Chapter One
The first shot cracked hollow and faint, out of place in the still afternoon. The pesky black-tailed jackrabbits ornamenting the road flicked their ears and took nervous hops forward. Kathryn Winchester's team pointed their own ears toward the disturbance.
Another shot exploded on the wind, and Bob, the near horse, shied and tried to run, dragging Tarnish, the red roan off horse, with him. Kate managed to hold the animals in check, leaning back hard on the long black ribbons of leather and bracing her feet against the dash.
Who was out here shooting this time of day? Maybe someone had run into a rattlesnake. Or maybe it was only Ira shooting at rabbits, which had overrun the country so badly this year that the county auditor had offered five cents per scalp or for a pair of ears. But even with the reward Ira wasn't a man much taken with shooting. He hadn't done much of it since the end of the war, twenty-one years ago. In fact, he had sold or traded off all but one of his guns, an ancient Sharps carbine. Rather than hunting, they lived mostly off their own beef and hogs.
Kate had had her one long look at the house after they crossed the new log bridge over the Blackfoot River and before they turned onto the main road that led to the ranch. She had taken Little Indian Road that day as a way to break the monotony. It wasn't the way she normally went. But since they had built the bridge there it made the trip a pleasant one, and it gave her a little extra time to think. That day, after an argument with Ira which culminated in her taking the trip to town alone, there was plenty to think about, and she needed the time.
At that point the house had still been more than two miles away. But from that distance much of the yard could be seen clearly. There was no movement.
Kathryn put a hand to the broach at her throat, fingering it the way her children said she did when she was nervous. She knew Ira would be home. She had left right after their argument, at eight o'clock that morning, with two of their horses pulling the wagon. Ira's mare, Ginger, had cut a fetlock on barbed wire and wasn't in riding shape yet. And her husband wasn't a man to walk much, especially on a July afternoon like this one when it topped out at a blistering ninety-five degrees in the shade.
Worry crept into the edges of Kathryn's mind, though she tried to ward it off. This was range country. It wasn't unheard of for someone to shoot at a snake, a coyote, a wolf or bear-any number of animals most self-important humans considered pests, especially the rampaging jackrabbits of that year. But something nagged at her stomach, an unexplained sensation that this was something more. She forgot all about her argument with Ira, about the stupidity of it.
Her worry had its way. She clucked Bob and Tarnish into a long trot, letting the white ribbon of road fall away behind them. She stood up in the wagon, trying to get a glimpse of the house and outbuildings but knowing she wouldn't see them again until they topped the big rise.
Nagging worry transformed into a strange fear as she drew on. She allowed her emotions to get the best of her. It was only gunshots, certainly nothing out of place in country where most travelers still went around armed. But something sent her a warning. Something unspoken, confided only to her heart. She had had similar feelings before and ignored them; always she had lived to regret it. And even if her instincts were giving her a false alarm, the sooner she reached home the sooner she would know for certain. She could wait till then and laugh her feelings off if it proved to be a laughing matter.
Kathryn slapped the ribbons against the horses' necks, driving them harder than any prudent teamster would have chosen to do. There were five hundred pounds of grain in the back, along with other dry goods and a month's supply of staples for her, Ira and the children. The right wheels dropped into a rut, then careened back out of it. She heard things shift behind her and glanced back. For the moment the load seemed secure.
At nearly a mile and a half they came over the top of the rise. She could see the house and barns, and all appeared to be quiet. There was still no sign of life there of any kind. But the gunshot worried her. She didn't slack her speed.
It was at a distance of half a mile from the house that everything changed. Suddenly, a group of horsemen appeared from behind the house. Surprise made Kate's heart leap into her throat. She watched the riders gallop up the curving lane that led down to her yard, then surge onto the main road. They skidded to a halt, a huge, whirling cloud of dust enveloping them until most of them became a mass of shapeless images. The fore-most rider sat a buckskin horse, and another rode a gray. The rest were too vague to make out.
Before Kate's wagon had come much nearer, the man on the buckskin waved the others back. They spun their mounts and spurred east toward the holdings of the Twin Wolfe Ranch and the Blackfoot Mountains and Wolverine country. By the time she came to the ranch turn-off, they had disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Kate wheeled the horses onto the down-sloping lane. She yelled at them, sending them careening recklessly along the ruts. She no longer cared what happened to the goods in back of the wagon. Something was wrong at the ranch. She had to reach Ira. They tipped up on the right wheels as the wagon came around the first turn, then up on the left ones as it made its last curve. The weight in the back slammed the wheels back against the ground as the wagon straightened out.
Bob and Tarnish slowed when they neared the house. By the time they reached the north side they were at just over a walk and breathing heavily, stamping their feet and tossing their heads. Their hides ran with dark fingers of sweat and froth gathered at the corners of their mouths. Warily, Kate drew them up in the yard alongside the house. Except for the chickens and the snuffling of the hogs in their pen, all was quiet.
The memory of the fleeing horsemen scared Kate, but even more terrifying was Ira's absence. He would never leave her to unload the wagon herself.
Kate took a deep breath, then forced herself to take another. It was difficult to breathe against the tightness of the corset she had donned to make herself presentable in town. She cursed, as she often did, the unwritten rules of society that made such a hindrance necessary at all.
Her eyes swung back and forth. The door to the house hung open, as well as the one to the barn. Wiping beads of sweat from under her eyes with a gloved fingertip, she jumped from the wagon, nearly turning an ankle. Absently, she patted Bob's rump, causing him to shift his weight. When she dropped her arm, a soft cloud of dust sifted from the ruffles of her light blue cotton dress. Bob blew through his nostrils and shook his head, stomping a foot.
She brushed a strand of dark hair from her cheek. Dust that had stuck to it where it wasn't covered by her hat filtered away on the dead air. She forced herself to take another breath, looking toward the house. Panic had nearly closed off her throat, so she had to fight for that breath. The corset squeezed her lungs down deep, only letting her fill them partway. Curse women's fashion! She tried to calm herself.
"Ira?" she called tentatively, then once more.
Ira didn't answer. The only sound was a hen digging for grubs and clucking to its chicks among the red roses along the side of the house. She looked back up the road. She didn't know why. There would be no one else around except perhaps R.M. and Susan Sievers, who were half a mile away across the valley toward the river-unless some of the riders had remained . . .
With a ragged sigh of despair, Kate lifted the hem of her dress and her petticoats off the ground and took the three steps up onto the porch. Her eyes roved the yard once more, not wanting to go into the house. Where was Ira? Who were the riders she'd seen? And a more important question-did she really want to know? She had experienced enough heartache in her life for three women, but it never got easier. In spite of the fact that she and Ira had started arguing frequently, the thought of something happening to him tore her apart. Her heart couldn't have beat any harder. It felt like it would explode in her throat. She steeled herself and moved along the porch.
When she reached the door, she peered around the side of the frame. The first thing she saw was the chair lying on its back. She caught her breath and brought her hand to her mouth. Gaining control, she took a quick step inside, biting the insides of her cheeks so hard she nearly bit them through.
The curtains hadn't been drawn, so the interior was well lit. But after peering at the brightness of the road so long, the room seemed very dim. She let her eyes adjust for several seconds. As they came to the divan, she saw Ira's flat-heeled boots. Her ears began to ring with terror. Her eyes dimmed. With her teeth clenched, she forced herself forward, trembling all over, nearly stumbling over the throw rug.
Ira lay motionless on his face, a puddle of blood around his chest. He had grabbed at the cover of the divan as he went down, pulling it partially with him and smearing it with blood. Kate dropped to her knees, not caring if she soiled her dress in the blood. Taking off the leather gloves she wore for driving, she threw them aside, struggling to roll Ira onto his back. With fear tearing at her, she put her fingers to his throat. The faint mutter was almost weaker than her fingers could detect.
Putting her hand under her husband, Kate found the hole a bullet had made in his shirt, and she used that weakness to tear the garment open. She touched the bullet wound in his ribcage. One of the ribs was broken, and the wound still seeped. The bullet had gone through.
Dabbing at her eyes with the backs of her hands, Kate stood up and ran out to the well. She drew a tin bucket full of water and spilled half of it on the way back inside. Gathering linen sheets from the bedroom, she returned to the main room to drag the old bear rug near. She had never liked that hideous thing. Maybe the bloodstains would give her the reason she had always wanted to throw it away. She told herself to be calm, but still her hands shook.
Kate tore off a long section of sheet, folding it over several times. She pressed that firmly against the wound, stanching the flow of blood. Again she picked up the sheet and tore off a larger strip its entire length. She wound this strip around Ira's torso as many times as it would go, then at last made a knot in the center of his chest.
