Linda Castle (3 page)

Someday he would have to explain it all to Rachel. And then he would have to live with the consequences of what it meant to have worn a badge.

A half hour later a knock at the door brought Rachel’s head up. Flynn slowly rose from the chair with Rachel still cradled in his arms.

She had cried for a long time.

Her tears ate at him like acid. He was ill equipped to be a father—but he was the closest thing she had to family now.

“I wonder who would be coming to call?” He hoped he could draw her from the pain she was in.

“Don’t know,” she said with a hiccup.

“Well, let’s me and you go find out.” He gave her a kiss on the top of the head and set her on her feet. Together they crossed the carpeted parlor to the front hall.

Rachel’s ragged hiccups tore at Flynn every step of the way to the door. He was too old and too much a lone wolf to be caring for her. She needed more.

She needed a mother.

When he reached the door she looked at him with such an expression of loneliness that he scooped her up in his arms again.

They looked through the frosted pane of glass and saw the glow of a lantern. Flynn opened the door and discovered Charlie Parker, Hollenbeck Corners’s aging postmaster. He gripped an ancient-looking mining lantern in his deeply tanned, gnarled hand.

“Charlie?”

“Evening, Mr. O’Bannion. Sorry to bother you.” Every time he spoke his Adam’s apple bobbed like a cork in the water.

“No bother. Come inside, Charlie. What brings you out so late?” Flynn lowered Rachel to the floor and stepped back so Charlie could enter, but the man hung back. “Is something wrong?”

Charlie glanced down at the thick Chinese carpet beneath Flynn’s feet. He dusted his boots on the backs of his pant legs before he stepped over the threshold into the big house. “Not ’xactly, Mr. O’Bannion.”

The postmaster was acting so jumpy that Flynn found himself looking both ways down the steep hill toward town. J. C. Hollenbeck had built his mansion on a rocky knoll near the San Pedro River. Flynn could stand on the front porch and view most of Hollenbeck Corners below. Right now the place was pretty quiet. A horse nickered,
a dog barked and a furious-sounding cat answered, and there was a faint tinkle of barroom music floating on the dry spring breeze. But there was nothing to account for Charlie’s nervousness.

“Would you like some supper, Charlie?” Flynn asked as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Mrs. Young left us a pot full of prime Hollenbeck beef.” Charlie always looked as if he could use a hot meal and an extra night’s sleep.

“No, thank you kindly. I am here on business.”

Rachel looked at Charlie from her position behind Flynn’s knee. He could feel her little fingers, curling into the fabric of his Levi’s.

“Business?” Flynn frowned and shot a glance at Rachel. “And it couldn’t wait until the morning?”

Charlie’s Adam’s apple worked up and down a couple of times real fast. “I—I wasn’t sure. Uh—a—a letter has come—” Charlie glanced toward Rachel and swallowed hard.

“A letter?” The short hairs on the back of Flynn’s neck rose of their own will.

“It—it ain’t ’xactly for you—” Charlie subtly nodded toward Rachel once again “—if you catch my meaning.”

Flynn didn’t catch Charlie’s meaning, but the way he was acting the letter must have something to do with Rachel.

Marydyth.

An icy finger traced a line up Flynn’s back. He was hard-pressed to keep from shivering. He looked down at Rachel, still hiding halfway behind his leg. The salty outline of dried tears was still evident on her little cheeks.

Once right after Victoria had persuaded Flynn to become Rachel’s guardian he had seen a pile of letters tied
with a black ribbon. They had been addressed to Rachel and sent from Yuma.

Flynn and Victoria had some strong words on the matter before she ended the discussion by tossing them into the flames of her fireplace.

“Sugar, why don’t you go clean the dishes off the table? I’ll finish with Charlie, then we’ll wash them up and have some gingerbread and milk.” Flynn gave her a wink.

“All right, Unca Flynn.” Rachel unclasped her fingers from his pants and walked slowly down the long hall. She looked small and way too vulnerable as she passed beneath the crystal chandelier.

