Fugitive Hearts Page 2

  Perhaps a more direct approach would dislodge a memory. “How did he get shot?”

  She frowned, as if thinking hard. “He…tried to take the gun away from me.”

  Frank assembled a mental picture. “With the barrel pointed at his chest?”

  “No…yes….” Confusion, then distress flickered across her features. “I don’t remember.”

  Unease tiptoed up Frank’s spine. If they’d fought, she might’ve gotten scared and picked up a gun, could’ve pulled the trigger without intending to kill him. “Don’t remember? Or don’t want to incriminate yourself?”

  In the dim room, her wide eyes appeared almost black. He’d looked into them enough times to know they were warm brown flecked with gold. Normally, they snapped with keen intelligence or flashed with dry wit. Tonight they were dark with fear.

  “Here, now, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He gently put his hands on her shoulders to give her gentle reassurance. The physical contact seemed to shake her out of whatever state she’d slipped into and she twitched in response.

  Frank dropped his arms to his sides with a sharp reminder he was supposed to interview her, not hug her. He hooked his thumbs over his gun belt to keep his hands out of trouble. “Just tell me why you pointed a gun at your husband.”

  Her throat worked convulsively. A moist sheen appeared on her upper lip. She raised her hand to her forehead, swayed.

  He caught her as her limbs gave way. As he cradled the limp woman in his arms, he cursed himself up one side and down the other for interrogating her with her dead husband lying there, barely cold. He shifted her weight toward him. The movement pressed her soft breasts against his chest. His body’s reaction was sharp and immediate—and inappropriate as hell.

  He cast a frantic look around to find a place to put her. A door. Presumably, it led into a bedroom. He’d take her in there. Then he’d fetch the doc before he woke the undertaker.

  In the dark bedroom, he could see enough to spot a bed. He settled her on top of the spread. She hardly made a dent in the mattress. After he’d slipped his overcoat from beneath her, he snatched a quilt from a rack near the foot of the bed and draped it over her.

  “Mrs. Daines?” he whispered.

  Her long lashes fluttered. “Where’s Billy?” she asked in a fearful tone.

  “Take it easy. He’s around here somewhere, I’m sure.” The boy wandered the town like a stray cat. His whereabouts was the least of her worries right now.

  Frank tucked the quilt up to her chin. When she tried to push the covers away, he caught her hands. Her hold on his fingers felt surprisingly tight. That was fine, if she needed to cling to him for a while longer.

  He understood better than she could know. Disbelief and denial, followed by useless remorse and unending guilt. He hadn’t pulled the trigger on the gun that killed his wife, but he might as well have. Self-condemnation ate at his soul like an insidious disease.

  She screwed her eyes shut, which indicated she remained awake.

  He wouldn’t get much useful out of her tonight, and wasn’t so hardhearted he would try. As it was, she would suffer nightmares. The kind he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, much less a sweet lady like Claire.

  “Don’t worry about anything. I’ll send for the undertaker, and tell Doc to give you something to help you rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” He closed his calloused palms over Claire’s smooth hands. He couldn’t picture her holding a gun, much less firing one. Yet, she’d admitted to—

  No. She hadn’t only said she shot her husband, as in, by accident. She had said she killed him. That implied something different. Intent.

  Frank shook his head at his suspicious nature. He was too used to dealing with liars and murderers. Claire was neither. She was a fine, upstanding lady. A respected woman in the community. What did it matter how she’d worded her confession, considering her fragile state? If she said it was an accident, there was no reason to doubt her.

  Chapter 2

  “Fire!” Claire bolted upright. She caught her breath with a harsh gasp, dropped back onto the bed and curled into a ball. Her stomach roiled. Her head felt fuzzy. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing.

  Something the doctor had given her to help her sleep must’ve brought on those awful nightmares. Choking… The smoke? Or Frederick’s arm around her neck? The thudding in her chest became heavier, harder, as she touched her fingers to a tender spot.

  Fear crested and broke free, coursing through her in a raging river. She squeezed her eyes shut but couldn’t block out the images, which seemed too real to be dreamed up.

