Behind His Blue Eyes (23 page)

Shaking his head, Tilly opened the door. “Said he wanted to give it to you in person. Probably wants a reward. I better go. I don't want to get into trouble, too.”

Audra waved him along, then pulled from her pocket the tablet and pencil and set to work on the article about the church social. Hopefully, she would have it written by the time Bonet returned. One less thing for him to fuss at her about. As for the article that she supposedly wrote when interviewing Ethan, she would simply tell him she hadn't finished transcribing her notes, and didn't want to show it to him until it was complete.

If she was still employed.

* * *

A man sat slumped on a bench outside the Western Union office, idly digging dried blood from under his nails with a hunting knife. He wore stained trousers with patches at the knees, a tattered jacket, and a slouch hat with so many holes in it the late morning sunlight left a spotty pattern across his bearded face.

Movement drew his head up.

The fellow he'd talked to earlier came out of the building across the street. Bowed under the weight of the big wooden box camera and tripod he carried over his shoulder, he hurried down the boardwalk to where people stood around a sheep-herder's wagon parked outside the hotel.

Turning his head, the man checked the other direction, but the street was deserted. Seemed everyone who had been at the inquiry earlier was now either at the Red Eye or outside the hotel.

Which meant she was alone.

He straightened on the bench. Squinting, he tried to see through the window of the building the photographer had left, but the fancy writing on the glass made it hard. He slowly and carefully sounded out the newly painted letters.
Heartbreak Creek Herald.
He didn't know why they bothered with a newspaper. Half the people in town couldn't even read.

But she could. A woman. Reading. Made no sense to him. Yet there she sat, a shadowy form in the dim office, writing at her desk. Busy, busy.

He'd been watching her a lot lately. Busy as a little bee, she was.

He thought he had run her off when he'd burned the cabin she'd moved into near his diggings. But now she was stepping out with the railroader—his next target. Maybe he should take her instead. It was too soon to kill her, but if he took her now, he could keep her awhile, have some fun before it was time. He could always do the railroader later.

He sat back, whistling through the gaps in his teeth and thinking about her in there. All alone. Ripe for the taking.

Buffalo gals won't you come out tonight . . .

He had never killed a woman before—squaws didn't count—and the thought of it made his palms sweat.

. . . come out tonight, come out tonight . . .

Images filled his mind. Pale skin. Soft, plump tits. Legs kicking and thrashing beneath him.

Would she scream? Beg? Try to please him?

Closing his eyes, he sucked in air through his nose, imagining the smell of her, the feel of that pale skin, the heat of her around him.

If she was good, he might let her live. If not . . .

He had never done a white woman before. Maybe it was time.

Buffalo gals won't you come out tonight . . .

Slipping the knife back into the sheath laced to his fur boot, he rose from the bench and hitched his sagging trousers. He would have to play it stupid. Put her at ease by pretending to be just another harmless, simpleminded prospector. Lure her over to the livery and the mule tied in the woods by the creek.

Then he'd have her. And they'd both get busy.

. . . 
and dance by the light of the moon.

He looked around one last time, saw no one headed his way, and stepped into the street.

Time for some fun.

Twenty-three

A
udra was chewing on her pencil and thinking about Ethan's hands on her breasts when the door opened and a man came in. A prospector—big, dirty, bushy beard, maybe even simple, judging by the dull eyes and slack jaw.

“May I help you?” she asked.

He shuffled for a moment, looked around, then swiped a filthy sleeve over his mouth. “You the lady what owns the burned-out cabin yonder in the canyon?”

She rose, thinking this must be the man Mr. Tilly had mentioned. “I am.”

“I think I found something what belongs to you.”

She waited patiently as he dug in one pocket, then the other.

“Here somewhere,” he mumbled, checking the same places he had already searched. “Unless . . .” He stopped pawing and frowned at the back wall.

“Unless . . . ?” She had decided it couldn't be the medallion. Curtis was quite certain he had put it in the box with Father's papers, and she was equally certain she had seen it since they had moved everything from storage into the Arlan house.

“Coulda left it in my pack, I suppose. Yeah. I remember now. Put it there to keep it safe 'cause of the hole in my pocket.” To demonstrate, he stuck one grimy finger through a rip in the bottom of his ragged jacket pocket. Muttering, he shuffled toward the door.

Realizing he was about to leave, Audra stepped around her desk. “Do you remember what it was you found?”

He paused and combed his fingers through his beard, his mouth twisting from side to side as he thought it over. “A flat, round thing,” he finally said. “Yeah, metal. Real pretty. Gold colored, but not real gold. Brass, maybe. Hard to tell with the soot. I'll bring it by next time I'm in town.”

So it
was
Father's medallion. How odd. “Wait,” she said when he put his hand on the knob. “You said it was in your pack. Didn't you bring that with you?”

He nodded.

“So where is it?”

“With Jenny.” He smiled, showing broken, discolored teeth and red, swollen gums. The poor man was dreadfully neglected. “She's my mule. And a good one. I leave her tied in the shade behind the livery so she don't get too hot.”

“Perhaps you could get it now?” Audra ventured.