“Thanks, Mr. O’Bannion, I didn’t wanna say nothin’ in front of the child.” He pulled an envelope from his vest pocket. His fingers worked nervously around the outside edge. He seemed undecided about whether he wanted to keep it or give it to Flynn.

“Is it a letter for Rachel?” Flynn finally asked when Charlie’s fingers had trodden the same ground for the third time.

“No, not precisely.” Charlie’s lips parted but no sound came out. Then he took a deep breath. “It’s—it’s, aw hell, the letter is addressed to—to the Black Widow.” The words spilled out in an awkward rush.

“I don’t like that name, Charlie.” Flynn took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I never did.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and his Adam’s apple worked up and down. “It is to Mrs. Marydyth Hollenbeck,” he corrected himself, and thrust the letter at Flynn. “Now who would be a-writin’ to her here? I said to myself. Well, nobody who knew what happened, I answered myself. And then I says, well, I says, I better get this to Mr.
O’Bannion, right away.” Charlie was staring at the paper as if he thought it might come to life.

“I figger you’d best be the one to have it—since Miz Victoria is—well, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Flynn glanced at the envelope in his hand. It was dirty and ragged. There was no return address and the postmark had been blurred by dirt, greasy stains and the passage of time. It was an old envelope, and had passed through a lot of hands.

Flynn glanced back at Charlie. A hundred questions raced through his mind.

“What do you suppose you’ll do with it, Mr. O’Bannion?” Charlie was still staring at the paper. “I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, Mr. O’Bannion, I am mighty happy I don’t have to do nothing with it. That Black Wi—I mean that Mrs. Hollenbeck, she came to no good, and everythin’ that touched her was the same way.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought,” Flynn interrupted, strangely annoyed to hear Charlie condemn Rachel’s mother in her own house.

“I knew you’d know just what to do, I mean you takin’ care of the little one and all. Yep, that was why I brought it to you. Well, I best be going.” Charlie suddenly turned and shuffled toward the front door, as if he had used up all the words inside him and was anxious to escape.

“Thanks for coming all the way up here. I appreciate it.”

“Just wanted to get it to you right off.” He glanced at the envelope once again. “I figger it might be important—or it might be bad news of a kind. Bad news seemed to follow that woman.”

Flynn ran his finger over the stains and dirt on the
yellowing envelope. “Charlie, I’d like for you to keep this quiet.”

Charlie looked at Flynn and blinked. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, Mr. O’Bannion, I’d be happy to oblige. It’s a load off my mind just to put in your hands.” Charlie ducked his head and pulled his shapeless hat back on his head. “I told myself that Miz Victoria wouldn’t like me waitin’, nosirree, she wouldn’t like it a’tall.”

“Thanks again, Charlie, and good night.” Flynn closed the door behind Charlie.

He glanced down at the envelope, allowing the questions to come unhindered.

Why
would
somebody be writing to Marydyth at this address? The papers had been full of the details of her trial—the details and those names: the Black Widow and Murdering Mary.

The public had turned on Marydyth with the same vigor they had once pursued her. And the very ones that had been so happy to be guests in her home, to have attended the fancy dances and dinners, suddenly didn’t know her name.

“Unca Flynn, the table is all cleared.” Rachel’s voice drifted down the hallway.

He shoved the letter in his pocket. He would have to deal with the letter later. Right now his main priority was caring for Rachel.

A
s sundown came to the prison, the oppressive heat of the day vanished. Within an hour Marydyth was shivering in the cold.

She turned on her hard, rickety cot and closed her eyes. The hand she rubbed her face with was rough, callused and dry as the desert around Yuma. There had been a time when Marydyth’s hands had been soft, white,
delicate,
J.C. had called them.

Marydyth smiled and thought of her husband. There had been a time when the most important question she and J.C. shared was how many beaux they would allow to call once their darling daughter began receiving. Now each night when Marydyth lay down to sleep, the first and last thought in her head was a prayer for Rachel’s happiness. It was all that kept her sane.

