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If he believed the letter was genuine, then he was beholden to see the territorial judge about Marydyth’s sentence. But he hadn’t quite come to that decision—just yet.
The sun was a red-gold disk when Flynn unsaddled Jack and rubbed him down. The expansive adobe stable behind the Hollenbeck house was cool and dim. It was big enough to hold four horses and two buggies but Jack lived all alone inside. The smell of hay, dust and cracked corn surrounded them.
It was a comforting odor, a familiar one that had drawn him to this spot many times since he came to live in Hollenbeck Corners. Flynn rolled himself a smoke and let it dangle unlit from his mouth.
Flynn brushed the horse and ran an empty gunnysack over him to give him a shine. He tossed down his unlit cigarette, picked up each of Jack’s hooves, one by one, and carefully cleaned them, taking particular care with each frog.
An hour had passed while he kept his hands busy, and still he had not come to a decision. Flynn walked toward the mansion, still lost in thought. He was near one of the tall colonnades at the back of the house when the smell of smoke reached his nostrils.
He turned his head and lifted his nose like a feral animal. He inhaled deeply, narrowing his eyes and allowing the scent to guide him to the source. The smoke was coming from the direction of the stable.
Flynn ran to the well and grabbed up a bucket of water. It sloshed over his Levi’s as he ran. When he threw open the double doors a column of smoke roiled out. One bucket doused the smoldering manure and straw, but as the smoke wafted around his head a tendril of suspicion wove around his mind.
It was damned hard to start a fire with a cold cigarette.
Flynn made sure the blaze was well and truly out before he went to the house. A nagging sense of unease was his constant companion. He hadn’t started that fire, so who had? The stable was behind the house, a damned long way from any road or alley. If someone had been smoking around there, then they were hiding.
As soon as Flynn opened the door a streak of calico ruffles and bouncing russet curls flew at him.
“Unca Flynn!” Rachel squealed. She hugged his knees so tight he thought they both might go end over teakettle into the hallway.
“Whoa, little lady.” He untangled her arms and lifted her up. Her cheeks dimpled when he tickled her.
It never ceased to amaze him that in the light of day she had no memory of her nightmares. As long as she was awake she was a happy, laughing child.
“What’s goin’ on, dumplin’?” he asked as he walked the same path he took every day, through the foyer, up the hall, across the parlor and finally through the kitchen door.
Mrs. Young was already tying on her bonnet. “Evening, Mr. O’Bannion.”
“Evening, ma’am.” He shifted Rachel’s weight to his bony hip, tickling her as he did so.
She giggled shrilly.
“Chicken and dumplings on the stove, cobbler on the warmer. See you tomorrow at seven.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Young,” he said to the flash of white petticoat that showed beneath the Scotch tweed muslin of her skirt before the door slammed with a rattle.
Flynn had been so busy chewing on the problem of the letter that he had plumb forgotten about looking for another housekeeper. He had to find somebody who would be better with Rachel. At least now that the cattle were moved he would be home with Rachel more during the day. Until roundup in the fall he would have time aplenty to spend with her.
“I been waiting for you,” said the golden sprite clinging to his neck. Excitement telegraphed through her body and up his arm. She gnawed at her bottom lip, as if she were about to explode. “I’ve been waiting a long, long time.” She sighed as if to emphasize the extreme hardship it had been.
“What’s got you hopping like a Mexican jumping bean?” He left the kitchen and went-into the study. He folded his body into a big padded chair.
Rachel scrambled up and positioned herself squarely in his lap. She stared him in the eye and then she leaned close as if she was about to tell him a secret. “Mrs. Young wouldn’t help me get into the attic today.”
He felt his eyebrows rising.
Then cool smooth palms clamped on either side of his beard-stubbled jaws. “She said I had to wait for you…so I waited.”
Flynn felt the strain of the day winnow from his bones as he stared into cornflower-blue eyes. “What in tarnation do you want to go into the attic for?”
“’Cause I need baby clothes.” She patted him with those tiny hands that felt softer than goose down. Then she impulsively kissed his cheek and giggled. “You are an old silly, Unca Flynn.”
