West of Heaven

“Do you read minds, or are you just plain rude?”

“You’re going to thank me for saving your life. I didn’t do it for you, Mrs. Dawson. I wish you had never come here.”

“That may be true,” she said. “But you’ve been considerate, except for the first night.”

“You should have asked for help.”

“You should have offered.”

The rancher walked to the window and slid the wood cover an inch to let in a bit of fresh air. A shaft of sunshine hit his eyes and he squinted against it. Through the whiskers, she saw his jaw clench in a wolflike snarl.

She had seen that look once before on a dog that had been run over by a wagon. Too young to know better, she had tried to pet it. The mutt had nipped her hand, drawing blood and leaving two small puncture marks. Louisa McKinney made sure her daughter never made that mistake again.

“You can’t trust an animal when it’s in pain,” she had said. “They don’t know what they’re doing and they don’t care who they hurt.”

Jayne still had a scar from the dog’s fangs, and she had never forgotten its eyes, watery and glazed with suffering.

The rancher snatched his hat from the nail. “I’m going back to work.”

As the door slapped shut, Jayne sagged with relief—until she remembered Hank’s letter waiting under her pillow. Her fingers trembled as she slid a half dozen sheets of paper out of the envelope. She riffled through them, catching words that made her stomach flip.

Dear Janey,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I love you, girl. I wanted to give you that “always” we talked about, but I can’t. I hope you can forgive me for what I’ve done. I’ve lied to you about so many things.

I never was a marshal. In fact, I’ve never had a thing I didn’t lie, cheat or steal to get. The past is ugly, but here it is. I met Timonius LeFarge a year ago in Wyoming and we started robbing banks together. We were good at it, but the last job went bad. A marshal named Franklin Henry Dawson chased us into the badlands.

I’ll never know if my bullet killed the man or if it was Tim’s, but it doesn’t matter. I saw his last breath as if it were my own and knew I had to change. Tim got drunk that night and passed out, so I took the money and the marshal’s badge and ran for my life.

A month later I found you in church, all sunlight and hope. I wanted you, girl—enough to turn into someone else, a deputy named Hank Dawson. I hope I gave you some happiness, because deep down I know I stole you, too.

If you’re reading this, I’m dead and Tim is alive. He wants the money, but it’s the only way I can give you that future I promised. I wired three thousand dollars to the First Bank of Los Angeles. All you have to do is show the manager our marriage certificate and the will.

Tim doesn’t know about you, but keep your eyes open. He’s older than me, a skinny fellow with red hair, light eyes and a scar on his left cheek. If you see him, go the other way. I’ve seen him do awful things to men and women alike.

I’m praying to God that Tim never finds us. And if he does, I’ll be praying I can end things right. That’s why I’m carrying the marshal’s badge. It’s a reminder that a man has choices.

No matter what happens, Jayney-girl, know that I love you. You gave me a second chance I didn’t deserve. Be safe.

Love,

Hank

P.S. Dawson was the marshal’s name. It’s a better name than mine and the only one I want you to remember me by.

One by one, she squared the pages into a neat pile. Tears welled for her losses, but anger burned even brighter. She didn’t even know her husband’s real name, and that was the cruelest lie of all.

Propped against a pillow in Ethan Trent’s bed, she wondered what had possessed her to marry a man she had known for just a few months, except she knew the answer. She’d been alone, had a thirst for adventure and was curious about a man’s company. She wanted to hate Hank for what he’d done, but the choice to marry him had been hers.

Right or wrong, she had to live with her decision. She would go to the sheriff as soon as she could ride and tell him the truth. Somewhere in this world, the real Mrs. Dawson was grieving for her husband. And somewhere in New Mexico a man named Timonius LeFarge was looking for his money, which meant he would be looking for her.

The steady pounding of a hammer broke through her thoughts. Warning the rancher about LeFarge was the right thing to do, but she hesitated. If he wouldn’t let her ride to Midas alone, what would he do if he found out she was being pursued by an outlaw? She didn’t want to find out. LeFarge was her problem, and she’d solve it herself.

