Melly, Unyielding (Lockets And Lace Book 4) Page 5

  Thatcher reasoned that if Obadiah was there, he wouldn’t expect them to walk up on foot like this. They’d catch him off guard.

  The woman’s breathing quickened as they neared the clearing, and she stopped at the edge.

  He glanced over his shoulder and knew without asking she’d go no farther. “Do you have candles and matches?” he asked.

  She nodded and found them in her bag and offered them without speaking. He took them, gave her the reins, and continued forward.

  His gaze continued sweeping the area as he walked to the cabin. He paused on the top wooden step before he pushed open the front planked door. It creaked on its rusty hinges. He waited a moment, listening, and then stepped inside.

  The cabin was empty, not just of people but swept clean of everything, even the furniture. His mouth gaped open as he glanced around.

  Chapter Eight

  A hollow silence hovered in the room. Thatcher moved around softly. The pounding of his boots echoed, bounced from the walls. It filled, not the room, but him, emphasizing the emptiness within.

  Oba had no wagon, none that he had seen, and yet everything had been removed from the cabin, and all was silent.

  He went back outside, but here, too, was silence. His ears, his heart was still filled with empty echoes. He grimaced. Something about this place caused him to think crazy thoughts.

  The shack behind the cabin beckoned him, and he moved toward it, his skin prickling. He stopped half-way. The dirt around the fenced area where the horses had been kept was swept clean. Oba’s horse was missing, and any trail wiped away. He stood in thought for a moment, contemplating what that might mean.

  Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to hide their whereabouts. He moved forward, toward the shack.

  The chain was gone, the half-sized door still open. He was well aware he had to check inside, loathe though he was. Before he slithered through, he glanced around and listened. All was still and silent. He braced himself, knelt, and steadied his breathing.

  He was glad he’d thought to bring candles and matches. He crawled through and stood. A faint odor reached him, one that made him more uneasy. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and then lit the candle. He let his right hand drop to his gun while he moved the candle with his left, in an arc around the shack.

  When he’d checked every corner and was satisfied the shack was empty, he relaxed a bit. But the trapdoor worried him. Someone had shut it after they had left. Not only shut it, but covered it once again with a layer of dirt.

  He dug a shallow depression and planted the candle in it. Again, he braced himself, pulled his gun, and swung the trapdoor back on its hinges. At the sight, he stepped back. Two bodies lay inside, and for a moment, his heart beat wildly, as if one was Mrs. Jones. His head knew it could not be, but it took a moment for his heart to calm.

  He retrieved the candle and moved forward to peer into the dark hole. Two men, dead, both shot several times.

  Who had killed them? Obadiah? But why? He looked more closely, to make sure one was not the old man. Neither had the tell-tale beard of black with a streak of white. Both were fairly young, perhaps in their early thirties. Nothing else was in with them. Mrs. Jones’s cot had been removed.

  A sound at the half-sized door made him startle.

  It was Mrs. Jones peering through. “Mr. Rainer?”

  He swallowed before answering. “Don’t come in here.”

  But it was too late. The woman had crawled through. He gave her his hand to pull her to her feet.

  She glanced into his face, her eyes glowing in the candlelight. “What’s wrong?”

  He shifted so she could not see into the pit and placed his hand on her arm. “Two men are down there. They’ve been killed.”

  “Are you sure they’re dead?”

  Her matter-of-fact tone took him aback. He nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “I want to see.”

  “Mrs. Jones ...”

  She shook her arm loose from his grip. “My name is not Jones. I’m Carmella Harperson.”

  “Mrs. Harperson ...”

  “Miss.”

  “Miss Harperson, the two men are dead.”

  “Yes, you told me. I want to see if I recognize them.”

  He hesitated. She pushed past him and stared in the hole.

  She cast a glance at him and motioned. “Mr. Rainer, please hold the candle so I can see their faces.”