He laughed with her. “Yes, I guess I am, sugar.” Rachel was like a ray of sunshine all bottled up in a Mason jar. “’Cause I can’t figger out why on earth you need baby clothes. You’ve been out of nappies for a long while now.” He chuckled at the expression that flitted across her face, a combination of horror and embarrassment, as he teased her.
“I am a big girl now—they aren’t for me. Mary Wilson’s mama had another baby girl. Mrs. Young said my baby clothes are in the attic.” She turned serious. “Could we take the baby some?”
Flynn didn’t know whether to laugh or moan. There were so many things that he didn’t know about little girls. Was this the kind of thing he could look forward to, crawling around in the attic for baby clothes to give away?
“Please, Unca Flynn.”
“All right, punkin. As soon as we’re through with supper we’ll go into the attic and find you some baby clothes.”
“I knew you’d say yes.” She grinned triumphantly. “I told Mrs. Young you would say yes.”
“You just wrap me around that little finger of yours, don’t you?” He rose from the chair with her in his arms. Rachel clung to his arm as he swung her around and perched her up high on his shoulders. He gripped her ankles above the high buttons on her black leather shoes. The rough skin in his palm snagged against her white silk stockings and the lace on her pantaloons.
“Hurry, Unca Flynn, hurry. Let’s eat fast so we can go to the attic.”’
He added a little speed and a lot of bounce to his walk. “I’ll hurry but you may be sorry you asked when we run—” he ducked low to miss the threshold of the study “—into a big—” he dipped again to miss the chandelier in the hall “—fat, hairy spider!” He flipped her off his shoulder and tickled her ribs when they reached the kitchen.
Rachel’s screams of glee echoed through the house. His laughter mingled with the savory odor of chicken and dumplings, and for a while Flynn was able to forget about the damned letter.
When the dinner was eaten, the dishes washed, wiped and put away, Flynn and Rachel lit a lantern and went in search of the attic. He had never been in that part of the Hollenbeck house—the closed off wing where Marydyth and J.C.’s bedroom had been—and it took a few minutes to locate the right set of stairs that led to the attic.
Flynn held the lantern high and swept his hand across the gauzy veil of cobwebs when he opened the last door.
A hundred feminine articles met his gaze in the flicker of the lamp. Frilly doilies were piled on top of an armless rocker, the kind that women favored. Three dome-topped trunks were shoved in one dark corner.
By the time Victoria had had her stroke and wrangled Flynn into becoming Rachel’s guardian, Mrs. Young or some other hireling had packed away every trace of Marydyth that had ever existed. The day he had walked into the house it had been clean and completely devoid of anything personal. Over the years he’d had regular tintypes of Rachel taken to put on the piano and the mantel.
So far Rachel had not asked him too many questions, but her nightmares told him that she was asking questions in her mind. She had a natural curiosity about her folks, and the day was coming when somebody was going to have to give her some answers.
Flynn had a flash of memory of his own childhood. He remembered sitting on Sky’s lap and listening to the story of her life over and over. Victoria’s hatred and bitterness toward Marydyth had left a great big hole in Rachel’s life. And no matter how hard he tried, Flynn hadn’t been able to fill it.
While he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, he stumbled over a big hatbox and staggered against a chest. The pain in his shin snapped him back to the present. A table with a cracked marble top provided him with a convenient place to set the lantern so he could rub his barked shinbone.
“Unca Flynn, can I come in?” Rachel’s voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the discarded furniture and trunks.
“You can come in, honey, but you be real careful.” He scanned the area with narrowed eyes. The cool, dry attic would be a favored nesting site for spiders.black widows.
Black Widow.
The name brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He froze for a moment, knowing that the letter in his pocket could remove that brand from Rachel’s mother. If only he could put aside his doubts.
“Looky, Unca Flynn!” Rachel’s excited voice brought him spinning around on his boot heel. She was stroking the hair mane of a carved wooden pony. The horse was white with black spots painted on its hindquarters.
