Liz Ireland (22 page)

Clara nodded curtly. “That’s what happens when you push your dinner around your plate instead of eating it.”

True, Cecilia hadn’t had much of an appetite lately. Everything, even food, was a distraction from the activity she was most interested in—brooding.

“I know a secret,” Dolly said, looking furtively at Cecilia, then winking a Clara.

Cecilia leaned forward in her chair, her stomach turning with dread. Could Dolly possibly have figured it out—or worse, did everyone know? Maybe they could tell just by looking at her. Clara had always said you could tell fancy women by the way they walked—did that go for her now, too? Beads of sweat popped out on her brow and she automatically reached for the plate of cookies that was no longer there.

“What do you know?” she asked.

“Cecilia’s in love,” Dolly announced to Clara.

Cecilia let the word sink in, then sank back in her chair with relief.

“With who?” Clara asked, her eagle eyes examining Cecilia for signs. “That teacher fellow?”

“Mr. Pendergast.”

“I am not in love with Eugene Pendergast.” That, at least, was one thing she could be sure of.

“She used to hate him,” Dolly said. “But he’s been smitten with her since he first came to town. I could tell right away they were bound to be a couple. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her.”

“He was just nervous because he knew I could see through him.”

“Oh, Cecilia,” Dolly chided, “are you still plucking on that same old string?”

“It’s true!”

“Love and hate,” Clara said, the very idea sending her into another bout of tongue clucking, “they’re just different sides of the same wooden nickel. The coin is still worthless.”

“I don’t even care if I never see him again.” Which was a distinct possibility. Sure, he’d promised to see her tomorrow, but how could she take the word of a man who wouldn’t even tell her what he did for a living?

Dolly and Clara shook their heads, bestowing looks of loving pity on her. “How many times did I say that about my poor dear Buck?” Dolly asked wistfully. “And now look at me.”

She smiled a blushing, new-bride smile, as if she had achieved the woman’s dream.

A knock sounded at the door just before Silas Summertree’s head peeked into the room. “Well,” he said, beaming paternally, “don’t you look beautiful!”

Dolly preened with delight. “Thank you. I hope Buck thinks so.”

Cecilia let out an impatient sigh.

“What’s the matter, Cecilia,” her father joked, “are you jealous of your friend?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she exclaimed, almost at the end of her rope.

“I’ll bet Cecilia’s beau proposes any day now,” Dolly assured the father.

Cecilia bit her tongue. If these people knew the truth—what kind of man Jake Reed was and how he had treated her—they would be apoplectic.

“So the schoolteacher is the one who’s finally captured my little girl’s heart!” he exclaimed, his voice booming.

Cecilia cringed. “We know nothing about him!”

Silas chuckled. “Nothing except he’s brought a bloom to your cheeks.”

Was the man insane? She’d been bleary-eyed and pale from sleeplessness for days! And since she’d come back, she was cross and weepy by turns. The only thing she did with gusto was work, because it helped to have something to focus on to pass away the miserable days.

And since when did her father care about blooming cheeks? “I thought you cared more about his income than whether I was blooming or not.”

His smile faded without disappearing completely. “What did I do to raise such a pretty little cynic?” he asked. “Of course I care about his situation, but he seems a fine upstanding fellow.”

“A hero,” Dolly chimed.

Cecilia frowned. “I bet we never see him again.”

The three faces stared at her in astonishment. Too late, she realized her slip of the tongue.

“Why not?” Silas asked. “He’s still the schoolteacher, isn’t he?”

“Didn’t he say he would come to my wedding?” Dolly demanded, appalled by the possibility that someone might not attend.

“Well, of course he
said
he would come.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed on her. “Did you have a lovers’ quarrel?”

“We are not lovers!” she squealed.

The three of them laughed. “He’ll be here,” Dolly said. “I’ll bet coming to my wedding puts ideas into his head.”

“Perhaps we’ll hear wedding bells twice before the year is out,” her father conjectured happily. “As long as you don’t smash another cake in his face.”

* * *

“Pendergast? Never heard of him.”

Rosalyn sighed heavily as the man across from her hid himself once again behind his newspaper. She was just outside Abilene, her last stop, and no one on her whole journey had heard of either Eugene or Jake Reed by name. Surprisingly, a few people had mentioned hearing of Annsboro’s schoolteacher—but the heroic deed they described in connection with this man hardly seemed something her brother would be capable of. Not that he wasn’t brave, but Eugene had never owned a gun. She doubted that he could have saved a wagonload of women single-handedly!

