Teresa Bodwell (9 page)

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Authors: Loving Miranda

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“My mother was Italian,” he said. “I spent some time living in Italy and France. I visited Barcelona once.”
“I have heard that Barcelona is beautiful.”
“Yes, it’s very impressive. My father has always been so proud of the traditions we have in Boston, all of our history. Barcelona had a university and great cathedrals before Boston was even discovered.”
Rita laughed. “You do not agree that God created the world, starting with Boston first?”
“Certainly not.”
“That is very strange. I was told that you are a brother of Arthur Lansing.”
Ben laughed. He liked Rita. The small glass in his hand seemed far heavier than it should. He set it down. The last thing he needed was to journey back to those months of darkness he had experienced last year in Europe, when he marked time by the number of wine bottles that accumulated in his rooms. When he’d finally run out of money and sobered, six months had passed. That was a lot of time to waste, even for someone who had nothing better to do with his life. If his prudent father hadn’t insisted Ben buy a return ticket when he left Boston, he might still be in Paris.
He’d come home intending to write Arthur and insist his brother pay the money he owed. It was a shock to learn that his brother was dead and no one had bothered to inform Ben. He lifted the cup and swirled the whiskey around again. Liquid courage—but he was afraid to drink it.
“I’m keeping you from your drink,
Señor
Lansing.” Rita started to rise.
“No.” Ben lifted his hand indicating she should stay, then swallowed the whiskey in one gulp, feeling it burn down his throat. Liquid courage. He used his maimed left hand to wave to the bartender for more whiskey, then let the hand remain on the table where Rita could see it. Hell, the whole town may as well see it now. Miranda had managed to hide her repugnance, but he could see she had been shocked when she set her eyes on his mangled fingers.
Rita glanced at his hand, then back up to his face. “Perhaps you will tell me what you wish to discuss?”
Her accent was dark and exotic, like her eyes. There was no pity in those eyes, just the same friendly light he had seen when he first met her.
“May I call you Rita?”
“Of course. Everyone calls me Rita.” She rolled the “
r
” delicately.
“What brought you to Colorado, Rita?”
“I was born in what you call Colorado Territory.”
A tall gentleman suddenly appeared at her side. “Rita’s people were here long before your people, Mr. Lansing. Rita’s family came here with a grant of land from the Spanish government—”
“Our land was far to the south of Fort Victory,” Rita interrupted. “Mr. Lansing, may I present my defender, Dr. Calvert. Cal, this is Benjamin Lansing.”
Ben shoved his left hand into his pocket and stood to shake the doctor’s hand.
“Mr. Lansing.” The doctor peered into Ben’s eyes.
“Arthur’s brother,” Rita said.
“Ah.” The doctor nodded. “Most folks hereabouts call me Doc, or Cal. I answer to pretty much anything.”
“Please, join us.” Benjamin indicated a chair. He sat when the doctor did.
Almost before they could be seated, the bartender arrived with another glass and a bottle.
“Real Scotch whiskey,” Doc said, pouring a healthy shot into his glass, then holding the bottle over Ben’s empty cup. “Would you care for some?”
“Thank you,” Ben said, against his better judgment. As the doctor poured, Benjamin noticed the man’s coat was worn, the cuff of his sleeve beginning to fray. He turned back to the saloon owner.
“How well did you know my brother, Rita?”
The light in her eyes dimmed, but she didn’t turn away from him. She wasn’t one to avoid an unpleasant topic, but he had no doubt that the subject of his brother was distasteful to her.
“Everyone knew Arthur Lansing. He made certain of that.”
“Did he?”
“He wore only the finest clothing and built the grandest house this side of Golden and Denver.” She glanced at the doctor seated beside her, then turned back to Benjamin, raising her chin to look directly into his eyes. “Everyone knew him.”
There was something she was holding back. What, and why?
“What is it you want to know?” Doc spoke slowly, before tilting his cup for a sip.
Ben lifted his cup with his left hand, just to prove he could. He trembled slightly but didn’t spill a drop. He tasted the whiskey, then set the cup back on the table, dropping his hand onto his lap.
“I’d like to know more about how he died, to start with.”
Rita had been leaning an elbow on the table, but at Benjamin’s question she sat upright, straight and stiff.
“I reckon you heard about the fire, Mr. Lansing.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed on him.
