Chapter Twenty-Eight

Priest’s Crossing

Blanche mentally forced the tremors from her hand as she reached for the cup of tea only a few feet away on the pinewood table. Bending low, she took a shallow breath to hide her rattled countenance from Mr. Guthrie. He sat opposite in a straight-back chair, and the other men had politely asked if they could stand quietly along the side wall, the young man Ashley was taken with being one of them. Thank goodness McCutcheon’s wife hadn’t come too or his boy. Ashley sat beside her on the small sofa, giving her courage.

“You may only have ten minutes of her time.” Angelia sent her a compassionate smile.

Little did Angelia know Blanche couldn’t stand her simpering ways and just put up with her for propriety’s sake—and for a roof over her head that wasn’t hidden away on the outskirts of town like her cabin.

Angelia looked at Mr. Guthrie. “Her ribs are still healing.”

Why am I sitting here as if I’m the one on trial? She hadn’t killed Benson. That moron had. Now that she’d had time to go over that fateful day, surely she could have thought of something that would have satisfied Benson’s angry questions. Maybe Mr. Romantic was delivering a package to the homestead and twisted his ankle. That was why he was lounging in their chair where she’d tripped and fallen into his lap. That amusing thought almost made her smile. Convincing Benson might have been difficult, but he was a simple man—or had been, she should say. After he got over his anger, he’d have forgotten and forgiven, especially with the extra attention she would have given. Could she get through these next few days without breaking down?

Mr. Romantic, ha! That stupid nickname now only made her laugh. If she never saw him again, that would be too soon. But she would, on every trip into town.

“Ten minutes should be fine, ma’am,” Mr. Guthrie said. “My questions won’t take long. But before I begin, first let me say again thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs. Van Gleek. The fact you’ve been though a trauma and are in mourning isn’t lost on me.”

Now, here was a man who would make any woman proud to call her own. His large, rough hands sent a delightful quiver down Blanche’s spine, thinking about how they might feel on her skin. “You’re welcome, Mr. Guthrie. It’s the least I can do. Once you know the truth about your boss and realize he’s been lying ever since you’ve arrived, the sooner we can stop all this foolishness.”

He looked over to his comrades and then back at her. “Can you please tell me, in your words, how that morning took place?”

She swallowed. Remembering exactly what she’d said to Sheriff Jones was critical.

“Don’t be nervous. Just state what happened.”

Easy for you! She felt like sneering but kept that impulse to herself. “Thank you. The sun had just crested the mountain. Benson had returned from his last freighting trip only minutes before. He’d barely come into the house when we heard a horse whinny. Looking out the window, he said someone was coming. Someone he had never seen before.”

“He’d never seen Luke McCutcheon? From what I learned, your husband was born and raised here. Not knowing Luke seems strange.”

To fortify herself she took a sip of her tea. “Strange or not, that’s the truth.”

“Go on when you’re ready.”

“Benson opened the door when the stranger knocked. He asked for food. I had some leftovers so I gave him those, but then he wanted more. When Benson told him we weren’t a restaurant, he got angry.”

Ashley’s mother nodded from her chair. “That Indian blood. Makes a man crazy.”

Thank you, Angelia.

Mr. Guthrie nodded for her to continue.

“Lunging forward, McCutcheon wrenched Benson’s arm behind his back,” she whispered in a shaky tone, “demanding money or gold—whatever we had.” She glanced away, made her lips tremble. “We aren’t rich people by any stretch of the imagination. We don’t have money lying about. We live day to day.”

Taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she twisted the material in trembling hands. Is anyone buying my story?

“When Benson told him that, McCutcheon got irate. He began shouting. Said he’d give Benson one last chance, and then he would hurt me. Thinking we were both dead, I pushed McCutcheon from behind giving Benson a chance to pull his gun. But that didn’t happen. That heathen picked up the fireplace poker and smashed Benson on the side of his head. Benson fell to the floor right before my eyes and that madman turned on me.” For a brief moment, she clenched her eyes closed before continuing. “He hit me in the face, breaking my lower lip, and punched me in my ribs more times than I can remember. He would’ve killed me too, if I hadn’t played like I was dead.”

