Chasing Clovers (17 page)

She got up from his lap, and stumbled to get her balance. Her pale face wet from crying, she
stared at the floor. "I need to be alone," she whispered, and limped from the room.

He
heard her go up the stairs.
Who was Emma? Was it her sister? Her mother? A close friend?
He couldn't get the images of her out of his head―her sorrowful eyes, the agony and pain. How was he going to help her if she refused to talk to him?

For the little bit of time she had let him console her, he felt as if they had finally connected. When he thought she'd open up to him, let him in, she shut him out so fast he hadn't had time to stop her before she left. He knew if she didn't let it out soon, it would eat at her soul and tear her into pieces.

He ran his hand through his hair, and blew out an exhausted breath. Grief had no mercy. He knew this from his own experience. Her suffering tore at his soul, and
he had hoped to take some of it away tonight. But now he had no choice. He'd have to wait for it to happen again, and he knew without a doubt that it would. That's how it worked. The sorrow came in waves until you dealt with it. He rubbed his tired eyes. And even then, it could still rear its head when you least expect it, to rip you apart all over again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A loud knock at the front door woke John. He sat up and stretched his stiff muscles. Damn he was tired. He yawned as he got out of the chair. Clive stood outside on the porch, his hand up ready to strike the door again when John opened it.

"
Why the hell are you bangin' on my door for in the middle of the damn night?" John yelled. He couldn't help being annoyed. He'd had a terrible night, staying up late thinking about Livy.

Clive pushed past him to enter the house.

"
Well?" His neck was stiff and sore, and every time he moved it a piercing pain shot straight for his head, a sign that a headache was about to start.
Great, just what I need.

"
I need to talk to you, and you're not gonna like it," Clive said, while taking off his brown Stetson and scrunching it between his hands.

He watched
his friend pace the length of his sitting room. "Well, what the hell is it?"

"
I sent a few of the boys up to the east pasture today to start bringing in some of the herd."

Clive's pacing was making him dizzy, so he decided to sit down. The sofa was soft and plush, and he realized had he slept here instead of in the chair, he wouldn't be so sore now.

"
They came back a half hour ago," Clive paused to look at the floor, "and they had Rusty with them."

He
shot off the couch. "Why'd they bring him back here? He has no business on the T-Bar―

"
John, he's dead."

"
What did you say?"

Clive wiped his face. "I said he's dead. Rusty's dead."

He
could see that Clive was shaken, and asked―calmly this time―"Was it an accident?"

"
The boys said he had the lead from his horse wrapped around his neck." Clive drew in a ragged breath. "He'd been dragged a while."

"
Was it an accident, or not?"

"
Don't think so." He pushed his hands deep inside his pants pockets making his broad shoulders pull in toward his chest. "Way I figure it, Rusty knew how to handle a horse. There's no way he'd let the rope get tangled around him."

"
Why would anyone want to kill Rusty?"

"
Don't know that either. But whoever did it never left any trace that they were there. They tried real hard to make it look like an accident." His hands gripped his hat so hard it lost its shape.

"
Get one of the boys to ride into town for the sheriff. If you don't think it was an accident, we aren't taking any chances."

"
I'll ask Gill when we're done."

"
Do you think this has anything to do with Livy falling off her horse the other day?"

Clive gave John a look.
"Seems too coincidental if you ask me."

He nodded in agreement.
"We'll bury Rusty tomorrow. I'm sure the news has already spread to the rest of the men. Tell them that after Rusty's funeral I'll be talking with them."

"
I'll let them know right now. See if any of 'em act suspicious."

"
Let me know what you find." He followed his friend to the door. "And watch your back."

"
You watch that family of yours." Clive motioned upstairs. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."

He bolted the door after Clive left. They had never locked the doors on the ranch. But after tonight,
things were about to change. At least until they found out who killed Rusty. He passed through the dark hallway and into the kitchen. He saw a shadow go by the window. Assuming it was Clive, he smiled at his foreman's diligence in making sure all was well. The handle on the back door turned.

"
Miss me already?" He called out. But instead of seeing Clive entering the kitchen, he heard loud footsteps as someone ran away.

He pulled his rifle off
the shelf by the back door and clutched the cold metal barrel in his hands. Grabbing the stock with his right hand, he cocked the gun. The click echoed throughout the silent kitchen.

He yanked the door open.
Without making a sound, he stepped outside. He couldn't see a damn thing and he swung his rifle from side to side waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He'd grown immune to the sounds on the ranch, and instead listened for anything out of the ordinary.

Moving silently, he inspected the yard. Tall grey shadows stood in front of him, and
he recognized them as the barns. To his left sat the garden, scanning it, he heard the trees rustling overhead. All seemed normal, but his gut told him otherwise. Whoever had tried to come into his house couldn't have gotten far.

Cautiously, he dropped each foot, barley touching the steps. He winced as the wooden boards creaked under his weight, and made a mental note to fix the step the first chance he got. The rifle tight under his chin, he was ready to fire if given the need.

He
made his way around the house staying close to the wall.
Where the hell did he go?
He swung around when he heard a scuffle over by the tack barn. Listening, he heard voices and ran in their direction.