“Ben, please.” He hoped to return the conversation to the friendly tone they’d enjoyed a moment ago. “I’ve heard there was a house fire, but I haven’t heard any details.” Ben curled his fingers around his glass, bringing it halfway to his lips. “How’d it happen? Who was there?” He took a swallow, feeling heat clear to the pit of his stomach.
“You should speak with Mercy and Thad Buchanan. They can tell you the entire story. You know they saved young Jonathan’s life.”
Ben couldn’t help wondering whether the Buchanans would tell him everything. If they had something to hide, listening to their version of the facts would be unlikely to help him find the truth. “Yet they weren’t able to save my brother.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Lansing?” Rita drew herself up as though she’d been personally offended.
Hell, he wasn’t suggesting anything, just inquiring. “It seems to be quite a coincidence that Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan were the only witnesses to the fire. Where were the hired men? I understood that my brother employed a large number of men, yet they were all gone that day. It might be a coincidence, but it still means that the two people who most stand to benefit from my brother’s death were the only witnesses when he died.”
“Benefit?” Doc asked. “You mean because of the boy?”
“Yes.” Ben slammed his glass down, splashing whiskey over his fingers. “They adopt my nephew and have control over Arthur’s entire fortune. It could be a coincidence. Or it could have been planned.”
“If you are looking for someone to confirm your suspicions, you have not asked the right woman,
Señor
Lansing.” Rita glanced at Doc, then back to Ben. “Mercy Buchanan has honor. Enough that she will raise the son of the man who tried to—”
“Rita!” Cal placed his hand over Rita’s.
“He must hear it, Cal.”
Cal held Rita’s gaze for a moment, then relaxed, withdrawing his hand from hers. He nodded.
“
Señor
Lansing, I am sorry to be the one to tell you. Your brother was not an honest man. He sent men to kill my friend—Mercy—”
“No!” Ben would not believe his brother was a killer.
“She owed him a great deal of money.”
“More reason for him to want her alive. Why would he—”
“He wanted her ranch.”
Ben stared at the Spanish beauty. She was either lying, or she had lost her mind.
“It is true,
Señor
, when Mercy went to your brother’s house, she found him trying to burn the evidence that he was behind the theft—”
“Theft?”
“Mr. Lansing,” Doc said, “it’s all rather complicated. As I said before—talk with Thad and Mercy.”
“They’ll tell me that my brother intentionally burned his own house?”
“No, most likely that was an accident,” Doc said. “He used too much kerosene, apparently.”
“According to Mercy.”
“Sí, sí
!” Rita clucked impatiently. “Kerosene everywhere and soon the house went up in flames.”
“Kerosene?”
Rita raised an eyebrow. Hell. Someone had set the fire intentionally then.
Damn!
He thought again about his young nephew. Ben determined to find out exactly what had happened.
“Thank you for the information,” Ben said.
“I hope we’ve set your mind at ease, Mr. Lansing.”
At ease? Hardly. He was more suspicious than ever.
“I think you’ll agree in the end that your brother made his own problems,” Doc said. “A shame really, for the boy’s sake. Have you seen your nephew?”
Ben nodded, breaking away from Rita’s gaze to study the doctor. “Yes, I met him yesterday.”
“I’m glad. Then you saw for yourself how well he’s doin’ with the Buchanans. He’s a fine boy.”
Ben nodded again. He’d seen how the boy cared for the Buchanans, but he had mixed feelings about how well they took care of him.
Hellfire and damnation. Why does everything have to be so damn complicated?
“Señora?”
Rita turned to a young girl who was calling to her from the kitchen. “You gentlemen will excuse me?”
Ben stood as Rita walked away. He was definitely feeling the effects of the whiskey.
“Tell me, Mr. Lansing”—Doc leaned toward him and refilled his glass—“did you injure your hand in the war?”
Ben flexed his maimed appendage. He lifted the whiskey glass and swallowed the contents. “Stupid accident. War was nearly over.” He chuckled, though he knew it wasn’t in the least bit funny. “We were loading the cannons onto a train and one broke loose, slipped down the ramp.”
The doctor bent to examine the hand more carefully. “It was crushed? I’m surprised they were able to save your fingers at all.”
“One doctor wanted to cut off the whole damn hand, but another surgeon said he could fix it. You know the funny thing?” He didn’t wait for the doctor to respond. “It doesn’t make any difference. Might as well have cut it off.”
