Rancher Wants a Wife (16 page)

He came in for a rushed dinner. She was relieved to see him, but he had to hasten out again to check on Finley’s cattle, then go sit with the stallion with the hairline fracture.

On Wednesday, they shared breakfast, but Jack kept looking out the front door, waiting for the newspaper to be delivered. When it arrived, Cassandra rushed outside with him, to see the paper boy adjust his leather gloves and hand it over like he always did. Adam held it out nervously, likely because he knew he was being closely observed.

“I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, did I, Dr. McColton?”

“No, Adam, nothing at all. I just wanted to see for myself how the paper was delivered. Mr. Dunleigh always took it in the three years since I’ve been living here.”

“Yes, sir. Good day, sir. Ma’am.”

Jack took it, retrieved the one from Saturday afternoon that Mr. Dunleigh had handled, brought both papers into the kitchen and scrutinized every page, side by side.

“Something’s here,” he said. “A message of some sort, staring me right in the face. You know when you’re trying to search for a word in your head? It’s the perfect word for what you want to say. You know it’s there in the back of your brain, but you just can’t think of it? That’s how I feel when I hold this paper. Something’s here, just beyond my reach, if I could only see it.”

Jack pored over the pages for the umpteenth time, while Cassandra sipped her coffee and peered over his shoulder.

“Let’s see,” he mumbled to himself, “there’s an ad for the livestock auction, vineyard wines, guns and holsters.... What am I missing?”

Cassandra pointed to an interview the paper had done with Sheriff Leggett about a recent bout of thefts on trains coming in from San Francisco. “Could there be something here? The article mentions one of the Beacon ranch hands getting his pockets picked two weeks ago when he traveled to San Francisco.”

“Two weeks ago,” Jack muttered. “I don’t see the connection....” He flipped the pages and came to an advertisement for California Jewelers, the shop Thornley and Miss Beacon had had their argument in front of. “Sometimes the correct answer is the one staring you right in the face. Were they arguing over a piece of jewelry? A necklace? A wedding band?”

“Could’ve been anything, Jack. Maybe it had nothing to do with jewelry.”

“Did he want to buy her a wedding band and she said no? Or maybe she wanted the wedding band and he said no?”

Jack was beginning to look haggard. His eyes were rimmed in dark circles, and Cassandra was concerned about where this obsession of his was going to end.

He tapped his finger on his chin as he thought some more. “And these tea stains here on the paper... I know he didn’t get a chance to read it, so where did the stains come from? Dunleigh took his tea with honey, but Mrs. Dunleigh always drinks hers black. Do these tea stains have milk in them or not? If Dunleigh was poisoned, maybe it happened at lunch, just before he got the paper. Maybe his tea was poisoned.” Jack sprang out of his chair and headed down the hall.

“Let me guess.” Cassandra followed him to the Dunleighs’ wing. “You’re going to get their tea caddy.”

“Blazes, you’re sharp.”

“You’re going to find their tea leaves and their jar of honey. Maybe even their milk pitcher.”

“That’s right. I’ll take the items and these newspapers to Dr. Clarkson, to explain my theory. He can test them all for traces of poison.”

“God, I hope he doesn’t find anything.” She offered a suggestion, hoping to relieve some of the strain and worry he was under. “Jack, let’s go out riding today. You promised you’d let me ride River.”

“All right, I’ll be only a moment.”

He collected the specimens, put them in a pillowcase with a note to Dr. Clarkson, and handed them to Mr. Crawford to deliver. Cassandra quickly changed into her riding clothes, and was heading to the stables with Jack when one of Woodrow’s hands came galloping up.

“The horses took a turn for the worst,” he panted. “Come quick, Doc.”

Jack turned to her apologetically, but he didn’t need to apologize for sick animals.

“Make them well, Jack,” she told him. “I’ll prepare us a private dinner.”

But she didn’t think he heard her. He was already turned away and asking more questions of the messenger.

Well, she thought, walking back into the empty house yet again, at least no new animals had fallen sick this week. That was a blessing. Only Finley’s and Woodrow’s from last week remained ill. If someone had indeed fed the animals something unsavory, that person was lying low.

Maybe none of the illnesses had been orchestrated. There were always sick animals cropping up, and who could tell if Finley’s and Woodrow’s were simply a coincidence? None of Jack’s animals were affected, thank goodness, and if Thornley had wanted to retaliate against Jack, wouldn’t he start with them?

