Secrets In The Shadows Page 4

If only her grandmother was still with them. Dying had been about the meanest thing the woman had ever done to her. Rusty missed her, too, and although she'd been gone for eight years, there wasn't a day that went by without Lacy thinking of her.

  Ben would have twisted her around his little finger, Lacy thought, her eyes misting over. And Takola—Grandma would have ranted about the horrible things Lacy feared the girl had witnessed at the massacre. She would have cajoled Takola into talking, and figured out a way to stop Ben from stealing.

  So far, Lacy had failed to do either of those things.

  Pausing at the door to the two-story house, Lacy wiped her eyes with her apron before going in. For Takola and Ben's sake, she made it a point to show a happy face as much as possible.

  Sheriff Logan wasn't going to change that.

  Ben and Takola were in the kitchen, putting the last of the supper dishes away in the cabinet. Rusty was nowhere in sight, but Takola had put a plate on the stove for him.

  Lacy paused at the door, surveying the two as they worked in harmony together. Takola had taken to Ben right away. Lacy suspected it was because the Indian girl instinctively sensed Ben's inner turmoil, his need to feel loved and protected. In a sense, he was an outcast, like herself.

  They finally noticed Lacy in the doorway. Ben's face creased into a big smile and relief shone in his eyes. Takola gave her own unique greeting: a half bow and just the slightest twitch of her lips. Her black eyes revealed nothing, however. They were as impregnable as the girl inside.

  Ben put his towel on a nearby chair, his smile slipping. “Is he still mad at me? Is he going to put us in jail, Lacy?"

  Lacy shook her head, her own smile reassuring. “No. We're not going to jail. But"—she tried to look stern—"You have to do something for Sheriff Logan in the morning after you finish your lessons."

  Immediately apprehensive, Ben moved closer to Takola. Lacy's heart jerked at the move, knowing Ben thought she was deserting him. She hesitated, on the verge of telling him to forget it and that she would talk to the sheriff again. But then she recalled Adam's words, about how thieves got shot, and some hanged. She wasn't helping Ben by allowing him to continue stealing.

  As difficult as it was for her to admit it, she knew Sheriff Logan was right.

  "Ben ... you can't keep stealing from people. It's wrong, and Sheriff Logan means well. He believes folks ought to pay for their mistakes, so he wants you to oil his saddle to pay for the pie.” There, that wasn't so bad, was it? Lacy looked silently from one to the other, feeling as if she had just sentenced them to death. Suddenly, Takola pushed Ben gently in Lacy's direction, her meaning clear.

  She was letting them know that she agreed with Sheriff Logan.

  Lacy hid her surprise, waiting for Ben's reaction. It was all she could do to hold herself back, not to open her arms and forget the entire day. But she couldn't, not if she was going to help Ben become a good, honest man someday.

  Ben stood in the middle of the spacious kitchen, looking forlorn and a little frightened. “You ... you won't let him put me in jail, will you, Lacy? I just have to oil his saddle?"

  Lacy spoke around the knot in her throat. “That's all, Ben, I promise. No jail.” Then she took a deep breath and added, “But I don't know what Sheriff Logan will do if there's a next time.” She told the truth, and it was best that Ben know it. Rusty was no longer the sheriff; that job now belonged to someone who didn't know Ben and wasn't willing to overlook his problem.

  As if to declare the matter settled, Takola picked up the scrap bucket and handed it to Ben. It was a silent reminder to feed Big Red, the hog who had managed to escape the knife four straight winters, thanks to Ben. Not even Rusty was immune when Ben begged in earnest.

  Lacy breathed a sigh of relief when Ben took the bucket. He looked a little pale, and his eyes were bigger than normal, but he managed a shaky smile for her.

  "Okay, Lacy. I'll do it."

  "Good."

  "And I'm gonna try real hard not to take any more food from folks."

  "That's wonderful, Ben. I know you can stop if you try hard enough.” She watched him as he went outside through the back door leading from the kitchen. When the door shut behind him, Lacy met Takola's solemn gaze and answered the question in her eyes.

  "I don't think you're in trouble, Takola. Dr. Martin must have had a talk with the sheriff, but he wasn't too pleased about the bump on his head. I think if we just stay out of his way.... “Something Lacy fully intended to do. She touched her lips, remembering the shocking feel of his firm mouth on hers for that brief instant.