  He did as she asked, and she nodded and turned without another word and crawled out. He lowered the trapdoor back in place. He may as well leave them where they lay. It was as good a grave as any.

  And hadn’t he thought that the first time he’d seen it?

  Thatcher sighed heavily and crawled from the shack. Miss Harperson had taken her handkerchief to the pump to wet it and wipe her face. Otherwise, she showed no emotion.

  But neither did she linger. She hurried back to the horses and climbed on Johnny Bell, urging him forward, to the west, before Thatcher caught up with her. He hopped on the mare and rode after her.

  After a few minutes of riding, she spoke, softly. “I recognize those men.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Boyd’s men. They came to where we stayed, at the beginning.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Thatcher glanced over his shoulder, feeling they were being watched. He’d been spooked, that was all.

  He glanced back at Miss Harperson. “Neither one Boyd?” Neither had been, but he wanted to hear her thoughts.

  She shook her head. “No, but both worked for him. Boyd is bigger and taller.” She was silent for a second and then spoke, quietly. “I’m glad they’re dead.”

  Her voice had been so soft, he doubted she wanted him to hear. He pretended he had not.

  He longed to know more about this enigma of a woman, but now was not the time to question her.

  It was eerily silent. A few birds sang, but the muffled sounds barely reached them. The tall trees, the serene quiet, cut them off from the rest of the world, as if they alone existed.

  His ears strained as well as his eyes for anything out of the ordinary. Although a cooling breeze blew, a trickle of sweat rolled down his brow. He lifted his hat and used his forearm to swipe it away.

  Johnny Bell worried him, and he watched him for further signs of lameness. His horse, at least, enjoyed the ride, his ears upright, probably glad to have the companionship of the mare.

  Miss Harperson rode efficiently. This was certainly not the first time she’d been on a horse. Johnny Bell responded well to her light touch.

  She’d put on a hat, some wide-brimmed utilitarian sort of thing, that had a wide swath of material tied beneath her chin. He was glad she wore it. It kept those mesmerizing eyes away from his — at least, some of the time.

  She had a past, a puzzling past, and he wanted no part of it. Living with a man who was not her husband, deep in the woods, never leaving her home, and the strangest part, being kept in that small cellar in the shack. He shook his head, trying to figure how she found herself in such a predicament. He believed her when she said she’d not been to town or a store with Oba. Her clothes had been mended and re-mended. All her possessions fit into the carpetbag.

  And yet she spoke as a woman with manners. Her voice was soft, refined, reminiscent of the Alabamian women he had known. Most women in his community worked alongside their husbands in the field, as hard as any man, and cooked and kept their tiny houses clean as a whistle and remained as soft spoken as any Southern belle. Like Isabella. He blinked and willed his mind not to think of his dead wife.

  He rose on the stirrups, as much as to interrupt his thoughts as to scan the area. Still no sign of life. They needed to stop soon, to eat and to let the horses rest and graze.

  As if reading his thoughts, Miss Harperson spoke. “Should we stop and give the horses a rest? Surely, we’ve been riding for hours.”

  He checked the dimming light through the canopy of the trees. “Yes, it’s getting l
ate. We’ll stop and make camp.”

  The stress of the day suddenly swept over him, and he pulled the mare to a stop. “This looks like a good spot.” Miss Harperson nodded, and they moved off the trail, into the woods.

  CARMELLA AND MR. RAINER ate some pemmican, and then the cowboy went to look for firewood while she spread the blankets out.

  Her heart had finally slowed. When she’d crawled into the shack, she’d been so afraid one of the men would be Oba.

  Hidden away, living as they had, isolated from everyone, he was all she had, quiet though he had been. She suspected that even if he’d lived in a bustling city, he would have been that way. He’d been one of those folks who didn’t need much to be happy.

  Happy? He wasn’t happy, but he rarely complained. Maybe content would be a better word. Contented to live isolated. She shook her head.