Kate had one thought in her head, and that was to save Ira's life. Nothing else mattered-not whether they still loved each other, not who had done this to him, or why. She only wanted to see her man smile at her again and speak her name. If he died he would be the fourth husband she had lost. That was too much to ask a woman to take, even a woman as strong as Kathryn Winchester.
Strange old sensations flashed across her mind as she tried feverishly to stop the bleeding. The look of the wound; the biting rotten egg smell from black powder smoke still in the room; the slippery feel and crimson appearance of blood on her hands; the sickeningly sweet smell of it pooled on the floor; the taste of cold fear in her throat. Everything brought her back, forced her mind to the military hospital at Shiloh, Tennessee . . .It wasn't really a hospital. It was only an old farm house and barn, and rows and rows of tents with the sides drawn up to circulate air. There in that man-made hell, men and boys in blood-soaked bandages screamed in agony and lay dying. Behind the barn hulked a grisly pile of severed arms and legs, sawn from these poor boys, these fathers and husbands, sons and brothers. The appendages had lain rotting in intermittent rain and sun until Kate broke down and begged for someone to at least cover them with a tarp. Colonel Trivitts, the senior surgeon, complied with that until they could be carted away for burial. But the smell remained. It lingered all around her, suffocating in the closeness of the house where she went to try and catch an hour's sleep between amputations.
She thought of how she had left the home of her Quaker parents to run away with handsome Dan Lauder. They had been bound for his father's steel mill in Philadelphia. And then the war broke out. She begged Dan not to go, but he claimed it was his duty. And now here they were.
Outside, the day was sullen. Raindrops pattered like mice feet across the shingles. Puddles gathered in the yard and at the corners of the buildings. Men came and went with blue greatcoats and pants blackened by the rain and faces paled, beneath their beards and smudges of gunpowder, by the unending pall of death.
There were other smells Kathryn could never chase from her mind. Laudanum, whisky, chloroform, unwashed bodies, excrement, urine . . . fear. She shuddered to think of it all. She pictured a young man staring at her, not screaming or crying like most, just gazing like an abandoned house, vacant behind filmy windows. She thought of an older man with no forearms, only stumps wrapped in bloody linen. He cried forlornly until he was crying without tears, his voice pitifully hoarse. He repeated a name over and over and over and over. Janie . . . Janie . . . Who was Janie? A wife? A daughter? Whoever she was, she seemed the only hope he had left.
Kathryn Winchester had seen all of that through the horrified eyes of a sixteen-year-old, but the memories these twenty-four years later hadn't waned. She could still see the blood on her hands, on her dress, smeared on her cheek and splattered in her hair. She could hear the screams, the not-so-distant boom of cannons, the popcorn crackle of muskets. She could see the broken-topped trees at the edge of the trampled cornfield and the drizzling gray sky gulping up plumes of billowing smoke. She could smell the black powder smoke that drifted in on the afternoon breeze, later to be wetted down by the pattering gray Tennessee rains.
Shiloh. The name was branded forever in her soul, in her nightmares. There her first husband, Daniel Lauder, had taken a bullet in the thigh and suffocated to death beneath a pile of his comrades. She was resting against the outside wall of the makeshift hospital the day they carried his lifeless body by. All she could do was stare. Her eyes could form no tears . . .Clamping her teeth, Kate shook her head and closed her eyes, then opened them again to look down at Ira. No time to think of the war. She had to care for Ira, and to do that she needed all her senses, needed to steel them as if this man meant nothing to her. Weak women didn't survive long in this land, and Kathryn Winchester had many times proven herself one of the toughest of a tough brand, although born into a meek family of Quakers.
Kneeling down, Kate shoved the bear rug as close to Ira's side as she could, stuffing several inches of it underneath him. She shuddered at the thing's gaping mouth and tiny, crusted eyes that stared up at her. Again, she swore it wouldn't come back to this house. She put one hand on Ira's shoulder and the other on his hip and rolled him toward her until she could pull the bear rug out on the other side. As she straightened the rug out underneath him, it struck her that pulling with the grain of the bear's hair would make her struggle to the wagon much less strenuous. Pulling with the bear's long slick hair as a kind of runner on the smooth wood floor would be akin to using a sled. With a flustered sigh, she went through the entire process again, moving Ira off the hide and turning it over so that he lay at last on the flesh side. By the time she was done, she was gasping for air, and her sides were soaked with sweat.
Frustrated tears swam in the shadows of Kathryn's eyes when she finally stood, letting her gaze sweep the room. But she couldn't cry-not yet. Her job wasn't done. Somehow she had to get her husband into the back of the wagon, then drive him to Blackfoot, to Doctor Sims's office.
As Kate glanced down again at Ira, something caught her eye. From underneath the cover Ira had pulled off the divan, the corner of some unfamiliar object protruded. Absently, she bent to scoop it up. It was a little leather coin purse, beaded all around. On one side of it, in white beads on dark blue, were the initials, "I.W." Snapping it open, Kate was taken aback to see a roll of cash along with several double eagles. Perhaps this had belonged to whoever had shot Ira! With the vague thought that this might be used as evidence, Kate took the purse outside and threw it into the wagon box.
Climbing into the wagon, Kate brought it around to the front of the house and backed it up as close as she could to the porch. With strength as much earned as inherited, she dragged the grain sacks out of the back and onto the porch, then hustled the other goods into the house, trying not to look at Ira as she passed. She returned to look at the wagon. It was as close as she could bring it to the edge of the porch, but even so, she would have to lift Ira up two feet to get him in back. Even as strong as she was, she had the sickening realization that it could not be done. Ira wasn't a huge man, but he was solid-he probably weighed one hundred eighty pounds on his most sickly day. The heaviest grain sack was only one hundred. And if she dropped one of those or bent it the wrong way it would do it little harm. The same mistake might kill Ira.
Her initial thought was of R.M. Sievers. She knew he would come running if he had any idea of her plight. She thought of going to get him, but she couldn't leave Ira alone as long as there was any chance the killers might come back.
For several moments, she looked helplessly about the yard. The long, slender fingers of her bloodied hand brushed a strand of dark hair from in front of her face. Her eyes lit upon a pile of planks at the side of the barn. She had pleaded with Ira so many times to move those boards or cut them up for firewood. There were mice living under them. And what this place didn't need was one more shelter to aid in the infestation of vermin. But now she realized those planks were her answer.
Running in her anxiousness, Kate nearly turned an ankle thanks to the narrowness of her shoe heels. Fortunately, their laced tops were tall enough for support. She carried two of the eight-inch planks from the barn to the house, hardly noticing the tiny splinters left in her soft hands. Gasping to catch her breath, she leaned the boards side by side from the porch to the wagon.
"I need your help, old fellow," she beseeched Bob. She felt like a fool, like she was talking to a rock. But the old bay nickered softly and flicked each ear in turn, touching her shoulder with his long-haired upper lip. His huge brown eyes looked at her with the appearance of understanding, and she smiled and patted his neck. She climbed up and took off the brake and led Bob forward just enough to flatten the planks out to their full length, then set the brake again. Going back to look at the planks, even at their full length she saw it wasn't going to be easy to get Ira into the wagon.
Forcing it out of her mind, she returned to the house, coming to a stop at Ira's head. There was no point in putting off the job. She summoned all her strength, reached down and took the bear rug by its matted shoulders, rolling wads of skin into both hands to use as handles. Steeling herself, she began to pull backwards. When she tried to breathe, it was immediately obvious the corset had to go, and she didn't care what they thought in town. She took off the broach she was wearing, and just for a moment it made her stop and stare. The broach was one Ira had given her not long before, a beautiful piece of jewelry yet a constant reminder that something was wrong between them. Wishing she hadn't worn it that day, she dropped it down between his legs.
Undoing her dress and taking the bodice down, she unhooked the corset and flung it gladly aside, sucking in a deep breath that felt very good in spite of the stifling air inside the house. She breathed deeply again and closed her eyes. The air felt cool against her damp skin. She almost regretted buttoning up the bodice again.
Making another start with the bear rug gripped in her hands, Kate pulled Ira the ten feet to the door, then eased him across the threshold, gasping for breath. Even in her discomfort, she was unable to parry the memory of the way he had teasingly carried her over that same threshold five years ago.
Dampening the sleeve of her dress across her brow, Kate stopped to rest for a moment, turning to look at the wagon bed. It seemed so far away. Biting her lip, she glanced past the barn toward town. Ira had to make it. She almost looked down at him, then decided better of it.