And as far as poisoning Mr. Dunleigh...

Cassandra shuddered at how her mind had twisted to the point that she was trying to think like a supposed killer.

Mr. Crawford soon came galloping back up the laneway, returning from his delivery to Dr. Clarkson, ready to guard her again.

She prepared dinner—medium rare steak with red sauvignon—but Jack didn’t return home. He sent word that he had to tend to the stallion with the hairline fracture and might be all night.

She went to bed without her husband. It was the same the following night. Sighing, she turned to the wall and watched the play of cold shadows from the curtains ripple along the beams.

Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, with the accompanying celebrations. She didn’t know if Jack would have time to take her. She didn’t know if he truly even cared. She wondered what her friends in Chicago were doing, and longed to see a friendly face. She realized with a painful thud of her heart that instead of growing closer to each other, she and Jack were pulling away.

Chapter Eighteen

I
t was finally Friday.

When Cassandra came down for breakfast, Jack had left another hasty note saying that he’d be back for four o’clock, if she could please be dressed and ready for the Independence Day celebrations.

She was relieved that he still planned on escorting her.

Then she reprimanded herself for being selfish. She hoped the animals he was caring for pulled through with healthy vigor, that Jack didn’t work himself too hard, and that all their worries about possible poisonings and murder would prove baseless.

There wasn’t anything more she could think of doing to investigate the possible crimes; no other witnesses to talk to, no further evidence to collect. They had to sit tight and wait for Dr. Clarkson’s results on the testing.

She hadn’t spoken to anyone at length for days, and couldn’t seem to stifle her lonely feelings of how large and expansive this house was, and how solitary it all seemed.

She had hours to prepare, and did so at her leisure. In the privacy of their bathing room, she filled the tub. She dropped in a few beads of scented oil that she’d bought at Lucille’s shop, stepped into the heated water to soak, and savored the fragrance and the silky feeling.

When she was finished scrubbing her skin with an oatmeal paste, she washed her hair and wrapped it in a towel. She tidied the room, then called to Mr. Crawford through the door, asking him to kindly seek help from the ranch hands to drain the water.

She climbed the private stairwell up to her bedroom and took her time deciding how she’d wear her hair tonight. She selected her jewelry—not that she had many pieces—and laid out her new dress.

Lord, was she actually going to wear it? Why had she let Lucille convince her to buy something so revealing and unlike anything she’d ever worn before?

Cassandra looked to the clock on her dresser. It was half past three and Jack would be home soon. In fact, she heard the soft thud of the front door opening and closing below, the exchange of mumbled words between Jack and Mr. Crawford, then Jack’s boots on the tiled floor as he stepped into the bathing room to wash up.

Her nerves fluttered as if she were preparing for her first courtship with a boy.

Jack was her husband now. For heaven’s sake, they shared a bed. Why was she so nervous?

* * *

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Jack peered into the wall mirror in the bathing room and combed his wet hair. Droplets of water fell onto his bare shoulders. He was late, he knew, and rushed up the private stairs to the bedroom so he could dress. Cassandra was likely already waiting for him in the parlor.

When his bare feet hit the plush Persian carpet on the upstairs landing of their dressing room, he swiveled, ripped the towel off his hips, hurled it to the wooden counter, then rifled through the hanging shirts to choose one. He shouldn’t have left his choices till the end like this, but he’d been so damn busy running to various ranches and vineyards that he was lucky to be going with Cassandra
anywhere
.

He grabbed his newest white shirt and a black suede vest, and strode naked into the bedroom, to toss them onto the bed. Except when he crossed through the doorway, he found he wasn’t alone.

Startled by the sound of clothes hitting the mattress, Cassandra swiveled around from the full-length mirror by the window.

Hot damn.

She was fully dressed, and he was buck naked.

A provocative gown in the same gorgeous color as her light golden hair shimmered over the curves of her body. It was almost strapless; slender sleeve cuffs slid off her glistening bare shoulders to midarm. The neckline swooped low between her plump breasts, and the corset beneath seemed to push up her cleavage in a stunning silhouette. A red velvet ribbon trimmed the upper edges of the golden fabric, the ruby color enhancing the pink hue of her cheeks and lips, and doing something amazing to her skin tone. A string of warm white pearls graced her throat.

She’d left her hair down, the way he adored it, but had used a sparkling blue barrette to clasp one side over her ear, matching the blue of her eyes and framing her beautiful face to perfection. Her golden eyebrows arched at the sight of him, her shapely lips turned upward.