“Get what?”

“Your pack. So you can see if the round thing is inside.”

“I'm kinda busy. I need to get back.” He opened the door.

Audra thought quickly. The man was obviously simple. The chances of him forgetting about the medallion altogether or failing to bring it back to town were high. If she wanted the award back, her best recourse would be to go with him to get it. She would go as far as the livery, and wait with the liveryman, Mr. Driscoll, while the prospector retrieved his pack. That should be safe enough. “Perhaps I should go with you.”

“Go where?”

She plucked her bonnet from the peg. “To wherever Jenny is tied. To check your pack for the round thing.”

“It's kinda far. All the way over by the livery.”

“I don't mind.” After settling the bonnet on her head, she looked around, wondering if she should leave the office unlocked. Then figuring there was little enough to steal, she motioned him on. “After you, sir.”

She was just closing the door when a voice called her name. Looking around, she saw Lucinda and Edwina and an unfamiliar auburn-haired woman coming toward her.

“Thank goodness we caught you,” Lucinda said, rushing up. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

Audra glanced back at the prospector, but saw he was shuffling away. “Sir,” she called after him. “If you can wait . . .”

But he had already stepped off the boardwalk and was disappearing into the narrow walkway between the
Herald
building and the one that housed Hattie's Millinery.

Drat.

“Who was that?” Edwina asked.

“I'm not sure. He said he'd found something in my burned cabin, but he seemed confused.”

Lucinda waved a hand in dismissal. “Never mind that. If it's important enough, I'm sure he'll be back. Do you remember my telling you about our friend who was off in Texas with her husband? Well, they've finally returned, and here she is!” Beaming broadly, she pulled the auburn-haired lady forward. “Audra Pearsall, meet Madeline Wallace.”

“She's a famous photographer,” Edwina gushed. “And travels around in the cutest little gypsy wagon with her husband, taking pictures. You probably saw it parked outside the hotel. And she's also a real countess! But you don't have to curtsy. Does she, Maddie?”

The woman gave a smile that involved her entire face and brought a sparkle to her beautiful brown eyes. “Of course not. I should be offended if she did.” Taking the hand Audra offered, she gave a gentle squeeze, then released it. “I am delighted to meet you, Audra,” she said in a cultured British accent. “These two have said such wonderful things about you, I feel I know you already.”

The woman's warmth immediately put Audra at ease. “Likewise, I'm sure.”

“Come along,” Lucinda said. “We can have lunch at the hotel and catch Maddie up on all the news.”

Audra sighed. “I wish I could. But I'm alone here in the office and can't be gone for more than a few minutes. But if you have time and don't mind the smell of ink and being crowded by a bulky printing press, I'd be delighted if you came inside and kept me company until my employer returns. I've never been to Texas and would love to hear about your travels.”

“Of course.”

As the other two women filed through the door, Lucinda paused beside Audra, mischief dancing in her lovely green eyes. “And after we hear about Maddie's expedition,” she said in a voice that wouldn't carry to the others, “perhaps you'll explain why Ethan Hardesty spent the night at your house. And don't bother to tell me it was for an interview, Miss Pearsall.”

* * *

“Four murders?” blustered the Scotsman—Angus Wallace, the Earl of Kirkwell, or Ash, to his friends. “Does everything fall apart the minute I turn my back?”

The rise in his voice brought up the head of the giant gray dog stretched beside their corner table in the Red Eye. Neither Sheriff Brodie nor Tait Rylander took notice of the animal, but Ethan found it a bit unnerving to have the dog peer over the table at him even though the animal was resting on its belly.

“An Irish wolfhound,” Wallace said proudly, seeing the direction of Ethan's gaze. “And a fine war dog he is.”

“He hasn't killed anyone, has he?” Ethan said it with a laugh, as if he was joking and the notion was too absurd to believe.

The earl didn't smile back. “Only the one. And he deserved it, so he did. But usually Tricks, here, is as gentle as a kitten, are you no', lad?”

Usually?

The hound grinned up at his master, long rows of sharp teeth glinting in the lamplight shining down from the dusty fixture overhead. Then with a sigh, he dropped his rough-coated head back onto his outstretched paws.

Ethan wasn't sure which made him more uneasy—the dog or the owner.

While the other three men talked, Ethan studied the newcomer. Tall and lanky, with the erect posture of a military man—British Cavalry, retired, Rylander had said when he'd introduced him—the Scotsman was younger than his graying hair would indicate, strongly built, and had the greenest eyes Ethan had ever seen.

The paragon returned.

Rifleman, brawler, owner of the fine Scotch whiskey Ethan had borrowed, and an earl, to boot. A man of authority and position. With a huge dog.

He could be in trouble.

“This calls for a drink,” the Scotsman said, motioning to the bartender.

“It's barely noon, Ash,” Rylander reminded him.

“Aye. And do you think our wee wives will let us come back later? I dinna think so. No' until they've talked us to death. So before we're called to muster, I'll be having my drink, so I will, and listening to all your sorry reasons why you've made a shambles of our fine town.”

