West of Heaven

Pulling out his billfold, he said, “I want another twenty-five-pound sack of flour, three more cans of Arbuckle’s, a ten-pound bag of sugar, cornmeal, whatever tins of vegetables you have, dried apples, three dozen cans of milk and a bag of lemon drops.”

“Did you say three dozen cans of milk?”

“Yes, I did.” He slapped a few more greenbacks on the counter. “I’ve had a craving lately.”

Mrs. Wingate arched her eyebrows, but she didn’t say another word as she piled boxes on the floor. Then she glanced at the cotton and stared down her nose. “How many yards of this would you like?”

“All of it,” he said, scowling. He had no idea how much material it took to make a pair of ladies drawers, but it was clear Mrs. Wingate wasn’t going to back down. “I’m reseeding the garden. This is to keep off the frost.”

As if that made any sense. Any sane person would use old flour sacks, but Mrs. Wingate didn’t say another word as he loaded the boxes into the wagon and rode away.

The sheriff’s office was four blocks to the north. A flat-roofed adobe set apart from the storefronts, it was the oldest building in town. Ethan tied the gelding to the rail, hopped down from the seat and walked through the door. His gaze locked on Sheriff Handley who was sitting at his desk reading the Midas Gazette. As the hinges creaked, Handley lowered the newspaper and scowled.

“I’ve been wondering about you, Trent. Did that damn fool woman make it back to your ranch?”

Ethan had planned to tell him that the widow was alive, but Mrs. Dawson wasn’t some “damn fool woman,” and the sheriff had a spiteful glint in his eye. It seemed wise to find out more about LeFarge and the circumstances before he revealed the widow’s whereabouts, so Ethan frowned. “She was a pain that day.”

As Handley rocked forward in his chair, the front door opened again, stirring the air as Ethan looked over his shoulder. A stranger in a gray duster and a fussy black bowler stepped over the threshold, covering his mouth as he coughed. At the sight of wispy orange hair curling over the man’s neck, Ethan felt his blood chill.

The stranger removed his hat and scanned the room, glancing briefly at Ethan before locking his gaze on Handley. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Am I interrupting you two gentlemen?”

“That depends,” Handley replied. “What can I do for you?”

Ethan wasn’t about to politely excuse himself.

“My name is Timonius LeFarge,” the outlaw said. “I’m a detective with Pinkerton’s, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about a missing woman.”

Handley pushed to his feet. “You wouldn’t be looking for Jayne Dawson by any chance?”

LeFarge’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I am.”

“Then we’re on the same side of the law.” Handley stood and extended his hand as LeFarge approached the desk. When the two men shook like old friends, Ethan’s doubts about Handley’s judgment turned into the certainty that the man couldn’t be trusted.

Handley nodded in Ethan’s direction. “Detective, this is Ethan Trent. He’s the man who found Dawson’s body.”

“I see,” said LeFarge. “How far away is your place?”

Ethan’s mind snapped into action. No matter what else happened today, he had to prevent the two men from riding out to his ranch together. Handley knew Ethan lived alone, but LeFarge didn’t. If Ethan could keep the sheriff from blabbing that he was a widower, he and Mrs. Dawson could pass for husband and wife if the outlaw decided to pay a call. Given the circumstances, Ethan doubted that LeFarge would invite Handley along for the ride.

The plan would work as long as the outlaw didn’t already know what Jayne looked like. Determined to glean all the information he could from LeFarge, Ethan forced himself to be cordial. “My place is a ways from here, and the road’s full of mud. We can talk here just as well.”

Handley nodded. “That suits me fine. Have a seat, detective. Ethan can fill us in at the same time. I was escorting the widow back to town when she made a beeline to his ranch.”

“Is that so?” LeFarge lowered his angular body into the chair. “Where is she now?”

“She’s dead,” Ethan replied.

After staring for a good three seconds, LeFarge settled into the chair across from Handley. “Please, sit down, Mr. Trent. It sounds like you have a story to tell.”

Handley pursed his lips. “Why exactly are you looking for her?”

As Ethan pulled up a third chair, LeFarge leaned back like a judge holding court. “It goes back to her husband. The fellow you buried was named Jesse Fowler. Back in Wyoming, he robbed nine banks, shot a woman and killed the real Hank Dawson. When the Feds failed to arrest him, the marshal’s family hired me. It seems Fowler’s been using the man’s good name.”

“The man sounds like trouble,” Handley replied.

“That he is, Sheriff. He got away with a lot of money from those robberies.”

LeFarge sounded grim, but Ethan wasn’t fooled. Greed was burning in the stranger’s glassy eyes as he cocked his head to the side. “I trust we can count on your help, Mr. Trent. I have reason to believe that Jayne Dawson was in possession of the money from the bank robberies. That makes her an accomplice to Dawson’s crimes.”

The man was the smoothest liar Ethan had ever met, but two could play that game, especially if it meant protecting a woman and an unborn child. “She never made it back to the ranch. I found her remains in the middle of nowhere and buried the body where I found it. I figure she froze to death in that blizzard.”

The outlaw blinked like a bobcat waiting for its prey. “Did you check her pockets? Was there anything to indicate where she might have been headed?”

“Not a thing.” Ethan shrugged. “I wish I could help you, but I just came by to tell Sheriff Handley about the body.”

The sheriff rocked back in his chair. “I almost forgot. The hotel sent her trunk over a few weeks ago.”

LeFarge shot up from his chair. “Where is it?”

Handley pointed to the back of the room. “It’s right there. Help yourself.”

The outlaw pried the lock with a knife and opened the lid. The scent of honeysuckle wafted through the air as he tossed dresses and petticoats onto the floor. Lingering over a satin nightgown, he smirked. “I bet she’s a whore.”

Handley shook his head. “I talked to her a bit. That’s not too likely.”

Damn right, Ethan thought. He’d bet his ranch that she had worn that satin on her wedding night.

LeFarge kept riffling through the garments. “Can you gentlemen give me a description of Mrs. Dawson? I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her for myself.”

Handley pursed his lips as if he were straining to think. “As I recall, she had light hair and came up to my nose. She was pretty but nothing special.”

Wrong. She was very special. Ethan had never met such an iron-willed woman, but he wasn’t about to argue.

“Eye color?” LeFarge asked.

Handley shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Ethan did. Her eyes changed color with her moods, from blue ice when she was angry to a soft shade of aqua when she laughed. “I think they were brown,” he said.

“What was she wearing?” LeFarge asked.

Handley sat straighter in the chair. “I can help you there. She was wearing a dark cloak when we rode out. It was black, or maybe gray.”

No, it was navy-blue with large brass buttons. Ethan nodded. “That’s right. It was gray.”

Shoving the widow’s things aside, LeFarge tore into Hank Dawson’s clothing, snapping his shirts like a dog shaking a rabbit. Next he dumped out the drawers located in the sides of the trunk. A pair of scissors clattered to the floor and ribbons swirled on the planking like a posy of spring flowers. LeFarge kicked everything aside, took a knife from his belt and slashed the lining.

At the rasp of tearing silk, Ethan imagined skinning the outlaw an inch at a time.