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Ted Kelts nodded. “I’ve been thinking it would be good to open the mine. A lot of men in town are out of work. Prices on copper are a bit better now.” Ted Kelts grimaced. “I’d kind of like to see what the old girl has left hiding under her skirts.”
“Funny you should ask about the Lady, Kelts. I was just out there yesterday looking it over,” Flynn said.
“You don’t say. How’d it look?”
Flynn shrugged. “I’m no miner. I don’t like being underground.”
“Well, I am a miner. Sell her to me,” Ted said with a smile.
Flynn studied his face for a long time. “I don’t think so.”
Ted’s dark eyes flashed in anger. “But why not?”
“I’m thinking of reopening it myself.” Flynn studied his face. “And Victoria really wanted me to keep all the Hollenbeck holdings in one piece.”
Ted nodded. “Yes, I understand, Mr. O’Bannion, but J.C. had decided to sell to me—before he was murdered by that woman. By all rights I should own the Lavender Lady.” Kelts fingered the gold chain on his watch fob. “Moses tells me that you have complete control now.”
Flynn pushed the Stetson hat back on his head with his index finger. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a chaffer with Ted Kelts over some hole in the ground.
“Victoria put me in charge of all the Hollenbeck family holdings,” Flynn said, but there was no pleasure in his admission.
Kelts smiled and leaned toward him. “Let’s discuss terms, O’Bannion. How much do you want for the Lavender Lady?” His navy brocade vest puckered at his middle, but Ted tugged the cloth down tight until it was smooth and wrinkle free. He was a tall, rangy man, strong as a bull, with hard muscles that had been honed by swinging an eighteen-pound sledge for years before he hit his first strike. “I’m sure Victoria intended to take care of this oversight before she had her last stroke. It would be a matter of you signing the papers, O’Bannion, righting a wrong, you might say.”
Flynn’s gaze followed the sharp crease along the fancy pin-striped trousers to the handmade Justin boot propped up on the knee of his opposite leg. If price was the issue, Ted Kelts could afford whatever was asked.
His eyes slid up to meet Ted’s gaze. “’Tain’t for sale.”
Kelts stiffened. “What do you mean it ain’t for sale? Everything and everybody has a price. Just name yours.”
Flynn narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, the Lavender Lady ain’t for sale.” The more he talked to Ted Kelts, the less he liked him. “Not today or any day.”
Ted uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. “You’re a cattle man, O’Bannion. I know you’re running your own head along with Hollenbeck stock. Why would you want a broken-down mine to worry over? It’s probably worthless anyway, but I’d be a whole lot more able to get it open again than you would.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Flynn said.
“Then—why won’t you sell?” Ted looked perplexed.
“I’m riding for the Hollenbeck brand now. Victoria made it plain she wants Rachel to have all the Hollenbeck property—just as it is. And just for future reference, I haven’t got a price.”
Kelts snapped his head around and looked at Moses. “Is this legal?”
“Legal as Victoria’s money and my skill could make it.” No small amount of pride sparkled in the dusky depths of Moze’s eyes and he was working hard not to grin. “I’d like to see somebody find a loophole in one of my documents. Damned near ironclad. Write them so nobody can break them,” he added under his breath.
Ted sat motionless as a tombstone. His eyes narrowed for half a second, then he stood and tugged his vest down. “Well, I guess that’s my answer—for today, O’Bannion. But I’m a man who usually gets what he goes after, so I’m sure we’ll be talking again.”
Flynn leaned away from the wall and nodded. “About anything you want, Kelts, but when it comes to the Lavender Lady, the answer will still be no. That is my last word on the subject.”
“I didn’t get where I am by giving in easily.” Ted extended his hand to Flynn. “No hard feelings?”
“I wouldn’t fault a businessman for doing what comes natural to him.”
“Glad to hear it.” Ted pulled his watch chain and drew a fancy pocket piece from his vest. “I’ll take my leave now.” Ted nodded at Moses and Flynn. “Thanks for the coffee, Moze.”
“Don’t mention it. By the way, Ted, I heard you was headed back east?”
Kelts frowned and slipped the watch back where it came from. “News does travel fast in Hollenbeck Corners. Yes, I have some business in Washington.”
“Taking up politics, are you?” Moses smiled like a fox.
“The thought has crossed my mind.” Ted smiled and turned to Flynn. “Think about what I said, O’Bannion.”