  She’d planned to return to the cabin before Oba returned. She’d been shocked to find it empty, to find the men dead. But Oba wouldn’t have gone far. He’d search for her, and she’d be safe again.

  She wished now she’d never left, she didn’t know. But she really hadn’t had a choice. This cowboy wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  He returned with the wood and soon had a fire going. She found a couple of logs and dragged them closer to the fire to sit on.

  The cowboy settled across from her and stretched out his long legs. He cleared his throat. “Miss Harperson, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes?” She kept her face composed but clasped her hands together.

  “Why were you with Obadiah?” The cowboy’s voice was gentle, appealing.

  “He offered protection. He was kind.”

  His eyes widened. “Kind? He killed your dog!”

  “What? Oh.” Her hands unclasped, and she forced herself not to pull her handkerchief out. “The dog showed up out of nowhere. Oba took care of him.” She shrugged.

  He frowned. “But you were crying.”

  “I wanted to keep the dog, but it had to be done. The dog would bark and cause problems.” Her voice cracked, but she swallowed down her tears.

  He still had his hat on, and he now removed it and placed it beside him. He raked his fingers through his hair and scratched his chin before he spoke. “So, you say he protected you, this Oba man. How did he do that?”

  Her lips pressed together, and she shrugged. “He just did.”

  “Miss Harperson, I’m trying to make decisions here. I need answers.”

  “What decisions?”

  “I’ll discuss that when you explain how you came to be living in the middle of the woods.”

  “I don’t get a say?”

  “That depends. Tell me why you were not allowed to go into town, why you were placed in a hole in the ground.”

  She sighed deeply, and it escaped as almost a groan. Her voice was hoarse, barely audible to her own ears. “I was taken.”

  “Taken? What do you mean?” His eyes widened. “By who?”

  “By Oba and Boyd and a few other men.” Her hand was now in her pocket, pulling out her handkerchief. She placed the handkerchief to her face, the lace comforting against her cheek.

  “Oba and Boyd? When?”

  She forced her hands down and looked at him for a brief second. The muscles in her face twitched, and it was with difficulty she formed the words. Finally, she spoke. “Fifteen years ago. I was sixteen.”

  Chapter Nine

  Carmella had not been able to continue. When she’d gone to her blanket to lie down, Mr. Rainer stayed seated, not speaking.

  Only a few stars shone through the thick canopy of the trees, but she watched them and reminded herself of the wonders of God.

  As tired as she was, as long as the day had been, she wasn’t sleepy. What was she doing here? Why had she told Mr. Rainer to take her with him?

  When she’d gone into the cabin, she could have slid the plank in place. Surely, he wouldn’t have broken down the door. Instead, she’d been foolish enough to pack her bag and ride away with him.

  Obadiah was the only man she could ever trust.

  Luckily, after a few days, after he recovered from the blow her mother inflicted, he’d claimed her, and Boyd consented. After all, Obadiah had saved Boyd, by taking the blow. She’d been placed on the horse in front of Oba, and they had ridden away to one of the hideouts.

  When they’d arrived, Carmella had steeled herself, waited for Oba to take his revenge for what her mother had done. But days passed, and he let her be. She kept house and cooked, preparing the food just the way he liked. In return, he taught her how to control her emotions and how to hide when any of the other men approached.

  Early on, several of the gang came to their first hideout, and she’d not heeded Oba’s warning quickly enough. The drunken men made lewd remarks, but Oba had remained near her and kept her safe.

  Three of the men, Boyd and the two who now lay dead inside the shack, had gone out, after the others slept. She’d been sitting near the window and heard them talking.

  “Boss, who gets her when Oba’s gone?”

  Her heart had caught in her throat. She’d curled into herself, as if somehow that would protect her.

  Boyd had laughed harshly. “Oba ain’t going anywhere.”

  “Everyone dies sometime,” one of the men had said.

