Tender Touch (4 page)

But she had been all right this morning, he was sure of it. Where was she? Was it her blood on the floor? Dread twisted his bowels as he barreled from the room. He searched the entire house before rushing outside. The barn was empty except for the matching pair of sorrels Brianna called Maisy and Marve. A multi-colored barn cat curled around his leg and mewed hungrily. She’d probably named it, too. He kicked it out of his way, ran from stall to stall, up the ladder to the loft, and back down. He kicked the cat again, and lurched out into the yard. His breathing grew ragged before he made it completely around the house, searching in and around the bushes, but he didn’t stop.

He raced through the budding orchards, tromped across the freshly plowed vegetable garden. A bit of cloth the color of her dress fluttered from a splinter on the fence. On a bush he found another swatch. The trail led to the river. He tore down the hill, oblivious of the bloody slipper he still carried in his scrunched fist.

Bent from the waist, his clammy hands braced on his knees, Barret Wight blinked to clear his eyes of sweat and stared at the muddy Mississippi. The river churned within its swollen banks, as brown as Brianna’s tea with its full dollop of cream. Its depths were known to hide more than one body. It seemed to mutter her name, ending with a chuckle.

Wight had passed the ripe age of forty-six some months back—twenty years his wife’s senior. His strong body was not as tight and smoothly muscled as when he’d married her. Could she have run away? Fear was a vile stench in his nostrils.

She’d grown thin but was still handsome in her way, especially in the pastel colors he picked out for her— colors she seemed terrified to wear, but wore for him anyway. And when she smiled, then, by thunder, she was almost beautiful. It surprised him to realize how much he hated to lose her.

Brianna wouldn’t have had the courage to leave him voluntarily. Of course, someone could have helped her run away. He frowned, considering the possibility. Who?

 
Snoopy old Mrs. O’Casey who came every day to clean and cook for them? Or—even more absurd—a man? No, she was too skinny and drab to attract a man.

Yet someone had ransacked his home. And Brianna was gone. He had no choice but to believe she was dead.

Who would have dared to enter his home and lay hands on what belonged to Barret Gunther Wight? Anger roared in his cars. His chest expanded as he sucked in air and flexed his sagging muscles, ready to fight. Where was the skunk-breathed, belly-crawling snake of a sonuvabitch who’d violated his home and . . . ? He didn’t want to say what else, didn’t even want to think it. Yet it was there, burning his brain the way prime Scotch whiskey burned his throat.

“Where is she?” he ranted. “Where the hell is my wife?”

An hour later Barret Wight stood beside a seated Mrs. O’Casey, watching Marshal Will Rainey examine his ransacked kitchen. The marshal looked harmless enough, with his big ears and sleepy hound dog eyes, but Barret knew that underneath, the man was a bulldog.

“What time did you leave, Mrs. O’Casey?” Will asked.

“Oh, ’twas nigh on to two o’clock, me usual hour. I’d prepared lunch for Mrs. Wight, then did the laundry and tidied up. She liked to prepare supper herself. Tonight it was to be fricasseed chicken, Mr. Wight’s favorite.”

Rainey looked at the overturned pan on the stove. “Smells like burnt chicken to me. Some of it must have spilled into the firebox.” He bent to peek inside the cold firebox, and then reached in to draw out a wad of scorched fabric. As he shook it out, Mrs. O’Casey leaped to her feet.

“Mrs. Wight’s dress!” she cried. “My lands, it’s all bloody and torn.”

Wight collapsed onto a chair. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes wide with shock. “My God, she’s dead. She’s really dead.”

“Can’t be sure of that till we find her body,” Rainey said. “Is this the only r
oom that was ransacked, Wight?”

“Yes.”

“Why, ’tisn’t true!” Mrs. O’Casey blurted. “The silver’s missing from the dining roo
m and the tea service as well.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten.” Wight mopped his forehead with his kerchief. He’d been a fool to fetch the marshal. It shamed him that he’d let panic rule him instead of smarts. “Her jewelry is gone, too, and my money stash, nearly seven hundred dollars. Had a good week at the poker tables. But none of that matters. All I care about is my wife.”

