Wyoming Wildfire

Even as she spoke, Jessie was amazed that she could tell the story so calmly. There had been nothing calm about that afternoon. The men from the Gates Ranch had galloped up to the house armed with pistols. They’d caught Frank outside, unarmed except for the heavy double ax he’d been using to break up a stump. Holding him at gunpoint, they’d put a lead on Midnight and taken the stallion out of the corral. Jessie had rushed outside in time to stop her brother from hurling his ax at Allister, which would have surely gotten him shot.

“You have no right to take that horse!” she’d shouted as Allister’s men led the stallion down the trail. “He’s not part of the ranch. He’s ours.”

Allister Gates had shot her a contemptuous look, spat in the mud and ridden away.

Frank had been beside himself. It had taken all Jessie’s persuasive powers to keep him from getting his rifle and going after Allister Gates right then. But that didn’t mean he’d murdered the man. If he had, he would never have been able to keep it from her.

She glanced back over her shoulder to where her brother’s body lay slung across the bay horse. Now that Frank was dead it would be all too easy to blame him for killing Allister. Case closed. Frank was beyond judgment, but his name would be forever tainted with the stain of murder. And the real killer, whoever he was, would go unpunished.

Whatever the cost, Jessie vowed, she would not allow that to happen. She owed it to Frank and to their parents’ memory to clear his name. And the one man who might be able to help her was riding at her side. No matter how much she might resent him, she could not afford to drive him away.

“What can you tell me about the Gates family?” the marshal asked, breaking the silence. “Did Allister leave a wife? Any children?”

“That’s a story in itself,” Jessie said. “The Gates brothers were both bachelors, and since Allister was in his fifties and Virgil in his forties, nobody expected that to change. Then, last summer, Allister made a trip to St. Louis and came home with a wife.”

Matt gave a low whistle. “You’re right. That is a story in itself. What’s she like?”

“Younger—a widow, I’d guess. Nice looking. And she knows how to dress. I’ve seen her in town a few times, but that’s all. I can’t say I know her.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Lillian—I heard someone call her that.”

“Lillian.” He repeated the name thoughtfully, as if he were tasting each syllable. Maybe the marshal had an eye for rich, good-looking widows, Jessie thought with a stab of irritation.

Impatient, she seized his arm. “Don’t you see? Now she owns half the ranch. And Virgil owns the other half. If he marries his brother’s pretty widow, he gets it all! Virgil had a lot more motive for killing Allister than poor Frank ever did!”

“So how do you explain the fact that Allister was shot with Frank’s gun? Nobody could have known the gun would be there.”

“No, but Virgil could have found it and seen the perfect opportunity to kill Allister and let Frank take the blame. Or it could have been someone else—maybe one of the ranch hands who had a grudge against Allister. Heaven knows, he wasn’t the most likable man in the world.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

The coldness in Matt’s voice hit Jessie like a slap. For the space of a breath, she weighed the wisdom of telling him about Allister’s behavior when he came for the stallion. No, she decided, that would only lend weight to the case against Frank.

“I know him by reputation. From all reports, Allister Gates was an arrogant, abrasive man.”

“But I’ll wager he wasn’t stupid. Allister had to have known the horse wasn’t his to take. My guess is, if you’d called his hand, he would have given the two of you a choice—the horse or the family homestead.”

“And he was betting we’d choose to give up Midnight rather than lose the ranch. Allister didn’t need our land, and neither does Virgil. But now he’ll take the place. It’s that or lose his money.”

Matt exhaled wearily. “You should have kept the stallion, Jessie. With Frank gone, you might have been able to trade with Virgil and keep your home.”

Jessie shook her head, fighting tears. “Frank died for that stallion! I won’t dishonor his memory by giving up Midnight to Virgil Gates!”

They were coming over the last ridge now. Gazing down into the narrow valley below, Jessie could see the cabin, with its outlying clutter of sheds, corrals and pens that had been her home for the past fifteen years. It was a poor and shabby place—calling it a ranch bordered on a joke. But she’d been happy here. The years of poverty and backbreaking work had been sweetened by the harsh splendor of this mountain country, the warmth of family love and the beauty of horses. Her father had spent some time among the Shoshone and had learned the skill of “Indian breaking” a horse with gentleness and trust. Horses broken by Tom Hammond were valued by cowhands and ranchers all over the county. Even the big roan that Morgan Tolliver favored had come to him by way of the Hammond Ranch.

Tom had passed his horse-breaking skills on to his children. But his unexpected death had left them ill-prepared to handle the business of horse selling. Worse in terms of the future, more blooded horses were being imported from the East and bred on the big ranches. There was less demand for the wild-caught mustangs that had furnished their livelihood for years.

