West of Heaven Page 2
In spite of his objections, she had insisted on riding with him to the Trent ranch today. She had to see the facts for herself, and yet this moment wasn’t quite real. She had expected to feel a connection to Hank that bridged the gap between life and death, but she sensed only a terrible stillness. She wanted something to hold, a memory that wouldn’t fade with time, but she had no keepsakes. Hank hadn’t given her a wedding ring, and with their one pitiful night of coupling, she doubted she’d conceived a child.
Her gaze locked on the badge pinned to his duster. She had never seen it before and she couldn’t imagine why he’d put it on. Sucking in a breath, she unpinned the silver star and put it in her pocket. Like it or not, she had her keepsake, and it was time to get down to the business of living.
Her fingers shook as she turned back the bottom flap of his duster in search of the secret pocket. Her stomach lurched at the thought of being penniless. She had been too small to fully understand poverty when her father died, but her mother had kept her own memories alive.
Always save for a rainy day, Jayne. You never know when a storm will strike.
What had Hank been thinking when he’d walked off with their nest egg? She should have stopped him, or at least demanded that he leave the money. She’d let love get in the way of practicality, and that was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat. It was only by God’s grace that she hadn’t ended up flat broke.
She picked at the seam of the pocket until she managed to make a small hole, then she ripped the stitches, took out the envelope and broke the wax seal. It tore the paper like a scab that wasn’t ready to fall off. Feeling the wax tight under her nails, she slid the contents of the envelope into the light. Instead of greenbacks she saw a collection of papers covered with several kinds of writing.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “This isn’t right.”
Her stomach lurched as she focused on the first sheet of paper, a crinkled advertisement for land in Los Angeles. Across the top Hank had written the name of a bank. As she set the handbill on the dirty floor, she saw a sheet of stationery bearing the name of a Lexington attorney. Beneath the letterhead she saw typewritten words that made her gasp. Franklin Henry Dawson had written out his Last Will and Testament the day before they had married. In stiff, formal language, he had bequeathed to her all his worldly possessions.
What worldly possessions? They had nothing but hope, and now that was gone.
“Hank, how could you?” she whispered.
As she turned to the next page, she saw another formal letter, this one from a bank confirming the receipt of Mr. Dawson’s wire deposit. It didn’t make sense. Hank wasn’t a wealthy man. They’d used the money from the sale of her dress shop to buy train tickets.
Confused, Jayne scanned the next sheet of paper where she saw Hank’s blockish printing. As if reaching down from heaven, he started to answer her question.
Dear Janey,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I love you, girl. I wanted to give you that “always” we talked about, but—
“Ma’am? It’s time.”
The sheriff’s bellow rumbled through the barn as he paced in her direction. She suspected that he’d drag her out by her hair if she didn’t come willingly, but she couldn’t leave Hank to be buried alone. Not with his final “always” echoing in her heart.
She couldn’t stand unfinished business or ragged seams of any kind. She needed a last goodbye, but if Handley wasn’t willing to give it to her, she’d take it. The trail back to Midas wove through the hills like a tangled thread. Her livery mare was surefooted. She would lag behind and then race back to the Trent ranch. The sooner she left with the sheriff, the sooner she’d be back.
Slipping Hank’s letter into her pocket, she pushed to her feet. “I’m ready, Sheriff.”
As he marched out the door, she hunched against the cold, following him to the pine tree where their horses were tethered. A distant thump drew her gaze to a grassy slope about fifty feet from the barn. There she saw the rancher in profile as he raised the pickax high above his head. The blade sliced through the air with a whoosh, then struck the hard earth with a thud.
She winced.
The sheriff gripped her arm. “Ma’am? Come along now.”
“I’m all right.” Shaking off his grasp, she pulled herself into the saddle. Handley mounted his bay and led the way down a path that cut across the meadow near Hank’s gravesite. As they rode past the brown gash in the grass, Ethan Trent pushed back his filthy hat and looked at her with eyes as unyielding as petrified wood.
The remnants of a life lurked in that hardness and her heart pulsed with understanding. She knew how it felt to be alone and in pain. But she also knew how it felt to drag herself out of bed in the morning and face each day. She’d done it when her mother died and she’d do it again tomorrow, without Hank.
She believed in herself and in God, and no matter what difficulties came her way, she’d find a way to survive. She always did.
Trust God and stay strong.
Louisa McKinney had used those words to stitch her way to success. In spite of being a twenty-year-old widow without family or resources, she had established herself as Lexington’s leading dressmaker. Jayne vowed to follow in her footsteps.
Today she would bury her husband. Tomorrow she’d find work in Midas and put every penny aside for the train fare back to Lexington. She’d cry for Hank, but it wouldn’t stop her from cleaning up the mess he’d left, nor from helping the authorities find his murderer. His letter chafed in her pocket. She would show it to Handley in the morning, but tonight she wanted to be alone with her husband’s last words.
Her mare followed the sheriff’s bay into the forest without being nudged. Silent minutes passed as the temperature dropped with the coming storm. The path wound through thick pines, then dipped into a ravine and climbed up a slope littered with pine needles.