Steeling herself, Kate took several lung-filling breaths, then shifted folds of her dress up higher around her hips. She bent at the waist, took the bear rug's shoulders again, and started backward. One step. Two. She gasped. She was feeding this man too well. Three steps. Four. She forced herself not to look at the wagon but glanced back to check on the ends of the planks. One more step.
Now she was almost there, and the distance was less, but on an incline. She renewed the air in her lungs and said a little prayer. Then she started up the ramp. It was an inch at a time now. An inch-a rest. Another inch-another rest. A couple of times her heels slipped and she nearly fell. She was thankful her common sense had convinced her to turn the bear hide over. It would have been nearly impossible for a woman of her size to drag a man of Ira's with the rough flesh side of the hide dragging against the splintery planks.
With her last ounce of strength, Kate took a ragged breath and heaved her burden over the lip of the planks. With Ira's legs still hanging out of the wagon, Kate collapsed. Her lungs burned horribly, and she tried to catch her breath. She nearly retched as she crouched there, her head spinning, her eyesight dim. Over and over, she gasped, trying to draw in air that never seemed enough. She wanted to give up, but she knew the worst of her job was over, if she could only get her wind back.
At last she stood, with her muscles crying out against the strain, and dragged Ira the rest of the way into the wagon. Then she fell onto her knees and took his hands. She stared searchingly at his pale face, her lungs still heaving.
"You've-come out-of worse things, Ira," she lied to ease her mind. She sucked a deep breath. "If you leave me over a stupid-thing like this-I'll never forgive you." She caressed his cheek, leaned over and kissed it. She stood up with hardened jaw and made her way gingerly down the ramp onto the porch. With her strength and her wind slowly returning, she pulled the boards away and dropped them into the dust below.
Kate hurried into the house and picked up her gloves, slipping them back on. As she was turning back toward the door, a warning rang in her head. What if the men came back? Maybe she had startled them the first time, but what if they decided they had to return and make sure Ira was dead? What would she do? What could she do? She looked over at Ira's old Sharps carbine, leaning behind the door. She could take it, but what good would it do if she were attacked? She had never used a firearm in her life, and this one was cap and ball! Even if she wanted to know how to shoot it would take her years to become proficient with it. Two of her husbands before Ira had tried to talk her into learning to shoot, but she still held to some of her childhood teachings against killing another human being. She would just have to outrun anyone who came after her, that was all. She had no other choice.
Shaking those thoughts out of her head, she picked up her black reticule-another of Ira's recent gifts, as were the beautifully crocheted white string gloves inside it-and stepped back outside. Before getting onto the wagon seat she stopped to look again at Ira. Faithful Ira. Yes, they had argued of late. They had argued often, and he had been very distant. But she still loved him. Why would anyone want to hurt such a caring man?
He looked so unstable on the rug that Kate packed four of the sacks of grain back into the wagon and laid them alongside him so he wouldn't roll around. As she was bending over to set the last sack in place, she saw her broach lying there between his legs and picked it up. The broach, to Kate, was the symbol of whatever had gone wrong with Ira in the last months. She wore it almost every day, as a reminder that something had to be done if things were ever to be right between them again. With a grim countenance, she fastened the broach once again at her throat.
Winded, and her throat now raw, Kate climbed onto the wagon seat, pulled off the brake, and started Bob and Tarnish back toward Blackfoot. She felt sorry for the horses. It had been a long day for them, and it was over fourteen miles from the Winchester ranch to town. It was going to seem an eternity.Kathryn Winchester was a handsome woman, far more so than the teamsters, cowboys and farmers of Blackfoot were used to. She stood taller than most women and many men of her day, a good seven inches over five feet, and carried this height with the grace and poise one might expect of the high society ladies of Boston, Philadelphia or Washington City, or the belles of the South. Certainly uncommon for a rural Idaho homemaker. She didn't even need to wear her corset to look trim, and after her bad experience with it that day would probably continue to wear it only because it was commonly thought the proper thing to do. Kate dressed modestly, like her parents had taught her, in petticoats and in dresses that left only her face, neck and hands exposed. But some women can't hide beneath a dress, and Kate Winchester had too often been made uncomfortably aware that she was one. When she walked the streets of Blackfoot no head was left unturned.
In public, her dark brown hair was always well kept, usually topped by a hat. In the western custom, it normally hung long, settling in soft, lustrous waves below her shoulder blades. She took pride in that hair, though her parents claimed pride was a sin. She took further pride in her hands, wearing gloves whenever she could, and keeping the skin supple with lilac-scented lotion. Most men, taking one of those hands in greeting, would never have guessed how hard this woman worked-throwing hay, branding, mending fence. She did what she had to do to help Ira keep up on the ranch, but she took extra care of herself when the work was done.
Yet even considering her other attributes, it was Kathryn's face that drew men to her. It was the dark, fathomless eyes capable of revealing any emotion or none at all. It was the arched brows, the soft, faintly smiling lips always so ready for a laugh; the aquiline nose which gave her beauty an edge of handsome maturity with far more character than the oft-admired button nose. It was how she looked straight through a man, or deep into his heart, then, if she chose, touched his hand with a lingering electricity that sent shock waves through his body. There was many a man who would have stolen Kathryn from Ira Winchester at the drop of a hat had she given them a reason. But she was completely devoted to her man.
The wagon rattled south past the cemetery and at a good clip down West Main Street to the imposing brick walls of the Commercial Hotel, where Doctor Sims had his office. By now, Kate had control of her nerves. She had convinced herself, at least momentarily, to accept the inevitable. She jumped down off the wagon seat with a crowd starting to gather near the wagon and went into the hotel, hurrying through the dining room and parlor and down the hall to the doctor's office.
Doctor Sims was a middle-aged man with a connected mustache and goatee and straight eyebrows that slanted upward at the outside at such a severe angle he would have appeared perpetually angry if not for the kindness swimming in his gray-green eyes.
Doctor Sims was the only man in Blackfoot who called Kathryn by her given name (besides Ira, whose favorite name for her was Katie). He took that liberty with all his patients, male and female alike. As much of Kathryn as the doctor had seen she would have felt foolish if he had addressed her any other way.
With his usual calm wits intact, Sims had some men bring Ira in and lay him out on the operating table. Then he summarily invited them out of the office with the briefest of thanks.
Kate was glad Sims dispensed with any questions about the incident. He went straight to business, and after an initial appraisal of Ira's bullet wound he turned and looked her squarely in the eyes. "Kathryn, you might not wish to stay in here, and that's fine. But I'll be perfectly straightforward with you. If you walk out of this room, you must be aware that it may be the last time you see your husband alive."
Chapter Two
The Commercial Hotel sat just off the tracks of the Utah and Northern railroad, with West Main and Pacific Street intersecting behind it. It boasted being one of the finest lodging establishments in the state. It was built as a Keeney House, the railroad's tangible boast of opulence and first class accommodations. Kathryn Winchester took up a room down the hall from Doctor Sims's office and paid the higher-than-normal one dollar and fifty cents per day. But she didn't have much chance to utilize their hospitality nor their fine bed. She left her belongings in her room but stayed most of the next five lonely days and nights in an armchair beside Ira's bed. She had debated staying at the Hogan Restaurant, which was also a lodging house and only charged five dollars per week, but having Ira just down the hall was worth the extra cost.
Sitting for hours in the doctor's office, for Kate, was somewhat like reliving the past, except the medicine of the Civil War had been almost medieval compared to Doctor Sims's modern knowledge and skill. Part of the gap in quality, of course, stemmed from the overwhelming workload the surgeons had faced during the war. Many more of those men and boys could well have been saved had the doctors been able to devote all their attention to one of them at a time, rather than the multitudes who arrived each day, bloody and screaming out their anguish. The nerve-racking atmosphere of the war hospital had appalled Kate. Amputation was the order of the day, not because it was always needed, but because it was the quickest way to save the most lives. But it certainly didn't save them all. A bullet wound in that war was as likely to bring death, quick or lingering, as not.
Shortly after bringing Ira in to the doctor, when Kate had found the strength to go back outside and move the wagon, she had remembered the little leather coin purse and looked for it. To her horror, it was gone! The wagon box was tight, so it couldn't have fallen out. Someone must have come by, seen the purse and made off with it. Kate was sick about losing it. It was possibly the only thing that could be considered as evidence against whoever had tried to kill her husband. But she had to go on and forget about it. The most important thing right now was nursing Ira back to health. If he lived, he could point out his attackers. They would have no need of the purse.
The first two days in Blackfoot, Kate sat beside Ira while he remained still. A huge lump had swollen up on the side of his head, dangerously close to his left temple, where Doctor Sims informed Kate her husband had been struck. Doctor Sims said the blow alone, had it struck closer to the front of her husband's skull, might very well have killed him.