The man’s slick, Rainey thought. Too slick—like the underbelly of a snake. He’d always hoped someday to see Wight behind bars, if not hanging from a rope. He picked up the soft doeskin slipper, still damp from the man’s sweaty hands. “You know anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”

“Who, for Chrissake?” Wight snorted. “She didn’t know any
body, never left the property.”

“Humph!”

The men turned to stare at Mrs. O’Casey, and Wight felt a moment of panic at the hate she directed at him.

“I don’t like to speak ill of an employer, but—” the woman said, “—him there, Mr. High and Mighty, he could answer that, if he had the gumption. Why, I can’t count the number o’ times I’ve come in to find the poor missus all bruised up, eyes blackened and all, like she’d been in a drunken brawl. This morning, for instance. Clumsiness, she claims. Bah!”

“Is this true?” Marshal Rainey peered speculatively at the man. “Were you in th
e habit of striking your wife?”

Wight cursed wordlessly. He’d fire that blinking busybody housekeeper the moment this was over with. “There might have been a time or two when I’d had too much to drink and slapped her around a bit. Never more than she deserved, though. And I swear she was alive when I left for the brewery this morning.”

Rainey’s eyes narrowed. “Seems to me I’ve seen you around town with a certain little redhead. Fact is, I’m surprised to learn you still live here at the old place. I was under the impression you owned that house Glory lives in on Locust Street.”

Before Wight could answer, Mrs. O’Casey shouted, “You philandering blackguard. ’Twasn’t enough that you beat her every chance you got. Why, you aren’t fit to walk the same ground she does, the poor child.”

The marshal’s eyebrows rode up his forehead as he noted the murderous glint in Barret Wight’s eyes as the man glared at his housekeeper. “Go on home, Mrs. O’Casey. I appreciate you coming over here with us. If I need anything more fr
om you, I know where you live.”

At that moment they heard the marshal’s name called from outside. Wight and Mrs. O’Casey followed him into the yard. They stood on the porch, frozen by curiosity as a policeman handed a shoe to the marshal. Another policeman came from the barn carrying a shovel and a dirty, bulging flour sack. He handed the sack to Rainey.

“Found this here buried in the barn, in one of the stalls. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

A gasp brought Mrs. O’Casey’s gaze around to Wight, his face as pale as the flour sack had been when new. He swallowed and erased his expression.

“Here’s your wife’s other shoe.” Rainey tossed it to him. “It was down by the river, along with a slew of prints and a piece of her dress.”

Wight fumbled and nearly lost the shoe. His gaze was glued to the sack in Rainey’s hand. He struggled to contain his panic as he watched the marshal set the dirty sack on the wooden porch, then slowly open it to expose the missing silver.

“Know anything a
bout this, Wight?” Rainey said.

Wight shook his head. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He had to clear his throat before he could say, “Is that all they found?”

“Why? You bury something else out there?”

“Me? No.” Wight let his eyes widen as if the full implication of the marshal’s tone had just struck him. “You think I killed Brianna? Jesus, maybe I did slap my wife around. What man doesn’t? I think she even liked it. But kill her? You—” His voice hardened. “—I want you to find the bastard who did this, you hear me?”

“I hear, Wight, and I’ll f
ind him, if I haven’t already.”

“How’d you tear your shirt?” a policemen asked. “Get in a fight or something?”

A thousand years had passed since Wight caught his shirt on the nail in the kitchen. He’d barely noticed it then and was a long way from remembering it now. Rainey stepped over to inspect the tear.

“Seems you’ve so
me questions to answer, Wight.”

His head pounded as his guts twisted and writhed.

Think, man, think. His throat seemed to close in on him. He didn’t see the satisfied gleam in Mrs. O’Casey’s eyes.

