Spirit of the Wolf Page 15

  “But five hundred dollars,” Bess echoed. “Surely dozens of murders are committed every year. Why is this man worth so much?”

  Shelby shrugged. “The gov’ment didn’t set the amount. Was his widow. Rumor has it she said at the funeral that she wouldn’t rest ‘til the killer was just as dead as her husband.” Winking, he added, “Way I see it, it’s been a long time since that woman had a good night’s sleep. Might just be the good Lord is on ol’ W. C.‘s side.”

  Bess gasped. “Why would the God help a killer?”

  “Atwood said from the get-go that he never kilt nobody, never stole no watch, neither. Me? I believe him.”

  “Really. But why?”

  Shelby shrugged. “Well, for one thing, if he kilt the man for the watch, why’d he leave it behind?”

  Bess glanced at the crudely-drawn portraits again, and couldn’t help thinking that the wanted man and the hunted beast had a lot in common, right down to those icy, wolfish eyes.

  Bess’s heart beat harder, and she didn’t even know why.

  ***

  All during the train ride to Baltimore, Bess thought about the amazing likeness between the man in the wanted poster and Chance Walker.

  Chance was a Texan. He’d told her he hadn’t been home in more than ten years, and he’d been mighty evasive about where he’d been and what he’d been doing all that time. And it had been like pulling teeth barehanded to get him to talk about any aspect of his past, she recalled.

  Once settled in the comfort of the train’s passenger car, Bess had opened her copy of Pride and Prejudice, and Billy Steele’s business card—which she’d been using as a bookmark—fluttered to her lap. For a moment, she considered crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the trash receptacle. But something stopped her, and she slipped it into her purse, instead. Mr. Steele had said he was willing to travel…if the case was interesting enough to make it worth his while. She remembered the address on the card and nodded. Gettysburg wasn’t all that far from Foggy Bottom…should she ever need a Pinkerton detective…..

  Matt and Mark were at the station to meet her. She was thrilled to see them, yet her heart sank. She’d hoped that, after reading her note, Chance would realize he needn’t avoid her, especially not for exposing his more sensitive side to her.

  The twins chattered all the way home about the things Chance had taught them while she was gone. They’d learned to birth a breech calf and how to mount a moving steed, when to administer medication to a sickly horse and the proper time to stop saddling a pregnant mare. As they rattled on, Bess sighed and thanked God for Chance. Her brothers had been little more than boys when he showed up early last spring. In these few months, they’d begun to show signs of turning into fine, upstanding men, thanks to his patient influence and tutelage. Before Chance, she’d regularly had to threaten to tan their hides just to get them to wash up for supper. Now, in an attempt to emulate their hero, they came to the table squeaky clean…with no prompting from her.

  Not so long ago, it took no fewer than three requests to get them to make up their beds in the morning. Now, Bess couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to ask them to tidy their rooms. And schoolwork! She recalled the nagging and pestering it once required to get those boys settled after supper to complete their lessons. These days, a sideways glance from Chance encouraged such an immediate response that the dining room curtains fluttered from the breeze of quickly opening books.

  He’d affected Micah’s life, too, in his quiet cowboy way. The change had been more slow and subtle, but the man who, until Chance’s arrival, had been sullen and withdrawn, began to shed his gloomy spirit. The smiles she remembered as a girl were back again, and so was the jovial, high-spirited daddy who tickled and teased, hugged and tousled with abandon.

  And there was no denying the impact Chance had had on her own life. He’d never come right out and told her how capable and efficient he believed her to be, yet she knew it’s what he thought, for he showed his approval with smiles and the genuine respect that glowed in his eyes.Until Chance, she’d resigned herself to being a spinster. Like Old Martha Willis, who at eighty-one still cooked and cleaned for her younger siblings, Bess always believed she’d be caring for her brothers until they married and moved into homes of their own. And after that, she’d care for her father ‘til he drew that last breath…or she died of loneliness. It made her grin, just thinking about the wedding dress she’d sketched one night when she couldn’t sleep. If Chance ever screwed up the courage to ask her to be his wife….