Handley had almost reached the top of the hill when his horse lost its footing. Righting the animal took all his attention, and Jayne saw her chance. She turned the mare, dug in her heels and took off for the Trent ranch at a gallop.
Chapter Two
“M rs. D-a-a-a-w-s-o-n!”
Jayne sat tight in the saddle and gave the mare full rein. The hood of her cloak slipped from her head and her hair collapsed in a tangle. When a shower of sleet burst from the sky, icy needles crackled through the trees and stung her face. The wind howled, masking the mare’s hoofbeats as they rounded the first curve. In another minute the road would be slick with mud, but for now it was safe for the mare to gallop.
“Mrs. D-a-a-a-w-s-o-n!”
The shout was fainter now. Surely the comfort of a warm bed and a hot meal would draw the sheriff home to Midas. The trail steepened and then veered east. Listening for Handley, she heard nothing but the storm and slowed the mare to a fast walk.
As suddenly as the sleet had started, it stopped. She raised her face to the sky where snowflakes as big as teacups were collecting on the trees. In front of her eyes, the pines were changing from towering sentries to lacy white angels.
Taking the greeting as a sign that coming back to bury Hank was right, she nudged the mare into a trot and rode straight into Ethan Trent’s meadow.
The rancher was nowhere in sight, but the grave was deep and surrounded on three sides by freshly turned earth. Snow mottled the brown mounds, and a loamy fragrance drifted to her nose on the stiffening wind. The scrape of canvas against dirt drew her eyes down the slope where she saw the rancher dragging a burlap sack past the splintery wall of the barn.
He could have been pulling a child’s sled, but she knew the sack held Hank’s body. She reined the mare to a halt, sat straight in the saddle and watched as Ethan Trent dragged his burden up the hill. His steps were slow and measured, his back rounded and his gloved hands knotted in the frayed weave of the burlap. When he reached the grave, he aligned the body with the long edge of the rectangular hole, paused for breath and bowed his head.
She was grateful for that small comfort, but then he knotted his fists at his heaving sides, stared straight into the heavens and shouted a curse she would never repeat. With his oath ringing in the air, he dropped to his knees and rolled the corpse into the grave.
Jayne stared in horror. The veil of snow erased all color from her world except for the red flush burning across the rancher’s cheeks. Through the mist, she watched as he crossed one arm over his chest, rested his elbow on his forearm and pinched the bridge of his nose. His wide shoulders started to shake, and a low groan cut through the air as he raised both hands to his face and pressed them against his eyes, as if to hold in tears.
Stunned by a grief that matched her own, Jayne climbed off the mare and walked in his direction. As the horse clopped to the barn, the rancher’s gaze drifted to her face. Rising slowly to his feet, he blinked as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. Golden hope flickered in his irises like a candle in an empty window, but it died as suddenly as it had appeared. In place of that hope, she saw a loathing as deep and lasting as the grave at his feet. Sneering, he picked up the shovel and hurled more dirt into the hole.
Fresh tears scalded her cheeks. “I’ve come to help you bury my husband.”
“Help me? God Almighty,” he said, heaving more dirt into the grave. “Where the hell is Handley?”
“On his way to Midas. We parted ways at the ravine.”
From beneath the brim of his hat, he assessed her with a cold stare. “You’re stubborn, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m strong-minded.”
“What the hell’s the difference?”
“A stubborn person just wants her own way. Someone who’s strong-minded has principles and lives by them.”
He looked down at the dirt thumping into the hole, lifted another load and sent it flying. His gaze shifted back to hers. “So what damn principle gives you the right to invade my privacy?”
If he wanted an apology, he wasn’t going to get it. “Common decency is what gives me the right, Mr. Trent. How would you feel in my shoes? What if this were your wife?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Jayne realized that she had made a terrible mistake. The shovel stopped in midswing, hanging over the grave as the rancher stared blindly into the hole. She’d once seen ice break apart on the Ohio River. The fractured planes of his face were no less treacherous.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know you. I shouldn’t have presumed—”
“Damn right.” He slowly turned the blade of the shovel so that dirt and snow fell together in a tarnished mist.
Trying to be respectful, she said, “I should have realized—”
“You should’ve gone with Handley.”
“But—”
“Dammit, lady. Mind your own business.”
“I’m trying to apologize.”
“Don’t.”
Taking a step back, she bowed her head and kept quiet. She owed him that much for burying Hank, but every instinct told her that silence was the last thing this man needed. He was a kettle boiling in an empty kitchen, one that had long since gone dry and was ready to explode. She’d be wise to keep her distance.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for strength as the rancher worked. The rhythm of the shovel became a dirge, a wordless goodbye that lasted for a small eternity. The snow was blowing sideways by the time he finished.
Tamping the mound with the shovel blade, he said, “I’m done. You can sleep in the barn or freeze on the trail. I don’t give a damn either way.”
Jayne believed him, but it didn’t matter. She’d come back to say goodbye to Hank and that’s what she intended to do. She had a warm cloak and would make a bed in the barn out of straw. She didn’t need the rancher’s help. She felt nothing but relief as he stormed off, put away the tools and marched across the yard to the tiny cabin.