Fresh anger welled as she thought about her five short days with her husband. He should have come clean with the law. If he’d given her a choice, she would have stood by him. Instead he had trespassed on her future without so much as a please or a thank-you. Nothing killed love faster than lies.

Tugging at the bedsheet, Jayne thought of the rancher sleeping on the hard floor while she slept in his bed. She’d stolen a piece of his life just as surely as Hank had stolen her future. Rolling onto her side, she vowed to leave just as soon as she could ride.

Chapter Four

E than took Mrs. Dawson’s cloak off the nail, saw a bit of straw on the sleeve and gave the garment a good shake. Her letter fell out of the pocket and landed next to his boot. He wasn’t a snoop by nature, but with the widow taking care of private matters outside, he was sorely tempted to read it.

Almost every night she had slipped it out from her pillow as soon as she thought he was asleep. With the hard floor digging into his shoulder blades, he would watch her eyes glitter in the firelight. He envied her those final words from her husband. Laura’s last words to him had been so ordinary he couldn’t remember them.

Ethan studied Dawson’s thin writing and the ugliness of the words “In the event of my death.” He hated the need for such a letter, but he respected the man for writing it. Not once had Ethan written a letter to his wife. They’d grown up together and there had been no need. Now he wished he’d given her that small pleasure.

He didn’t know if it was nosiness or thoughts of Laura that made him open the envelope. Being careful of the dog-eared flap, he took out the sheets. Curiosity got the better of him and he started to read.

I lied…stole…Timonius LeFarge…second chances… Love, Hank.

The punk fool didn’t know a damn thing about love. He’d left his wife in the middle of nowhere without a friend or an honest dollar to her name. He didn’t deserve the widow’s tears or the devotion that drove her to see him buried. If Dawson had walked through the door at that moment, Ethan would have bloodied his nose on general principle.

He didn’t want to look too closely at those feelings. Over a month had passed since she had come to his ranch, and yesterday she had marched to the barn and back without coughing once.

“I’m well enough to leave,” she had announced at supper last night.

They had taken to sitting together at the tiny table, eating in silence. Ethan had just scraped the last bite off his plate. “I can see that. Where will you go?”

“Home to Kentucky.”

“Do you have family there?”

“No, but I’ll be fine.”

He believed her. If the widow could put up with him, she could put up with anything. Yesterday she’d scrubbed the floor and he’d tracked in mud. She tossed him a rag and told him to wipe it up. The mud had stared at him for a good hour before he wiped up the mess and told her to mind her own damn business.

There wasn’t much of a chance of that, though. For one thing, she’d helped herself to his books, reading everything from his dime novels to Laura’s volumes of poetry to the Bible verses their sons had circled for Sunday school. A few times he had glanced up and caught her staring at him. He stared back, daring her to ask him what had happened to his family, which she did but only with her eyes.

Ethan put the letter back in her pocket. She insisted she was well enough to travel, but he wasn’t so sure. Twice he’d heard her retching in the garden, and in spite of long afternoon naps, she looked exhausted.

Reminding himself that he wanted her to leave, he walked to the barn, hitched up the workhorse and tied the livery mare to the back of the wagon. As he led the horses through the yard, he looked at the privy. The door was ajar, and he didn’t hear her in the cabin. Where the hell was she? “Mrs. Dawson?”

“Just a minute.” Her reedy voice had come from the garden.

Irritated, Ethan strode around the corner of the cabin just in time to see Mrs. Dawson toss up her breakfast.

It was a familiar sight to a man who had fathered three children, and his heart squeezed at the realization that the widow was expecting a baby. Memories of Laura carrying their first child washed over him. It had been a glorious time. It should have been a wonderful time for the widow, but knowing what she had ahead of her, Ethan couldn’t swallow.

She was standing in the shade with one hand braced on the cabin wall and the other holding her abdomen. “Please don’t watch me, Mr. Trent.”