Once more J.C.’s face came to her mind. She remembered their wedding day, all bright sun and giggling anticipation. J.C. had given her his name on that day.

“Marydyth Hollenbeck. It suits, I think,” he had said. Then he had smiled, creating a dimple in his cheek.

Did Rachel have a dimple? Marydyth tried to visualize
Rachel’s face, how it would have changed and matured during the time she had been away.

As an infant Rachel’s hair had held the promise of reddish highlights. Would it be blond or would it shine like an Arizona sunset? Would it flash with auburn fire?

A smile tugged at the corners of Marydyth’s mouth. For a short march of time she was able to forget her environment. In her mind, if not her battered body, she could rise up from the depths of Yuma’s hellhole and live through the hopes and dreams she cherished for Rachel.

Her little girl would be a beauty, of that Marydyth had no doubt. And she would be a lady.

Victoria would see to it.

Rachel would never have to go to bed hungry. And she would never have to worry about money.

But would she be loved?

Would Victoria be able to put aside the poison of her hatred and embrace Rachel? Or would the bitterness of J.C.’s death be a blight on Rachel’s life?

The chilling question made Marydyth shiver more than the bleak cold of the Arizona desert. Would Victoria be able to love the daughter of a woman convicted of killing two husbands?

The moon rose and sent a silvery shaft of light through Rachel’s frilly starched curtains. Flynn had opened the window halfway to allow a little fresh air into her room while he got her ready for bed. Now she was tucked up and listening to him with a look of pure fascination on her face.

“…and the little princess lived happily ever after.” Flynn closed the slender volume and placed it on the
table beside Rachel’s bed. He leaned close to give her a kiss on the forehead.

“That was a nice story.” She yawned and stretched, nearly giving him a shiner with her small clenched fist.

“You ought to know it by heart, as many times as you’ve had me read it. I think tomorrow you can read it to me.”

“Unca Flynn, I can’t read!” Rachel giggled and snuggled down in her feather bed.

“No? All right, then maybe I’ll read it one more time—but that’s all. Now it is time to say your prayers and get some shut-eye.” Flynn helped Rachel out of her bed. She knelt beside it with her head bowed. Delicate pink toes peeked from under the edge of her yellow flannel gown.

“Dear Lord, bless Grandma, Unca Flynn and Carolee Martin’s baby goat.”

Flynn nearly guffawed, but he supposed that God was as interested in Carolee’s kid as he was every other living thing.

Rachel didn’t say anything else for a long time, and finally Flynn cleared his throat to hurry her along.

“And please bless my mama, and if it isn’t too much trouble, Lord, please send her back home from wherever it was that she had to go. Amen.” She scampered under the quilt and closed her eyes without meeting Flynn’s stunned gaze.

So, Rachel had decided to enlist the help of the Almighty in getting a mother—her mother.

Flynn leaned over and tucked the covers beneath her chin. “Good night, little one.”

She squeezed her eyes tight and burrowed into the softness of her eider coverlet. “Good night, Unca Flynn.” She yawned again.

He picked up the lamp and walked to the doorway but something made him pause at the threshold and look at her. She was lying flat on her back with her eyes squeezed shut. The moonlight skimmed over her little turned-up nose and her square chin.

She was beginning to favor her mother.

Flynn nudged the unwanted thought aside. It would do Rachel no favor to become the beauty her mother was. In fact, he feared that the good people of Hollenbeck Corners would start treating her like a pariah if she started to remind them of Marydyth.

He shook himself and turned away from Rachel’s door. It wasn’t like him to be so damned maudlin. Must be old Charlie’s babbling, bringing up the past.

What he needed was a stiff drink and a smoke. And now that Rachel was fed, bathed and tucked in for the night he was going to have one.