Two of his men were rolling on the ground, fists flying.
He propped his gun up against the barn and hauled the two men apart. "What the hell is going on?" he yelled, holding their shirts to keep them from running off.

"
I was out havin' a smoke when I saw Danny here, tryin' to go into your house, and then run away. I chased him down and…well, you know the rest." Boyd huffed.

John released him, and turned his attention to the other man. He had to squint so he could see his face. The moon, offering little light, outlined them in a dark green. John recognized the boy as Danny, the young cowboy he hired to help in the fields for the harvest.

He pulled him close and asked,
"This true?"

"
No Sir," Danny answered, his head shook back and forth so fast that John could feel the air it radiated. The kid stunk. He smelled like he'd been shoveling manure, or bathing in it. John scrunched his nose, and tried hard not to push him away.

"
Don't lie boy." Boyd gave him a shove.

Clive showed up, and John was glad his friend was there offering his silent support in case things went wrong.

"
You better start talkin', son," John said, relieved that he could let him go. The smell was getting to him, and his eyes began to water.

"
I was up by the house," Danny admitted. He glanced over at Boyd, who glared at him in return. Then he turned back to John and Clive, "But I never went onto your porch…and…and I never tried to open your door, Mr. Taylor."

John didn't know if he should believe him or not. But he didn't want to make the same mistake he had with Rusty. He glanced at Clive. "You believe him?"

Clive was silent, and John knew his friend was pondering what he
'd said.

The boy took this as his opportunity to plead with the other man.
"Mr. Clive I…I didn't do what Boyd said I'd done. I didn't try to go into Mr. Taylor's house."

"
But you said that you were by his house," Clive verified.

"
Yes, Sir." His expression reminded John of Ben whenever he was in trouble and begging not to be disciplined.

"
What were you doing up there?" Clive asked.

"
I couldn't sleep after the boys came in and said they'd found Rusty, so I went for a walk." His voice was close to a whine and John was beginning to feel sorry for him. "I was wanderin' is all. Never meant no harm."

"
I believe him," Clive said to John.

That was all he needed to let the boy stay. Unsure, John was glad his friend had made the decision for him. He
stared at Boyd. "You go on back to the bunkhouse. We'll take it from here."

"
You gonna keep him on?" Boyd sneered. His rotten breath smelled of stale liquor, and John didn't like it.

The way Boyd said the words hit him in all the wrong places. "Yeah, I'm gonna keep him on. I'm the owner of the T-Bar, and I do whatever the hell I want," John growled.

"
Whatever you say, Boss." Boyd spat on the grass and walked away.

John felt as though he were missing something when he watched Boyd leave. But instead of investigating it further, he brushed it off to lack of sleep and the eventful evening he'd had. He turned back to Danny. "You are on shaky ground with me. If anything like this happens again, you'll be gone."

"
Yes, Sir."

"
Now git." John swatted at the air. "And take a bath."

"
Yes, Sir."

He waited until the bo
y was out of earshot before he addressed Clive. "What do you make of all that?"

"
Well, like I said before, I think he's tellin' us the truth." Clive dug his hands inside his pockets. "But I'm not too sure about the other one. Somethin' ain't right there, and I don't know what it is."

"
Yeah, I get the same feeling." Both headed toward the bunkhouse. "Did you talk to the men?" John asked.

"
Yup, I did."

"
Good. We'll keep a close eye on the other one."

"
Figured as much," Clive said, and they parted ways.

John left the barn and wandered
around a few of the corrals checking on the cattle and making sure no one else was lurking about. Restless, he picked up the pitch fork and threw some hay into Midnight's pen. His horse snorted and danced around the perimeter of the fence. He dug his hand into the bucket on the ground and grabbed a fistful of oats. He rested his arm on the railing as Midnight nuzzled his snout into John's palm and gently took the food.

"
Good boy," he crooned, rubbing his shiny black coat.

On his way back to the house, he watched the rising sun change the field
's hues from navy blue to a light grey. Dawn used to be his favorite time of day. He imagined the sun to be God's finger as it painted the earth, His canvas. He swore that each time he and Becky would watch the sun rise, the colors He'd painted were always different, but the masterpiece was awe-inspiring all the same.

His shoulders sagged, and his hand went inside his pocket to finger the locket there. He hadn
't sat and watched the sun rise since Becky died. It wasn't the same without her there beside him.

Sighing, he climbed the steps. He stopped to gaze out at hi
s land. He blinked back tears. He tried to stay and watch, but the scene was too much for him. He turned away, leaving the memory behind.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Livy woke early. She hadn't slept well. She squeezed her eyes shut and held the pillow over her face. She had almost told John about Emma. She had almost lost control. The images of her breakdown re-played in her mind, and she tossed the heavy covers off the bed and forced her legs to stand.

She
'd have to go downstairs sooner or later. She groaned at the prospect. She'd prefer later―much later. She splashed cold water from the basin onto her face and put on her light green dress. She glanced around the room looking for her crutch.
Where did I leave the blasted thing?
She searched her room again, but the crutch wasn't there.

She tried
not to think of last night, of John's strong arms around her, holding her tight. She shook her head and hoped the crutch would turn up somewhere.