They shoved the wood into the box. On the way back to the pile for kindling, Joseph said, “Darby says Miss Rachel lives in the kitchen, boarded off from the rest of the house. That must mean all the other rooms are unoccupied.” He stacked slender pieces of pitch-veined wood on the crook of his arm. “I’ll just slip in through a downstairs window and find a spot somewhere inside to shake out my bedroll—preferably as close to the kitchen as I can manage so I can hear if there’s any trouble.”
As they retraced their steps to the house, a cow lowed plaintively, the sound faint on the evening breeze.
“You think going inside is a good idea?” David asked as they dispensed with their burdens. “The lady’s a mite skittish.”
Joseph dusted off his hands and straightened his Stetson. “What other choice is there? I’m as happy as a ringtailed possum to play Good Samaritan, David, but I’m not angling to get a bad case of frostbite while I’m at it.”
David chafed his arms through the thick sleeves of his coat. “I can’t say I blame you. It’s not fit out here for man nor beast.”
“I’ll knock on the door again and explain that Darby sent me over to look after her. If she knows I plan to sleep somewhere in the house, it shouldn’t alarm her to hear me coming in.” Joseph flashed his brother a sarcastic grin. “You want to write me a speech so I sugarcoat everything enough to suit you?”
“I would if I had paper. You’re nothing if not plainspoken, and that’s a fact.”
“Yeah, well, flowery speech has never been one of my strong suits.” Joseph narrowed an eye at his brother. “Come to think of it, maybe you should be the one to stay. You were born with a lump of sugar in your mouth.”
David threw up his hands. “Oh, no, you don’t. Darby asked you to watch after her, not me, and you’re the one who gave him your word.”
Joseph had never gone back on his word in his life, and he didn’t plan to start now. That didn’t mean he couldn’t toy with the thought. There were better ways to spend a Friday night than playing nursemaid to a crazy woman.
David collected his gelding and mounted up. Joseph thought about asking him to stop off at Eden and bring him back a jug of whiskey before he headed home, but he already knew what his brother’s answer would be. Now that David wore a badge, he was as puritanical as a preacher about the consumption of spirits—and practically anything else that Joseph thought was fun.
“Well,” David said in parting. “Good luck. If nothing else, it should be an interesting night.”
Sleeping on a cold floor with only hardtack and jerky in his belly wasn’t Joseph’s idea of interesting, but he couldn’t see that he had a choice.
David rubbed his jaw. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, big brother.”
The comment brought them both full circle to that unsettling moment when they had realized Darby’s shooting had been no accident. “Me, either,” Joseph confessed. “My theory of a stray bullet was a lot easier to swallow.”
“Only it wasn’t a stray bullet,” David said. “No how, no way could it have been an accident.”
The words hung between them in the cold air like ice particles. David stared solemnly at the house. “As much as I hate to think it, she truly may be in danger.”
Joseph hated to think it a whole lot worse than his brother did. He was the one who’d promised to protect the woman. “I’m sorry if my frankness put her in a dither,” he offered by way of apology. “I know you wanted to ask her some questions.”
David turned his gelding to head out, then settled back in the saddle and didn’t go anywhere. “Maybe she’ll feel more like talking tomorrow.”
Joseph doubted it. Insanity didn’t normally right itself overnight. “Maybe.” Interpreting his brother’s reluctance to leave as a sign that he needed to talk, Joseph asked, “In the meantime, what’s your gut telling you?”
“That I’m flummoxed. Darby’s so drunk on laudanum he can’t tell me much of anything, and she refuses to talk. How can I make sense of this mess with nothing to go on?” David rubbed the back of his neck. “What if the shooting today actually is connected to the murders five years ago? We didn’t even live in these parts then, and Estyn Beiler, the marshal at the time, never figured out who did it.”
“Estyn Beiler was a piss-poor lawman.” Just saying the man’s name made Joseph’s lip curl. “He was so caught up in his own shady dealings that he never did his job. You’re dedicated, David, and you’re a hell of a lot smarter than he was. I’m confident that you’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Without even a suspicion to go on?”