He crept down the stairs on tiptoe, taking care to keep his spurs from ringing on the treads. He went into the study—the only room in the rambling mansion that he had ever felt really comfortable in.

Flynn pulled the makings from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke. It dangled unlit from his lips while he poured himself two fingers of good whiskey.

Old Doc Scoggins had told him that smoking shortened the life span. Course, Doc Scoggins never had a puff of tobacco in his life and he dropped dead during church services only two months back. But Flynn had not wanted to take any chances—for Rachel’s sake. He had stopped smoking—at least he had stopped lighting them—but he hadn’t stopped rolling them.

Every night as he went through the ritual he told himself it was foolish to cling to his tobacco habit like a
sugar-tit, but he got a certain amount of stubborn comfort from rolling a smoke, even if he never lit up.

He laid the unlit cigarette in the ashtray and took a drink. The first sip blazed a hot trail down his gullet and sent a flash of hot lethargy to his limbs. There had been some days in the past two and a half years when he had wondered how women managed to raise a houseful of children without getting roaring drunk once a week.

The thought had finally come to him that men and women were different in more ways than the obvious one—otherwise they would be a pack of falling-down drunks. Motherhood was damned hard work.

He collapsed into the big easy chair by the fireplace, cursing the leather for creaking like a riled cat under his weight. He held his breath and cocked his head, listening.

When the house remained silent, he let out a relieved breath. The noise had not woken Rachel. Perhaps tonight she would sleep.

He took another drink and drew the envelope from his pocket. The paper was of good quality—or had been when it was new. The fancy watermark was still visible beneath the stains.

Flynn stared at the travel-stained paper until a strange feeling crept over him. He felt as if he was violating Marydyth Hollenbeck in some way. Once he even glanced behind him, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched.

With a snort, he tucked the letter back in his pocket.

What am I going to do with it?

The sensible thing would be to just throw it away.

No, I am not like Victoria Hollenbeck.
But there had been times when he wondered if that were true. Maybe he was as cold and cruel as Victoria.

Flynn took another drink and mentally argued with
himself about the letter. What if it was important? Charlie had been worried enough to come out in the night to bring it…

No, he wouldn’t open the damned letter.

He finally decided to take it to Moses Pritikin, Victoria’s attorney. He could make the decision about whether to open it or to send it on to Marydyth at the Territorial Prison.

Flynn took another drink. Outside, the familiar scratch and whisper of the wind pushing a tumbleweed across the front porch caught his attention. He allowed himself to relax—as much as he ever relaxed in this house.

Since he had gotten tangled up with the Hollenbeck family there hadn’t been one truly worry-free moment that he could remember. By day he worried if he was doing a proper job managing little Rachel’s estate. And by night…well, at night the demons that most lawmen lived with came to haunt him.

“Only Rachel makes it all worthwhile,” he muttered. Rachel’s welfare was the tie that bound him tightly to the life he now led.

Rachel’s terrified scream jarred Flynn awake. The empty glass shattered on the hearthstones as he jerked to his feet. He bounded toward the stairs. He took them two at a time, his spurs clanging with each impact all the way to Rachel’s room.

The moon had moved on but her frantic thrashing and whimpers guided him through the dark to her bedside.

“I’m here, honey, I’m here.” He untangled the sheets from her little body. He kept up a steady stream of chinwagging, not even sure what he was saying, but saying it in a voice intended to soothe and calm.

“Mama!” Rachel whimpered and fought him while he pushed sweat-soaked strands of hair from her brow.

“It’s all right, honey,” he said, while he wished his hands weren’t so big, clumsy and rough—while he wished that he knew more about raising a little girl.

Damn it all to hell—she needs a woman’s touch.

“Mama! Mama!” Rachel screamed, as if she had read what was etched into Flynn’s heart.

He pulled her close to his chest, knowing that she was still locked in that dark place where she went every night.

“Where are you, Mama?” Her voice had the tone of a lost soul. It bit right into Flynn’s heart.