  Her husband’s bellow of rage. A loud retort and the stench of gunpowder. Billy’s pale, frightened face…

  Claire opened her eyes. The air looked clear. She didn’t smell anything except her own damp body. She eased off the bed and stood slowly to gain her balance.

  Had it happened? She had to find out. Find Billy.

  She halted at the bedroom door. The floor in the sitting room, bare. Where was the carpet? A faint smell of smoke. Singed curtains. Furniture pushed up against the walls…

  A cold chill passed through her body. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry.

  Oh God, the awful nightmare. It really happened.

  The room went spinning.

  She staggered to the sofa, grabbed the bolstered arm, dropped down onto the cushioned seat. Some previous instruction in her mind prompted her to put her head down and take deep breaths. Her dizziness ebbed, but a haunting image remained. Frederick, sprawled face down on the carpet, his dressing gown askew, revealing the back of his hairy legs.

  “Our Father, who a-art in Heaven. H-hallowed be Thy name...for-forgive my trespasses….” Claire clutched her hands together to pray. She might as well be talking to herself. God had turned his back on her. He knew she’d secretly longed to escape a marriage that had become unbearable.

  Tears blurred her vision until she could no longer see the hardwood floor beneath her feet. She buried her face in her hands. “Frederick, I’m so sorry…”

  Why plead with her husband? If God wouldn’t pardon her, Frederick certainly wouldn’t. He’d make a list of her sins and give it to Saint Peter. If only she hadn’t argued and made him angry, they wouldn’t have fought. Where had Billy gotten the gun? She didn’t think the boy even knew where she kept it. Another sin to add to her growing list.

  At the click of the doorknob, she jerked upright. “Billy?”

  “Mrs. Kelly, dear. Here to check on you.”

  The woman she’d hired to do the cooking. A sweet, widowed lady whose grown son helped around the hotel. Good people. Kind. She might’ve checked on Billy already.

  “Come in.”

  The door creaked and the gray-haired woman peeked around the edge. “How’re you feeling, dearie?”

  Claire couldn’t begin to put into words how she felt. She longed to crawl back into bed and bury her head under the covers. As a child, she’d prayed every night to wake up to a different life. In retrospect, she shouldn’t have prayed so hard. “What time is it?”

  “Past breakfast.” The older woman’s cherubic face wrinkled into a hesitant smile as she entered the room. She held a tray laden with food.

  Claire’s stomach rebelled at the over-rich smell of cooked eggs, charred bacon and browned toast. “Oh dear. I don’t think I’m very hungry.”

  “Don’t suppose you are, but you need the nourishment. Try to take a few bites.”

  Claire kept her face averted from the spot on the floor where her husband had fallen. After the initial thud, he hadn’t uttered a sound or moved a muscle. She hadn’t imagined death could come so quickly, but she hadn’t been able to rouse him. She’d known without turning him over he was gone. Another shudder racked her body.

  “Yes, thank you.” Somehow, she managed a polite response, despite the terrifying sense of being sucked into a vortex. She began a slow, rocking motion to counteract the spinning sensation. If she succumbed to despair, that w
ouldn’t help Billy. For his sake, she had to gather her strength to face this ordeal.

  The cook set the tray on a low table in front of the sofa. “Would you like some more of that medicine the doctor left?”

  “No. No more medicine.” Claire put her hand to her head. Lightheaded as she was, the last thing she needed was more laudanum, or whatever it was he’d given her. She had to be able to think clearly in order to forestall disaster. “Have you seen Billy?”

  “Not this morning. His door is closed. He might still be asleep.”

  “Stay in your room,” she’d whispered to him. “Don’t talk to anyone until I come for you.”

  If Billy had minded her for this long, he must truly be frightened.

  A dull ache centered in her chest. She would go talk to him, explain none of this was his fault, impress upon him that he must let her deal with the consequences.

  The cook’s plump hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Mrs. Daines?”

