Fugitive Hearts Page 4

  Rambling.

  Frank stroked one side of his mustache. Last year, she’d showed him a small Remington she kept in the registration desk. Plenty of outlaws roamed the territory, enough to warrant having a weapon handy for protection. Still, it didn’t explain why she felt the need to protect herself from her spouse. “You came downstairs to retrieve a pistol. Were you scared of your husband?”

  “No.” The muscles in her throat moved as she swallowed. Another lie. “I retrieved the pistol earlier and took it upstairs.”

  “Why?”

  “To reload it. The gun went off accidentally.”

  This didn’t fit with what she’d told him last night.

  “You mean, it went off when your husband tried to take it away?”

  “What?” Her confusion appeared authentic. Maybe she didn’t recall what she’d said to him. Shock could do that. He gave her another chance to explain.

  “You told me last night you shot him when he tried to take the gun away from you.”

  She rubbed her temple like she was thinking hard or her head hurt. “Oh, yes. That’s right. I must’ve blocked it out. He wanted me to give him the gun, said he should load it. I told him I didn’t think that was a good idea.”

  This had to be stupidest excuse she’d come up with yet.

  “He was a soldier, right? He knew how to load a gun.”

  Irritation interrupted her grief long enough to show him she didn’t appreciate his sarcasm. “Of course he did. But I didn’t leave guns around because…” Her eyes widened as if she’d started down a path unintentionally. “Sometimes he’s clumsy.”

  “You’re changing your story, then? Saying he got clumsy, not you.”

  Her face reddened. “No, that’s not what I said at all. While I reloaded, he grabbed the pistol, and it discharged.”

  “Was that before or after the fire?”

  “Fire? I don’t remember.” She moistened her lips, fidgeted some more with the chain holding her keys. At least she wasn’t comfortable with lying, or even very good at it.

  His protective streak made an unexpected—and unwanted—reappearance. Frank balled his fist on his knee and took a firm hold on his bleeding heart. He hadn’t been able to keep his wife safe. What made him think he could shelter a dishonest widow who didn’t trust him?

  One more chance. But she had to come clean.

  “Your curtains were scorched. I saw a candle and some water on the floor by the window.”

  “The candle…” Her attention fixed on the desk behind him. She’d long since stopped looking him in the eye. “It got knocked over, accidentally, while I was looking on the desk for something.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just some papers.”

  Holy hell, she’d try the patience of a saint—and he didn’t qualify.

  Frank unfolded himself out of the small chair and adjusted his gun belt. This nonsense had gone on long enough. “If you’ve finished airing your lungs, why don’t we get down to business. You tell me what really happened.”

  Chapter 4

  Hovered over her, the sheriff resembled a hawk perched on a fence post, waiting for the mouse the grass to make its move.

  Claire’s skin grew damp beneath the widow’s weeds, yet she shivered and her heart drummed in her chest. The dratted lawman had intentionally tripped her up. To what end, she wasn’t sure. Unless he thought she shot Frederick on purpose. Nothing she’d told him would give him any reason to assume she would intentionally pull the trigger.

  She adjusted the shawl around her neck just in case the high lace collar didn’t hide her reddened skin and the bruises from her husband’s fingers. Her controlled distress seemed to annoy the tenacious sheriff, if the hard set of his jaw was any indication. Perhaps he thought she didn’t act properly mournful because she hadn’t wailed her grief for all to see.

  He’d have no more patience with a frightened child. Although that wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t tell him what really happened.

  Billy had been betrayed so many times by so many people, it was no wonder he didn’t expect her to honor her word to protect him. She would, though. And when she did, he would know he could safely return.

  With renewed determination, she lifted her chin. “I’ve told you what happened. It was an accident.”

  He narrowed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. It might indicate he didn’t believe her. Or maybe his head hurt. He’d been very drunk last night.