“It’s all right, sugar. Uncle Flynn is with you—shh.”

So tonight her nightmares were of Marydyth.

Two nights ago she had dreamed she was lost in a great black hole and Flynn could not find her. The nightmares were never exactly the same, except that Rachel was alone and needed somebody to help her.

He kissed her forehead and started to rock her back and forth, humming some tune that had lain in wait since his own childhood.

Too damned long ago to know how to do this.

“I can’t find my mama—. Mama—” Her voice trailed off. Within a moment she dragged in a sobbing, ragged breath, and then she finally became still. Her breath came deep and slow as she fell into the blessed peace of slumber. The only sound was the creak of wood and bed ropes as Flynn rocked her.

Morning dawned gray and thready. The clouds overhead were salmon on top and a dirty tarnished silver beneath, streaked as if a child had dipped her fingers in paint and dragged them across the eastern horizon, thought Flynn.

There was no wind yet, but Flynn knew the respite was only temporary. Yep, it was going to come a blow by noon.

He tugged the brim of his Stetson hat down tighter on his head, as if he felt the wind pulling at it already. Jack snorted and broke wind and the chin on the curb rattled as he shook his head. Flynn swung into the saddle and gathered the reins, wanting to get the last of the herd moved today.

“I know, you’d rather stay in the stall and eat cracked corn. You’re getting downright lazy since we retired,” Flynn told his mount. They had been together so many years that conversation seemed natural, maybe even required. Jack had been his partner on many manhunts and had shared a cold camp with him beyond counting. The big horse flicked his ears back and forth as if he were listening to Flynn.

Flynn pointed Jack southeast and kicked him into a ground-eating lope. When they reached the rest of the herd, Jack worked hard, as if he sensed Flynn’s need to get done early. The first-year heifers were separated and put in an upper pasture, but Flynn took the breeding cows and the one-eyed bull to a nice meadow that lay in the squat hills just past Brunckow’s cabin.

There were no windows left now and a part of the roof had blown off during the last dust devil, but the cabin and meadow provided a good place to water Jack and take a rest. The cabin had been standing since 1858 when Frederick Brunckow had come looking for riches. What he got was his body tossed down his own mine shaft by a band of renegade Mexicans. It was ironic that Ed Schieffelin had discovered a rich vein of silver only seven miles away in 1870. Poor old Brunckow.

When Flynn had still been riding for the law he had
come to the cabin more than a dozen times looking for outlaws. The raw pockmarked adobe walls helped give it the name that the
Epitaph
newspaper had perpetuated—the bloodiest cabin in Arizona Territory.

Flynn stepped off and let the horse wander around the perimeter of the old building, nibbling grass as he went. He shaded his eyes from the sun, and leaned against the side of the cabin while Jack had a good rest. His eyes roamed the countryside, picking out a jackrabbit and a covey of quail as he rested.

It struck him that he was only a few miles from the Lavender Lady Mine. Since he was so near he decided to go check on it. A lot of men had remained out of work since the big strike that closed the Lady.

And brought him here.

Flynn’s mouth twitched at one corner. If it hadn’t been for the mining strike he wouldn’t have been in Hollenbeck Corners.

And he wouldn’t have had to be Marydyth Hollenbeck’s escort.

All these years it had stuck in his craw. He had never had to take a woman to prison before. And now he was taking care of that woman’s daughter. -

It was a hell of a thing.

Flynn leaned away from the side of the cabin and gathered Jack’s reins. He had enough daylight left to make it to the mine and still be back home before Rachel needed to go to bed.

Flynn saw the yawning black hole of the shaft from a long way off. There was something about a mine that made his flesh crawl. He supposed he was a bit of a coward when it came to working underground.

“Easy, boy.” Flynn steadied Jack and peered into the
rocky outcrop that ringed the Lady. The horse was acting spooky and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

A few years ago he would have bolted into the rocks and got prepared to fend off Apaches, but since Geronimo was gone that was no longer a worry.