“Nothing to say?” Rainey pursed his lips and gave a slight nod. “All right, what do you say we go down to the river and see how close those prints come to matching yours? If that doesn’t loosen your tongue, maybe a few nights in jail will.”

Chapter Four

Shortly before dawn Brianna awoke to a dreadful sense of unease. Instinct warned her the cause was not the drizzling rain soaking her bedding. She felt for the old pistol Mrs. O’Casey had packed in her saddlebag. In spite of her doubts about being able to use it, the presence of Columbus Nigh sleeping so close to her was enough to make Brianna hide the gun under her blanket before going to bed.

Fortified by the weight of the cold steel in her hand, she eased her eyes open. Even though the eastern skyline had begun to lighten, the veil of her hat kept the night dark as pitch. Still, she was able to make out the three pairs of muddy boots silhouetted against the fire. Her heart crept into her throat as her gaze inched up the boots to see dirty pantaloons, poncho-covered torsos, and finally, dark leering faces crowned by broad, flat-topped hats. Each man held a rifle. An arsenal of knives and pistols protruded from their belts.

“Look, Jose, the
se
ñ
or
a
, she ees awake.”

“
Si
.”

“Get up,
se
ñ
or
a
, let us see what you look like, eh?”

The men’s laughter was coarse. Brianna was too frightened to move.

“Come on, woman, move it!”

This voice held no Spanish accent, or patience. Brianna crawled from the shelter as modestly as possible, the gun concealed in a fold of her rain-dampened skirt as she rose to her feet. A quick glance told her Mr. Nigh was gone. And so were the horses. Even in the dim light she could see that the third man was not Mexican like the others, but fair and lanky.

“Ahh, so tall.” The Mexican’s smile was missing teeth. “You weel need a ladder for thees one, Jose.”

“Ees
bueno
,” said Jose. “Can hump and kiss titties at same time, no?”

They laughed.

Brianna blushed. She wondered if the pistol hidden in her skirt was loaded and ready to fire. Never before had she even held a gun, though Barret kept a collection of them in the gun cabinet in his study.

“What do you want?” She tried to keep her voice steady. “My . . . husband will be back any moment.” The blond man glanced around the clearing.

“What husband? ’Pears to me you’re all alone. Get that hat off and let us take a look at you.”

With one hand she pulled out the long hat pin, then took off the bonnet and let it fall to her feet. At least she could see better now.

“Eet ees the widow, Jose, the one we see in town, remember?”

“Ai-yi-yi, someone punch her up good, no?”

The blond American shushed the others. He seemed nervous, his gaze darting around every few moments. “What are you doin’ out here alone?”

“I told you, my husband is here somewhere.”

Her hand was shaking so hard she feared she would shoot off her toes, or stab herself with the sharp hat pin she still held in her other hand. Where was Shakespeare? And Nigh? Anger shafted through her at the thought of her paid guide abandoning her there to the mercies of scoundrels like these three.

“We waste time,
gringo
. Tell her to take off the clothes. I grow eager.” Jose rubbed himself.

The American gave one last look around, and motioned for her to disrobe.

Brianna tried to back away and came up against the brush shelter. Her feet in the damp stockings were so stiff and cold she doubted she could run if given the chance. She tried to breathe in only the fresh smell of the rain but the stench of the three unwashed men was too strong. Their breath stank of onions, chili peppers, and whiskey. The jingle of harnesses and the braying of a mule out on the road told her they were probably Santa Fe traders. Would they take her with them, or merely use her and leave her there like unwanted refuse?

She could shoot only one of them with the old pistol before the others would be on top of her; time would not allow for reloading. It would be better to stall and pray someone came along to help her.

“Please, you can s
ee I’m already injured. Don’t—”

“That’s real sad, lady, but you’re wasting your breath. Get undressed—now!”