Flynn took a step toward her but his boot caught on a red fringed shawl that was draped over something. The more he tried to free himself the more the shawl tangled around his foot. Rachel watched him wide-eyed while he did a dance with the thing hanging from his spur. But suddenly her frozen expression halted him in his tracks.
“What is it, honey? Are you bit?” He knelt down and gathered her to his arms. Her face had gone pale as chalk. She was quiet as death. “Tell me, does it hurt, Rachel?”
She shook her head in denial. “No.” Her eyes were wide and unblinking.
Fear of a kind Flynn had never imagined squeezed around his heart. “Rachel? What is it? Talk to me, honey.” His chest contracted while he searched her hands and arms. He could find no marks, but if Rachel was quiet, something had to be wrong. “Rachel, answer me. What is the matter?”
She lifted her tiny hand and pointed. He swiveled around to see what she was staring at. It was a portrait. The flickering lantern light caused the azure-blue eyes to look as if they were alive. A cascade of flaxen curls tumbled over one shoulder and down out of sight at the bottom of the painting. Artfully painted stones glowed at the delicate ears and encircled the slender column of throat.
Smoky topaz and diamond earbobs with a necklace to match.
In a voice colder than the grave, Victoria had read the inventory of missing jewelry at the trial. Marydyth had sat silent, never denying her guilt, never defending herself. But now Flynn had the nagging question at the back of his mind. The letter that was signed “Uncle Blaine” mentioned that jewelry, even went so far as to talk about J.C. giving it to him as some sort of payoff.
But why wouldn’t Marydyth have mentioned that? Even when Flynn brought in the old Wanted posters and they spoke of a man she had been seen traveling with, she never said a word about having an uncle.
Why wouldn’t she have fought for her innocence?
“Who is that lady?” Rachel whispered.
Flynn jerked himself away from the memory of the trial. He searched his mind and his heart. If he told Rachel she was staring at a likeness of her mother it would open a floodgate of questions, questions he didn’t want to have to answer. It would be even worse than the other night.
If you don’t tell her it will be the same as lying, his prickly conscience accused. You’ll be no better than Victoria.
Flynn tightened his jaw against the thought. He grasped Rachel’s pointy little chin and tipped her face up. Trust glowed in eyes the exact shade of the ones that silently watched him from the painting.
Flynn O’Bannion had the power to give Rachel a piece of her past. But his mouth grew thick when he thought about what he was about to do.
He could change her life. But was it fair to tell her the portrait was of her mother and then turn around and leave it and all of Rachel’s questions like discarded furniture in the attic? If he told her about the painting, then wouldn’t he have to tell her more?
Could he ignore the letter in his pocket and leave Marydyth behind those thick walls of Yuma when Rachel needed her so much?
The confession wasn’t so vague; in fact, now that he thought about it, it was plain as day. Marydyth had an uncle named Blaine, and he had her missing jewelry. He killed her first husband and then had come to Hollenbeck Corners and killed again. It was not so hard to follow.
It might’ve happened that way. I can believe it happened that way for Rachel.
“That’s a painting of Marydyth Hollenbeck, sweetheart. That is your mother.”
Night sounds filled the Spartan cell. Marydyth had been unable to sleep even though her body cried out for rest. She had been plagued by thoughts of Rachel—plagued and comforted.
She turned over on the cot and put her face toward the wall. If she tried real hard and concentrated with all her might, she could almost feel the texture of Rachel’s satiny skin beneath her fingers. She did it now, ignored all that surrounded her and thought only of Rachel. Her sweet blue eyes, her soft downy cheeks, the way a little dimple appeared when she giggled.
Suddenly rough hands jerked Marydyth around, and she raised her hands to protect herself. As she struggled, the moonlight coming through, she felt the edge of a blade.
The complicated machinery started to turn right after Flynn met with the territorial governor. He had moved as quickly as he could, but he had been careful to make sure that nobody knew what he was doing.
He didn’t want to see the Hollenbeck name dragged through the newspapers again. And he intended to talk to Marydyth first.