When Ted closed the outside door, Flynn eased himself down into the solitary leather chair.
“More coffee?” Moses offered.
“Naw.” Flynn shook his head. “This stuff would rust a horseshoe, Moze.”
Moses blinked and stared at his own cup. “Really?”
Flynn shook his head and set down his cup. With Kelts gone, his thoughts settled firmly on the letter in his pocket.
“Whiskey, then?” Moses offered as he opened his desk drawer and brought out a brand-new bottle of Cutter and Miller.
“A little early for that, wouldn’t you say?” Flynn frowned at the attorney.
“You tell me? You look like a dog chewing on a tough piece of hide.” Moses leaned back and laced his fingers behind the shock of unruly white hair. “Maybe you need a woman. Beatrice has a new girl over at the sportin’ house. Name is Annabelle—ain’t that a hoot•such a fancy name for a whore? Has hair the color of molten copper.”
Flynn’s frowned deepened. “I didn’t come here to get directions to the cathouse, Moze.”
“And here I-was thinking that maybe you had lost your way. I happen to know you haven’t visited Beatrice and her girls for two years,” Moses went on, ignoring Flynn’s glower. “It ain’t healthy, Flynn. A man can get all backed up—ruin your digestion—shorten your life. It’s a medical fact. Dr. Goodfellow over in Tombstone told me so.”
“I don’t need a woman,” Flynn repeated with a flinty voice.
“I haven’t seen a look so mournful since the last lynchin’ bee over in Millville. If it isn’t a woman you need, then what has put that hangdog look on your face? Trouble with your cattle? Little Rachel?”
“No trouble with Rachel or the cattle.”
“Why don’t you get rid of those critters? They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Easy for you to say. That’s what I do for a living now, Moze. A grown man has to have a livelihood.”
The lawyer snorted. “You don’t need the money.” Moze’s hand fell to the desktop and he shook his head in amazement. “Guardianship of Rachel pays you a nice annuity—I write out the bank draft, remember?”
Flynn shifted in the chair and scowled at Moses but he didn’t say anything.
“You haven’t touched it, have you?” His brows rose until they nearly touched his hairline, and his eyes widened. “It’s all just sitting there in the bank, isn’t it?”
Flynn shook his head. “I didn’t come here to talk about that damned money. I didn’t want it in the first place.”
“You are a strange duck, Flynn O’Bannion.” Moses shook his head in disbelief.
“Look, it’s bad enough to be living in the Hollenbeck house like it was my own.” Flynn’s voice trailed off. It was hard to put into words the way he felt about caring for Rachel, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take money for it.
Moses laughed and rocked back in his chair, then laced his hands behind his head again. “You are a dying breed. All right, if that isn’t what’s stuck in your craw, then tell me what is.”
Flynn drew the envelope from his shirt pocket and held it out.
“What’s this?” Moses unclasped his fingers and leaned forward across the mammoth desk.
“Look at the address.” Flynn shoved the paper closer.
Moses took the letter. His eyes flitted across the tattered envelope. When he glanced back up at Flynn he was frowning; all traces of humor were gone. “Why haven’t you opened it?”
Because I felt like I was violating Marydyth Hollenbeck’s privacy just looking it. Because I have never been able to forget the hatred in her blue eyes or how she held her head high when she walked through the gates of Yuma.
“You’re the Hollenbeck attorney,” Flynn answered with a careless shrug of his shoulders. “I brought it to you.”
“Victoria Hollenbeck’s attorney—not Marydyth’s.” Moses handed the envelope back to Flynn. “This is your domain. You better open it.”
Flynn drew back his hand as if the letter were afire. “It’s probably.personal.”
“Maybe, but it looks like it has taken the long way round coming here—how personal could it be when the sender didn’t even know the Black Widow had been sent to prison?”
A muscle in the side of Flynn’s jaw began to work. He hated the name the townspeople had pinned on Marydyth. For Rachel’s sake.
“It doesn’t seem right.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Moses snatched up the envelope and ripped open one end. A page fluttered to the top of the desk. He carefully unfolded the brittle paper. It was a heavy cream-colored stationery. He held it up to the light. Flynn could see the distinctive watermark of a clipper ship. Then Moses squinted his eyes, ducked his chin and started to read.
A hard knot formed in Flynn’s gizzard. He didn’t feel right about any of this.