His pulse kicked and he swallowed hard at the vision in front of him.

He nodded in pleasure. “I like.”

Her eyelashes flickered. They were glossy and darker than usual. Had she added some sort of polish to them?

He sensed a standoffishness, an invisible barrier between the two of them. Dammit, it was still there. When would that protective shell of hers crumble?

“Sorry about the time,” he said. “I know I’m late, and I apologize.”

Her gaze dropped over his body, raking him from top to bottom, then back up again. Lord, he’d never felt so exposed in front of a female.

Her gaze came back to meet his. “Apology accepted.”

Was this how women felt when men raked them over? Jack felt like a bull at an auction, waiting for his number to be called, but hell, he wasn’t complaining. In fact, she might have noticed he was aroused. He stepped forward to kiss her, but stopped when he suddenly heard a knock at the front door.

He muttered in frustration. “That’ll be Crawford and Giller. I asked them to come with us.”

Cassandra scooped up her white lace shawl from one of the upholstered chairs. “I’ll let them in.”

“Check to see it’s them before you open the door,” he said, exasperated that the sexual moment between them, and his opportunity, had been thwarted.

* * *

Cassandra was looking forward to an evening out.

They took the smaller, two-seater buggy. She sat alongside Jack, while two of his men, with holstered guns, rode on either side. One of them was Mr. Crawford, the other a younger, clean-shaven man called Mr. Giller.

Jack, too, wore holsters. He’d taken to wearing guns lately, so she was growing accustomed to seeing him with the weapons at his hips. Surely some other men in town would likely be wearing theirs tonight, too, although she had a feeling Jack wouldn’t care what anyone said or thought about his.

“They’re necessary,” he’d told her when she’d watched him slip them on. She, too, had her derringer in her drawstring purse, and prayed she would never need it.

He’d tossed his medical bag into the rear of the buggy as he always did. He was tall and impressive in his sleek white shirt beside her, while she squirmed at the thought of his nakedness earlier. He’d looked like a caveman to her, primitive and lustful and so clearly wanting to snatch her and have his way with her on the spot. He likely would have, if it hadn’t been for that blasted knock on the door.

They got into town on the late side of five and stopped in first to check on Mrs. Dunleigh.

Cassandra pulled her lacy shawl over her shoulders and hid her dress from view as much as she could. It didn’t seem appropriate to be so exposed here.

She was pleased to see the familiar faces of Mrs. Dunleigh’s family, including Julia and Ronald, and that the kind woman herself appeared in good health. None of them would be attending the Independence Day celebrations, since they were all in mourning.

In a sign of respect, Cassandra and Jack wouldn’t be dancing tonight, either. As Mr. Dunleigh’s former employer and the head of the household where the man had lived, Jack had consulted with Cassandra, and both had decided it wouldn’t be appropriate to be too festive.

It was after six when Jack parked the buggy by the water troughs set up for the animals. He tipped one of the boys hired to take care of them this evening while everyone else celebrated.

“Thanks, mister,” said the black-haired lad. “Awful generous of you.”

Mr. Crawford and Mr. Giller dismounted and discreetly followed Jack and Cassandra.

She loosened the shawl about her shoulders and it dipped along her arms. Her drawstring purse dangled off her wrist, a bit heavy.

A boisterous crowd was milling about the lawn of the community center. On a stage beside the white clapboard building that served not only as the entertainment center for the town, but also the courthouse and town hall, a band was playing.

Lively music filled the air from accordions, fiddles, guitars and banjos.

“How is your work progressing?” Cassandra asked as Jack motioned toward the crowd, and the barbecue pit where men were roasting a steer. Jack’s gaze wandered down her throat to her pearls, then farther.

“Finley’s cattle finally seem to be all clear of whatever was ailing them.”

“Thank goodness. And Woodrow’s horses? They were the sickest.”

“On the mend, but not completely healed. And as for that stallion with the hairline fracture, it’s still up in the air whether he’ll have to be put down or not. The skin closed nicely, but we’ll have to wait and see if there is indeed a break in the bone, and if he can bear any weight.”

“If you need to go, Jack, at any time, please let me know. I’d much rather we left early and you tended to the stallion if necessary.”

“I don’t think there’ll be any need. I left someone else in charge tonight.”

Cassandra didn’t want to ask, but it came out anyway. “Was Miss Beacon helping you?”