“No, I . . .” Her eyes widened as Jose drew a knife and tested the long slender blade on a thumbnail. Her mouth was too dry to speak. She was about to be raped. Could she expect them to be gentler or kinder than her own husband? Not likely. Determination darkened her eyes as she raised the gun from the folds of her skirt and pointed it at the big man.

“Go, or I’ll shoot.” She spit the words through clenched teeth to keep from stammering. Without moisture in her mouth, they sounded slurred. The nose of the long, heavy pistol wavered. She clamped the hat pin between her teeth as if it were a rose and gripped the gun with both hands to keep it steady. Her hoarse, dry voice rose to a shriek. “I mean it, get out of here.”

“I’d do what she says, boys. She looks a bit wobbly. Gun’s liable to go off any second.”

The voice came from somewhere behind her, a low, even drawl that seemed placid until one noticed the menacing undertone. It sent shudders down Brianna’s back, though she knew its owner was on her side.

“You get the big one, ma’am. I’ll get the other two. Don’t try to get fancy, aim for the heart. Dead men can’t shoot back.”

With a nervous laugh Jose made a show of putting away his knife. “Hell, we were only funning with her,
se
ñ
or
. She ees ugly, anyhow.”

The eyes of the three traders sifted shadows in a desperate search for the newcomer, their hands edging toward their weapons.

“Hawken’s gettin’ heavy, boys. Makes my hand tired holding it so long. Might accidentally squeeze the trigger ’fore I’m ready, if ya know what I mean.”

The American jerked his head at his partners. They scurried for the wagon and he followed.

Even after they were gone, Brianna stayed where she was, so rigid with cold and fear she couldn’t move if she wanted to. The wagons clattered down the road, and still she stood there.

“You can put the gun away now, ma’am.”

She looked down at the weapon clenched in her half frozen hands. How proud Mrs. O’Casey would have been of the way she’d faced up to the men. Hysteria bubbled inside her at the thought of how Barret might have reacted. Laughter burst from her like thistledown from a ripe pod.

Nigh closed the distance between them with long urgent strides. “You going crazy on me, woman?”

She covered her face with her hands, pistol in one hand, hat pin in the other.

“Dang fool, give me those before you put your eye out or shoot one of us.” He grabbed for the weapons and she ducked in the instinctive manne
r of a woman used to being hit.

He cursed under his breath. “I wasn’t going to hit you.”

Her head came up and she peered at him anxiously, one eye discolored, the other swollen shut.

“Ah Jesus,” he muttered. “Did those bastards do that?”

She bowed her head, shaking it slightly. He took the pistol from her and set it aside. Then, with one finger under her chin, he forced her to look at him. His gentle hands tested her torn lip and the swelling along her cheek and jaw.

“Who, then?” His voice was soft but with an edge to it.

“I fell.”

“Like hell you did.”

His hands dropped to his hips as he stared at her, disgust plain on his face. She averted her eyes. He stalked off into the trees, returning with the horses. She watched him hobble them, then rebuild the fire with quick, angry movements, and thought about the tender way he had examined her face. Her guilt lay heavy, knowing now that he had only meant to help her. Had Barret’s cruelty rendered her incapable of recognizing kindness? The silence grew tense and unbearable as she debated how to make it up to him. “It was my husband,” she said softly.

Mr. Nigh swiveled on the balls of his feet as he crouchcd by the fire, looking up at her. “Thought you were a widow.”

“I am,” she blurted, flustered now. “He…he was older and…and suffered a seizure while he was hitting me. He was buried yesterday morning before Mrs. O’Casey drove me into St. Louis.”

“Weren’t in any hurry, were you.” It was a comment, not a question.

Brianna’s face flushed with heat. “There was nothing to keep me there. I have to reach my sister in Independence before she leaves for Oregon Territory. There was no time to lose.”

“No house or property to take care of?”

“My solicitor will see to that.” She wondered when she had learned to think so quickly and fib so well.

Nigh rose to his feet and went to the packs for bacon and coffee, certain she was lying. When he brought the food back to the fire, she held out her hands.