Kate tried not to think of Ira's wounds. She channeled her thoughts to other places, other times-places of joy and beauty, times of passion unbridled. She didn't allow her thoughts to wander to Ira's present predicament and the reasons behind it. She couldn't-not yet. What good would it do? There wasn't a thing she could do about it.
After the third and fourth day, when Ira began to turn in his sleep, to whisper-and sometimes scream-delirious words and mysterious phrases, she caved in. Once she did, her mind began to rove over many things, looking for any hint of who would want to kill Ira and why.
A constant reminder of her troubles with Ira was the cameo broach at her throat. Often, in quiet moments, she would remove it to look at it and wonder why it held such a fascination for her. At any other time in her life, the broach would have been nothing but a source of enjoyment for her. It was beautiful. It could be worn either at the throat, as she normally wore it, or as a necklace. It was two inches tall, with a black stone base surrounded by a frame of hammered metal lacework and all-encompassed with a rope twist border. The cameo was the face of a beautiful woman, turned to the right, her hair put up with a band the way Kathryn sometimes kept hers, on special occasions. Set on the metal lacework were eight even clusters of tiny metal balls, forming the shape of flowers, whose centers were seed pearls.
Kate would hold that broach, and sometimes her string gloves and black reticule, and wonder where Ira had suddenly begun to come up with the money to buy these things. It wasn't like any of them were so expensive, in themselves. The crocheted gloves had a lace look to them. The reticule was also crocheted, with a drawstring opening and lining of beautiful black silk. It wasn't as if either of them could have cost Ira the price of a cow, but they were just three in an endless stream of gifts. It had never been like Ira to spend money frivolously. Until he had become distant, in fact, he had brought her gifts only to mark a special occasion, which was as it should be.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, Kate sat with Arch Hess-who had become sheriff of Bingham County upon its creation in January of the year before-and her fears gushed forth uncontrolled as she held Ira's pale hand.
"Sheriff, they will come back, won't they? If-when-Ira starts to heal, if I take him back home they'll try again . . . won't they?"
Sheriff Hess was a big, solid man with a square face and wide, expressive mouth. He held his narrow-brimmed hat in his hands and studied it for a moment before looking back up to center Kathryn with a frank gaze.
"There's no sense in lying to you, ma'am. I'd sure like to say you have nothing to worry about, but here's a plain fact: somebody tried to kill your husband, and you say you had nothing to steal. So, ma'am, I would venture to say that yes, you and Ira are still in danger. If my guess is correct, those fellows meant to kill your husband, and since they didn't get it done, they've got all the more reason to make sure of it next time. Whatever their reasons were before, now they can add to it an attempted murder charge if he is able to point a finger at them."
Kate nodded and pursed her lips, looking down at Ira's hand, folded tightly in hers. Tears came into her eyes, but she forced them back. She was long past weeping like a little girl, and she wouldn't show any weakness now.
Swallowing, she looked up at Sheriff Hess. "What do I do, Sheriff? I can't stay in town much longer. I don't have enough money. Besides, I need to go back and take care of the stock. I have R.M. Sievers taking care of them now, but he can't do it forever. He and Susan have their own place to take care of. But what am I to do if those men come back to finish what they started? And what about our children? They'll be back within the week."
Thoughts of the children, visiting Ira's Aunt Betsy and Uncle Nat in the northern Utah town of Brigham, made tears again push to Kate's eyelids, but she spoke quickly to drive the children from her head.
"I'm at my wits' end. I have no way to protect myself or Ira, but I'm at the point I have to return home." Suddenly, Kate gave a little laugh, letting her shoulders rise and fall. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to burden you with my worries. I know you have a big jurisdiction."
She stood up and let go of Ira's hand, walking across the room to the little north-facing window with its lace curtain. She heard Sheriff Hess stand up behind her. In the street, the citizens of Blackfoot went about their business as if nothing had ever happened. In front of D.H. Biethan's furniture store, a rancher helped his wife up into a buckboard, and she smiled lovingly down at him. Three young boys stood in the shade of Warren's notions store, dividing a sack of candy. A young girl and her mother walked away from Mrs. Holbrook's Emporium of Fashion, the girl holding up a bundle of blue gingham cloth thoughtfully in front of her. Her mother squeezed her shoulder and smiled.
Life went on outside, and people were happy. The trains still arrived like clockwork, four times a day. The Blackfoot and Challis Stage still pulled out promptly at eight o'clock every morning. Everyone came and went and did as they always had. A terrible thing happened in their county and they as soon forgot. But life had to be that way. A person couldn't go around worrying all the time-it wasn't healthy. It was Kate Winchester's place to worry in this case, and Heaven knew she would do enough for them all.
She dropped her hand from the curtains and turned back around. Sheriff Hess made a sorry attempt at a smile. "Things'll be all right, Mrs. Winchester. I'll send a deputy out now and then to check on you. And your neighbor R.M. Sievers-he's a good man. I know he'll look out for you. You just do what you have to do and don't worry about those men. We've got our noses to the wind, and I'm sure some clue will turn up."
Kate smiled, grateful for the reassuring words. She knew the sheriff felt badly for her, but she also knew he didn't believe those words any more than she did. He proved it when he spoke again.
"Just the same-and I know you don't believe in violence-but you should maybe get a good gun and learn to use it. A shotgun would be best for you. If nothing else, the racket might bring Sievers running."
Kate quickly shook her head. "No, Sheriff. That's not the way. Men-or women-can't go around killing each other. I'm not going to be drawn into murder."
Hess looked down and nodded as if he had already known her answer. He sighed and glanced over at Ira before looking back at her. "If you need to go back out to your place to get anything, ma'am, you just let me know. I'll have a deputy watch your husband and I'll ride out there with you. That's the least we can do."
"Thank you so much, Sheriff. I'll let you know."
"Well . . ." Sheriff Hess stood a moment longer, then turned and made his way to the door. He opened it, then turned back momentarily to Kate. He gave her a long, searching glance, then put on his hat with a nod. "Ma'am," he uttered by way of farewell, then closed the door softly behind him.
Kate stood there in front of the window until she heard his footsteps fade. She was left with only the sounds of the street, muffled by the walls and curtains.
Wearily, she walked around and sank back into the chair beside Ira. While Doctor Sims finished his noon dinner in the dining room, she meant to make the most of this moment alone with her man. She looked over at him and studied his sweaty brow, his pale cheeks. His dark hair was neatly combed, his face freshly shaven. She saw to that every day. Even unconscious she insisted he remain presentable in the event of a surprise visitor.
"Oh, Ira." Her own voice in the shadowy room startled her. She reached out and took his hand again, feeling its clammy chill against her skin. "Who would want to hurt you? What have you done? Men don't come and just shoot a man down for nothing. We're not at war anymore. What is it? I wish you could talk." At that moment he emitted a soft moan. "But you wouldn't tell me anyway, would you?"
She knew it was true. It had been over the past year they had grown increasingly distant. He had become secretive, always tending to some business he would tell her nothing about. And then there were the poker games. Sometimes they lasted all night, and she could never learn where all the money came from for him to play so much. Was he that good at poker? She didn't imagine he was-it didn't fit him. The games just served to keep him away from her more, and sometimes she found herself wondering if it was poker that kept him away, or something-someone else . . .
But even while she realized how far apart they had grown, she didn't really believe even for a moment he was seeing someone else. Not Ira.
And then there were the little things he had started buying for her. For years, she and Ira had had nothing but their deep love for each other, and it was all they had needed. Yet in the past few months he had started bringing her things like the broach, reticule and string gloves-other pretty things she didn't really need to be happy: music boxes, glassware, lacework furniture dressings, frilly hats. He seemed pleased being able to offer these gifts, but they didn't fill the void between them. The fact was-and she didn't understand why-these gifts served only to estrange Kate still further from her husband. She couldn't abide his hiding things from her, yet he left her to wonder where all the newfound wealth came from. It certainly wasn't profits from their ranching operation.
In her pondering, one certain answer came to Kate. The attempt on her husband's life was connected somehow to the mysterious appearance of all that money. But how? Those men hadn't come to the house to steal; they had broken into nothing. It seemed plain they had come there for one reason, and that was to kill. Had Ira cheated someone out of money at poker and been caught? She doubted if he was skilled enough in the game to pull that off in the first place. As far as she knew he had never played poker-or cards of any kind-until half a year or so ago, when he began to disappear with his secret companions, using the game as his excuse. Besides, if he had cheated someone, why hadn't they tried to get the money back? No one had ransacked the house as if looking for something.
For the last several months, she had wondered and worried about where the money came from. Now she knew her concerns had been founded. But she didn't know any more than before. If she could find how Ira came upon the money she would also find why someone tried to have him killed. But she had no clue where to begin.