Joseph reached inside his jacket for his pack of Crosscuts. “Ah, now. For the moment, forget the incident five years ago and start with the obvious question. Who might want Darby McClintoch dead?”
“Nobody that I can think of. He comes into town for a couple of drinks every now and again, but he never causes any trouble. He doesn’t play cards, which rules out the possibility that he took someone’s money and made an enemy. As far as I know, he never goes upstairs with any of the girls, either, eliminating all likelihood of a jealous lover. He’s a quiet, inoffensive man, not given to discussing politics or religion, which can cause hard feelings. He just sits at a corner table, enjoys his drinks, and then goes home.”
“Okay, then.” Joseph offered his brother a smoke. The faint low of a cow reached them again. “Chances are the shooter has nothing personal against Darby.”
“Which leads me right back to the incident five years ago and a big, fat nothing in clues.” David accepted a cigarette and leaned low over the saddle horn so Joseph could give him a light. As he straightened, he said, “This whole thing is giving me a headache. My thoughts keep circling back on themselves. I have no idea where to start.”
Joseph puffed until his Crosscut caught and then waved out the Lucifer. “Start with all the rumors and cast a wide net. A lot of folks hereabouts think that Miss Rachel’s great-aunt Amanda Hollister might have killed the family. There was real bad blood between her and her nephew, Rachel’s father, Henry. Near as I recall, it had to do with his inheriting the ranch and Amanda getting cut out of the will without a dime.”
“That’s the story I heard, too,” David agreed.
“If Rachel had died with everyone else in her family that day, who stood to gain?” Joseph asked.
David squinted against an updraft of cigarette smoke. “Amanda Hollister. As the only surviving relative, she would have gotten this ranch lock, stock, and barrel and all Henry’s money, to boot.”
“So there you go, a prime suspect.” Joseph spat out a piece of loose tobacco. “She definitely had motive. Maybe she’s been keeping her head down the last five years because all the evidence pointed so strongly at her.”
David thought about it for a long moment. Then he said, “Too obvious. In the short time I’ve been marshal, I’ve learned that the obvious answer is seldom the right one.”
“I hear you. The woman would have had to be crazy to think she could get away with it. But maybe craziness runs in the family.” Joseph hooked a thumb toward the house. “Folks blame Rachel’s strangeness on her getting shot in the head, but maybe she was a little off-plum before it happened.”
“Maybe.” David exhaled smoke and flicked away ash. “Sort of like red hair running strong in the O’Shannessy family?”
“Yep. Only with the Hollisters, it could be lunacy.” Joseph studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “There again, we could be sniffing up the wrong tree. It’s no secret hereabouts that Jebediah Pritchard hated Henry Hollister.”
“Jeb’s spread is just north of here, isn’t it?”
Joseph nodded. “And rumor has it that his tail has been tied in a knot for going on ten years. Something about the flood back in seventy-nine altering the course of Wolverine Creek, leaving him high and dry without running water.”
“I remember that, now. The original boundary description between the Bar H and his ranch included the creek and some r
ock formations. During the flood, the stream moved but the rocks didn’t. Jeb wanted Henry Hollister to do a boundary line adjustment to follow the creek, and Henry refused because he would have been forfeiting several acres of prime grazing land.”
Joseph pursed his lips. “If I recollect the stories right, Pritchard dynamited the creek a few months later, trying to redirect its course back onto his property. Evidently he didn’t know what he was doing and only created a wide spot in the stream.”
“Beiler never proved it was Pritchard,” David observed.
“Who else had reason to care where that section of the creek flowed? It was Jeb. I’d bet money on it.”
Jebediah Pritchard was a mean-natured, hostile man with an irrational streak rivaled only by his cowardice and body stench. His three grown sons, Hayden, Cyrus, and Alan, were apples that hadn’t fallen far from the tree. When Joseph encountered a Pritchard in town, he stayed upwind and watched his back.