Which left her with only one certainty. Something very strange was going on in that little town.

It seemed she would just have to wait until Annsboro to find out for herself all the answers to the questions Watkins’s letter had created in her mind. Was Eugene truly very ill—and “much changed,” as Watkins had described? Or, more likely, was someone pretending to be Eugene? If so, she was almost certain that someone was Jake Reed.

She leaned back against her seat and looked out the window at the ocean of yellow grassland unfurling in all directions. How did people live out here, especially ladies? She’d had some trouble relating to the rough-hewn people she had met thus far on her journey, though she held quite a bit of admiration for anyone who could survive in such an odd, rugged country.

Rosalyn smiled. Even though she couldn’t imagine what she would possibly do here, she couldn’t help liking the place. She wondered if Eugene had liked it, too...or if perhaps he still did.

That puzzling question brought her thoughts back into line. She needed to start devising a plan. Once she arrived in Annsboro, should she attempt to furtively examine the town for signs of her brother, or should she announce right away who she was? From what she’d learned, the town sounded so small that it shouldn’t prove too difficult to get to the bottom of the situation. Sometime this day, she would have her answers.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Startled, Rosalyn looked up to see a man wearing rough denim pants, a faded blue work shirt and a black hat gripping her seat to steady himself against the rhythmic pitching of the train. She looked questioningly into his sky blue eyes and noticed that the workman—or was this a cowboy?—had a very strong, distinctive face.

“I couldn’t help hearin’ what you was asking that man across from you.”

“Yes?” Rosalyn’s heartbeat sped up considerably.

“I think I might be able to help you,” he said.

In a moment, Rosalyn had flattened herself against the window to make room for the man. She patted the seat and he nodded, very politely, and sat down next to her. His long legs filled up the space between the facing seats. Really, he was very handsome—although Rosalyn, from her years of training in Aunt Patrice’s parlor, couldn’t keep her eyes from darting up at that black hat he still wore.

He noticed her glances and, ducking his head in embarrassment, mumbled, “‘Scuse me, ma’am,” and removed the offending hat.

Rosalyn swallowed a gasp. A jagged red scar slashed the man’s temple, a recent wound, still swollen and grotesque to the eye. It appeared even angrier, perhaps, because in contrast the man’s hair was so fair—so blond as to almost look white.

His cheeks reddened, and Rosalyn felt a bit ashamed of herself for staring so baldly—and for being such a stickler for convention in the first place. Eager to get to the subject that most concerned her, she said, “My name is Rosalyn Pendergast. Might you have heard of my brother, Eugene?”

His eyes registered confusion. “No...I’m afraid I’ve never heard of your brother, Miss Pendergast.”

Rosalyn’s chest suddenly deflated, and she realized she had been holding her breath.

“It’s that other name you mentioned,” the white-haired man continued. His startling blue eyes narrowed, and his voice took on a harsher tone. “Jake Reed. I heard of him often enough.”

Finally! “Do you know if Mr. Reed lives in Annsboro?”

“Not the last I heard.” His mouth set in a grim line again. “Why do you say that?”

Rosalyn searched through her beaded velvet satchel for Jake Reed’s letter. She pulled it out and held it up for the man to see. “I have received correspondence from Mr. Reed saying that my brother, who was to be the teacher in Annsboro, died in a barroom fight in a town called Guthrie before ever reaching his destination.”

The man’s expression froze. “Is that so?”

Rosalyn nodded curtly. “Then, weeks later, I received a letter stating that my brother was teaching in Annsboro, but was ill and looked quite different than he used to.”

The blue eyes shifted anxiously, and for the first time Rosalyn took note of their cold, icy appearance. This man was harder than he’d first appeared. He reached for the letter, but some gut reaction made Rosalyn hold it back. She stuffed the letter back into her satchel and snatched it closed.

“I intend to have words with whomever is masquerading as my brother,” she said bitterly.

“Me, too,” the white-haired man said, though his voice was almost inaudible. His eyes narrowed to slits.

Rosalyn shuddered at the man’s cold gaze. Jake Reed must have done something very bad to be on the receiving end of so much hostility. But this stranger’s appearance might have solved one of her problems, at least.

“If you’re looking for him, too, then perhaps we should go together to Annsboro!”

Abruptly the man rose to his feet. “Sorry,” he said quickly.