The door slapped shut. In the sudden silence and absence of all things human, she surrendered to the tears she’d been fighting for a week. She sang her favorite hymns. She recited the Shepherd’s psalm and walked through the valley of the shadow of death, over and over, until the words were a jumble.
Exhausted, she dropped to her knees and squeezed a fistful of dirt. Someday she and Hank would be together again, but not for a very long time. On one hand, life was uncertain and eternity was a breath away. On the other hand, that gap spanned thousands of days.
Rising to her feet, Jayne turned her back on the grave and looked across the meadow to the rancher’s cabin. An L-shaped sliver of light marked a small window covered with a sheet of boards. Next to it a vertical line gave shape to the door. She smelled wood burning in the hearth and saw a plume of white smoke rising from the chimney.
As the adrenaline drained from her body, so did her natural warmth. Shivering, she imagined sipping hot coffee and the heat of a fire thawing her toes. She also imagined the rancher’s gaunt frame and his filthy clothes. He smelled like the bottom of a barn. The horses were better company, and that was a fact.
Holding her skirt above the snow, she trudged back to the splintery shell of the outbuilding. The cold and the dark didn’t scare her in the least. She would make it through the night an hour and a prayer at a time.
Ethan let go of the sheet of boards covering the window. The flat wood dropped back into place and pinched his finger.
“Dammit,” he muttered, shaking his hand to get the blood moving again. He had been standing at the sill for close to an hour, and the crazy woman was still singing hymns. He hated that sound. It brought back memories of Laura humming lullabies to their children and singing in church.
The widow had to be frozen half to death, but nothing on God’s green earth could bring her husband back. Ethan knew that for a fact.
Damn him for a fool, but the window drew him like a magnet attracting iron ore. After downing the dregs in the coffeepot, he slid the plywood open again. The widow had dropped to her knees and bowed her head.
He could still taste the acid coffee in the back of his throat and his stomach was burning. He needed to eat something, but the thought of this morning’s charred biscuits didn’t appeal to him. Neither did another can of beans or canned meat or canned anything. Laura had been a good cook, even better than his mother, and Ethan steeled himself against the memory of real food even as the widow’s singing tugged at him.
Be Thou my vision, oh, Lord of my heart.
Naught be of else to me, save that Thou art.
God damn him to hell. The widow was singing Laura’s favorite hymn. Did she have regrets for words left unsaid and things left undone? Was she as alone as she seemed? As brave and daring as it appeared? She must have been crying, but the melody didn’t waver. Her shoulders stayed still and her arms remained stiff at her sides, as if by not moving she could make time stop.
Everything about this woman’s grief was familiar to him except the need to see her husband buried. He wished to God he’d never seen the casket holding Laura’s body with the baby on her chest, nor the pine boxes holding his two sons, nailed shut, one on top of the other in the grave next to hers.
His stomach rumbled with hunger, a defiant echo of life in the face of so much death. Hating himself for feeling that need, Ethan covered the window, slopped a can of beans on a plate and ate them cold. He washed the mess down with more bad coffee.
The hymn stopped just as he took the last swallow. Holding the empty cup, he pulled back the wood and looked for the widow. The sky had turned from gray to royal blue, a sign of twilight and colder temperatures, but the widow hadn’t budged. If she had a lick of sense, she’d get settled in the barn before nightfall.
Ethan felt a niggle of worry low in his belly. He knew how it felt to be numb with grief and, for an awful minute, wondered if she intended to freeze to death. He couldn’t let her stand outside much long
er, but the thought of having her in his house was unbearable. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten and then to twenty, praying she’d be gone.
When he found the courage to look, he saw her walking down the hill through the ankle-deep snow. Heavy flakes dotted the shoulders of her cloak and he worried that her feet were wet. Even wrapped in heavy wool, she had to be shivering. When she reached the barn, she looked back at the cabin. Her eyes, he remembered, were bright blue, but in the dim light they were hollow and dark. He slammed his fist against the wall. He didn’t want her here. With a defiant tilt of her chin, she walked into the barn and closed the door.
He wondered if she’d find the matches and lantern he’d put on the shelf for her, and if she’d burrow in the fresh straw for warmth. The temperature would plummet before dawn, and the walls had holes the size of his fist. He’d made them in fits of rage.
She had to be hungry. The thought unnerved him, but he refused to give in to the small voice urging him to invite her inside. Loneliness was the price he paid for the worst decision of his life.
His shoulders sagged with a familiar guilt as he tossed two logs on the fire, stripped down to his long johns and rolled under the comforter covering the wide bed. In the silence of the night, echoes of the hymn she had sung drifted into his usual thoughts of Laura and the children. He considered going out to check on the widow, but he didn’t want to see her clear blue eyes. Besides, he reasoned, even a dog had the sense to get out of a storm. If Mrs. Dawson wanted to come in out of the cold, she could knock on his door. He might not like it, but he wasn’t quite heartless enough to turn her away.
Ethan knew how cold it could be at night. His ranch was situated on a high plateau in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Some winters were as dry as the southwestern desert. In other years his land endured as much snow as the Rockies. This winter had been mild and the spring storm would have been welcome, except for the woman in his barn.