“Well, now this is a fine kettle of fish,” Moses said as he let the paper slip from his hand.
“You look like somebody died.”
Moses never spoke, he just slid the single page across the desk. “Read it for yourself.”
Flynn picked up the letter, his eyes darting quickly over the large handwriting. He looked up from the page and swallowed hard.
“What are you going to do?” Moses asked.
“So it’s all up to me, huh?” Flynn stood up. He would have liked to pace, but the cramped office wouldn’t allow it. “What would you do if you had to deal with it?”
Moses grimaced and read the letter again. “Claims complete responsibility for the murder in Louisiana.” He mused aloud as if he had not even heard Flynn’s question. “Could it be possible?”
“If it is, then Marydyth Hollenbeck…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.
Moze swallowed hard. “Now, let’s not be too hasty. At the worst it may mean that she didn’t kill her first husband, Andre. This second part could be a confession of guilt, I suppose, if you are inclined to interpret it that way.”
“And it could just as easily not be. Is that what you’re saying?” Flynn searched the attorney’s face with narrowed eyes.
Moses sighed and placed the letter in the middle of his desk. “Any way you look at it, it’s a judgment call, Flynn. The decision and the responsibility are all yours, I’m happy to say.” The words fell harder than the judge’s gavel had on that fateful day. “Victoria made it real clear—any and all decisions regarding Rachel and the Hollenbecks are yours alone.”
Flynn picked up the letter and stared at it. “Did you notice the signature?”
“Yes, I did. I have to admit it shocks me. I thought Murdering Mary was all alone in the world. If she had an uncle, then why didn’t she tell anybody?”
Flynn glanced up. “Kind of sticks in your craw, don’t it?”
“I don’t want to even entertain the notion that we might’ve separated Rachel from her mother and sent an innocent woman to prison,” Moses replied. “In fact I don’t like to think about that a’tall.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_97171343-4141-5a22-9db5-7bc930f54adf)
Flynn gave Jack his head as they rode out of town. The bay enjoyed the run and Flynn was glad to let him pick his own trail so he could wrestle with the problem of the damned letter.
If he decided to interpret the letter as a full confession for both murders, Andre Levesque’s and J. C. Hollenbeck’s, then Rachel could have her mother back.
The memory of the child’s latest nightmare brought a shiver coursing through him.
And if it isn’t a confession? the voice of the cynical retired U.S. marshal prodded. Years of training, years of single-minded devotion to the law, made it difficult for Flynn to forget that big if.
The letter was vague on J.C.’s murder. That was God’s honest truth. But it was blunt and to the point about the first one—about Andre, Marydyth’s first husband.
But if Marydyth were innocent of killing Andre Levesque and she had an uncle, then why didn’t she defend herself at the trial?
Flynn shook his head, realizing finally what it was that had bothered him about that damned trial.
Day after day Marydyth had sat there in silence. She had grown more pale and drawn as the damning evidence was revealed, and not once had she raised a finger or uttered a single word to defend herself.
She had stood there dry-eyed and silent while the town judged her guilty.
Why?
That question hammered at Flynn’s brain. It was a question he had no answer for.
He rode for hours, and with every mile the letter nagged at him. It would be so easy. If Flynn chose to read between the lines, he could give Rachel what she needed most in the world.
If he chose to.
Was it possible that he wanted to see Rachel reunited with Marydyth so badly that he could, or would, turn a blind eye to the weakness in the wording of that letter?
“Hell no, I wouldn’t,” he declared with hearty conviction. “And I’d have harsh words with any man who thought otherwise.” The sound of his raspy voice started Jack’s ears working back and forth again. “If I believed Marydyth killed J.C., I’d let her rot in Yuma and damn her to perdition without a second thought,” he assured himself and his horse.
But do you really believe that? the stubborn voice asked. Or are you like Moze?—afraid that you escorted an innocent woman to prison and mighty unwilling to face that possibility? Even if it means leaving her there?
Later that afternoon, Flynn had made a big loop around Hollenbeck Corners and ridden through Sheepshead. He had checked on the herd and felt satisfied that the grass would hold through the summer. While he rode, he had argued with himself over and over, and still he had not made a decision about the letter.
He pulled his Stetson hat from his head and used his bandanna to wipe the moisture off the inside of the sweatband. A white ring of crystallized salt had stained outward onto the brim.