  Bess sighed again, thinking of that awful man on the Baltimore dock, of the wanted poster. She’d slipped outside after her meeting with Ernest Shelby and, when no one was looking, untacked the poster from the board and stuffed it into her purse. Bess guessed she must have taken it out and looked at it a hundred times during the trip home. The black and white rendition of the murderer did bear an uncanny resemblance to Chance. The man in the picture had longer hair, wore muttonchops and a mustache, and there were no laugh lines beside his pouting mouth. But those eyes…. Pale and slanting and darkly-lashed, they captured her attention in exactly the same thrilling-yet-terrifying way the timber wolf had all those years ago in Baltimore.

  Once she’d unpacked her bag, Bess separated petticoats and stockings in need of a good laundering from her dusty bonnets and boots. After stowing her valise in her chiffarobe, she emptied her purse and carried the wanted poster to her bed, holding it this way and that to catch the light. But no matter which way she looked at it, the drawing resembled Chance. She flopped onto her plump feather pillow and pressed the poster to her chest. It couldn’t be Chance, she thought, biting her lower lip. He simply couldn’t be a thief and a murderer!

  She thought of all the many thoughtful things he’d done—none of which had been required of him as foreman—since coming to Beckley’s Hollow. Eyes closed, she could almost hear the powerful tremolo of his masculine voice, floating over the yard as he sang, unaware that he had an audience of one. Could a man who sings like an angel really be a cold-blooded killer?

  Bess held the picture aloft, so that it seemed the man in the poster was looking at her in much the same way Chance had that day in the parlor. She stared long and hard into those wolfish icy eyes, at the firm set of that broad jaw and the grim line of his mouth. Even the slight rise of that well-arched left brow…exactly like Chance’s….

  She hugged the poster again and fought the bitter tears that stung her eyes. Much as she hated to admit it, Chance did have a hot temper. And he had behaved mighty mysteriously on occasion. The incident on the Baltimore docks, for example. The Texan’s wild accusation and the similarity between Chance and this man in the wanted poster couldn’t be chalked up to coincidence. Not when added to that time she’d found him in her secret place, sobbing as he begged God to explain why He’d doomed Chance to a life spent looking over his shoulder.

  Bess dried her eyes with the backs of her hands and all but leaped from the bed. Trembling with fear, she haphazardly folded the poster in half, in half again, and tucked into her apron pocket. Crossing the room in purposeful strides, she leaned close to the mirror above her dresser and pinched both journey-paled cheeks, then tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

  “He can’t be the man in the poster,” she whispered to the miserable young woman in the looking glass, “can he?” Could she really have been so wrong about him? Were all his kindnesses merely a ruse to hide his true identity? If so, she was the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi.

  Suddenly, fury replaced self-pity. Bess stood straight, threw back her shoulders, and marched toward the door. “There’s only one way to find out,” she steamed, flinging it open.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bess charged down the stairs and through the foyer, propelled by a full head of steam.

  “Bess Beckley, where are you off to in such an all-fired hurry?”

  The deep, resonant voice startled her, and Bess stifled a squeal. “Pa,”
she said, clutching her throat. “I didn’t see you sitting there.” As her heartbeat returned to normal, she studied her father’s handsome, grey-bearded face. “All right,” she said, standing near his chair, one hand on his shoulder, “out with it. What’s wrong?”

  He smiled a bit. “Nothing. I’m right as rain,” was his quiet reply.

  “Don’t give me that. I’ve always been able to tell when there’s something on your mind.”

  Micah only shook his head and stared across the lawn. “Remember the day your Mama planted those trees?” He nodded toward the clump of white birch just beyond the drive. “Everybody insisted they’d never grow in heavy soil, but Mary didn’t believe them. Not for a minute.”

  Grinning, Bess knelt beside his rocker and lay her hands atop his. She, too, gazed at the clump of birches. “Ma always did have a mind of her own, didn’t she?”