Jack jerked in her direction, as if surprised by the question. He shook his head, so handsome in his white shirt and black suede vest.

She wished that they could somehow overcome this rift between them, but every time they got closer, Elise Beacon’s name came up.

“No, she wasn’t there.”

Cassandra breathed out a sigh of relief. However, it came a bit too soon, for as they approached the crowd, and the admiring glances of some men sweeping over her and her dress, she looked straight over at the profile of Derik Thornley.

Cassandra almost let out an audible gasp.

Where had the man come from? He slid into view out of nowhere. He was holding a whiskey and standing beside Miss Beacon, who was drinking wine, both apparently in good spirits.

So they hadn’t broken off their courtship.

Thornley turned and glared in Jack’s direction; the cold, menacing look made Cassandra shudder. Miss Beacon glanced at her then hastily looked away. She was coifed and polished and downright stunning in a green satin gown. Her brunette hair was pulled back in tiny braids knotted at the nape of her neck.

“Don’t make a stir,” Jack whispered to Cassandra. He raised an arm and cupped her shoulder blade, the warmth of his palm reassuring on her skin as he guided her in another direction. “We’ll avoid them.”

Cassandra noticed a slender red-haired woman up ahead. It was Lucille, chatting with Hugh.

The seamstress turned and smiled when she saw them. She wore a stunning brown dress that hugged her bosom and flared out at her hips. “Lovely to see you again, Cassandra. We were looking for you two.”

“We only just got here.”

“Good to see you,” said Hugh.

Jack nodded to Lucille. “I’m much obliged to you for my wife’s pretty dress.”

Cassandra flushed, and the other woman’s eyes twinkled.

“We’re both lucky tonight,” Hugh said to Jack, glancing with appreciation at Lucille.

“You look wonderful,” Cassandra told her.

Hugh discreetly leaned toward Jack and whispered, loud enough for Cassandra to hear, “Nothing new to report on that person.” She knew he meant Derik Thornley. His telegrams to Wyoming Territory inquiring about Thornley’s past had either gone unanswered thus far, or been answered in the negative.

“Are you two ready for a drink?” Lucille held up her glass, half filled with white wine.

“I’d love some wine,” Cassandra agreed. “What do you recommend?”

“I’ll get us something. Do you trust my taste?” Jack teased.

“I imagine you might know something about grapes and bouquets,” Cassandra replied in good humor.

The next three hours went remarkably quickly. The two couples sat down at one of the picnic tables for dinner, she and Jack on one side—a fair distance apart, to her disappointment—with Hugh and Lucille on the other.

They enjoyed a rambunctious discussion on the prettiest seaside resorts to visit along the California coast.

Every so often, another townsperson would walk by, say hello to Jack and join in the discussion about the health of their animals and the state of the weather.

Cassandra was almost able to ignore Thornley and Miss Beacon altogether, except when they occasionally came into view, dancing the waltz with the rest of the crowd, or laughing together at some remark he’d whispered in her ear. They were both drinking an awful lot, Cassandra noticed, for neither seemed to be without a filled glass.

Jack only had one drink with dinner, for he said he wished to remain clearheaded in case he was called for the stallion later. And that he had to rise clearheaded in the morning to check on all his animals. He encouraged Cassandra to have another, but she insisted on drinking nonalcoholic punch along with him.

They were almost a normal couple, she thought. If only she didn’t wish to be a detective, and if only he would compromise.

Throughout all of it, she was ever so conscious that she was being watched. Most of the time when she’d glance around, she saw no eyes upon her. Thornley and Miss Beacon were always caught up in each other’s attention. To any other observer, it would appear they weren’t even aware Cassandra and Jack were present.

Cassandra, though, was skeptical.

Once in a while, she’d catch the eye of Mr. Crawford or Mr. Giller eating a cob of corn or glancing in her and Jack’s direction from over someone’s shoulder. Maybe that’s why she felt she was being watched. Because she was—by the two bodyguards.

Close to eleven, long after the sun had gone down and the lanterns were lit, the fireworks started.

Cassandra leaned back and arched her neck, gazing up in wonder at the blackness that suddenly burst with a sunflower of crackling lights.

“Jack. There you are!” Sheriff Leggett tapped him on the shoulder. “Can I speak to you in private, please?”

Taking their punch glasses with them, Jack and Cassandra excused themselves from Hugh and Lucille and found a quiet corner beyond the crowds.