“I’ve been told it’s difficult to hire transportation,” she explained, hoping to change his mind. It would be so much easier to have a man along.

Without another word, he shoved his hat onto his head and strode toward the adjoining car. Rosalyn twisted in her seat but refrained from calling after him. That wouldn’t be very ladylike. She hadn’t even asked his name, either.

Besides, she had a gut feeling that she would see the white-haired man again.

F
iddling with the ribbons hanging off her floppy-brimmed hat, Cecilia leaned against the front gate of the Summertree ranch and squinted anxiously down the road to town.

Where was Jake Reed? Most of the other guests for Dolly’s wedding had arrived...except for him. Where was he?

Her father, Clara, Dolly and practically every guest who had come through these gates in the past hour—practically all of Annsboro—thought she was out here ostensibly greeting wedding guests so she could have a private tête-à-tête with Pendergast when he came riding up.

If
he ever did come riding up, something Cecilia was beginning to think wouldn’t happen. Was her worst fear about to be realized? It was nearly two o’clock!

A breeze gently whipped at the ruffles and flounces on her blue organza dress, a frothy creation that was perfect for a wedding. It was one of her older gowns, made for when she had first started being able to go to parties when she visited Memphis, or the few that took place around here. It wasn’t to her taste now, but at least in such a girlish getup no one would be able to guess that she was actually a woman of rapidly dwindling honor.

A rickety wagon coming down the rutted road made her lift her eyes to the horizon. It wasn’t Reed. Cecilia couldn’t imagine who else had decided to show up; she crossed her arms against the chill in the air and watched the wagon’s slow approach. When she noticed that it was a strange woman holding the reins of the scrawny pinto drawing the buckboard she walked forward to greet the vehicle, curious.

The closer the wagon came, the clearer it became to Cecilia that this woman did not belong to the dilapidated vehicle she commanded; her appearance was too refined, and her traveling suit, though travel-worn and dusty, was obviously of very high quality. The high neck of her black raw-silk dress was edged in lace, as were the cuffs of her sleeves, and the accompanying feathered hat perched on her head was simple but jaunty—though not particularly useful for blocking out the Texas afternoon sun.

Cecilia shook her head at the thought of an unexpected guest. She and Clara would have to ready another room, and given the fact that there was going to be a wedding in five minutes, when would they have time for that?

The woman sawed awkwardly at the pinto’s reins. “Stop,” she admonished the poor beast, then added a shaky, “wh-whoa, whoa, girl.”

“Boy,” Cecilia corrected her. She grabbed the bridle and steadied the horse. At close range, she noted the woman’s hair, which had obviously been very neatly coiled and piled atop her perfectly shaped head at some point in the day, was coming unraveled and poking out from under her hat in untidy wisps.

The woman’s high forehead squinched into vertical lines against the bright sun. “I beg your pardon, but is this the Summertree ranch?”

“You’re just in time,” Cecilia interrupted. “The wedding is going to start soon.”

The woman shaded her eyes so she could see better. She and Cecilia took a moment to study one another, and Cecilia found herself straightening her shoulders self-consciously, much like she had when the headmistress of her New Orleans school had caught her slumping in her chair, or committing some similar atrocity against civilized behavior. Whoever this woman was—the even tones of her voice suggested she was not a Southerner—she was most certainly a lady.

Puzzlement showed in the visitor’s travel-bleary eyes. “A wedding?”

Cecilia hesitated. “Yes, Dolly’s wedding...you do know Dolly, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid this is most awkward—but then, my entire trip has been rather odd,” she added. “I had heard Annsboro was a small town, but I never expected to find it completely empty.”

“That’s because of the wedding,” Cecilia explained. “Everyone’s here at the ranch.”

“Yes, the man in town said they would be.”

Instantly alert, Cecilia let go of the pinto’s reins. “Man? In town? Was it Pendergast?” she asked eagerly, stepping halfway up on the wagon.

The stranger’s eyes widened in surprise. “Eugene?”

It
had
to have been Pendergast—
Reed,
Cecilia corrected herself quickly. But where was he? Why hadn’t he followed this woman?

When finally the woman’s question registered in her brain, she turned to her in shock. “Do you mean to say that you came here searching for Eugene Pendergast?” The real Eugene Pendergast, she reminded herself. She had almost forgotten that person existed.