Forcing several hot tears from her eyes, she brushed them away with her handkerchief.

Roady sat back and placed his hands on his knees. “You already knew your husband was dead?”

She stiffened. Did I slip up? “I thought he was dead. H-He looked dead.”

The foreman nodded.

But she could see deep in his eyes he didn’t believe a word she was saying. Who would? Now that she’d learned the drifter was Luke McCutcheon, no one would think him capable of such brutality. And especially not over money. She was in deep trouble and had only one person to blame. She’d not take the fall for him!

“Is there anything else you’d like to say, Mrs. Van Gleek?”

“Isn’t that enough?” She gently blew her nose and then put her linen away. Her gaze went to the listeners along the wall. The whole time, Francis had been staring at her feet, of all things. Like he was afraid to look into her eyes. She carefully pulled them back under her skirt.

Why on earth did I agree to this interview? I should’ve made them wait until the trial. But to refuse would seem like I had something to hide. I must remember I didn’t kill Benson. I am innocent.

“Can you tell me what you did when Luke left?”

His tone was soft, solicitous, but anger burned deep in that hawklike gaze. A knifelike jab to her heart almost made her gasp. She dared not reach for her cup again, because her culpability would give her away. Beneath her clothing, her body flushed. These next few minutes might be the most important of her life.

“Heartbroken, I… I lay on the floor next to Benson’s dead body for about twenty minutes after I heard him ride away. I was in pain and frightened he’d return to kill me off so no one could tell what he’d done.”

“Question,” Mr. Guthrie said, raising a hand. “Did Luke ever get close to your husband’s body once he was lying out on the floor? After he was hit, and perhaps dead?”

What did they know? This was a trap! She dropped her gaze to the small bouquet of buttercups on the center of the table. What should she say? Through her lashes, she could see all the men waiting. Waiting to hear her blunder. Swallowing, she wet the inside of her mouth. “Remembering is difficult.”

His regard hardened. “Take your time. There’s no rush.” He rocked to the side in his chair as he took a breath, gave Ashley, sitting beside her, a brief smile, and then his gaze tracked back to her. “Mrs. Van Gleek?”

The fool! Did he think he was smarter than her? “No, he didn’t go near the body. After Benson fell, he turned on me and beat me like an animal, like I said before. When I fell to the floor I closed my eyes, but I remember he was by the front door. He waited a few moments and then left. He never checked to see if either of us were indeed dead.”

Mr. Guthrie glanced at his men, victory in his eyes.

The young man that had followed Francis out today struggled to keep a grin contained.

The wrong answer! What did they know that she didn’t? She took a steadying breath and cast her gaze at Angelia, wanting out of this room. Out from under their scrutiny.

“Odd he didn’t search your place for money. That is what you said he demanded. Or that, after he murdered your husband, he headed into town as if nothing was wrong. Most men would take to the hills. Disappear. He and his son went into Priest’s Crossing and attended a dear friend’s wedding.”

Again she glared at Angelia.

Angelia stood. “That’s more than enough. Blanche is tired.”

Roady nodded and stood.

“One last question, if I may,” Mr. Guthrie said, his hand out in offering. “And then we’ll get out of your hair for good. You said Luke arrived early in the morning and killed your husband. You said you pretended to be dead for approximately twenty minutes before you moved from the spot he left you. You didn’t point out Luke until after Joe’s wedding, and that was in the late afternoon. Was anyone else in your home between the time of the murder and you identifying him?”

Another trap! Her heart slammed against her ribs. The cowboys could hardly contain their grins. She’d been such a fool. A bloody, stupid fool! She’d told Jack she’d been alone. No one else there. She had to stick to her story.

“Ma’am?”

“No one. Just me. I was in shock. I got to town as soon as I could pull myself together.”

“So, almost a full day passed.”

His tone didn’t hold near the caring as when he’d begun. She nodded.

Mr. Guthrie smiled politely. “Thank you, again, ma’am. This interview couldn’t have been easy—given all your memories. Condolences over your husband. Everyone has said what a good, honest man he was.”

Another jab! Her stomach churned as she hid her fisted hands in the fabric of her skirt. He’d skillfully boxed her into a corner in front of a handful of witnesses. What a fool she’d been.