Chapter Thirty-Three

The café crowd was boisterous for a Monday morning, making it difficult to think. He glared at his cup of coffee. Ten days had passed since Benson surprised Blanche and him in the cabin. He didn’t like to remember the moments that came after. His sudden decision. The look of surprise on Benson’s face as he fell to the floor. He was usually a good, God-fearing man. Violence went against everything he was. His brother had pushed him beyond his senses. Blanche had tempted him beyond his resolve. They were to blame for his violent actions, not himself.

And on top of all that, he’d gone and lost his money clip and two whole dollars! That mystery bothered him more each day. Was it possible he’d had it with him at the cabin? He couldn’t remember. If doing so wasn’t so risky, he’d sneak out and search the place. But that would be foolish. If someone had found the clip at the crime scene, there’s a chance he’d already be arrested.

Making a quick sweep of the room, he lifted his cup and took a drink. Nothing would happen. The judge would show up soon and put this whole thing to rest. Blanche was an eyewitness. McCutcheon couldn’t get off. Still…

With a clatter, his cup settled back in his saucer, splashing a good amount of coffee on his hand, as well as the tablecloth.

People looked over.

“Oh, my, are you feeling unwell?” Mildred asked, her wrinkled brow crumpled. She scooted from her chair and came his way, leaving her table empty.

He took a deep breath and steadied his nerves. If he didn’t watch out, he’d give himself away, first with almost getting hit by a wagon and now acting like a fool.

“Just fine, Mildred. I have a to-do list a mile long, and here I linger at the counter, sipping coffee like I have all the time in the world.” He looked into the kitchen and then away. Does she suspect me? Is a large M tattooed on my forehead?

Mildred smiled. “I know how pesky responsibilities can weigh on a person,” she replied in her shaky old voice. “Stop by tonight, say about six, and I’ll prepare you a nice pot roast with all the fixings. A home-cooked meal is what you need.”

Her come-hither smile almost made him recoil. Those eyes, those lips, those teeth. Who did she think she was? She was old enough to be his grandmother.

“You probably haven’t had home cooking for some time. Am I right?”

He’d never get rid of her. He nodded. Still, the dark gravy she was known for did have his mouth watering. Mashed potatoes, caramelized onions, and her famous tender beef. Maybe he’d go. “You’ve hit the problem on the nail. I’m much obliged.”

She tittered, patted her dry, gray hair, and tottered away.

He stared at his half-empty cup. He hadn’t spoken to Blanche. He’d seen her from afar three times, one being the funeral. She’d looked old and rumpled. He’d heard Ashley Adair was seeing to her needs. A hot, angry bolt of hatred straightened his spine. If not for Blanche, he wouldn’t be lying awake all night, looking over his shoulder, or hearing voices of people who weren’t there.

And the boy. What did he know? Colton McCutcheon stared at him every chance he got. And his mother? He’d seen the way she watched him.

A snicker slipped out, and he quickly covered his mouth with his palm, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Hadn’t been all that long ago that her brother-in-law dragged her to Priest’s Crossing in an old wagon that had seen better days. He remembered the boy too and the wails of the baby as Ward Brown pulled Faith off the wagon, dumping her in the dirt.

He’d witnessed the whole scene from the front of his establishment, his breath coming quick. So close, and yet he’d not step between a man and his woman, no sir, not him. He was actually sorry to hear that McCutcheon had rescued her on their getaway from Priest’s Crossing. Him and that gang of ranch hands he’d unleashed on the town.

He’d not kid himself—they were a dangerous lot, even if they weren’t armed. They’d hidden their guns somewhere so they wouldn’t be confiscated, but he wasn’t fool enough to think they wouldn’t retrieve them. If they were uncovered, he’d laugh in their faces. Once that happened, no way in hell could anyone break out McCutcheon. Until then, so many facets existed to his predicament he could be found out at any moment. Good thing he had nerves of steel.

Blanche was his biggest risk. He really should do something about that. But what? Talk to her? Threaten her? Just being in the same proximity might shred her resolve. And then came the culpability. He could handle guilt. He had for years. But could Blanche? What if those cowboys offered her clemency in exchange for the truth? What if she snapped from the strain on her own accord?

Straightening, he looked to the door. Only one thing left to do.