Love on the Range (Brothers in Arms #3)(40)

She struggled to appear calm as she finished with the bed. She tried to act as if today were the same as any other day. All the while knowing she was one false move away from being caught in an act of thievery. She hadn’t thought of it like that. She’d considered herself to be an investigator, searching for evidence of a crime. But what if those envelopes were completely innocent? Or what if they contained money?

He could haul her in to the sheriff, accuse her of stealing, and be completely right. She’d be guilty. She could go to prison.

Worse, what if there was evidence in them that would show him to be a killer?

There’d be no sheriff. No, he’d silence her permanently, and Wyatt was too far away to stop him.

She walked to the chest of drawers and picked up the pitcher resting in a bowl on top of it. She filled it with fresh water daily. And right now, it was a barrier between her and Mr. Hawkins.

She headed for the door. She had to walk near him. He stood between her and the only way out. As she came even with him, his hand flashed out and caught her upper arm. His grip was tight. Too tight. He smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth.

“I need to get started with dinner.” She spoke brightly, as if he weren’t holding her arm to the point of pain. “We’re having cherry pie. I found more canned cherries in your cellar, and my cherry pie is delicious.”

He was almost as greedy for food as he was for standing too close to her. She saw him weigh whether to release her or not. Her hands tightened on the pitcher. A dousing with cold water might calm him down. And if not, a crack on the head with the heavy pitcher would be next. She was tempted to just get on with whacking him, but if she did, all the cherry pie in the world wouldn’t save her job, and there were those envelopes under the dresser. She needed to see what she had there. If they were nothing, she’d really prefer to return them to the safe rather than explain what they were doing out of it.

Mr. Hawkins’s grip tightened even more. Molly would have bruises tomorrow from the crushing grip. His fingernails dug into her arm until she wondered if he’d tear her dress and leave claw marks on her skin.

Then he released her so suddenly she stumbled back. Steadying herself, she nodded as if nothing untoward had happened and rushed out. If she had a chance, she’d get those envelopes yet today because they were the only way she was going to prove anything. She’d get them, and either they’d contain evidence she could somehow use, or she’d admit defeat, because she was getting out of here.

He didn’t follow her. Was he opening the safe?

Her heart thudding, she knew there was nothing she could do about it, not right now. She rushed to the kitchen, refilled the pitcher, then looked at it. Her excuse.

She had to take it back up.

At some point.

Her heart pounded with fear as she pictured herself in that room again. She certainly wasn’t going to do it while he was in there. But later. She only needed a moment. Whisk in, grab those envelopes, get out.

And maybe . . .

She sloshed the pitcher so the front of her dress was wet.

Then went to her room and changed into one she had with good-sized pockets. Hanging the wet dress from a peg in her room, Molly admitted she was so worried about Mr. Hawkins she wanted proof she’d gotten her dress wet, lest he check and catch her in a lie.

She heard him coming down the stairs. As she pulled on her dress, she looked at a red, swollen spot on her upper arm. Her skin was broken but not bleeding, all courtesy of Mr. Hawkins. She quickly finished dressing and left her room. As worried about Mr. Hawkins catching her in her bedroom as his.

She was in the kitchen measuring flour into a bowl when he came in. Silently, she swore she would put vinegar in the pie if he so much as touched her.

He stood in the doorway. She heard him but didn’t look up from her work. His presence there was like a looming vulture.

As she measured in lard, she felt the vulture leave.

With a sigh of relief, she focused on preparing the noon meal.

And wondered when she’d have her chance at those letters. He closed the door on his study, and it occurred to her she ought to go up with the pitcher right now.



“Why’d you shoot Lawyer Kingston?” Sheriff Greg Gatlin studied the unconscious form of Randall Kingston. They’d stopped at the doctor’s office to leave Rachel and Kingston. Falcon stayed holding a gun on the unconscious lawyer while Cheyenne fetched the sheriff.

Cheyenne had brought him over to the doctor’s office.

“He shot Rachel Hobart.” Cheyenne pointed to the Pinkerton agent. “Shot her from cover.”

“Did you see him shoot the woman?”

Falcon’s stomach twisted. He’d been afraid there might be trouble in Casper. Kingston was a known man in this town. Falcon was a stranger.

“Greg, you know how good a tracker I am,” Cheyenne cut in.

Falcon did have a hideout weapon though. His wife.

The sheriff nodded.

“We were riding along, strung out on a narrow trail. Rachel third in line,” Cheyenne said. “He picked her to kill. It was deliberate, and the bullet hit her chest dead center. Only because of the distance and Rachel’s layers of clothes is she still alive. We ducked for cover and then worked out where the shot came from. And Falcon is an even better tracker than I am.”

Gatlin glanced at Falcon, looking impressed.