  Not for the first time, she wondered what to make of the tall, rugged lawman. From all reports, he rarely swore, didn’t smoke, gamble, or visit the dance halls and bawdy houses on the outskirts of the railroad town. His only vice appeared to be his fondness for distilled spirits. Even inebriated, he’d behaved like a gentleman.

  Whenever she happened to see him—not as often as she would’ve liked—he greeted her cordially, yet maintained a proper distance. For the better part of the past three years, she’d fought an unfitting attraction to him. Secretly, she’d been glad he showed little interest in the single women who pursued him, although he’d been married at one time.

  Not that she ought to care about his marital state.

  She did wonder about his age. Hard years were etched on his face. His sandy hair was streaked with gray, not to mention unkempt. It had grown so long it brushed his shoulders. His craggy features she found compelling, if not what one might call handsome. However, it was hard to tell what he really looked like beneath the bushy mustache and ever-present bristle. She suspected if he cleaned up and got rid of that extra hair, he’d be attractive.

  She shouldn’t care about his appearance, either.

  He tucked his thumbs into his gun belt in what could be considered a threatening posture, except his scowl had softened. “Mrs. Daines, I understood you the first time when you said your husband’s death was an accident. But you aren’t telling me everything. And don’t insult my intelligence by repeating nonsense. You wouldn’t load a gun while your place burned to the ground.”

  She stiffened at the snide remark, delivered deadpan. “The hotel wasn’t burning down. Only the draperies were singed. A vase of water put the flames out. We’re not talking about a bonfire.”

  Her insides quavered. The fire could’ve been a disaster had Billy not arrived when he did. While she fought to escape her maddened husband’s chokehold, the quick-thinking boy had removed flowers from a vase and dashed water on the curtains. That was before he’d threatened Frederick with her revolver. Whether he had it in his hand when he showed up, she couldn’t recall. But how else would he have gotten it? She must’ve left the drawer downstairs unlocked and he’d found it. Another twist of guilt doubled her over.

  Maybe the sheriff would leave if he saw she didn’t feel well.

  His scuffed, mud-caked boots remained planted in front of her. “When you’re recovered, accompany me upstairs.”

  “Why? You went through the room last night. Mrs. Kelly told me you removed the rug, along with…with my husband’s body.”

  “That’s true, but I need you to walk me through what happened. Show me where you were when you shot him.”

  A sick feeling swept through Claire. Additional details? More ornamentation wouldn’t improve her story any more than dressing up a pig would make it more attractive. “I’ve told you what happened. There’s nothing more I can add.”

  The sheriff’s features hardened. This cold-eyed stranger couldn’t be the same man who’d carried her home last night and tenderly tucked her into bed.

  Her gaze slid down to his large hands. Long, blunt-tipped fingers were splayed across his narrow hips while his thumbs remained tucked in his gun belt.

  She’d touched those scarred knuckles, felt the callouses on his palms. Hands that rough couldn’t be as gentle as she recalled. A shiver passed through her, only she wasn’t cold. Her face burned like she’d bent over a hot stove.

  At last, he moved away. He retrieved his hat from the rack and secured it on his head, smoothing his fingers over the wide brim. Thank goodness. He’d decided to leave.

  She breathed easier. “Are we done?”

  “No, ma’am, we are not done.” His drawl became more pronounced when he was annoyed. He shrugged into his worn leather coat. “I’ll be back. After I find Billy.”

  Dear Lord. No. She couldn’t let him find Billy before she did. If the boy broke his silence, all her efforts to shield him would be for naught.

  She jerked to her feet. “Wait! Don’t leave yet.”

  The sheriff reached for the knob. Hadn’t he heard her? Desperate, she lunged for his coat sleeve. He turned his head, slowly. “Is there some reason I should stay?”

  If there was a reason, she forgot it completely. His eyes appeared gray from a distance. Upon closer inspection, she could see they were actually pale green shot through with striations of dark blue, like spokes in a wheel. Unusual, and quite beautiful.

  One of his sandy eyebrows arched upward in a silent question.

