to clean or tend the injury. Only one thought had preyed on his mind: The city of Austin might hold the key that would lead him to Boyd’s killer, the man whose guilt would prove Austin’s innocence.

Slipping his fingers into the pocket of his vest, he pulled out the map Dallas had given him. Wearily he studied the lines that marked the start of his journey and his final destination. He stuffed the wrinkled paper back into his pocket. He wouldn’t reach the town tonight.

Settling his hat low over his brow, he sighed heavily. He was in no mood to walk, but the stallion’s injury left him no choice. Gazing toward the distance, he saw smoke spiraling up through the trees. He threaded the reins through his fingers and trudged into the woods. Shafts of sunlight and lengthening shadows wove through the branches, offering him some respite from the damnable heat. With a sense of loss, he remembered a time when he would have appreciated the simple beauty surrounding him. Now he just wanted to get to where he was going.

He heard an occasional thwack as though someone were splitting wood. With the abundance of trees and bushes, he didn’t imagine anyone had to depend on cow chips for a fire.

A wide clearing opened up before him. Lacy white curtains billowed through the open windows of a small white clapboard house. The weathered door stood ajar. Near the house, a scrawny boy wearing a battered hat, threadbare jacket, and worn britches struggled to chop the wood. A large dog napped beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The varying hues of his brown and white fur reminded Austin of a patchwork quilt. As Austin cautiously approached, the dog snapped open its eyes, snarled, and rose slowly to its full height, curling back its lips and deepening its growl.

Moving quickly, the boy dipped down, swung around, and pointed a rifle at Austin. Austin threw his hands in the air. “Whoa! I’m not looking for trouble.”

“What are you lookin’ for?”

“Austin. How far is it from here?”

“Half a day’s ride on a good horse.” The boy angled his head, the rumpled brim of his hat casting shadows over his face. “Your horse looks to be favoring his right leg.”

The boy’s insight caught Austin off-guard, although he certainly admired it. “Yep. He cut his hoof on a rock. Your folks around?”

The boy gave a brisk nod. “And my brother. I’d feel a sight better if you’d take off the gun.”

Austin untied the strip of leather at his thigh and slowly unbuckled the gunbelt. Cautiously removing the holster, he laid the weapon on the ground, his gaze circling the area. He wondered where the rest of the family was working. He saw no fields that needed tending or cattle that needed watching. The aroma of fresh baked bread and simmering meat wafted through the open door of the house. “Something sure smells good.”

“Son-of-a-gun stew.”

“Think you could sneak me a bowl if I finish chopping that wood for you?”

The boy shifted his gaze to the wood scattered around an old tree stump, then looked back at Austin. “What’s your business in Austin?”

“Looking for someone.”

“You a lawman?”

“Nope. My horse is hurt. I’ve been walking longer than I care to think about. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. I can chop that wood twice as fast as you can, and I’m willing to do it for one bowl of stew. Then I’ll be on my way.”

Slowly, the boy relaxed his fingers and lowered the rifle. “Sounds like a fair trade.”

Rolling his sleeves past his elbows, Austin strode to the tree stump. Ignoring the snarling dog that lumbered in for a closer inspection of his boots, Austin picked up the ax, hefted a log onto the stump, and slammed the ax into the dry wood. He stifled a moan as fiery pain burst across his back. When he reached his destination, his first order of business would be to find a doctor.

“I’m gonna take your gun,” the boy said hesitantly. “And your rifle.”

“Fine. There’s a Bowie knife in the saddlebags.” He didn’t begrudge the boy his cautions, but he longed for the absolute trust he’d once taken for granted. Hearing the boy’s bare feet fall softly over the ground as he walked to the house, Austin glanced over his shoulder. The boy had grabbed his saddlebags as well.

Austin glared at the dog. “Your master ain’t too trusting, is he?”

The dog barked. Austin glanced to his left and spotted a hen house and a three-sided wooden structure that offered protection to a milk cow. He found that odd since the property had a huge barn.

He heaved the ax down into the wood, wondering if he was wasting his time traveling to the capital city. If he had any sense, he’d head home and try to rebuild a life that never should have been torn down. But stubborn pride wouldn’t allow him the luxury of turning back. His family believed he was innocent. Becky knew he was innocent. But the doubts would forever linger in everyone else’s minds.

When he had split and stacked enough wood to last the family a week, he ambled to the house, dropped to the porch, and leaned against the beam that supported the eve running the width of the house. The dog strolled over, stretched, yawned, and worked its way to the ground near Austin’s feet.

“Changed your mind about me, did you?”

Lifting its head, the dog released a small whine before settling back into place. Austin was sorely tempted to curl up beside the dog and sleep. Instead, he looked toward the horizon where the sun was gradually sinking behind the trees. While serving his time, he’d hated to see the sun go down. He had despised the night. Loneliness had always accompanied the darkness.

“Here’s your meal,” the boy said from behind him.

Austin glanced over his shoulder, his outstretched hand stopping halfway to its destination. The air backing up in his lungs, he slowly brought himself to his feet. The britches and bare feet were the same, but everything else had changed. The crumpled hat and shabby jacket were gone. So was the boy.

“What are you staring at?” an indignant voice asked.

Austin could have named a hundred things. The long, thick braid of pale blond hair draped over the narrow shoulder. The starched white apron that cinched the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. Or her eyes. Without the shadow of the hat, they glittered a tawny gold.

He tore his Stetson from his head and backed up a step. “My apologies, ma’am. I thought you were a boy.”

A tentative smile played across her lips. “It’s easier to get the work done when I’m wearing my brother’s britches. Besides no one’s usually around to notice.”

“What about your family?”

A wealth of sadness plunged into the golden depths of her eyes. “Buried out back.”