  Claire’s eyes popped open. When had she closed them? Her thoughts kept wandering. It must be the lingering effects of the medicine. “Yes, yes I’m fine.”

  The cook eyed her doubtfully. “You don’t look fine to me. You’re white as milk.”

  “That medicine makes me sick.” Claire reached for a piece of toast. “I’ll try to eat something.”

  “Good. You’ll need your strength. The sheriff said he’d be back this morning to talk to you. Said you ought not leave again until he returns.”

  Claire’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Leave again? When had she left before?

  Her muddled mind pieced together fragments. Another foggy memory, also not a dream. All she’d been able think to do, get to the sheriff before someone else did. One of the men she’d passed on her way outside told her the sheriff was next door. She’d gone into the saloon. In her nightclothes.

  Her stomach shrank to the size of a peach pit. She set the toast on the plate, unable to choke it down.

  “Missus? You all right?” The concerned voice seemed to come from a distance.

  Claire shook her head. She’d been out of her mind. That was the only feasible explanation.

  How much did the sheriff remember? He’d been sitting alone with his head cradled in his arms. A whiskey bottle overturned on the table. Drunk.

  Not too drunk to scoop her up and carry her back to the hotel. Worse, she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and had clung to him. She hadn’t wanted him to let her go.

  Heat flooded her face. He’d cradled her close. Held her. Touched her hair. His behavior, and hers, ought to disgust her. She waited for the wave of revulsion, then wondered why she couldn’t feel anything except numbness and a vague sense of guilt.

  “Frederick…” she started.

  “The sheriff and the undertaker rolled him up in the rug to take him out.” The cook explained this as a matter of fact. She couldn’t know how much that would’ve horrified Frederick, a man who’d guarded his privacy and fretted constantly about being humiliated.

  Remorse twisted the knife in Claire’s heart. She should have seen to her husband instead of crawling into bed and falling into a drug-induced sleep. She wasn’t a good wife. No wonder he had come to despise her.

  Hot tears leaked from between her closed eyes. She used to cry all the time after Frederick had returned from the war with his mind broken. That was before she’d learned it did no good. Tears were useless.

  She leaned forward and put her fists to her eyes to staunch the flow. Spoke in an agonized whisper. “I never meant to hurt him.”

  Mrs. Kelly patted her back. “Now, now. Of course, you didn’t intend to shoot him. It just…happened.”

  Her meant-to-be soothing remark carried an unspoken how and why. Those were questions Claire dared not answer. Not until she came up with a plausible story.

  She cringed when she thought about the days ahead. A funeral had to be planned. She would be put on trial. By now everyone in town would be talking and her name would be on their lips. She would rather have her teeth pulled than become the center of attention. Lord above, how would she get through this?

  If she telegraphed her brother, Henry, he’d come straightaway. Just like he’d rescued her before when Frederick had lost his job and they were in dire straits. But Henry had a new position, a wife and a baby. It wouldn’t be right to burden him with this awful tragedy. He’d already done far more than he should have, and he’d dealt with enough trouble over the past year. No, she wouldn’t ask Henry to save her. Somehow, she would overcome fear and grief long enough to take care of things. If not for her sake, for Billy’s.

  Claire straightened with renewed determination. She used a napkin to wipe her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Kelly. I do appreciate your kindness, but I have no appetite. I must get dressed before the sheriff returns. Will you see if Billy wants breakfast?”

  With that, she sent the cook away with the tray of food.

  The cedar chest in the bedroom contained one black gown, which she’d reserved for funerals. She’d need to purchase another black dress, along with a black hat and veil to take her through the six-month mourning period. Fortunately, the items could be ordered, readymade. If unavailable, she could dye several of her dresses. Given her dismal outlook, she might convert her entire wardrobe to black and be done with it.

  She rubbed her arms to stop trembling, stuffed her guilt deep down where it couldn’t hamper her. It was easier to keep her mind from wandering if she focused on the arduous task of pinning up her knee-length hair.

  What would be a plausible story? An accident. That’s what she’d told the sheriff last night. What else had she offered?