“No—I mean yes.” The woman shook her head in what Cecilia could only guess was acute confusion, then pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed gently at the tears that sprang to her eyes. “I’ve come to find out what happened to him.”

Cecilia’s swallow was an audible gulp. “Are you a relation?”

“My name is Rosalyn Pendergast,” the woman said, her mouth smiling reflexively at the introduction, “his sister. I’ve come all the way from Philadelphia to find out what has become of him. Do you know him?”

Cecilia’s stomach flip-flopped. This was Rosalyn, the woman whose letters she had read time and again, searching for clues to Pendergast’s identity. And now Rosalyn herself was searching for clues.

An ominous fear suddenly gripped her. To clarify, she asked, “This man in town, was he tall, with dark brown hair and eyes?”

Rosalyn looked perplexed that the subject should so abruptly revert to the man who had given her directions. “Yes, very dark,” she answered.

“And you didn’t recognize him?” Cecilia probed.

Rosalyn shook her head. “No, but he was very kind. He said my brother wasn’t there, but when I asked about another man named Jake Reed, he recognized the name and said I might find him here, at this ranch.”

Only one man would recognize that name besides herself. Reed! “Why are you looking for Jake Reed?”

“Because he’s a villain, a liar! Look at this!” The woman reached into a velvet bag, whipped out a letter and began waving it frantically inches away from Cecilia’s nose.

“May I read it?” Cecilia asked, taking the letter.

At once, the handwriting startled Cecilia. The memory of the words
Mr. Pendergast
written across a blackboard went through her mind. As she rushed over the letter’s contents, a horrible possibility chilled her. Had Reed actually murdered Rosalyn Pendergast’s brother—the
real
Pendergast—before coming to Annsboro? He had probably written the letter in Annsboro, from Dolly’s boardinghouse, where he was pretending to be Pendergast, fooling the lot of them, making her fall in love with him.

Love? Had she truly fallen in love with a cold-blooded killer? More to the point, could a man who had made love to her so tenderly actually be a murderer?

Cecilia felt sick. The suspicion had flitted through her mind once before, Friday night, but she had dismissed it quickly. Reed had assured her that he wasn’t a murderer—and she, like a little idiot, had taken him at his word! Her silly girlish fantasies about a desperado now took on a darker, more deadly cast.

So, she had been right from the beginning. Her big mistake was only in thinking he was harmless for so long. Not until he had come back, hailed as a hero, had she suspected that he might be involved in something sinister. Foolishly, she had believed his profession of innocence, and allowed him to seduce her to get her out of the way.

The clearer his terrible betrayal became, the angrier she felt. And the more determined to let Jake Reed know that he couldn’t get away with this. “Where is he?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The man from town.”

“He was about to ride out when I left. But after we talked, he didn’t follow me.”

Small wonder. But why had Reed sent Rosalyn to the ranch—and where had he gone?

“I need to find the sheriff,” Rosalyn said. “Is he here?”

“We don’t have a sheriff,” Cecilia informed her. For some reason, the idea of the law chasing Reed made her anxious.

Rosalyn’s brow furrowed once again, this time with worry. “Then...there must be someone who will help me.”

Cecilia thought fast. If a party was sent out after Reed now, there was no telling what the result would be. Rosalyn had some damning evidence against him, yet Cecilia still held out a hope in her heart—albeit it a slim, unraveling one—that her suspicions and the evidence were wrong. At any rate, she had to confront Reed herself to find out, and she needed to do it alone.

She would have to go after him, but first she needed to get rid of Rosalyn.

“I’ll help you,” Cecilia said quickly, giving the letter back. “We’d better go inside. I’m sure you need to rest, and to get something to drink.”

Rosalyn’s expression was one of sheer gratitude. “Yes, water.”

The woman would need something stiffer than water by the time this situation was sorted out, Cecilia thought, leaping upon the buckboard to drive the pinto up the short path to the house herself. Her mind worked swiftly. One thing was certain. She didn’t have time for a wedding.

She brought the horse around the back, then led Rosalyn up the small back stairway, pausing only to dart into the kitchen and pour a glass of water from the pitchers Clara had prepared. Furtively, they went up the back stairs.

Inside her bedroom, Cecilia said, “You’re welcome to take a nap here, and I’ll fetch you down after the ceremony’s over. Then we’ll be able to find someone to help us.” The woman looked in dire need of that.