  Claire snapped out of the odd spell. Her breath returned in an audible gasp. Shocked at her forward behavior, she backed away so fast she stumbled.

  Fast as lightning, he caught her upper arms.

  His aggressive move ignited an instinctive response. She shrank away. “Please. Don’t hurt me.”

  He blinked as if she’d stunned him an instant before his harsh features softened into pure astonishment. “What makes you think I’d hurt you?”

  “You grabbed me.”

  “To keep you from tripping over your own feet.” He still held onto her arms with firm, yet gentle, grip.

  Her face got hot enough to melt butter. She covered her embarrassment with a sharp retort. “You might’ve said so.”

  “Didn’t think it was necessary.” His eyes narrowed.

  She suddenly realized why she hadn’t noticed the color before. He squinted. A lot. When he stood outside, when he was thinking. Maybe, like her, he had trouble seeing things up close and forgot to wear his spectacles.

  “Did your husband beat you?” The sheriff’s unexpected inquiry set off a memory that flashed through her mind.

  Frederick had come into the bedroom the previous night to tell her he’d sold the hotel—without consulting her. She’d thrown down her brush in a rare show of temper. Told him he had no right. His powerful backhand had knocked her off the chair.

  “I have every right. Or have you forgotten who I am?”

  Never would she forget the thoughtful, generous man who’d rescued her from a lonely existence. He wouldn’t have lifted a hand to her. But that man had died on a battlefield. Someone who looked like him had returned in his place. A melancholy, brooding stranger prone to destructive, sometimes violent, fits of rage fed by a tortured mind.

  “B-beat me? Of course not,” she sputtered. “Frederick d-didn’t…” She couldn’t form the lie. He’d struck her, more than once, only when he wasn’t himself. “He wasn’t a cruel man.”

  Thankfully, the sheriff released her. Then he astonished her when he reached up to frame her face with his thumb and forefinger. His regard turned decidedly warmer.

  His reaction confounded her, and sent quivers dancing across her skin and cavorting through her insides. Her lips tingled in anticipation. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was about to kiss her. To her utter mortification, she couldn’t make her feet move to back away.

  “You don’t have to protect him any longer.” His low baritone vibrated with reassurance.

  Perhaps that was true. Except, she’d been protecting her husband for so long she couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. “He…he wasn’t to blame for what happened.”

  “Are you saying you are?” He dropped his hand, which released the invisible bonds that held her in place.

  Claire took a step back, stricken with guilt. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. I’m responsible for what happened.”

  Her affirmation was met with a flat stare. “You believe you deserve to be beaten.”

  “Good heavens, no. You mistook my meaning.”

  “Then say what you mean. Did you shoot him to protect yourself?”

  Claire trembled at the stark accusation, which was closer to the truth than the story she’d spun. Except, she wasn’t one of those pathetic women who allowed men to abuse her. Most of the time, she could calm her husband during his outbursts. If he did strike out, it was because he didn’t know her. However, if she confessed what the sheriff suggested, she didn’t doubt he would believe her. He appeared remarkably sympathetic—for a man.

  Such a confession wouldn’t help. She’d told no one before about her husband’s periodic attacks. No jury would absolve a woman for killing her husband just because he raised his hand to her. Most men would believe he was within his rights. If she declared she shot Frederick intentionally, it could lead to longer jail time. Or worse, to the gallows.

  The sheriff buttoned his overcoat. She couldn’t let him leave before she persuaded him not to search for Billy. God forbid the lawman should find the boy before she did.

  She held out her arms in a plea. “Why can’t you believe Frederick’s death was an unfortunate accident?”

  “Maybe I would. If you hadn’t lied.”

  Chapter 5

  Frank strode out of the hotel, fuming. Claire must take him for an idiot if she thought he would swallow that absurd story she’d cooked up. The gun hadn’t discharged accidentally. She’d pulled the trigger. He could guess why, after seeing her shrink away, afraid he might wallop her. Although she denied it, the abuse must’ve been going on for some time for her to snap like that.