  Boyd’s voice roughened. “If either of you ever lay a hand on that man, or that girl, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  “Aw, Boyd, I wasn’t asaying that. He’s old, ain’t he?”

  “Old and getting older,” the other had said.

  Silence ensued for a moment, and she’d heard shuffling of feet before Boyd spoke. “More than likely he’ll outlive either of you, especially if you keep yacking the way you do.”

  “Sorry, Boss,” they’d both mumbled.

  And later that night, still awake, with drunken men sprawled out around her, she heard someone’s steps across the room. And then whispering and sounds — fists pounding, flesh against flesh, and labored breathing.

  And then words spoken louder but breathless. “She’s mine. I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me from claiming her.”

  Silence had fallen. She’d not been sure which of the two had spoken, or even if it was Boyd. Since then, Oba had not had to tell her twice to hurry away when the men visited.

  She and Oba had moved three times over the years. Each time, Carmella figured it was to get away from men like them.

  She shivered. The temperature had dropped. Mr. Rainer had retreated to his blanket and was not moving, asleep, she presumed. When sleep darted like a rattlesnake, curled and struck her, depositing the poisonous venom of a nightmare, she awoke with a strangled cry. She rose quietly and sought the fire.

  The top log had grayed, and she poked it with a stick until it glowed red again. The ashes fell, curling beneath the logs. She lifted the top log a bit to let air flow through. It flamed, and she let it down slowly, to keep the flame alive.

  Her sisters terrified faces appeared before her, in the depths of the fire.

  She turned to watch a spark climb into the darkness until it vanished away. Beneath where the spark disappeared, a movement caught her eye. She blinked, thinking it was but an illusion. When she looked closer, a man’s face came into view. She put a fist to her mouth to stifle a scream, and was on her feet, running, shaking Mr. Rainer.

  He immediately sat, drawing his gun from the holster beside him. His eyes searched hers. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “A man,” she choked out.

  He’d already gained his feet, moving in the direction she pointed. He searched for a good thirty minutes, and she hovered behind him, afraid to let him from her sight.

  After the search, they returned to the campfire, and she took a seat on a log. Mr. Rainer stayed on his feet, prowling in a circle.

  “Did he hurt you?” His voice was deep, grave, comforting, and full of concern.

  She shook her head. “No, he stayed over there.
” She pointed to the spot the man had stood.

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “You’re not going to believe me ...”

  “Tell me who it was.” His rich voice, full of confidence echoed from the very trees.

  “It was an Indian.” She glanced at him through her lashes to gauge his reaction, to see if he believed her.

  He moved closer to her, his eyebrows raised. “An Indian?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” She picked up the stick and poked the logs again.

  “It wasn’t Obadiah or Boyd?”

  “No, I’m certain. It was an Indian, an old man. His face was wrinkled, his hair white and long, in two long braids.” She threw down the stick and shrugged, feeling slightly silly.

  He added more wood to the fire, and to her consternation, took a seat beside her. “That’s interesting. We’re going to have to be more careful.”

  “What would an Indian be doing here?” The fire crackled, and she held out her hands to its warmth.

  “He has as much right to be here as we do.”

  “But why be standing there, watching?” She shuddered and pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. She rubbed her fingers along the lace.

  His eyes followed her movement. “You do that a lot.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “What? Oh, you mean this.” She held up the handkerchief.

  “It must be special to you.” He leaned forward toward the fire, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands clasped together.

  “It is. It was my mother’s. She bought it from an Irish woman in St. Joseph, Missouri. When I was twelve, we traveled there. Mother almost convinced my father to settle down, and he did work for a few months, but he hated the job, yearned to get back out to trapping.”

  “Why St. Joseph? Do you have kin there?”

  “No. My mother had a good friend who had written about a job opening. My father agreed, and we packed our belongings and moved.” Her breathing became unsteady. “He made a grave error when he took us back to Mississippi.”

  “Maybe.” Mr. Rainer used the stick to adjust the logs. The flames whipped higher.