Rosalyn yawned daintily. “You’re so kind, but I’ll need to get back to Annsboro. There are so many things I still don’t understand. Maybe if I saw the schoolhouse...”

Cecilia fluffed the coverlet, hoping her guest would take the hint and fall asleep. “We’ll get this all sorted out, Miss Pendergast, you’ll see,” she said soothingly, and felt rewarded the moment Rosalyn’s head hit the pillow.

Gathering her full skirts, she dashed down the hall. She threw open the door to the guest room and was greeted by a near-frantic Dolly, who was standing before a mirror in full wedding regalia, with Clara furiously buzzing around her.

“Is everyone waiting?” Dolly cried in alarm. “I thought I heard music!”

“No,” Cecilia said. Dolly looked as if she was ready to run out the minute she heard the first piano strains, no matter whether she was dressed or not.

“Hold on,” Clara admonished, trying to pin a tulle veil to the bride’s head. “They can’t have the wedding without you.”

Dolly giggled. “I’m a bit nervous.”

Cecilia ran over and gave her friend a brief but heartfelt hug. “Oh, Dolly, you’re so beautiful. I just know you’re going to be so happy.”

“I hope so!” Dolly cried, but was kept from returning the embrace when Clara sank a hat pin into her scalp. “Ouch!”

“That ought to do it,” the housekeeper said. “Should I tell them you’re ready?”

Dolly gave her a wincing nod.

Cecilia would miss seeing two such good friends get married, but she didn’t have a moment to spare. Even now it was a gamble as to whether she could catch up with Reed—she could only guess that he was heading south, toward Fredericksburg again.

The first strains of a wedding march were heard playing on Charlie’s fiddle below, and Cecilia escorted Dolly out to the staircase. “Good luck,” she said, watching until her friend had disappeared down the stairs.

She ducked farther down the hall. At her father’s door she walked in and scanned the sparsely furnished bedroom until she saw Silas’s trusted Spencer rifle propped against the bed stand and snatched it up.

She quickly dodged down the little stairwell and hit the back door running. The barn was in back of the house, requiring only a furtive sprint, and as she neared, she discovered a gold mine. It looked as though every horse in the county was assembled there; their number spilled out into the barnyard in various stages of harnessing. Cecilia picked out Jim’s bay gelding, which, blessedly, was saddled. She tightened the girth, adjusted the stirrups to accommodate her shorter legs and hoisted herself up. Before she could think twice about such a rash action, she was galloping hell-for-leather for open pasture, due south.

* * *

He was making good time. The old black hack he had procured possessed more spunk than Jake would have expected. It was a lucky thing he’d found the animal as quickly as he did; he hadn’t expected to make this journey for at least another day yet.

But that was before the woman he had least wanted—or expected—to see had driven into town, waylaying him on the way out to Cecilia’s.

And the moment Rosalyn Pendergast had mentioned speaking to a certain white-haired man, he’d known the die was cast. He couldn’t wait around a moment longer. Coming face-to-face with Pendergast’s sister had been startling in itself. Knowing Gunter was on his way to Annsboro chilled his blood.

Jake stood up in his stirrups and turned, scoping out the area around him. His visual search revealed nothing suspicious, just sloping grassy pastures dotted with low live oak trees and bushes.

He faced forward again with a sigh of regret. It hadn’t been easy to leave Annsboro, even knowing that Gunter was somewhere nearby. The thought of perhaps never seeing Cecilia again was almost unbearable. He’d almost given the Pendergast woman a message to deliver to Cecilia, but decided that would be a fruitless act. So he had put the idea out of his head, sent Rosalyn on to the Summertree ranch to get her out of harm’s way, then had wasted little time coming to the conclusion that he had no choice but to move on.

Damn. He wondered whether Gunter had recognized him that day on the road to Fredericksburg. Probably, and he’d probably been hunting him down ever since. But that didn’t explain why Gunter had been out robbing rickety wagons when he could have been sitting in cotton with his rich father-in-law a day’s ride away.

The only thing that made sense to Jake was that the sooner he took care of Darby and Gunter for good, the sooner he could go back to straighten out the mess he was leaving behind in Annsboro. More specifically, the sooner he could return to Cecilia. He hoped he got that chance.

From somewhere behind him, a shot cracked through the silence. Jake spurred his horse toward a bush that would provide scant cover at best. His heart was beating as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings, and he held his breath, straining his ears for some clue as to what could be happening as he looked once more over the terrain. He didn’t see anybody.