The turning of the doorknob pulled Kate from her thoughts, and in a moment Doctor Sims peered carefully inside. When he saw her smile he came on in and shut the door.
"You're a loyal guard, Kathryn," he said with a wink. "Do all wives feel so strongly about their men?"
Kate's eyes welled up with tears, and she tried to hide them with a soft laugh. Its strangely melancholic ring drew a concerned glance from Doctor Sims, who pulled off his glasses and looked at her fondly.
"Ah, Kathryn, I think you can relax. I'll give Ira the once-over again in a minute, but I don't think it's premature to say he's going to recuperate just fine. He had me worried the first day, but . . . well, so far he looks good. You're entitled to worry a little, but I do miss your smile."
Kate swallowed and gave a little nod. She stood up from her chair and placed a hand on the doctor's sleeve. It was one of those rare touches so many men hoped for and few ever received, and Sims looked down at her hand thoughtfully then placed his own over it, giving it a pat and then just resting his there. He looked back up at the woman searchingly.
Kate suddenly let her hand fall away from his arm, but rather than move away she took his hand in both of hers and squeezed. "Thank you, Doctor Sims. Thank you so much for your friendship."
Before tears could come back into her eyes, she let go of his hand and spun away, walking briskly again to the window to stare out at the street. Clearing his throat softly, Sims turned to Ira and drew a stethoscope from a shelf above his head, wiggling the tips of its stems into his ears. With a deep breath, he leaned over the unconscious man.The Blackfoot train depot sat directly south of the Commercial Hotel, so Kate was always well aware of the movement of passing trains. Three days later, when the single long blast of the nine-fifteen express signifying that it was about to come to a stop reached her ears, Kate hurriedly tied on her hat and left the hotel.
She walked along beside the narrow gauge tracks of the Utah and Northern even as she listened to the train coming up fifty yards behind her, gushing steam. The sun was only a red hump in the west, and dusty clouds glowed gold and orange and rust against a backdrop of the palest green. The street lay in shades of purple, but the tops of the roofs were still bathed in gold light. The Blackfoot Mountains were lit brilliantly, turning a drab, almost desert-like land of sagebrush and juniper into a gilded kingdom where sorcerers and dragons, knights and fair maidens should mingle.
Evening brought with it the hordes of gnats and mosquitoes that plagued Blackfoot, venturing off the river. The insects swarmed all around her. But because Kate, like her family and many pioneers, was in the habit of drinking a cup or so of vinegar every day, beginning a few weeks before the onslaught of the mosquito season, the little pests seldom made any attempt to land and taste of her blood. Even as the insects whined about the street, bats made their appearance, swooping and dashing and looping little acrobats, worth their weight in gold for the mosquitoes they destroyed.
By the time the train chugged up to the platform, Kate was standing there looking anxiously from car to car, swatting now and then at the mosquitoes and gnats that drew too near. The sickly yellow shine of the lamps glowing from the eaves of the platform overhang, and the wash of pale orange and yellow coming from the station windows backlit Kate as she waited.
She saw her oldest daughter, Vala, after the girl had already spotted her and was hurrying along the aisle toward the door. But the first one out of the car was four-year-old Cheyenne. The girl carried a tiny valise in her right hand, but as soon as she saw Kate this fell from her stubby fingers. With a shouted, "Mama!" she ran as fast as she could and fell into Kate's outstretched arms. Kate hugged the little girl for a long ten seconds before holding her away and looking her up and down.
"You're growing up so fast, Cheyenne. Look at that long hair!" she exclaimed. The children had only been gone two weeks, but Cheyenne was proud of her hair, and Kate couldn't resist the huge smile that broke out across her face whenever anyone mentioned it. She hugged the girl again, then stood up to meet the others.
Kate's other three children, her daughter, Vala, and sons, Marshal and Ellis, were all from a previous marriage, to Tom Briggs. All of them, though they loved their new guardian, had chosen to retain the last name of their father.
Kate proudly looked the three of them over, a real smile lighting her face for the first time in days. Vala, now seventeen years old, had grown into a beautiful young woman in the last couple of years, after a frightful period of adolescent awkwardness Ira still teased her about. She wore her dark hair long like her mother's. And, also like her mother's, it was covered modestly today by a cornette-a bonnet tied beneath the chin.
Marshal was fifteen, and a stronger lad of his age she had never seen. He was broad across the shoulders and chest like his father had been and nearly able to keep up with Ira when it came to throwing hay or calves. As far as looks went, he was the black sheep of the family, although in this case the black sheep was blond. Only Cheyenne's hair even came close to Marshal's, hers being a light honey brown.
Ellis, younger than Marshal by two years, looked Kate up and down with fetching dark eyes and a dimpled smile and took his turn at hugging. He was the most sensitive one of them all, and he had developed a deep fondness for his stepfather. Almost even more than Cheyenne, who wasn't old enough to understand, Kate was going to hate telling Ellis what had happened.
When the luggage had all been unloaded and set on the platform, Kate helped the children gather it together in one place. She noticed Ellis searching the gloaming of the street and the dim-lit platform. When he looked up at her, disappointment swam freely in his gaze.
"Ira didn't come with you?"
"Oh, son." Kate placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying herself as well as him. "I didn't want to worry you children while you were away. But something has happened to your father."
The children shot glances at one another. Vala, one hand to her throat, reached out with the other to touch Kate. "What, Mother?"
Kate cleared her throat and forged on. "Your father was shot."
Shocked silence hung between them. The children just stared at Kate, their jaws slack.
It was Marshal who spoke first. "Is he . . ."
"Is he alive?" Kate finished the thought the way she hoped it would have been worded. "Yes, and recovering. But we don't know who shot him, and we don't know why."
Almost as if speaking of the attack had broken some spell, a rifle shot suddenly crashed from the direction of Idaho Street. The five of them whirled toward the sound. Two more shots followed, and then an excited hum of voices exploded among the people gathered on the platform.
Kate stood still. She had started to bring her hands to her mouth, then dropped them to Cheyenne's tiny shoulders instead, pulling her tight against the front of her dress. She didn't consciously bring it on, but the first thought that naturally came to her was of Ira.
Chapter Three
Terror clutched Kathryn Winchester's insides like a cold hand. She was surprised to see Sheriff Hess come hurrying past her from inside the depot. He cast her a glance of despair but continued along the porch without a word, almost running. Kate heard a voice rise above the others, and the words froze her in place.
"They killed somebody at the hotel!"
She turned to the children, her jaw clenched. The memory of the shots still stung her ears. Her eyes swept the children. She took Marshal and Ellis each by a shoulder. "Your father's in the doctor's office in the hotel. I'm going to check on him, and you have to stay here. Whatever happens, don't try to follow me. Go over to the Star Restaurant." She pointed toward the restaurant; like the Hogan, it was open late in keeping with the train schedule. "Wait for me there," Kate said.
"Yes, Mama," she heard Vala's words far back in her head as she started up the street.
As she neared the hotel, she hesitated, awed by the crowd gathered there in the lamp-lit shadows. She forced herself to continue on, trying to keep from running. Oh, Ira. Please, Ira. God, please don't let it be. She wished the words in prayer fashion, feeling the blood drain from her face. She lifted her long skirts and held them up to let her walk faster. She saw Arch Hess pushing through the crowd. He looked dismally at some bystanders and spoke quietly as he passed. The sheriff's face had gone gray, and his wide lips turned down at the outside. He stood there with blood on his shirt and hands. His hat was missing, and a shock of reddish gray hair lay across his forehead.
At a glance Kate took in his weary eyes and the smudge of blood across his cheek. Without her realizing it, both of her hands had come to her mouth. She stared at the sheriff, not wanting to hear what he had to say. She had lost three husbands, all of them violently. It couldn't happen again. It just couldn't!
When Sheriff Hess spoke she continued to stare in silence. She barely grasped his words through the hum of the voices around her. The news she had thought would make her a widow didn't come. But because the message surprised her so, a feeling of nausea, of faintness perhaps even worse than she had expected, washed through her stomach. She stood on the porch in the dying light, four feet away from the big-boned lawman, and his words pounded at her until somehow, at last, they soaked into her consciousness. Her knees nearly collapsed, and she had to grasp the awning post to hold herself up.
"Ma'am, Ira's fine," said Hess. "He's fine. It's Doctor Sims. Poor Martin. They just killed him. Just killed him."