  Takola nodded, then slipped past her to start the fire Lacy would need for ironing. The daily routine of cooking, washing and ironing had become less exhausting with the arrival of the Indian girl, and Lacy never forgot to express how grateful she was for her help. Takola accepted the praise with dignity, but brushed Lacy's gratitude aside as if it embarrassed her.

  Now, with Rusty no longer drawing his sheriff's pay, she needed the money she made from the washing and ironing she took in, and baking pies and cakes for the restaurant, more than ever.

  Lacy set the basket of shirts and trousers on the floor beside the ironing board, seething with resentment. Was Adam Logan aware he had booted an old man out of a job? It just wasn't fair, the way the mayor had fired Rusty without warning a week before the arrival of the new sheriff. The decent thing to have done was keep her grandpa on as deputy for a while, giving him time to get used to the idea, and Adam Logan time to get familiar with the town.

  Instead, the mayor had stomped on Rusty's pride, and Lacy knew her grandfather. He wouldn't forget the slight. First, he would let it eat at him and fester, then he'd explode.

  Lacy tested the iron, found it hot, and pressed it to the back of Gilbert Smith's Sunday shirt for perhaps the hundredth time. She could have ironed it with her eyes closed. Takola stood waiting, ready to take the shirt from her and fold it as Lacy had taught her to do.

  "When Grandpa gets good and mad, Mr. Logan and the mayor better watch out,” Lacy mumbled aloud before she remembered her audience. She grinned sheepishly at the silent Indian girl, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. Takola needed no encouragement when it came to vengeance, and here she was rambling about it!

  Takola's eyes shimmered with something that vaguely resembled humor. Slowly, she nodded, a feral smile curving her lips.

  Lacy groaned.

  Chapter Three

  Adam finished everything on his plate, regretting his decision to keep Lacy Ross at a distance. She was a damn fine cook. He pushed aside the small pile of chicken bones and wiped his fingers on the cloth napkin she had covered the plate with, sighing in satisfaction. Weeks of hard biscuits, beef jerky, and beans made a man appreciate a meal like that.

  He bet Lacy could bake a blackberry pie that would melt in his mouth.

  Adam shook his head, amused at himself for obsessing over that damn blackberry pie—and Lacy Ross. The hankering for the pie had progressed over a period of weeks while traveling from Wyoming to Shadow City, Missouri. The hankering for the widow had taken a day. Adam didn't figure there was much difference between the two. Both hankerings would pass, by either ignoring them until they went away, or indulging them.

  Satisfying one wouldn't be a problem—as long as he didn't let the pie out of his sight again once he got it; satisfying the other would be a definite problem.

  Leaning back in the chair, Adam sighed again, running his hand over the hard, rigid planes of his flat stomach. Yep. He would have been poking new holes in his belt before long if he hadn't tweaked his own nose.

  Somehow, his reasoning didn't make him feel any better about what he'd done. One day in Shadow City and he'd managed to insult a fine lady, albeit purposefully. He wouldn't get answers to his questions that way, he reflected ruefully.

  With an absent curiosity, he began opening the side drawers of the battered old desk one by one. All of them turned up empty until he reached the last deep drawer. H
e paused to move the lamp closer, then began pulling the wanted posters out, placing them on the desk. At the very bottom of the pile, Adam came across a framed photograph. His fingers curled around the tarnished silver frame as he recognized his grandfather's rugged features.

  Colt Murddock's face wasn't easy to forget. It bespoke of trial and hardship, tough decisions, and regrets, but Adam also saw pride and triumph in the angle of his head. Although his eyes were a nondescript gray in the black and white photo, Adam knew that in person they had been pale blue, a shade lighter than his own eyes. He stared at the tall figure of Sheriff Murddock, founder of Shadow City, ex-bounty hunter, father, and grandfather, as he stood outside the door to the newly completed jailhouse. He held a bottle of unopened whiskey high in the air.

  Adam recognized the symbolic gesture, figuring it signified the grand opening of the new jail. His grandfather looked proud, and rightfully so.

  The photograph was probably more than twenty years old, faded and slightly blurred, yet someone had kept it when they could have thrown it away. Adam narrowed his eyes, pondering who that person might be. They must have known his grandfather well, and still respected him, even after his death and despite the ugly facts that pointed to suicide.