Jessie and her brother had been at the point of selling out when Frank had seized on the idea of buying a prize stallion. Midnight had become his dream, then his obsession. Now there was nothing left.

“Where will you go, Jessie?” Matt Langtry asked her. “Have you made any kind of plans?”

Jessie stared down the hill at the ruin of her world.

“No,” she said, swallowing the ache in her throat. “Frank and I were given three days to clear off the property. That time will be up tomorrow night. But I’m not leaving the county. Not until I know who really murdered Allister Gates.”

Chapter Five

T he Hammond family graveyard lay on a flat knoll above the ranch. Amid the scattered clumps of mallow and blue-eyed grass, Matt could make out five graves. Two of them were adult sized with names and dates carved into crude wooden slabs. The other three were nothing more than weathered, overgrown baby mounds with no markers. Stillborn children, Matt guessed. A woman giving birth could have a bad time in this isolated spot, especially in winter, with no doctor or midwife able to get through the snow.

Would it have been Jessie who attended her mother? He pictured her frightened young eyes in the lamplight, her small hands doing what needed to be done. Swiftly he willed the image away. Life had toughened Jessie Hammond. He admired her strength and courage. But that didn’t mean he could afford to sympathize with her, let alone like her. Until the murder of Allister Gates was resolved, he would have no choice except to view her as a suspect.

Jessie had left him here and ridden on down to the ranch to put away her mare and get a shovel. She had made a point of telling him that the graveyard was outside the boundary of the homestead. They wouldn’t be burying Frank on property that belonged to Virgil Gates—or to Lillian Gates, Matt reminded himself. Now, that was a situation that warranted some checking into.

Looking off the knoll, he could see Jessie coming back up the path on foot. She moved with a determined stride, balancing two shovels under her left arm. In the crook of her other arm she carried a rolled bundle wrapped in a sheet of oilskin.

Above her, boiling black clouds spilled across the sky. Sheet lightning danced above the western peaks, followed by a distant echo of thunder.

“Here.” She flung one of the shovels at him. “Unless we want to finish in a storm, we’ll need to get this grave dug in a hurry.”

“Fine. Let’s get to work.” Matt jabbed his shovel into the sod to mark the edge of the grave. He would have been willing to do the job by himself—Lord knows, he’d dug graves alone before. But Jessie was right about the coming storm and, for all her doll-like size, she’d proved she was no weakling. Maybe the effort of digging would release some of the grief and anger she held so tightly in check.

“Do you have any place to stay when you leave the ranch?” he asked her as they scooped away the rocky earth. “Any family? Friends?”

“Are you making me an offer?” She shot him a scathing glare.

“Not unless you want to share a single bed in a boardinghouse.” Matt saw color flood her cheeks and couldn’t resist adding, “Of course, if we could work it out with my landlady, I’d be happy to accommodate you.”

She lowered her blazing face. “Don’t be smart with me,” she muttered. “I don’t need your help, or anybody else’s. I can manage just fine by myself.”

“Can you?” Matt thrust his shovel into the ground and scooped up the rocky soil. “I’ve known other pretty women who thought they could manage by themselves. I don’t even want to tell you what became of them when their luck ran out and they had no place to go.”

“Then don’t tell me. I can guess. And it’s not going to happen to me. I’m strong and I’m good with horses and cattle. I’ll find work.”

“If you can find anybody who’ll hire a woman, especially the sister of the man arrested for killing Allister Gates.”

Her head jerked upward, eyes wide and angry. For the space of a breath, Matt thought she might swing the shovel at his head. Then her shoulders sagged. “Frank was innocent. I’ve told you all the reasons why. But you still don’t believe me, do you?”

“What I believe doesn’t count for much. It’s what other people believe that’s going to determine how they treat you.”

“You’re saying I should leave? Make a new start someplace where nobody knows me? Maybe change my name?” The blade of her shovel crunched into the dirt. “I happen to be proud of my name, and I’m not about to see it stained by lies and deceit.”

Behind her, lightning flickered across the sky. Thunder growled as the fast-moving storm crept closer. Dirt flew from their shovels as they flung their efforts into finishing the grave ahead of the rain.

The grim line of Jessie’s mouth was softened only by the satiny fullness of her lips. She worked intently, stabbing her shovel into the ground with a force driven by pain and fury. Matt had no doubt she meant what she’d said about clearing her brother’s name. He’d known plenty of women in his life, but never one who possessed such dogged determination as Jessie Hammond.

One question gnawed at him. If she’d shot Allister why would she be so bent on clearing her brother, especially when it would be easy to let him take the blame? Was she the virtuous young woman she appeared to be? Or did that china-doll face and those melting amethyst eyes hide the heart of a back-wood Jezebel who’d do anything—lie, seduce, even kill—to get what she wanted?