The skin of the big sheriff's face was pale and drawn and full of despair-the way Kate's heart felt.Kate Winchester sat beside her sleeping husband in Doctor Sims's office, with Cheyenne on her lap and the other children gathered around her. In the corner, the big grandfather clock ticked unceasingly, and its hands read ten o'clock. Sheriff Arch Hess met her gaze and minced no words in discussing the prior evening's murder.
"I haven't known you long, Mrs. Winchester, but I judge one thing about you. You're no fool. You know as well as I do why Doctor Sims was shot. Somebody must've heard your husband was recovering and didn't know how far along he was. When they saw the silhouette of the doctor through the window, they thought it was your husband. A murder that's totally unconnected is just too bizarre to believe. You know it, and I know it."
The sheriff stood there and looked at her for several seconds, his face aching with the need to help her out.
"Ma'am, you knew they'd come back. Now we know they're desperate. I don't want you to go back out to the ranch. These people are serious, and they're far from through."
Kate stared at the fresh bloodstains on the softwood floor. Someone had tried to wipe them up, but they had soaked into the wood too quickly. She shuddered. That blood was there because of her husband, because someone had wanted him dead. Because of him, a good life had been taken away.
Her hands rested on Cheyenne's thighs, and she squeezed, raising her eyes soberly to meet Arch Hess's. "You've done your best, Sheriff. I can't fault you for this shooting or anything else. There's only so much you can do. And I trust you to protect us, I honestly do. But we just can't stay here anymore. My money is gone. I can't afford to stay in the hotel. And now there isn't any reason to keep Ira here, with no doctor."
"Ira's still unconscious, ma'am," said Hess. "He isn't out of the woods yet. I've heard good things about Dr. Blickensderfer and Dr. Davis, in Pocatello. Why not send Ira there?"
"Like I said, Sheriff, I can't afford it anymore. Anyway, Doctor Sims told me it's only a matter of time and rest now. I can care for my husband just as well at home."
Hess pursed his lips, cutting a glance at the children. "Are you sure you want them here?"
The children looked at one another, and Marshal reddened at his collar. He bunched his jaw muscles but said nothing. Kate cleared her throat and looked at her oldest son. Then she turned her eyes back to the sheriff, lifting her chin as she met his gaze.
"I want them here, Sheriff. Vala is a full-grown woman, and these two are more men than boys. If we are to weather this together, it is only fitting they know what we face."
The sheriff shrugged. "That's your choice, ma'am. I just don't want to scare someone needlessly. But back to what I said. Sure, I know you can care for Mr. Winchester at the ranch. You're a brave lady, and you've told me you nursed in the war. But ma'am, it's not just the nursing. It's the fact . . . well, you don't even believe in guns. Now, how're you going to protect yourself if those fellows come back looking to finish this business? You just can't go out there with these four kids. I can't order you not to go back, but . . ." He paused and looked up helplessly at Vala.
Kate sighed, then stood and set Cheyenne down. Out of courtesy, Sheriff Hess sprang from his chair, almost upsetting it. "Sheriff," said Kate evenly. "I told you, we don't have any money. The only thing we have is that ranch, and there we have food, water and a place to sleep. It isn't as if we had a choice where to go."
Hess ducked his head then brought it back up, rubbing vigorously at his chin. "Ma'am, I know this is a rough town, and the boys do like their fun. But I think you're selling Blackfoot short. The folks here aren't cold-hearted. We can come up with a place for you and the children to stay, at least till we find some clue who's after your husband. Now don't make me sweet-talk you. We like you Winchesters. And I don't want to see anything happen to you in my county. It makes a man feel worthless to be in charge of people's lives and not be able to protect them. Just let me try to round up a cottage or something. At least give it a week."
Kate breathed deeply. She avoided looking at her children. She had to make a decision on her own this time. The children usually had an equal say in any major decision, but not this time. She knew what the three oldest children would say. They had learned their fierce pride from her. Like their mother, they were frightened, but they wouldn't want charity. She had no doubt they would choose to go back to the ranch. But Hess was right; she knew nothing about guns, nothing about defending herself and her loved ones. On her own, she would have gone, but she couldn't endanger these children.
"All right, Sheriff. I hate charity, and I won't take it. But if you find someone I can work for to pay for our keep, we'll stay-for one week. Maybe you'll find out something about the killers by then." She felt Marshal's angry stare, making her skin flush, but she ignored him. She had made up her mind, and she was more strong-willed than he.Sheriff Hess went straight from the Commercial Hotel to the office of C.O. Sonnenkalb, Blackfoot's mayor, to ask for assistance. Together, the two of them gathered men to spread the word. In less than three hours, more than a score of citizens had lined up to make donations to the hapless family, among them a number of toughs from the saloon crowd. The spirit of the West drove men to stand up for those in need.
But there were no empty cottages available at the time. Instead, John and Janet Webster took them in to their home on the corner of Francis and West Main Streets. John had been a shipbuilder in Seattle before moving to Blackfoot. He had saved enough money to have a good-sized, comfortable house with a second story balcony and three wood stoves. The house was immaculate. The Winchesters crowded into the Webster parlor and set up camp, with Ira to sleep on the davenport and everyone else on the floor.
John Webster was a stocky man with a trim mustache and thinning brown hair. He always had a gleam in his eye and a ready sense of humor, and Kate and the children liked him right away. He and Janet made it plain to Kate from the very first that they would be there if she or the children needed anything at all.
Kate wasted no time in putting out the word she was willing to do washing, mending, house cleaning or any menial chore that might earn her enough money to pay their keep. And it wasn't long into the afternoon she had a customer.
Kate was wearing a drab green dress decorated by deeper green rosettes. Its hem brushed the floor, hiding her slippers, and its sleeves were pushed up while she worked. A large white apron covered the dress and made her look like a housewife. She was finishing up the dishes from noontime dinner, wiping a damp cloth across a porcelain plate, when she heard three sharp, distinct raps on the door. Janet Webster answered the door, and in a moment her voice came floating back to Kate in the kitchen. "Mrs. Winchester, you have a visitor."
Surprised, Kate glanced at Vala, who stood beside her with another dishrag. She hurriedly dried her hands, untied her apron and pulled it off. She laid the apron across the back of a chair as she walked out of the room and into the home's entryway. Janet Webster smiled at her and quietly vacated the room.
Ward Brassman, president of the First National Bank of Idaho, stood in the doorway holding a brown nutria hat in one hand and a valise in the other. When Kate's eyes fell on him, her heart faltered inexplicably, but she shook off the feeling.
Brassman was a fine figure of a man, with slightly thinning dark hair pulled straight back from a high, smooth forehead. Even after being a resident of Blackfoot for a number of years, the banker was still a frequent topic of conversation during many a feminine gathering. He was dressed today in the finest brushed wool suit, with impeccably polished ankle-high shoes and a gold chain trailing out of a buttonhole in his vest.
He had a square face and precisely cut features, full lips, a dark, heavy brow and umber eyes that stared out at his world with more confidence than any man ought to make obvious. Since their first meeting, Kate had found Brassman an attractive man, his manners gracious and polished. But as a married woman, she was ashamed his appearance moved her at all.
"Ma'am." Brassman tipped his head in a bow. "I heard about your troubles and came to express my regrets. I'm upset to hear something like this happened so close to home. And your husband, ma'am-Mr. Winchester. How is he?"
Kate shrugged, walking closer but stopping just out of reach. "Thank you for asking, Mr. Brassman. He's recovering, but very slowly. Doctor Sims seemed to think he would fully recover in time."
Brassman smiled, revealing deep-cut creases below his cheeks. "Well, that's good news, anyway."
"Thank you again, Mr. Brassman." Kate dipped her chin, clasping her fingers together in front of her. "Was there anything else?"
"Uh . . . oh, yes, ma'am. I'm sorry." He looked down at his valise and gave it a little shake. "I regret I can't tell you this is full of money to help your cause, but I did hear you were taking in washing, so . . . there is some money in it for you. There are five shirts here, and a pair of trousers I would like washed and pressed for Monday morning. And a little extra starch in the collars, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
Kate forced a smile. "No trouble. The customer is always boss."
The banker snapped his chin in a vigorous nod. "Now, that's the spirit. Could you bring these to the bank then, when you've finished?"
Kate took the valise from him. "Certainly. Is Monday morning soon enough, or do you wish them back by this afternoon?"
"Monday morning is fine, Mrs. Winchester. And again, I wish your husband the best." His long-fingered hand, brushed with fine, dark hair, came out between them, startling Kate. She looked down at it for a moment, then placed hers inside. One firm squeeze, and then the banker's fell away. But his deep brown eyes lingered on hers. "Good day to you then, ma'am. And good health."