So they were
around
as she’d told him, but not in a position to help her. She extended the bowl toward him.

“Here. Take it.”

He reached for the offering, his roughened fingers touching hers. They both jerked away, then scrambled to recapture the bowl, their heads knocking together. Cursing as pain ricocheted through his head, Austin snaked out his hand and snatched the bowl, effectively halting its descent. The stew sloshed over the sides, burning the inside of his thumb.

“Damn!” He shifted the bowl to his other hand and pressed his thumb against his mouth. He peered at the woman. Her eyes had grown wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron. He remembered the many times Houston had scolded him for swearing in front of Amelia, and he felt the heat suffuse his face. “My apologies for the swearing,” he offered.

She shook her head. “I should have warned you that the stew is hot. I’ll get a cool cloth.”

Before he could stop her, she’d disappeared into the house. Austin dropped onto the porch, wondering if he had a fever. How could he have possibly mistaken that tiny slip of a woman for a boy?

He thought if he pressed her flush against him, the top of her head would fit against the center of his chest. Incredibly delicate, she reminded him of the fine china Dee now set on her table. One careless thump would shatter it into a thousand fragments.

He saw a flash of dung colored britches just before the woman knelt in front of him. She took his hand without asking and pressed a damp cloth to the red area. “I put a little oil on the cloth. That should draw out the pain.”

Her voice was as soft as a cloud floating in the sky, and again he wondered how he had mistaken her for a boy. Lightly, her hand held his, but he still felt the calluses across her palm. Her fingernails were short, chipped in a place or two, but clean. And her touch was the sweetest thing he’d known in five years.

She peered beneath the cloth. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister.” She touched her finger to the pink scar that circled his wrist. “What happened here?”

Austin stiffened, his throat knotting, and he wished he’d taken the time to roll down his sleeves after he’d finished chopping the wood. He considered lying, but he’d learned long ago the foolishness of lies. “Shackles.”

She lifted her gaze to his, her delicate brow furrowing, anxiety darkening her eyes, imploring him to answer a question she seemed hesitant to voice aloud.

He swallowed hard. “I spent some time in prison.”

“For what?” she whispered.

“Murder.”

He had expected horror to sweep across her face, would not have blamed her if she had run into the house to fetch her rifle. Instead, she continued to hold his gaze, silently studying him as though she sought some secret long buried. He considered telling her that he hadn’t killed anyone, but he’d learned that the voices of twelve men spoke louder than one. Unfortunately, until he proved someone else had killed Boyd McQueen, he was the man who had.

“How long were you in prison?” she finally asked.

“Five years.”

“That’s not very long for murder.”

“It’s long enough.”

Releasing his hand and his gaze, she eased away from him. “You should eat. You earned it.”

He gave a brusque nod before delving into the stew. She sat on the bottom step of the porch and put one foot on top of the other. She had the cutest toes he’d ever seen. The second toe was crooked and pointed away from the big toe like a broken sign giving directions to a town.

She hit her thigh. “Come here, Digger.”

The dog trotted over and nestled his head in her lap. With doleful eyes, he looked at Austin.

“Digger?” Austin asked.

She buried her fingers in the animal’s thick brown and white fur. “Yeah, he’s always digging things up. Do you have a name?”

“Austin Leigh.”

“I thought that’s where you were headed.”

“It is. I was born near here. My parents named me after the town.”

“Must get confusing.”

“Not really. Haven’t been back in over twenty

years.” He returned his attention to the stew, remembering a time when talking had come easy, when smiling at women had brought such pleasures.

“I’m Loree Grant.”

“I appreciate the hospitality, Miss Grant.” He scraped the last of the stew from his bowl.

“Do you want more stew?” she asked.

“If you’ve got some to spare.”

She rose, took his bowl, and walked into the house. The dog released a little whimper. Austin reached out to stroke the animal. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. He grabbed the edge of the porch and breathed deeply.

“Are you all right?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Loree stood uncertainly on the porch, the bowl of fresh stew in her hand. He brought himself to his feet, afraid what he’d already eaten wasn’t going to stay put. “Reckon one bowl was plenty. Sorry to have troubled you for the second. I was wondering … with night closing in … if you’d mind if I bedded down in your barn.”

Wariness flitted through her golden eyes, but she gave him a jerky nod.

“ ‘Preciate it. You can hold on to the saddlebags and guns until morning if it’ll help ease your fears about my staying. Before I head out, let me know what chores I can do as payment for the roof over my head.”

He strode toward Black Thunder, hoping he could get the horse settled before he collapsed from exhaustion.

He didn’t have the eyes of a killer. Loree repeated that thought like a comforting litany as she sat crossed-legged on her bed, the loaded rifle resting across her lap, her gaze trained on the door.

Five years ago, she’d looked into the eyes of a killer. She knew them to be ruthless and cold. Austin Leigh’s eyes were neither. She shifted her attention to the fire burning in the hearth. In the center, where the heat burned the hottest, the writhing blue flames reflected the color of his eyes. Eyes that mirrored sorrow and pain. She wondered if any of the creases that fanned out from the corners of his eyes had been carved by laughter.

Hearing thunder rumble in the distance, she hoped the storm would hold off until he’d left, but she thought it unlikely. The clock on the mantel had only just struck midnight.

The barn roof had more holes than the night sky had stars. Still it would offer him more protection than the trees. And he probably had a slicker. All cowboys did, and he certainly looked to be a cowboy. Tall and rangy with a loose-jointed walk that spoke of no hurry to be anywhere.

The rain began to pelt the roof with a steady staccato beat. She cringed. The nights were still cool, but he hadn’t asked for additional blankets or a pillow, and he couldn’t build a fire inside the barn. She cursed under her breath. He wasn’t her worry. He was a murderer, for God’s sake.