“I’m sure you’ll find as time passes that you can do quite a lot with your thumb and index finger intact.”
Ben chuckled. “You doctors. I’ll wager you’ve never tried to paint with a hand that can barely grip a brush.” He nodded to the doctor and made his way toward the stairs. What he needed was some time alone to decide what he would do next. Near the foot of the stairs a clumsy cowboy stumbled into him.
“Sorry,” the man mumbled, clinging to Ben for a moment until he regained his balance.
Ben shrugged out of the man’s grip and started up the stairs. A few steps up, Ben turned and watched the drunken oaf swagger out of the saloon. He slipped his left hand into his coat pocket and felt a piece of paper that hadn’t been there before.
Ben raced out the door, hoping to get a better look at the cowboy. Peering up and down the street, Ben found no sign of the man. Pulling out the sheet of paper, he stared at the sentence that had been scrawled across the surface:
If you want to know who kilt your brother, follow the road to the Lansing ranch tomorrow at sunrise.
Chapter 8
Benjamin Lansing was no fool. Although he was not in the habit of wearing a gun, he strapped on his old Colt Army before leaving his room. He’d arranged to borrow a horse for the day, and now sauntered over to the livery to pick up the nag and be on his way.
He walked warily down the quiet street as the sky turned from deep blue to indigo. Daylight was perhaps a half hour away. In spite of the whiskey he’d drunk last night, he’d slept poorly. He did not want to believe Thad and Mercy Buchanan were murderers. And he couldn’t bear the thought that Miranda was lying for them. No. It wasn’t possible.
He caught himself smiling at the thought of her. In spite of his better judgment, he was fond of the petite young lady with the grace of an antelope and the heart of a lioness.
His instinct to trust Miranda might be based on all the wrong reasons. The spark in her eyes that had intrigued him from the moment they met, the way her smile burned so easily through the layers of reserve it had taken him years to build up. Or the sway of her hips as she walked. Just looking at Miranda drove every bit of his good sense far beyond his reach. And yet he knew he was right to trust her.
He drew a breath and released it slowly—a trick he’d learned to help him keep his wits about him in every situation. He must concentrate on the facts. Miranda Chase was beautiful and he was drawn to her, true. As to her character, he admired the way she defended herself and her family. Her carriage and the determination in her voice conveyed as much as her words that she believed in her cause. He’d wager that she was convinced of her sister’s innocence beyond the natural loyalty of a sibling. If she was fooling him, then he could never again rely on his ability to judge honesty in a beautiful woman.
In the end, it didn’t really matter whether he trusted Miranda or not. He couldn’t let his feelings for her cause him to ignore the evidence against her sister and brother-in-law. Ben glanced around the sleeping town. He didn’t have evidence, yet. Suspicion and allegations in abundance, but no way to prove anything. And he couldn’t be certain that his meeting this morning would lead him to proof of anything. It could as easily be a trap.
If someone had killed his brother, that same person might also want to be rid of him. The most likely suspects seemed to be Thad and Mercy Buchanan, but he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that there was someone else behind his brother’s death. Rita was convinced that Mercy was a victim of Arthur’s plot. A small doubt entered Ben’s mind. As he’d traveled across the country, Ben had considered the possibility that his brother had cheated him, that he’d never intended to repay his debt. The possibility that Arthur was dishonest was one thing. But accepting that he was a murderer? Ben shook his head. He did not know Arthur well, but he couldn’t believe his brother was a killer.
What if Arthur and Mercy were both victims of another plot? It was a possibility Ben needed to rule out.
He gripped his Colt with his right hand, slipping it out of the holster and letting it drop back in. He’d spent years in his youth training himself to shoot as well with his right hand as his left. He’d taken money from foolish gamblers on more than one occasion, challenging them to a game with pistols and targets and goading them into doubling the bet when he switched to his “bad hand.”
Little did he suspect how important that skill would become to him one day. Now he could barely grip the gun with his left hand, let alone pull the trigger. Ready for anything, Ben walked into the small livery that was attached to Jock Meier’s blacksmith shop.
“Morning, Mr. Lansing.” Young George Meier stifled a yawn as he greeted him.
“Morning, George,” Ben said. “Have my horse ready?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy led a dappled gray gelding out of a stall. The animal looked as though an afternoon of grazing in the pasture might do him in. Ben wondered if he could carry a full-grown man any distance.