With that, he clamped on his hat, turned and shut the door behind him. Kate stood staring at the door for a long minute after the banker left, one eyebrow raised in thought and fingering the cameo broach at her throat, which she wore that day out of mere habit. At last, she turned to see Vala standing in the kitchen doorway.
"He is such a handsome man, isn't he, Mama? How old do you suppose he is?"
Kate took a breath and let it out. "Now, why do you ask, honey? He's much older than you-that much I know."
Vala blushed. "Perhaps. But just how old do you think?"
"Thirty-five, maybe. I really don't know."
"Do you really think so? Still, he certainly is handsome, don't you think? And I heard he's never been married."
Kate cocked her head to one side and cast a serious regard at her daughter. Setting the valise down, she walked to her and placed both of her hands on Vala's slender shoulders. "And that should be sign enough something's wrong. Now, you're not serious about this, are you? What makes you suddenly notice a man so much older than you?"
Vala blushed fiercely, looking down at the floor and shuffling her feet. As her hands came up to rest on her hips, her eyes rose and met Kate's. "Now, Mama! If he's thirty-five he's only eighteen years older than I am. And I'm a full-grown woman-you said so yourself. Besides, I didn't suddenly notice him. I noticed him the first time I saw him. Wouldn't you be happy if I married a banker? I could really help you and Ira then."
Kate gave Vala's shoulders a firm squeeze. "Honey, I don't mind you marrying a banker. It's that banker I'm not sure of. He has . . . a way about him."
"I know he does, Mama. And I like his way." Vala giggled, and the dimpled creases appeared in her cheeks, reminding Kate of Vala's father, Tom Briggs.
"Oh, go finish cleaning the kitchen! I have enough to worry about." Kathryn spoke teasingly and gave Vala a slap on the backside as she walked away, which brought a glance of mock reproach. But when the girl was gone into the kitchen, Kathryn forgot about the valise on the floor. She walked over to a burgundy colored settee leaning up against the wall, straight across from the davenport where Ira slept. Wearily, she sank onto it, resting her elbow on one of its arms and once more touching the broach, letting her fingertips react to each of its different textures. Her heart still pounded.Avoiding looking at Ira, she stared at her black reticule and string gloves, which lay on the console table, near the door. Her mind churned. Her eyes came to focus at last on a vision of Vala walking hand in hand with Ward Brassman. It wasn't a frightening spectacle, yet somehow disquieting. To a Quaker, money was supposed to mean little, so that had no bearing, good or bad. What she saw in Ward Brassman was a man with good looks and a shrewdly prying eye. A man she wasn't sure if she should put her trust in not only because he handled large sums of money, a pursuit that never lent itself to integrity, but also because of the uncomfortable way he made her feel when he looked at her. Maybe more than that-and she hated having to admit this-it bothered her to see her daughter interested in a man who had turned her own head. To her, Vala was still no more than a child.
There was no longer a question in her mind. She would give Sheriff Hess one week to find who had shot Ira and Doctor Sims. Then she would take her family back to the ranch. Vala was too close to trouble here.
Feeling the sudden urge for fresh air, she rose from the settee and walked to the front door. Almost desperately, she pushed down on the brass handle and swung the door wide, stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door shut behind. She sucked in a deep breath, not realizing until then that she had been holding it. A feeling of claustrophobia had taken hold of her in the house. She felt so closed in, so locked up. This house, this town . . . the circumstances.
She sucked in another breath. It was a deep breath, like it might be her last. It smelled sweet-slightly of dust and sagebrush, and of the yeasty smell of baking bread from the Star Restaurant and the earthy scents of livestock operations . . . but mostly of freedom. That was the sweet part. It smelled of open country, and if she closed her eyes and ears she couldn't see the people, couldn't hear the traffic rattle by in the street. Oh, how she wished she were back at the ranch! Why, why had this happened to them? What had Ira done?
Even as the question entered her head, she looked north up the street and saw a buggy approaching, flanked by several horsemen and followed closely by a wagon. Just to the right of the buggy driver rode a man on a stout buckskin horse with a thin strip of white down its face.
Kate Winchester's breath stilled without her knowing when she saw that the man to its left rode a gray! She stared as if dumbstruck, her lips parted. She had to tip back against the doorframe to keep from falling over. It wasn't just the two horses. Buckskins and grays were plentiful enough that their presence proved nothing, especially when many cowboys rode a different horse every day. It wasn't the horses alone that made her stop and stare, speechless. They simply added to a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces had all just slipped together: the buckskin and gray horses of the assassins at the ranch; the mysterious beaded purse left lying on the floor, obviously belonging to whoever had attacked her husband. The initials? I.W. . . .
Irving Wolfe! He was the man driving the buggy, one of Bingham County's most powerful and ruthless men. He owned the Twin Wolfe Ranch, fifty-five hundred acres of what might have been the best deeded cattle range around. A piece of ground that, coupled with untold public acreage he ran his stock on, at one time had come close to monopolizing the entire cattle industry in Bingham County. But unforeseen events had conspired to put a stop to the growth of his empire.
Unfortunately for Wolfe, when the Desert Land Act had been passed in seventy-seven he, in his smug self-assuredness, had been unprepared and strangely uninformed. The act was put in to encourage the settling of some of the country's more inhospitable pieces of land. It allowed a homesteader to take up six hundred forty acres of ground at twenty-five cents an acre, prove he could irrigate it, and then pay off a balance of one dollar per acre within three years. It was a law for the west, where the earlier Homestead Act, with its meager allowance of one hundred sixty acres, had done little to encourage productive settlement in dry farm country.
The chance for settlers to take up good, arable land for a dollar and twenty-five cents an acre cut Irving Wolfe's ranch by two thirds, down from over fifteen thousand acres. When the settlers surged in so unexpectedly Wolfe's lack of planning had allowed them to take up much of the land between his ranch and Blackfoot, land that he had previously used to run his cattle on. Several years later he had an even larger blow to his empire when the three sections of land adjacent to the Twin Wolfe came up for sale and were bought right out from under his nose. At the time, he had had the money to purchase them himself, but the sale had been kept a secret from him until it was too late. Banker Ward Brassman had been the cause of that, with the fervent wish to populate the county and to fill his own bank account in the process. The banker had been pretty much solely responsible for the Winchesters buying the beautiful piece of land where the ranch sat now.
Wolfe still had plenty of river frontage himself, but much of the Blackfoot River on the white man's side ran beneath steep, jagged basalt cliffs, and that was where most of the Twin Wolfe lay. Without leasing land from the Shoshone and Bannock Indians on the other side of the river, his cattle could only reach the water now in a few treacherous places. By far the majority of the best river access on white man's land was now legally in the hands of the Winchesters and their neighbors.
The Winchester holdings bordered the Twin Wolfe, which made their place the most likely for Wolfe to try to procure. Owning it would provide his herds the perfect access to the river without completely overgrazing the banks directly behind his own ranch house. Irving Wolfe had come to the Winchesters no less than eight times over the years, asking to buy back "his" land at what he termed a "fair" price. The land was prime, and their reply was a firm "no," but each time he returned he became a little more insistent, and a little more angry before he went away.
It all seemed shockingly simple to Kate. Wolfe hadn't even entered her mind before. But now she was certain he was the man who had tried to kill Ira-just for a piece of land!
Wolfe's buggy was drawing nigh, and the moment she looked at his face he glanced her way and saw her standing on the porch.
Wolfe sawed his beautiful gray horse to a halt, causing the riders to pull up in confusion and the two horses drawing the wagon behind him to almost run into the rear of his buggy.
Coolly, he looked into Kate's eyes, a close-mouthed smile barely tipping up the corners of a perfectly curried mustache.
"Good morning, Mrs. Winchester."
Stunned to hear the man speak to her, she nodded. She started to raise her hand in acknowledgment but changed her mind. Her eyes darted to the left, to the man on the buckskin, then to the right, to the one on the gray. The morning of the attack they had been too far away for her to recognize either, as if that mattered. Her eyes returned to Wolfe and leveled on him.
A man in his late fifties, Wolfe lacked the rugged looks she had once expected of a cattle baron. He was on the small side, not over five-foot-seven and with narrow shoulders, distractingly wide hips, and soft, age-spotted hands that had surely never felt the burn of a rope. His face was unusually round but small, and his eyes much too large for it, like two dimes stuck to the side of a peach. But those eyes looked out at the world with a shrewd savoir-faire that only hinted at how he had come to be the affluent man he was. They were blue eyes, blue and chilled like February afternoon skies, and they could drill right through a person's head like they now did Kathryn's. She forced herself to hold them, to not be cowed.
Wolfe cleared his throat when he realized Kate wouldn't return his greeting. "I almost asked what brings you into town, ma'am, but it would be foolish to pretend I haven't heard what happened out at your place. I hope you'll accept my condolences."