  “‘Deed she did.” He faced his only daughter, took her hands in his. “I visited her grave this morning.”

  “Oh, Pa,” Bess interrupted. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have gone with you. I know how upset it gets you to go there alone.”

  Gently pressing a calloused fingertip against her lips, he shushed her. “Do I look upset?”

  She studied his face for the usual signs of distress…furrowed brow, trembling lips, tear-dampened eyes. It surprised her to see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, instead. “No, as a matter of fact, you look more like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

  He laughed softly, then stared off into space again. Shortly, Micah leaned forward, slid his arms around Bess and drew her near. “How will I ever make it up to you, my sweet girl?”

  Unfortunately, she knew exactly what he meant.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d apologized for years of emotional absence. Sometimes, she’d been tempted to say it was high time he realized what all his whining had put the boys through. But mostly, like now, Bess’s love for her father made her want nothing but to see him smile. Bess rested her head on his shoulder. “There’s nothing to make up for, Pa.”

  Micah kissed the top of her head. “Oh, but you’re wrong. There’s so much….” He inhaled deeply. “From the moment your mother left this world, you’ve been ma and pa to the boys. Been my lifeline, too. Wasn’t fair of me, heaping all that on your shoulders. You were barely more than a child when….” His voice trailed off. Then, “I’m ashamed of myself. I ought to have been there for you.”

  He got to his feet, and Bess rose, too, she on the top step, Micah on the one below her. For the first time in a decade, father and daughter saw eye to eye. “I was happy to help out, Pa.”

  One hand on each of her shoulders, he gave her a gentle squeeze. “I know that. And in all these years, you never complained.” Gray eyes misting, he gave Bess a little shake. “You’re made of some mighty sturdy stuff, Bess m’girl. Why, I don’t believe I ever saw you shed a tear.”

  She focused on birches that formed a giant white W beyond the drive, because if she allowed Micah to look into her eyes at that moment, he’d know in an instant that she had cried, thousands of tears, alone in her dark room during these ten, long years. He was right. It hadn’t been easy being mother and father to the twins, confidant and caretaker to Micah, feeding the farm hands and balancing the ledgers while keeping up with housework and shopping and laundry. But she’d never tell him of the many nights she had cried herself to sleep, wondering where she’d find the strength to do it all again come morning, because without fail, her mother’s voice, gentle and reassuring, whispered in her mind, promising that tomorrow would be a better, brighter day. What could be gained from letting Micah know what his grief-induced weakness had done to his children? What possible good could come of admitting that his years of self-pity had robbed her of golden girlhood years? That time was gone, and she’d never get it back. And in truth, Bess didn’t want them back, because they’d made her a clear-minded woman who wasn’t ruled by childish dreams. That, Bess hoped, would help her cope with the truth about Chance.

  “I was happy to do it, Pa,” she repeated, shaking a forefinger under his nose, “and I don’t want to discuss it, ever again.” With that, Bess smiled brightly. “I see that someone has hidden some lemons in the kitchen. Why don’t you keep me company while I turn them into a pitcher of lemonade?”

  Micah didn’t respond to her invitation. Instead, he stood there, looking from her eyes to her hair, from her cheeks to her mouth, to her eyes again. And then he whispered, “Do you realize how much you look like your ma when you do that?”

  His piercing gaze and intense tone surprised her, and Bess flinched almost as noticeably as when his voice startled her moments earlier. “When…when I do what?”

  “When you throw back your shoulders and lift your chin that way, as if you’re prepared to take on a mighty enemy, single-handedly.” Gently, he stroked her hair. “I’d hate to be that enemy, Bess m’girl.” Winking, he added, “because you look determined to win.”

  Grinning, she kissed his cheek. “Well, like Ma always said….”

  “…‘no sense doing anything halfway,’” they quoted in unison, laughing.

  Micah held open the screen door. “We’ll talk about your trip over supper. Right now, I’m more interested in hearing where you were headed in such an all-fired hurry a bit ago.”