Prison changed people and he wanted to make sure that the woman coming out of Yuma had the same kind of affection for Rachel as the one that went in.
Marydyth was innocent, the indicting voice of his conscience kept reminding him.
He shook his head, not allowing himself to dwell on that too long. Flynn could not change the past, but he was doing everything he could to change the future—Rachel’s future.
Protecting Rachel was his only thought. She deserved to meet her mother under the best of circumstances. He made arrangements for Rachel to stay with Victoria, under the care of her nurse and housekeeper, so he could ride to Tombstone to meet Marydyth to make certain the woman would be good for Rachel. He wanted to have a talk with her first, to prepare her for the changes that had taken place while she was gone and the way things would have to be for the future.
It wasn’t a chore he was looking forward to.
Marydyth dragged her hand across her forehead to wipe away some of the sweat. Her dry throat begged for water, but it was hours until the guard would ring the watering bell. Until then she was expected to toil in the inferno of the prison laundry silently.
Or else suffer the consequences.
A strand of her short, jaggedly cut hair fell into her eyes. She impatiently nudged at it with the back of her wrist, breaking her rhythm on the washboard for only a second. When she thought of the horror of her hair being sliced away by that wicked blade, a hot burning pain constricted her throat.
She had thought she was going to die that night.
Had been sure that her throat would be the next target of the blade. But the poor demented woman who attacked her had only wanted the blond curls. After she had them in her trembling hands she had shrunk against the adobe wall, cackling and mumbling incoherently. Marydyth had felt nothing but pity for her when the guards came to drag her away.
Marydyth shoved away the soft thoughts and rubbed the cloth hard against the cake of strong lye soap, then she dipped it and repeated the process. Steam rose from the water. Her flesh burned as she washed the garment.
She had no more pity for the woman—or for herself. It was not something she could afford to have in here.
Pain was not a sensation she responded to any longer either. Her fingers bled in spots while she rubbed the fabric along the perforated ridges of the scrub board, then rinsed it in the scalding water. Doing the prison laundry was considered a privilege by the committees and people who came to visit the facility, but in truth it was like toiling in the humid bowels of hell.
Marydyth’s stomach growled. She wondered what time it was. In the dim confines of adobe walls five and half feet thick there was no way of knowing. Being inside Yuma was like being entombed alive. She felt as if she had been swallowed by the earth. There was no light, no air.
And no way out—ever.
She bit her lip. Only by concentrating on the repetitious task in front of her was she able to slow the pace of her pounding heart. A drop of sweat dripped from the end of her nose. She watched it fall on the stone floor beside her foot, wetting the dust for a moment before it dried away.
Today the heat was searing but tonight when the sun went down the prison would turn freezing cold. She would shiver in her bunk with the thin blanket pulled up to her chin and she would dream.
Her life had settled into a routine of suffering. The only thing that kept her from taking her own life to end the torment of this place was the memory of her beautiful child.
Rachel.
She whispered the name aloud, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice. A smile tugged at her dry lips causing them to crack and sting.
She didn’t care. Thinking of Rachel was like having enough to eat and drink. It was like being clean, and not lying awake in terrorized exhaustion, waiting for a dirty guard to come or another prisoner to hack off her hair.
Rachel was the only bright spot in Marydyth’s existence.
She clung to the hope that God might take pity upon her and let her see Rachel again someday.
Hadn’t she paid enough for her crime? Wasn’t the time she had missed with Rachel enough to pay for what she had done?
Marydyth finished scrubbing Superintendent Behan’s shirt and folded it end over end, twisting the material until a steady stream of water gushed out. When it was wrung as dry as she could get it, she tossed it into another tub of clear water to rinse. Over and over she repeated the task—scrubbing, wringing, rinsing.
She had not had a change of clean clothes in so long she could not count, but Superintendent Behan wore a clean shirt every day, just like Superintendent Gates before him and Superintendent Ingalls before that. She had counted the march of days and months through three different superintendents.
How many more she would see come and go before she died within these earthen walls?