  Adam set the picture upright on his desk in plain sight. Someone was bound to ask about it sooner or later, but right now he didn't care. Colt Murddock, Adam's maternal grandfather, was also his hero. Adam never doubted the truth: his grandfather was not guilty of committing the ultimate sin, but was the victim of murder.

  Until now, he thought his mother's death wish unreasonable. After all, Colt Murddock had died over fifteen years ago and memories fade. But looking at that face in the photograph, Adam discovered he no longer found the request unreasonable or impossible.

  He was going to try his damnedest to find out what really happened the day Colt Murddock was found dead in the jail cell, supposedly by his own hand.

  The keeper of this photograph—likely his predecessor—would be a start.

  Adam was startled out of his reverie by a pounding at the door, followed by drunken, indistinguishable shouting. His hand went to the butt of his gun, then he shook his head, chiding himself. This was Shadow City, a town known for its serenity, thanks to progress and Colt Murddock.

  With unhurried steps, Adam went to the door and pulled it open, unbalancing the man about to pound his fist again. He stepped back quickly as the man fell through the door, sprawling onto the floor. Adam lifted an eyebrow as he watched the older man scramble to his feet, straightening his hat in an attempt to regain his dignity. Obviously, he was about as corned as a body could get. He smelled like he had bathed himself in whiskey and from the looks of his stained shirt front, Adam didn't think he was far from wrong.

  "What can I do for you, Mr.—?” Adam tucked his thumbs in his belt, his expression carefully polite. He had yet to meet the man responsible for hiring him, having done all of his dealings through the mail. For all he knew, this was the mayor. After the fiasco this afternoon with Lacy and her bunch, he didn't think anything could surprise him.

  Lacy. Now, just when had he started thinking of her as ‘Lacy', and not the widow Ross, or Mrs. Ross?

  "The name's Rusty Palmer.” The older man swayed on his feet as he growled the introduction, his expression mulish.

  Adam decided against offering his hand. He was afraid it might throw the man off balance. Instead, he indicated the chair against the wall in front of his desk, relieved that this man wasn't the mayor. “Have a seat, Mr. Palmer, and tell me what I can do for you at this, ah, late hour."

  Rusty bristled, his bloodshot eyes suddenly blazing with pent-up anger. “I'll stand, thank ye. I just came here to tell you a thing or two, Sheriff Logan. Whatever the mayor said about me ain't true. Now, I know you don't know me—nor anyone else in this town—but I'm here to tell ya that mayor's a snake-bellied, hog-smellin’ liar."

  Adam struggled to keep a straight face. He had no idea what the man was talking about, or why Rusty Palmer felt he should explain himself. “Hog-smellin’ liar? Now, that's a new one on me.” He hurried on when he saw the old man stiffen. “Truth is, I ain't met the mayor."

  Rusty's mouth fell open. Adam drew back, blinking his eyes against the strong whisky fumes that came rushing his way. “You ain't met the mayor?"

  "That's what I said."

  "You ain't spoke to him?"

  Adam started to point out that he damn well couldn't speak to a man he'd never met, but thought better of it. He'd just confuse the old man. “Nope. I ain't spoke to him. Supposed to meet him for lunch at the hotel tomorrow.” Though why he was telling this to a total stranger, he didn't know. Maybe the damage to his head was worse than both he and the doc had first thought.

  Rusty removed his hat, revealing a wiry thatch of gray hair. He scratched it, his face pulled into a perplexed frown. “How'd he hire you, then, if you didn't come lookin’ for the job?"

  Adam thought about ignoring the question. He wasn't accustomed to people knowing his business, but he might as well get used to it. This was a small town, and the sheriff was a prominent figure in the minds of the people, no matter who was filling the job. Being evasive would not earn their trust.

  Walking to the desk, Adam sat down and removed his gun belt, placing it within easy reach. He was tired and wanted to go to bed, but suspected the old man wouldn't leave until he was ready, or Adam threw him out. Rusty Palmer had a bone to pick about something and Adam suspected he was about to find out what it was.

  "Think you can ‘splain that to me a little better?"