  Bess stepped over the threshold and headed for the kitchen. She’d tell him about her run-in at the bank, about her meeting with Shelby, but she wouldn’t tell him—or anyone else, for that matter—what she suspected about Chance. Because if everything had been a strange coincidence, and he wasn’t W.C. Atwood, his life could be ruined forever. No, she’d confront him in private. And if her suspicions turned out to be facts? Well, she’d just cross that bridge when she came to it. “I was looking for Chance,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I wanted him to bring me up to date on…on the harvesting.”

  “Ah….” Nodding, Micah crossed both arms over his chest. “The harvesting. Yes. Of course.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, turning to face him.

  “It means Chance has been mooning around here like a sick calf ever since you left. Every other word out of his mouth is ‘Bess this’ and ‘Bess that’. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you two look at each other when you think nobody’s paying attention.” Micah snickered. “I could do worse, I suppose, than to have—“

  “Pa,” she interrupted, “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “—a man like Chance for a son-in-law,” he finished.

  Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of it. Son-in-law. It had a magical, musical ring, because in order for Chance to be Micah’s son-in-law, he’d have to be her husband. If her mother were still alive, she’d read Bess’s heart in an eyeblink. Fortunately, her father had been too wrapped up in his own misery to know that his daughter had secret thoughts, let alone try to decipher them. “For your information,” she began, “Chance has no romantic designs on me.” It was a boldfaced, blatant lie, but necessary—if not forgivable—until she forced a showdown about the wanted poster. “And I have no romantic notions about him, either.” Bess turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen.

  “Mmm-hmm,” her father said, pocketing both hands as he followed her. “And the sun doesn’t rise every blessed morning….”

  ***

  Long after she’d cleaned up their lemonade and cake snack, Bess thought about her father’s pronouncement. I wonder how eager he’d be to have Chance for a son-in-law if he’d seen that wanted poster! She put washed-and-dried tumblers back onto their doilied shelf in the hutch, then hung the tea towel over the wooden dowel beside the sink.

  She had procrastinated long enough. One way or another, she would have an answer to her questions about Chance. And she’d have them by suppertime.

  This time when she stepped into the bright sunshine, there was no head of steam propelling her, no righteous indignation urging her onward. Be
cause while she and her pa chatted over fresh-squeezed lemonade and honey biscuits, it occurred to her that if Chance admitted to being W.C. Atwood, she’d be forced to make a choice:

  Stand with him…

  …or stand apart.

  As she neared the red-sided building, Bess heard the familiar chit-schr-r-ring, chit-schr-r-ring that told her someone was in the loft, forking hay into a stall below. Hoping it was Chance, Bess took a deep breath and grabbed the rusting iron door handle. The hinges squealed mercilessly as she pulled the heavy wooden door and slipped through the narrow opening.

  A bright shard of sunlight sliced across the board floor, broadening as it slanted into the darkened interior of the barn, and in its center, Bess saw her silhouette. For an instant, she stared at it, mouth agape, at her shadow, for the daystar’s gleam gave the illusion that her dress had a long, shadowy train, and the poster wadded in her left hand looked like a bouquet of posies. The breeze gave the door a gentle shove, and it creaked slowly shut, blotting out the sunlight…and the beautiful mirage on the barn floor. Swallowing, she shook her head. “Thanks, Pa,” she muttered. If it hadn’t been for all his talk of sons-in-law…. She looked up, fully prepared to call Chance’s name.

  Sunshine, slanting in through the window beside the door, inched up the ladder and slid into the loft. And there, in the center of its bright, golden light, stood Chance.

  Had he been there all along? she wondered. Had he seen her looking at her shadow? If the expression on his face was any indication, he’d read the fanciful thoughts had danced in her head.

  “Somehow, when that door opened,” he said softly, “I knew it’d be you.”

  He looked like an angel, all aglow in the translucent yellow beams. Sunlight gleamed from his hair and his lashes and the buttons of his shirt. And it sparkled in his eyes, in those untamed, wolfish eyes….