“Does he have a name?”
“We call him Lightning.”
Ben studied the docile creature. Either the beast had been very different in his youth, or the name was intended to be ironic. He led the horse out into the pink light of dawn. The animal didn’t protest, but Ben doubted he could achieve a gallop. He thought about exchanging the horse for one with more spirit, but then remembered he was lucky to have any ride for the price he could afford to pay.
He mounted Lightning and set off toward his brother’s ranch at a modest pace that would allow him to keep a sharp lookout for danger.
The first rays of dawn reflected off the rugged peaks, creating a spectacular scene. Ben was impressed anew with the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains as they reached for the crystal-blue sky. The snow-covered crests shone like diamonds in the morning sun, sparkling above the purple granite and bright fall colors of the slopes below. The entire scene sent a shiver up Ben’s spine. Beauty and majesty such as this would be a real challenge to capture on canvas. The knowledge that he would be forced to leave that joy to another artist did not diminish the wonder of the view.
The morning quiet was broken only by birdsong and some small critter, perhaps a squirrel, chirping excitedly up in one of the trees that forced themselves miraculously out of the rocks above the trail. As he rode away from town, Ben breathed deeply of the clean mountain air. An unaccustomed serenity settled over his shoulders as he rode up and away from town. He shook off the feeling, reminding himself that he must remain vigilant.
He refused to be fooled into thinking there was real peace available to him here. This place, these mountains, contained no magical cures for his troubles. Just the opposite—this town embodied trouble. His brother had been killed here; his money had disappeared here as well. The loss of the money and his brother’s death could be an unfortunate coincidence, or they could point to a plot of theft and murder. To solve the mystery, Ben must keep a clear and objective mind. He mustn’t allow the beauty of his surroundings to lull him into complacency. That way was for fools—he knew better. No one alive would look out for his interests. That was entirely up to him.
After thirty minutes of traveling at a steady pace, Ben spotted a group of men, about a hundred yards ahead, knotted together at the side of the trail. He transferred the reins to his left hand, letting his right hand drift close to his revolver. The men glanced up as he approached but paid little attention to him. It was either a very clumsy ambush, or a coincidence that they were gathered in this spot. He slowed the horse to a walk, waiting for some sign of the group’s intentions.
When they made no move, he took the initiative, reining Lightning to a stop a few yards from the cluster of men. “Morning,” he said, searching the faces to see whether he recognized any of them.
A stout man tossed his black hat at one of his colleagues and approached Ben. “Mornin’, Mr. Lansing.” The man walked with a slight limp, his hands hovering near the pair of revolvers that hung from his hips.
Ben sat taller and gave the man a slight nod to acknowledge the greeting. He kept one eye on the stout fellow, while remaining on guard for any threatening move from the others. There was no point in pulling his revolver against a half-dozen armed men. On the other hand, if any of them pulled a gun, Ben’s only chance would be to see whether Lightning had it in him to live up to his name.
“And you are?”
The man favored him with a broad grin. “Name’s O’Reilly, Mr. Lansing. I’m an old friend of your brother’s.”
“You’ll forgive my skepticism, Mr. O’Reilly, but my brother never mentioned you.” Nor could Ben imagine his brother would befriend an Irishman, unless the man happened to be wealthy. If O’Reilly had money, his clothing and appearance didn’t show it. Arthur was very conscious of class and social standing. Few sat lower on society’s ladder than the Irish.
O’Reilly laughed. “Very good, Mr. Lansing. You’re a smart one, you are.” He crossed his hands over his large belly and continued laughing for so long that Ben wondered if the man had consumed whiskey for breakfast. “Sadly, I didn’t have a chance to know your brother well before he passed on. But some of my men here worked fer him. They told me the full story of how he was killed and his son cheated out of his rightful inheritance.”
“What’s your interest in this, O’Reilly?”
Impossibly, the man’s grin widened. “I hope you’ll be willin’ to pay for my services in setting things to rights. Besides, I have me own reasons for seeing justice is done to the bitch who killed him.”
“Killed?” Ben’s stomach knotted at the thought of his brother being murdered. “I heard it was an accident.”
“Come,” O’Reilly said. “Have some breakfast with us and hear the whole story. Decide fer yerself if it were accident, or murder.”