  Fear also kept her from giving him straight answers. He’d get some if his deputy had flushed out the boy. He angled across the street, barely missed being struck by a buckboard. As it brushed him, the driver yelled. “Are you blind?”

  Frank bit back an obscene reply. He couldn’t swear at the farmer for being careless, not when he wasn’t paying attention. His mind had been filled with the image of Claire, cringing away from him.

  Blast it. He should’ve noticed her suffering, done something about it. Generally, he picked up on things like that. Abused women were fearful, scared of their own shadows. They hid bruises beneath wide-brimmed bonnets and long sleeves. He hadn’t seen any marks on Claire, and she held her head up. At least, she did whenever he saw her, which he had to admit wasn’t often. He was too busy to drop by and visit every day.

  His conscience applied another lash. Too much work wasn’t the real reason he’d stayed away. Call it lack of moral fortitude or just plain cowardice, he’d kept his distance because he couldn’t shake this infernal attraction for a married woman. Not even now, when he suspected she might’ve purposely killed her husband.

  A moment ago, he had nearly kissed her.

  If he didn’t watch out, he’d let his hankering for her get in the way of doing his job. Just like he’d once let pride blind him to danger. He’d paid too great a price before.

  “Mr. Garrity!” The call came from a man bundled in a black overcoat and beaver hat. Elias “Sharp” Taylor, the new mayor. He met Frank as they reached the opposite sidewalk at the same time. “Good morning, Sheriff.”

  Frank tugged the brim of his hat. He hid his troubled thoughts behind a polite expression. “Morning, Mayor.”

  Sharp beamed at the moniker. Apparently, he liked his new title better than his nickname, which had been pinned on him during the war when he was quartermaster. He had a reputation for being, well, sharp in his dealings.

  Taylor had his eye on a seat in the state senate and had hopped aboard the coattails of the railroad’s current general manager, figuring Bond would help him get there. Frank didn’t trust the new mayor, but he had to show him respect, given his position.

  The mayor stroked a luxurious beard. Some grew hair on their face for warmth, others because they didn’t care to shave. Sharp thought it made him look more dignified. “You on the way to your office?”

  “Not for long.”

  “That’s fine, I’ll walk with you and we can talk on the way.” Taylor fell into step beside him. His eyes gleamed with avid interest. “What did you find out from Mrs. Daines? Did she tell you why she shot her husband?”

  It made sense the mayor would want to know the outcome. Only, he seemed less concerned about Claire’s misfortune

  “You know I can’t tell you anything about a case under investigation.”

  “She admitted she shot him.”

  “Did you hear her say that?”

  “No, but Mr. Bond did. He said she announced it in the saloon in front of you. In her unmentionables.”

  Was it against the law to sew people’s lips together?

  “She didn’t announce anything. When she came to find me, she wasn’t thinking clearly. I don’t think she had any idea what she said.” Frank lengthened his stride, intending to leave the shorter man behind.

  The mayor doggedly kept up. “Is that what she claimed? She went crazy?”

  Frank jerked to a halt. “That’s not what I said.”

  Sharp leaned in, with a sly smile. “I heard she caught him with another woman.”

  The crude insinuation sent Frank’s anger soaring. “Since when did our mayor turn into a gossipy old lady?”

  Taylor drew back with a surprised expression that quickly turned offended. “I heard you were rude to the ladies this morning, as well. You ought to arrest that brazen woman for murder instead of throwing stones at respectable citizens.”

  Respectable citizens? More like dim-witted sheep.

  Frank pulled in his horns before he gave the town more grist for their gossip mill. “I’ve found no cause to believe she murdered him. If anything, he…”

  “He what?” If Sharp was a dog, his ears would’ve pricked up.

  Now Frank wished he’d sewed his own lips shut. “Nothing. I can’t talk about the case. She’ll appear before the judge. He can decide if there’s enough evidence for an indictment.”

  “But you will arrest her.”