Chapter Forty-Four

Tossing beneath her blanket, Blanche struggled to get comfortable. Nothing she did gave her rest. Her ribs ached mercilessly from the vicious beating she’d taken, and the bruise on her face, although almost completely faded now, was still tender to the touch. Feeling prickly heat on her leg, she reached down and scratched the hives tormenting her. Her skin felt alive. Her nerves shot. She was a mess—the reason only too evident. Did anyone else notice? Were they becoming suspicious?

Frustrated, she let out a disgruntled sigh. She hadn’t slept well since Benson’s last job. He’d wanted to cancel, rearrange the dates so he wouldn’t miss his sister’s wedding, but Blanche had thrown a fit. Work was scarce. The printer in the next town would contract with someone else to move his books, and Benson would lose the agreement completely. The freight business was dying, but Benson needed to milk each client for all they were worth before all his opportunities evaporated into thin air, leaving them paupers.

That wasn’t the first contract she’d pushed him into. There were the dry goods that needed shipping to a tiny village in the Rockies, the barrels packed with china to go up to Canada, and the seed he’d gone all the way to Cheyenne to pick up and take to Soda Springs. And other opportunities too. Her job had been to spur him on. To look for better-paying contracts. She regretted nothing.

A month after she’d been foolish enough to fall for Benson’s handsome smile and marry him, she’d been shocked to learn the pittance he earned each time he actually moved freight. The trips hardly made a profit. As a bachelor, he’d been financially stable in his two-room cabin, or so she’d thought. Everything had appeared so romantic, especially the secret encounters they’d shared in the quiet of his woodland home. As a wife-to-be, she couldn’t wait to turn her teaching position over to Ashley and be rid of those brats tugging on her skirt, asking unanswerable questions and sneezing in her face. But without her salary, they’d scrimped. Gone without. She’d hated poverty and pushed Benson into taking on more and more. Leaving for this last trip, which made him miss Pearl’s wedding, he’d been furious.

Her ambition didn’t make her a horrible person, did it? A wife needed a few nice things. Setting up a suitable home was important. As was presenting a proper picture for others to see. A dress now and then or a fine pair of Italian-made shoes wasn’t asking for the moon. Certainly each season necessitated a new hat. Was that asking so much?

Benson had complied, the best he could, until only a few coins were left from the payments he brought home. Staples became slim, and they relied more and more on his hunting and her baking. How she hated the gamey taste of venison.

Sitting up, she punched her pillow angrily and then settled on her other side, but her head was still tender from falling and striking the floor.

So what if I wasn’t the best wife in the world? Nothing I can do about that now. I wasn’t the one who came home early. He only wanted to be at the wedding to give Pearl away. I wasn’t the one who panicked and hit him in the head with the fire iron. I’m not to blame. I shouldn’t dwell on what-ifs and whys.

Wide awake now, she had no other option than to get up. She’d not sleep tonight. She flipped back her covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Agitated, she needed a cigarette. That was the only thing that would calm her ragged nerves. If she didn’t make the effort, she’d lie awake all night.

Padding silently across the room, she opened her wardrobe with a shaky hand. She wondered how long Angelia and Ashley would allow her to live there. She’d like to stay forever. Never go back to that wretched cabin in the woods. That would suit her just fine. Angelia cooked meals, and Ashley kept the house nice. What more could she want?

Quivering, she lifted the folded shawl that hid her pouch of tobacco and small rolling papers and went back to her bed. She lit her candle. If she did stay here, she’d make clear she had no intention of hiding her habit any longer. No doubt they already knew. The smell of the smoke only too evident. And Ashley catching her at the window the other night.

Rolling the paper and twisting the end, she was just about to light it when a soft tap sounded on the window behind her. With a violent jerk, she stifled a frightened scream. Had a twig fallen against the glass? Or perhaps a squirrel, out at night, had dropped something from the tree. Her curtains were drawn, but with her lighted candle, if a person was outside, he or she saw her walk across the room.

She swallowed her fear. What should she do? Blow out her candle and cower under her covers? Was the hard-faced ranch foreman back to ask more questions? Or Jack Jones? No, the sheriff wouldn’t sneak up in the night and scare ten years off her life. Was Benson’s ghost so close? She was a believer. Had her loving husband come back to haunt her or to exact revenge?

The tapping sounded again. Louder. More persistent.

Blanche forced herself to lean over and cup the candle with one hand. With a ragged breath, she blew out the flame and then sat motionless in the dark room.

He’s here. Outside.

She’d locked her window every night, worried this might happen. Why would he chance this? If he was seen, they could never explain that away. But was he in a sane mind? Mildred was dead, she reminded herself with a foreboding shiver. Dead! How on earth had that happened? And why?

“Blanche.”

She’d know that deep-throated whisper in her sleep. The stupid fool! What did he want? How dare he put them in such jeopardy! Gooseflesh rose up on her arms. Her scalp prickled. She remembered his expression as he’d landed blow after blow, as if he’d been enjoying himself. She’d not go outside. She’d pretend she hadn’t heard, even if he kept knocking all night. He was deranged to come here.

He tapped again.

They didn’t need to talk. Their blatantly stupid story had worked so far, even if the circumstances were so far-fetched Jack Jones was the only one gullible enough to lock up a McCutcheon. She scoffed at herself. Why hadn’t she recognized McCutcheon? Even under whiskers and rumpled garments.

“Blanche,” he whispered in a raspy voice. “I saw the light. You don’t fool me. I’ve come to tell you to stay calm. If you think to go to the sheriff and blame me, you’ll end up like Mildred. That woman couldn’t stop asking questions. I’ll be watching you.”

Petrified, Blanche eased down to the mattress and rolled into a ball, praying he’d go away. After they hanged McCutcheon and everything calmed down, she’d have to sneak away. Go somewhere where he couldn’t find her. She’d not stay in Priest’s Crossing with him watching her every move. Maybe intending to kill off the only person that could have him hanged later down the road.

He was still out there. She could feel his presence. Her ears hurt from straining. Her heart beat against her sore ribs. The desire for the cigarette all but gone.

What should she do? She wished Ashley’s house was in town, where she could scream for help, but not out here in the sticks. If he got frustrated, this dark, lonely stretch at night could easily hide many sins. Many indeed.