“I believe it’s my turn to cook.”

He handed over the food and went to sit with his back to the tree where he had spent the night.

“I thought you had abandoned me,” she said as she knelt by the fire and began to slice the bacon on a piece of tough rawhide with the knife he had left there.

“Confounded horse of yours decided she wanted to go home.” He took out one of his homemade toothpicks and stuck it between his teeth. It was good, having a woman cook for him again. “Amazing how much ground a horse can cover, hoppin’ along, hobbled like that. Would a-been funny if I hadn’t been so damn angry.”

“I see your language has not improved.”

Nigh grunted. Hell, but she was a prissy one. “Never felt no need to improve it.”

As on the previous day, the smell of bacon sizzling brought Shakespeare running. She snatched him to her and hugged him until he complained. “You’re going to have to learn to stay near or you’ll be left behind, you naughty cat.”

Nigh admired her long, graceful fingers as she stroked the cat. Tendrils of hair had escaped her bun during the night and fluffed out about her face. His hands itched to touch them. “How long you married?”

Brianna released the cat, wiped her hands on her skirt, and bent to turn the bacon strips with a fork. “Three years.”

“No children?”

She shook her head, with sadness, he thought. “Why’d you stay with him?”

One thin shoulder lifted and fell. “I was twenty-three when Barret came along and asked me to marry him. You’ve heard the expression, ‘Beggars can’t be choos
ers.’
”

That he felt her pain so keenly bothered him. His sudden urge to protect her bothered him even more.

She sat back on her heels and stared into the fire. “The first time he hit me was on our wedding night. When I threatened to leave him, he destroyed every stitch I owned. I wore one of his shirts for three weeks until he was satisfied I would stay put. That was before Mrs. O’Casey came to work for us.”

Mr. Nigh spit out bits of toothpick. He had gnawed it until there was little left but splinters.

As if just realizing she had spoken aloud, she colored and said, ‘I’m sorry. I-I don’t know why I told you that. I’ve never told anyone that before.”

There was nothing he could say so he changed the subject. “You know h
ow to shoot that gun of yours?”

“No. It was Mrs. O’Ca
sey’s. She insisted I take it.”

“Better learn ’fore you try to use it again. Damp as it is, that old thing likely woulda misfired or blown up in your face. Cap locks are more reliable than flintlocks, but not by much.”

The silence that followed lasted through the meal. While Brianna gathered up the plates and cookware to scrub in the stream, Mr. Nigh fetched a clean set of buckskins from his pack. Then he yanked off his dirty shirt and stuffed it inside.

Brianna blushed at the sight of his broad naked chest and the curly hair that angled down over his hard flat stomach to vanish beneath the waist of his trousers. When he turned, she saw they weren’t trousers at all, but Indian leggings tied to the drawstring of a breechclout, leaving his naked buttock exposed to her view. She knew she should rebuke him for taking such liberty in front of her, but couldn’t stop staring at him.

He saw her standing there as if turned to stone, the dishes forgotten in her hands.

“Stay upstream if you’re heading for the creek,” he said, hiding his smile. “Someone pointed out recently that I need a bath.” He tossed a bar of soap in the air and caught it deftly in his palm. “Might consider trying the water out yourself.”

At the creek she scooped up some gravel and scoured the skillet while she considered his suggestion. The water was neither deep nor swift and looked wonderfully inviting. She glanced downstream. How long would his bath detain him? She drew her lower lip between her teeth and studied the water again. Then she gathered up the dishes and raced back to camp for her valise. Minutes later, she was wading into the creek, her clothes neatly folded on the bank.

The water reached only to her upper thighs. She sank down until it touched her chin and the muddy bottom squished under her bare bottom. Water boiled about her shoulders, the backwash pooling between her breasts. She sat on the bottom a long time, enjoying the tug of the current at her body, and wishing she had Mr. Nigh’s bar of soap.