Ethan saw the bartender coming with the half-empty bottle he'd borrowed and braced himself. As the barkeep plunked it on the table, the Scotsman studied it for a moment, then poured a small amount into each glass. He took a sip, sighed, and looked at Ethan.

“I'm told before you turned railroader you were an architect, Mr. Hardesty. Perhaps you could take a look at the house I'm building.” He aimed a glare at the sheriff. “And tell me why the foundation is so off-kilter.”

“I told you to put rocks in the holes,” Brodie defended. “Even cedar won't last long when it's buried in dirt.”

Ethan started to explain that he didn't do that kind of work anymore, when the Scotsman turned to him again. Although his expression remained pleasant, there was steel in his green eyes. “I'll pay for your help, so I will.” He slid the bottle of whiskey across the table. “I dinna realize this was already open, but if you'll settle for half a bottle . . .”

Aware he'd been offered a way out that wouldn't require the use of guns or fists, Ethan gave a wry smile. “Sure.” Besides, he couldn't avoid construction forever, especially if he planned to build a house for Audra.

The Scotsman grinned and clapped Ethan on the back so hard it knocked his hat crooked. “There's a good lad. We'll go out to assess the damage tomorrow.” As he spoke, his gaze moved toward the door where a man wearing a dusty Stetson and dark oiled duster stood scanning the room. “And here's another fine lad. Rafe, over here,” he called, lifting a hand to motion the bartender for another glass.

“Rayford Jessup,” Ash said, as the newcomer pulled a chair from an empty table, flipped it around, and straddled it. “A Texan, and my new wrangler for the herd I'm building, as well as the finest man with a horse as I've ever seen. And women.” He laughed. “I dinna understand it, myself, but the lad charms the fillies and lasses alike without even uttering a word.”

Ethan studied the wrangler as the earl completed the introductions.

Another big fellow—probably early thirties—blond and clean-shaven, in contrast to the Scotsman's graying hair and dark stubble, and about half as talkative as his employer. Despite that reticence, he displayed great confidence, and a calm, unhurried manner that would win over even the most skittish horse. Or, apparently, any woman.

Ethan didn't understand it, either. Rayford Jessup wasn't particularly handsome, and looked older than he probably was, with those squint lines around his dark blue eyes and the deep brackets around his mouth. There was a kind of sadness in his expression, the same weary resignation Ethan had often seen in Thomas—as if he had seen more than he should and still carried those troubling images in his mind. He was certainly too rough and weathered for, say . . . a woman as refined as Audra.

Then he gave a slight smile at some remark the earl made, and Ethan saw the appeal.

Hell.

But despite his initial unease, as the talk continued, Ethan began to feel a grudging respect for the Texan. Especially when he took the Scotsman's teasing in stride, and gave back as good as he got. When he bothered to speak, at all. He and Brodie could fill a book with all the words they didn't use.

Ethan took heart in that. Audra was a talker. She was too curious and persistent to settle for silence. And a man as uncommunicative as Rayford Jessup would drive her crazy. God love her.

Balance restored, Ethan settled back and let the rapidly disappearing, smooth, smoky whiskey do its work. They talked horses for a while, then moved on to the fire, the new water tower, and progress on the railroad.

Then Ash asked about the murders.

No longer smiling, Brodie gave him the details, and told him how the deaths of the woodcutter and prospector might have been accidental, even though both men had items missing when they were found—the woodcutter's watch, and the prospector's nugget. “But the Chinaman's throat was slit, so that was no accident. And Gallagher's death was as brutal as any I've ever seen.”

“Why do you think their deaths are related to the first two?” Ash asked.

“The Chinaman was missing something, too,” Tait said. “His pigtail.”

Ethan explained his theory that another Chinaman hadn't done it because he wouldn't have kept the pigtail. “And Gallagher was missing his whip.”

Ash sipped and thought about that. “Two deaths made to look like accidents, followed by two that were obviously murder. Hard to see how they were done by the same man. Or for the same reason. What does Thomas say?”

“Ask him yourself.” Brodie nodded toward the Indian crossing toward them.

Grinning, Ash turned. “Heathen,” he called with a wave.

“
Va'ohtama, hovahe.
”
Pulling another chair up to the crowded table, Thomas sat back, arms crossed over his wide chest. “So the man with too many names has found his way back to his teepee. Where is your dress, Scotsman?”

“'Tis a kilt, ye scalp-stealing savage. Meet my friend, Rafe. He has blond hair, which a black heathen such as yourself might find appealing. But be careful. He's handy with a gun, so he is.”

Thomas nodded.

Rafe Jessup nodded back.

Neither smiled.

The earl poured more whiskey—although Thomas took his usual ginger beer—then they all settled back to hear what Thomas had learned about the Irishman's death.

“He was ambushed between this building and the one next door. I found blood. Broken teeth. Then he was dragged to the street and carried away, on a horse, I think, since I did not find wagon tracks. I followed a blood trail into the canyon to the place where he was killed. He did not die easy.” Turning to Brodie, he added, “And I did not find the whip you told me to look for.”

Ethan thought for a moment. “Gallagher was a big man. Which means the killer must be at least as big to be able to subdue him.”