  Yep, Adam thought. He was right. With a weary shrug of his shoulders, he said, “Got hired through the mail.” There was more, like the fact that Adam knew of the mayor through his mother and Colt, but he wasn't ready for folks to know who he was. As painful as it might turn out to be, he wanted to hear people's honest opinion about his grandfather.

  Adam was unprepared for the man's reaction to that seemingly innocent piece of information.

  "The mail? The mail?"

  The longer Rusty talked, the louder he got. Adam frowned and Rusty either didn't see the warning, or didn't care. Adam suspected the latter.

  "You got the job as sheriff through the mail? Just like that?” Although Adam remained silent, Rusty took this silence as confirmation. “Son of a bitch!” Shaking his head, he shuffled unsteadily to the desk and leaned against it with both hands.

  Adam yawned and propped his feet onto the desk. He wondered if he could convince Rusty Palmer to hold the bone picking for another time, maybe tomorrow. Or never. He didn't much care to be shouted at by a drunken old man after the day he'd had. In fact, he was already mighty tired of it.

  The sight of Adam's booted feet on the desk apparently triggered something unpleasant in the old man. With surprising strength, Rusty grabbed Adam's feet and threw them from the desk, barely catching himself before he followed.

  All thoughts of sleep flew from Adam's mind. His boots hit the floor with a thud, jarring his legs. Before he could respond, Rusty stumbled around the desk and leaned over Adam, nearly intoxicating him with a blast of his whiskey-laden breath.

  "You think you're fit to put your boots on this desk?” Rusty's shout stirred up Adam's almost-forgotten headache. “Why, you ain't earned it, you sneaky pup."

  Sneaky pup? Adam considered shoving the old man onto his butt, and he would have, if the voice of his mother had not intruded into his consciousness. Respect your elders. He took a deep breath and held it, trying to avoid breathing in the fumes. He'd give the old man time to have his say, then he'd boot him out the door.

  Three minutes, not a second more.

  Rusty grabbed the top of Adam's chair to steady himself. He wasn't through by a long shot. “You think being sheriff of this town's gonna be an easy job, do you? Well, you better think again. A lot of hard work went into making this town what it is today, and you"—he poked a finger at Adam's chest—"Didn't have nothin’ to do with it."r />
  Adam removed Rusty's finger from his chest and replaced it with his arms, deliberately bringing an image of his mother's sweet, patient face to mind.

  "I've been sheriff in this town for fifteen years, and before that, there was Sheriff Murddock—” Rusty stopped abruptly as his attention landed on the picture Adam had left out on top of the desk. The sight of it seemed to knock the wind from his sails. “He was a great man in his day, I can tell you. You'll never be able to fill his boots, just like I couldn't. Hell, I didn't try, ‘cause I knew better."

  Adam went completely still, his eyes locked on Rusty Palmer's suddenly morose expression. Remembered grief deepened the lines in the older man's face. In that instant, Adam saw a clear picture of the man Rusty Palmer had been, what he probably could be again when not in the shape he was in now.

  He was also fairly certain Rusty was the man he was looking for.

  Alert now, he said softly, “So you were the sheriff before me."

  Rusty blinked rapidly and Adam pretended not to notice the moisture in his eyes. He backed away as if suddenly realizing where he was and what he was doing. Squinting, he looked at Adam, his jaw thrust out. “You didn't know?"

  Adam clipped a smile at Rusty's skeptical tone. “No, I didn't. All I know is what the mayor told me when I wrote him asking about employment. He said Shadow City needed a sheriff. I needed a job."

  "Son of a bitch,” Rusty muttered, his gaze on the photograph of Sheriff Murddock. “That mayor's a son of a bitch. You'll find out for yourself, but don't say you ain't been warned. Don't know why Colt didn't kick his ass outta town a long time ago."

  "Have a seat, Mr. Palmer.” Adam jerked his head toward the chair against the wall, hardly believing his luck. Hell, after the day he'd had, he deserved it.

  "Rusty. Folks call me Rusty, even when I was the sheriff. Always have. Guess they got used to it.” He sank into the chair with a grunt and a grateful sigh, as if glad to anchor himself to something solid.

  Adam waited a moment, fearing the former sheriff was about to pass out, depriving him of the information he sought. But the old man was a fighter, and full of a lion's share of pride. He remained upright, though Adam doubted he could maintain the position for long. “How did you come to be sheriff, if you don't mind my askin'?"