Kate stared unspeaking, her lips still parted as she searched for words. But nothing seemed appropriate.
Again, Wolfe cleared his throat, at last dropping his eyes away, for only a second. He tugged at his tie, then attempted to straighten it inside his vest. "How is Mr. Winchester, if I might ask?"
"He's alive. Very much alive."
Kate Winchester heard the words as if someone else had spoken them. She straightened away from the doorframe and folded her arms across her chest.
"He's alive, no thanks-" She stopped, the rest of the sentence hanging up inside.
Wolfe tilted his head questioningly to one side. When he could see she didn't intend to go on, he said, "Ma'am, I know we haven't been on the best of terms, but I really hope your husband will recover. I am not a spiteful man. We are rivals, in a sense, because of your land, but still I wish your husband no evil." He paused again, ostensibly searching his head to be sure he had said all he meant to. Then he touched his hat to her. "Ma'am. Good day to you."
Obviously expecting no response, Wolfe set his eyes back on the street before him, flipped his horse with the reins, and the buggy started forward. Kate watched the man's profile until it disappeared behind the vehicle's sleek black sideboard. As she started to turn away she caught other eyes on her. She swung her gaze back to the man on the buckskin. He was twisted around in the saddle, watching her. Her immediate reaction was one of revulsion mixed with fear. He had the face of a coyote, long and leering, with a pointed beard that gave it an even longer appearance. His eyes were an odd shade, indistinguishable at this distance, but not like any others she remembered seeing-at least not in a human face. When the man started to turn back to the front, Kate caught his crooked smile, and her insides turned cold.
As the buckboard pulled past, its driver, a man by the name of Harvey Manfred, lifted a hand hesitantly in greeting. He quickly looked away, reddening around the collar. He made a point of turning his head to scan the opposite row of businesses, and he and the other riders in the cavalcade followed Wolfe on up the street, none looking toward Kate.
The air no longer pulsed with the mild pleasantness it had held for her when she first stepped outside. It seemed like evil demons danced nearby, floated all around her in the breeze. Oh, but Irving Wolfe was cool!
Kate dropped her hands and placed one on top of the other behind her, leaning back against them and the doorframe. She breathed deeply and stared after the shiny buggy, her mind churning. Irving Wolfe didn't have the face of a killer. Or did he? Had she ever really known any killers? What made a killer? Desperation? Wolfe was desperate for better land, for better access to water to quench the thirst of his cattle. Without that access, the vast tracts of land he owned were nearly worthless, and in the few places where his cattle could reach the water they had destroyed the range. Ira and Kate had long since been forced to put up barbed wire fence between Wolfe's property and theirs, clear down to the riverbank.
Kate's mind raced. She could run to Sheriff Hess right now and tell him her convictions. She could probably have Wolfe questioned, so he would know he was under suspicion. But she hesitated. What if she was wrong? The thought was almost absurd, but what if? Ira was the only one she knew of who could really say who had tried to kill him, and he was unconscious. Until he woke up or died, did she dare go to the sheriff about Wolfe, with possibly false accusations? And on the other hand, did she dare not? She began toying absently with the broach. What if they came back today? Or tonight? Or any other night? What if the killers returned and this time finished their job? It horrified her to realize it, but once again the killers knew Ira's whereabouts.
With a weight like a cannon ball dragging at her stomach, Kate turned back into the house.Kate sat on the burgundy settee for a good twenty minutes, massaging the broach at her throat with her thumb, before her heart ceased racing. Some powerful thoughts had filled her head since seeing Irving Wolfe pass by on the street. Some powerful thoughts, coupled with some powerful doubts. She had been so certain of Wolfe's guilt not very long ago. Yet if Wolfe had tried to kill Ira only to put Kate in the position of having to sell her land, how did that explain Ira's strange behavior of the past months? Why the late night poker games? How did he come by the money for all the gifts? And why was he so distant? Kate still couldn't force herself past the feeling that Wolfe was to blame, but it must go deeper than the man's simple desire to regain his land. After all, killing Ira didn't necessarily mean he would end up with the land. No, Irving Wolfe was guilty. There were too many coincidences for him not to be. But all of his reasons were as yet unfathomable.
Later, she stood in the parlor over a large tub of scalding water, stirring the sudsy mixture of soap, water and white shirts with a broom handle and watching Ira sleep. Thoughts of dread and uncertainty filled her head. She was thinking about the boys, whom she had sent out to the ranch earlier to talk to the Sievers and to see after the stock and the house. She was worried, but she wasn't sure if there was reason to be. After all, she knew whoever had attacked Ira had probably wanted just him, and now that he was in town there probably wasn't any reason for them to return to the ranch. But what if they did? The feeling nagged at her until she felt sweat beading on her forehead and soaking the sides of her dress under her arms.
Ira's eyes fluttered open so suddenly Kate didn't even realize it until he spoke, though she was looking right at him.
"Hello there."
She started and clutched the stick closer to her. The voice was so quiet and weak-not the voice she had known eight days ago. But the room had been silent, except for the softly sloshing water, so the voice seemed loud to her ears.
Dropping the stick, Kate walked to her husband, her eyes brimming with tears and her steps uncertain. When she stopped beside him, looking down, he attempted a smile and blinked groggily. "Woman, you look like you've seen a ghost." He smiled again, this time with only one side of his mouth, and feebly raised a hand to her. Ignoring the hand, Kate fell forward, catching herself just short of landing across his torso, and squeezed him. When she straightened up she took his hand in both of hers and held it tightly.
"Oh, you poor sweet man," she whispered, looking his face over tenderly. "I love you so much."
Ira looked to left and right, then glanced back at her quizzically. "Where are we?"
Kate's heart fell. She had longed for him to say he loved her too. She would have given almost anything to hear those words again, for it had been so long. But she couldn't reveal her disappointment. Instead, she steeled herself and told him about John and Janet Webster, about the children's return, and about the murder of Doctor Sims.
Ira just nodded throughout the telling, his expression varying little except for a pursing of his lips when he heard about the doctor. Kate's mind churned with a hundred questions, but she lacked the strength to broach the subject of his attack.
When she had finished recounting all that had happened since she found him, Kate fell silent. Ira lay there with his eyes shut, his forearm draped over his face. She hoped he was thinking about Doctor Sims, whose death he had been the cause of.
Finally, Kate couldn't wait any longer. "Ira, you are way too quiet to make me happy. The children aren't in the house. I think now is the time to tell me why this happened."
He dropped his arm and looked up at her tiredly. "Why what happened?"
"Ira!" she said angrily. "You know what I mean, and I think I deserve the truth. Who shot you?"
"Now, Kate-"
"Ira . . ." she said warningly. "The truth."
"I can't tell you anything. Anything I say would make it worse right now. You'll have to trust me."
"Trust you? Ira, you have been hiding something from me for- I guess I don't even know how long. What is it? You've committed some crime, haven't you? What did you do that was bad enough to be shot for? Did you steal money from Irving Wolfe? Is that how you were able to buy me all those things?"
Hurt washed across his face, and he turned his eyes away.
"Don't you dare look away from me!" she said, wanting to curse him. "Ira, you look at me. Have you stolen someone's money?"
He looked back, his jaw set. "Kate, I'm not a thief. You should know me better than to even ask that."
"Then what?" she raised her voice angrily. "What could make those men try to kill you? Those late night poker games-have you cheated someone gambling?" she pressed on. "Is that it? Did you cheat Irving Wolfe?"
"Just stop it!" Ira growled, trying to sit up and failing. He took a deep breath, grimacing against his pain. "I can't tell you anything. I won't tell you. You're wasting your breath."
"Is it Irving Wolfe?" Kate asked doggedly. "It's Irving Wolfe, isn't it? But it can't be just the land. There must be more."
Ira looked at her angrily. "You don't know anything you're talking about." He sighed and looked away. Then his eyes snapped back. "Where are the children?"
Kate threw up her hands and stood away from him. She rested a hand on her hip and put one to the broach. Damn this man! She thought the curse and didn't even regret it. Her husband must hold the answers to all the puzzles, yet even with him awake she knew nothing more than before.
"Vala and Cheyenne are here," she responded irritably. "Vala's cleaning the house, and I expect Cheyenne's playing in the back." Ira's face stiffened at that, but Kate didn't notice and went on. "I sent Marshal and Ellis out to check on the ranch and see the Sievers. They're feeding the animals while we're away."
Ira's eyes widened, and he looked at her anxiously, glanced toward the door, then back into her face.
"Kate, I have to go after the boys! They're not safe out there!"back to the Books page