“I thought Henry Hollister channeled water from the creek into a big pond on Pritchard’s property,” David said. “That strikes me as being a fair compromise on Henry’s part.”
“More than fair. But what if Hollister had up and died, and his heir wasn’t as generous? Pritchard would have been left with only a well to water his stock and crops. Maybe he decided to get rid of the whole Hollister family with the hope that he could convince Henry’s aunt to sell. She’d already purchased a smaller spread on the other side of town, and she was getting up in years. She might have been glad to take the money and have the responsibility of this ranch off her hands.”
Warming to the possibilities, David inserted, “Only the bullet glanced off Rachel Hollister’s skull, and she didn’t die like he’d hoped.”
“Exactly. And even worse, she woke from the coma crazier than a loco horse, and never stepped foot outside from then on. Pritchard could never get another shot at her. I’ve heard tell that he’s tried to buy this place several times since the massacre, but Darby’s always refused out of hand, knowing Miss Rachel wouldn’t agree. That being the case, what’s Pritchard to do? He’s back to where he started, needing to get shut of Rachel. Only he can’t get at her without getting rid of Darby first.”
David flashed a grin. “You ever contemplate becoming a lawman? You think like a criminal.”
“No, thanks.” Joseph chuckled and bent his head to grind out his cigarette under his heel. “I like ranching just fine.”
“Any other suspects you can pluck out of your hat?”
Joseph considered the question. “All the neighboring property owners, I reckon. Couldn’t hurt to question a few of their hired hands as well. This is prime ranchland. With Darby out of the picture, Miss Rachel would go broke in no time and be forced to sell, leaving someone to pick up this place for a little bit of nothing.”
“You’ve just pointed a finger at yourself, big brother.”
Joseph laughed again. “I reckon I did, at that. That’s the trouble with casting a wide net. A lot of people fall under suspicion. Take Garrett Buckmaster, for instance. Even though his land is across the road and a little to the north, I believe he’s made a couple of offers to buy this place over the last year. He strikes me as being a decent man, but he has no running water at his place, either. Stands to reason you should look at him real close.”
David pinched the fire off his cigarette and tucked the butt into his pocket. “I guess I’ll be a mite busy tomorrow.”
“You mind having some company? I’d like to go along when you question everyone.”
“Who’ll look after Miss Rachel?”
“You can ask Ace to come over and spell me for a while.”
David lifted a shoulder. “I’m not chomping at the bit to face Jeb and his boys alone. They’re a shifty lot.”
“That settles it, then. I’ll ride along with you.”
David tugged his hat low over his eyes. With a nudge of his heels, he set his horse to moving. “Tomorrow, then,” he called over his shoulder.
Joseph watched his brother ride off. Then, whistling under his breath, he headed for the bunkhouse, where he hoped to find a lantern. He needed to put up his horse for the night and do Darby’s chores, the first on the list milking those cows that were bawling so persistently. Making his way through an unfamiliar barn and barnyard would be easier with light to see by.
Joseph had just ripped away the outside boards from what he guessed to be a bedroom window at the front of the Hollister house when he felt something nudge his leg. He glanced down to see his dog standing there.
“What in Sam hill are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay home.”
Buddy gave an all-over wag to convey his pleasure at being with his master again. It was difficult for Joseph to scold when he felt equally glad of the company. “All right,” he said gruffly. “I’ll let it go this time. But after this, when I tell you to stay put, I expect you to stay put.”
Buddy worked his jaws and made the growling sound.
“Don’t give me any sass,” Joseph replied. “Who’s the boss of this operation anyhow, you or me?”
Shit. The window was latched closed from the inside. Joseph pushed on the lower sash with all his might, but nothing happened. Resting an arm on the exterior sill, which was rough with peeling paint, he considered his options. To get inside, he would have to break the glass. Given the fact that it was colder than a witch’s tit outside, he decided that it would be worth the expense. When Darby was back on his feet, Joseph would replace the pane, no harm done.