  A blank gaze in the mirror stared back at her. She couldn’t remember what she’d said, other than telling him she couldn’t find the gun. She would look for it again this morning. Billy might’ve taken it to his room.

  She secured the heavy twist of hair within a black snood. Tucked a handkerchief beneath her sleeve and buckled a chatelaine around her waist that held her keys.

  Now, before the sheriff returned, she and Billy needed to have a talk. If only she could’ve gotten to him to first. Taken the gun away. To wish things could be different wasted energy. Billy needed all the love and support she could give him. She needed his cooperation to get through the difficulties they’d face in the coming days.

  An inquest would be held. Likely, a short one because she’d confessed. If the judge believed her story, and accepted the shooting was accidental, she didn’t think she’d go to jail. It wouldn’t keep people from gossiping for years to come. She could bear the shame. She’d borne worse.

  She stopped at Billy’s room and knocked. “Billy? May I come in?”

  Maybe he’d gone downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast.

  She tried the knob. The door swung open, and her heart lurched. Inside, the room remained dark. No one had pulled back the curtains. The bed covers were smooth and neat, which indicated he hadn’t slept there. His hat and coat , usually hung on a peg by the door, were gone.

  She hurried down the back stairs, breathing a prayer. Please, Lord, let him be in the kitchen. He wouldn’t run off, not after she’d promised to take care of everything.

  Mrs. Kelly met her before she made it down the hall. “We haven’t found him yet. Didn’t want to worry you. I looked all over, in his usual hiding spots. One of the guests said the sheriff was asking folks if they’d seen him last night.”

  Claire’s heart skipped a beat.

  The sheriff.

  Surely, he wouldn’t have taken Billy to jail. Not unless he’d wrung the truth out of the boy before she had the chance to stop him.

  Chapter 3

  As he exited his office, Frank’s breath clouded the cold morning air. He turned up his coat collar and experienced another twinge of conscience. He’d been too busy last night to search for a little boy who had a history of disappearing when he didn’t want to be found.

  If Billy wasn’t hiding somewhere in the Belmont
House, he was smart enough to seek out a warm place to spend the night. Perhaps in a closet at the railroad boarding house or the storage area at the train depot.

  Frank retrieved a pencil and dog-eared notebook from his inside coat pocket. If he wrote things down, he didn’t have to trust his faulty memory. He noted a couple more places for his deputy to check.

  The troublesome orphan had run away from every family he’d been placed with. Although it made no sense for him to up and leave a warm house on a cold night. Coincidentally, on the night when Frederick Daines was killed.

  Billy must’ve witnessed the shooting. The boy distrusted anyone in authority, after having numerous run-ins with the law. Stealing, trespassing… At an age when most boys were still attending school, he’d been well on his way to a criminal life when Claire had stepped in. She was one of the few people who believed Billy could become a model citizen. Unlikely, but if anyone could turn him around, it would be the practical, dignified lady who ran the Belmont House.

  For now, Billy wasn’t the person Frank most worried about. Hopefully, Mrs. Daines would’ve recovered enough to answer questions and he could write off the shooting as an accident. An awful tragedy. One she would live with for the rest of her life, but wouldn’t send her to prison. He couldn’t erase her grief, but he could put the unfortunate incident to rest as quickly as possible.

  He set a slow, deliberate pace on the short walk to the mercantile. Rubbed at the dull throbbing between his eyes. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear an angry mule had kicked him in the head.

  The only ass around here is ‘yours truly.’

  Frank heaved a regretful sigh. He ran his hand through hair that had grown too long on a head that needed examining for signs of stupidity.

  Last night made twice in the past four months he’d gone on a bender. The dark episodes that triggered his binges were getting more frequent, not less. If he progressed on a path set by most drunks, he’d soon be wallowing in the mud, ravaged in mind and body.

  He dismissed the ugly thought. Would have to deal with that later. Right now, his immediate need was food. Once he’d filled his belly, he’d be ready to face a distasteful task. He’d much rather exchange pleasantries than interrogate the lovely widow.