Ben swallowed. That was exactly what he wanted to do. He nodded and waited for the men to mount their horses and lead the way up into the mountains.
Even the bright sunshine did not diminish the chill in the air as they climbed up a steep trail that seemed to lead to oblivion. An excellent location if these men intended to kill him and leave his body for the wild animals to consume in the wilderness. Just as Ben was considering how best to escape, the trail widened and he caught sight of a bustling encampment.
It didn’t take long for Ben to conclude the tent city was a mining settlement. He’d heard of such outposts springing up at the mere rumor of gold. Both sides of the muddy road were lined with canvas tents and lopsided wooden shacks, quick shelters erected with no thought for the future. The group brought the horses to a stop after passing through most of the makeshift village.
Inside one of the larger tents, O’Reilly introduced Ben to several men who used to work for Arthur. All were dressed in filthy rags. It was hard to say which man was more desperate until he met a skinny little fellow named Jed, who barely looked up as O’Reilly spoke his name.
“Mr.
Lansing
here”—O’Reilly raised his voice to get Jed’s attention—“is interested in finding evidence that Mercy Buchanan killed his brother.”
That comment brought Jed to his feet. “Lansing?” He squinted up at Ben.
“That’s right. Arthur Lansing was my brother.”
“Well, then.” Jed combed his fingers through his greasy hair. “Evidence you want, you come with me.”
Jed led them outside, behind the row of tents and up a rutted path to a small graveyard.
“That’s where we laid Luther to rest.” Jed pointed to a wooden marker that sat next to a large chunk of granite. There was no name on the marker, only a primitive cross cut into the wood.
“Who’s Luther?” Ben was growing impatient. None of the men had said a word that would help him understand his brother’s death.
Jed sniffled and wiped his shirtsleeve over his nose. “He was workin’ with me and O’Reilly to get the money rightfully belonging to Mr. Lansing, your brother, when Mercy shot him dead.”
“Mercy Buchanan killed this man?”
“Damned right, she did,” O’Reilly said. “Folks in Fort Victory say we was tryin’ to rob her. But that ain’t it. As Jed says, the money was rightfully Lansing money. All we was doin’ was tryin’ to make certain that cash made it to your brother.”
Ben stared at O’Reilly. “I heard another story. That my brother tried to kill her—Mercy.”
“That’s the rumor
she
started in town. It’s why none of us can show our faces there. They all believe the bitch.” O’Reilly punctuated his remark by spitting on the ground.
“If you’re truly innocent, why don’t you go to the sheriff?”
“The bitch is clever and she has friends in that town. Even the judge and the sheriff are friendly with her, if you take my meanin’.” He winked at Ben and shot him a disgusting grin.
“Look at us, Mr. Lansing,” Jed said. “You think anyone’s gonna listen to our side of the story after she tells ’em we come after her and shot her and all?”
“Who did shoot her?”
“I admit I shot the bitch,” O’Reilly said. “Wouldn’t you, in self-defense? You seen what she done to Luther.” He pointed at the grave. “He died slow, too; it took three days. I ended up with a piece of lead in my leg from that cheat Thad Buchanan. He was with her, you see. We didn’t have a chance—with Luther dyin’ and me wounded. By the time we made it to Fort Victory, she had ’em convinced we were the thieves. We couldn’t even get near the town to talk to the sheriff, not with a price on our heads.” He glanced up, but didn’t hold Ben’s gaze. “Then after she gets your brother’s money and ranch, she marries Buchanan. I say the two of ’em were plottin’ together all along.”
Ben turned away. A man buried in the ground wasn’t proof of anything. And he wasn’t inclined to take the word of this bunch without some real evidence; but he couldn’t just ignore these men, either. Their story was consistent with what his brother had written him.
Arthur had mentioned an unreasonable neighbor standing in the way of expanding his ranch. Although the letters hadn’t mentioned a name, Ben had no doubt his brother was referring to Mercy. Too bad he hadn’t kept the letters so that he could see the precise words Arthur had used. Ben hadn’t really cared at the time. He’d skimmed the letters for news of when Arthur would repay the loan. Arthur always worded his letters carefully, bragging about how well his ranch was doing and all the money he would be making in the near future. He never mentioned a definite date. There was always one more investment opportunity that Arthur couldn’t miss. Ben considered the men gathered around O’Reilly. If his brother had hired this lot, he was a poor judge of character.

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