Decision made, he drew back his elbow and struck the glass. The thick leather of his jacket sleeve protected him from the shards. A few more elbow jabs finished the job.
“Back,” he ordered his dog. When Buddy had retreated to a safe distance, Joseph brushed the fragments from the outside ledge, then swept the ground with the edge of his boot, piling the glass off to one side of the window. “I don’t want you getting your paws cut.”
The window had been boarded up on the inside as well, Joseph realized as he groped the opening. Madness. One layer of wood over the windows wasn’t enough to satisfy the woman? Standing at ground level, Joseph couldn’t butt the planks with his shoulder to break them loose. Fortunately, he always carried a few tools in his saddlebags.
Within moments, Joseph had set to work with a crowbar to loosen the one-by-fours from the inside casing so he could knock them free. He winced at the racket each time a board fell into the room, but there was no way to do this quietly. He had forewarned Rachel Hollister of his intention to enter her house, so hopefully she wouldn’t be too alarmed by the noise.
When the window opening had been divested of barriers, Joseph fetched the lantern, his bedroll, and his saddlebags from where he’d placed them on the ground. After thrusting all his gear through the window, he turned for his dog.
“Come here, you willful mutt. Let’s get in out of this dad-blamed wind.”
Buddy made the growling sound that Joseph found so endearing. He gathered the silly canine into his arms and gave him a toss through the window. Agile and sure-footed, Buddy was soon bouncing around inside the room, his nails clacking on the floor. Bracing a hand on the sill, Joseph swung up, hooked a knee over the ledge, and eased himself through the opening. A musty, closed-up staleness greeted his nostrils.
After locating his gear, Joseph struck a match and lighted the lantern. The lamp’s golden glow illuminated a bedroom that looked as if its occupants had departed only that morning. A woman’s white nightdress had been flung across the foot of the made-up bed, which was covered with a blue chenille spread and ruffled shams that matched the tiny flowers in the wallpaper. The armoire door stood ajar to reveal a man’s suit and several white shirts, the remainder of the rod crowded with a woman’s garments.
Upon closer inspection, Joseph saw that a thick layer of dust coated everything. He guessed that this must have been Henry and Marie Hollister’s bedroom, and he felt like an interloper. A Bible on the night table lay open, a
thin red ribbon angled across one page. Recalling the family’s tragic end, he could almost picture Mr. and Mrs. Hollister rising to greet the day, never guessing that it would be their last.
“Come on, boy,” he said to Buddy. “I’m getting the fidgets.”
Joseph’s fidgets worsened when he stepped out into a long hallway. A small parlor table, standing against the end wall, sported a vase filled with yellowed, disintegrating flower stalks. Judging by what remained of the leaves and the faded blossom pieces that littered the tatted doily, the flowers had once been irises. It gave him chills to think that Marie Hollister had probably cut the flowers and put them in water right before she died.
Holding the lantern high, Joseph continued along the corridor. He considered calling out to identify himself, just in case all the noise of the breaking glass and falling boards had upset Rachel Hollister. But what more could he possibly say? Before coming inside, he’d rapped on the door three times, once to introduce himself and tell her about Darby’s injury, again to inform her that he’d done the chores, filled her wood box, and left two buckets of milk on the porch, and finally to tell her that he was going to enter the house by a front window. Even though she hadn’t responded, he’d also explained his reason for being there, namely that Darby had asked him to come over and look after her. If all of that hadn’t settled her nerves, nothing would.
He stopped briefly when he came upon what appeared to be a sewing room. The sewing machine was missing, but a half-made dress lay over a table, and an open closet revealed a nude dress form surrounded by lengths of lace and decorative trim looped over wooden pegs.
A little farther up the hall, he found a library. Tall rectangles of lightness in the pine-planked walls told him that several bookcases had been removed. Those that remained were only partially filled with what looked like tomes on animal husbandry and agriculture. Normally Joseph’s interest would have been piqued, but tonight he hurried away, still unable to shake the feeling that the essence of the people who had lived here still lingered.