The Hunt for a Hidden Killer (Preview)

Prologue

Clear Creek, Texas

1870

“But why not, Ben?”

Ben Hartwell smiled up at the beautiful woman leaning over him and shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m too tired tonight.”

He rose from his chair, sending her tumbling from his lap. She slid to the floor and looked up through her long dark hair as he reached for his jacket. “I hate to leave you, but I have to go out.”

She rose and curled her slender fingers around his lapels. She raised her dark eyes to his face. “You’re doing something dangerous,” she breathed. “Don’t go. Stay here with me. I don’t see you enough!”

She pressed her body against his, but he smiled down at her and clasped her hands. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain later.” He pressed a kiss to her brow and walked out.

He closed the door behind him, closed his eyes, and exhaled: a long, slow, wistful sigh. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled note. There were four words scrawled across it in dark ink.

Meet me at ten.

He crammed it back into his pocket, then strode down the boarding house stairs, through the foyer, and out into the night.

It had been a hot day, but the earth was cooling fast, and stars winked in the night sky as he set off down the dirt street. The place he was making for was at the opposite end of town, but the town was small. He could see it clearly, a low adobe building huddled at the end of the street. Faint music and laughter wafted to him on the evening breeze, and he whistled a bit as he pulled a cigar out of his jacket. He paused to light it, tossed the match away, and continued.

He’d finished almost all his business in that dismal little town. He had two horses rented from the livery, one for him, and another for Clara. The next morning, they’d ride out of there for San Marcos. Everything was going just as he’d planned. There was only one loose end to wrap up.

He sauntered to the front door of the bar, peered in over the swinging doors, and raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t seen such a wretched saloon in years. The bar and the tables were made of crates, and the floor was made of dirt. He almost laughed in disbelief.

Almost, because the hired goon at the door didn’t look like he had a sense of humor. The man was giving him the stink eye, so he pushed in and made for the bar, slowly and without smiling.

The bartender was a grim, silent man who just stared at him until he cleared his throat and mumbled, “A shot of whiskey.”

The man turned, slapped a shot glass on the crate, uncorked a bottle, and poured exactly two fingers in. He nodded toward it, and Ben set a quarter down.

He lifted it to his lips and turned to scan the faces in the room. He didn’t know who he was looking for. Just that the man would show up at the place he’d named.

He swallowed the whiskey, coughed, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and mumbled, “I’d like to… rent a room.”

The bartender shot him another look. “That’s two dollars for a half hour. Through that door in the back.”

Ben reached into his jacket and slid two greenbacks across the crate. The bartender pocketed it and nodded toward a door in the back wall.

He pushed away from the bar and shouldered through the crowd to the back door. It opened onto a dim, narrow hall lined with doors. There were numbers over each one, and he drifted down the hall to pause at the one that read Ten.

The door swung open on a dark, low-ceilinged room. It looked so much like a cave that for an instant he wondered if the building opened onto the side of a hill. But as his eyes adjusted, a dark silhouette materialized in the gloom: a young woman sitting on a mattress on the floor.

She leaned over to light a lamp, and he stared at her in dismay. She looked thin, unhealthy, and barely fifteen.

He opened the door a little wider. “You can go.”

She stared at him dully, and he coughed and repeated himself. “I said you can go.”

She stood up slowly and slid past him, and he closed the door after her. The room plunged back into darkness, and he bent over to turn up the lamp.

There was nothing in the little room except the mattress and the lamp, and he sighed and leaned against the wall. He didn’t want to sit on it or on the dirty ground.

Time passed, and he flicked ash from his cigar and glanced at his watch. His legs were getting tired, and he glanced at the mattress again. Finally he sighed and sank down onto it, stretched out, and went on smoking.

A few minutes later, footsteps echoed in the hall outside. The knob turned slowly and silently, and a tall silhouette appeared in the door.

“Took you long enough.”

The door closed, and darkness swallowed the room. The other figure slowly walked to the side of the bed and knelt beside him. Ben turned toward him.

“What was so important that you had to meet me ton—”

It was over in a heartbeat. Something hit his throat, swiped across it, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. The shadow struck him in his chest, then jumped up and fled. The door bounced open and running feet receded down the hall.

Ben gasped and rolled helplessly. Terror seized him as he realized his throat had been cut. He’d been stabbed, and the knife was still jammed into his chest. He wallowed on the mattress, choking on his own blood, and suddenly another silhouette appeared in the open doorway. It was a woman.

She gasped and threw herself down beside him, wailing and sobbing in Spanish. It was Clara.

“Dios ayúdame! Qué te han hecho? Ay, mi amor!”

He gripped her hand and held on for dear life, but Clara couldn’t save him. She wailed bitterly as his eyes rolled to the ceiling, and her cries slowly grew fainter and fainter until they faded into silence.

Chapter One

Ten miles out of Amarillo

The wind howled like a demon, and a fierce blast of dust and fury battered a solitary rider on the plain. Amos Reed lowered his head, turned away from the wind, and pulled his hat low over his brow to protect his eyes. Yellow dust swirled around him as he rode into the storm, and he was already coughing, but he couldn’t stop going.

A dark blur was fast disappearing into the clouds ahead, mounted outlaws flying like the devil was at their heels. He pulled his rifle and popped off a few shots as he rode, but he didn’t pull off a miracle. The billows of dust swallowed the riders and he swore and slammed his rifle back into its scabbard in frustration.

That murdering gang of robbers was getting away, and Amos kicked his mount savagely to catch up. His horse screamed and tossed its head, but it found a new burst of speed. He plunged into the dense clouds of dust like a shooting star, and it snuffed him like a dying ember. Suddenly everything disappeared. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He had grit in his eyes, in his mouth. He yanked his horse up short and sharp and bent over its neck in a spasm of coughing.

He pressed his bandanna tighter over his nose and turned his face away from the wind. He was burning with rage, but he couldn’t go on. If that pack of mongrels survived the storm, he’d hunt them down later.

He had to turn back, or both he and his horse were going to be blasted blind.

He turned the horse’s head and sent it trotting back toward town. The wind instantly sandpapered his neck and the back of his ears. If his hat hadn’t been strapped to him, it would’ve been swept off his head and gone sailing into the sky.

“Amos!”

A high, reedy voice called to him over the shriek of the wind. It was so faint he wasn’t sure it was real the first time, but it called again.

“Amos Reed!”

“Here,” he called, and coughed again. He nudged the horse into a canter, and slowly another mounted rider materialized. It was Aaron Sykes, the sheriff of Amarillo.

“They got away,” he croaked. “I couldn’t see to ride!” He coughed again, and the other man turned his horse and hunched down in the saddle to ride with him back into town.

The storm did its best to suck the breath out of their lungs, but the farther they rode, the more it gradually died down. The thick, billowing clouds slowly thinned to swirling veils, then to a dusty mist as they neared the town.

The dust storm had made Amarillo live up to its name. A yellow pall hung over the whole main street, and townsfolk clapped handkerchiefs to their mouths as they huddled together outside the bank.

The sheriff called to them. “Go on home,” he told them sternly. “None of you are doing any good here. The families of these people deserve to come get their folks in peace!”
The townsfolk turned and dispersed, slowly and reluctantly. The two lawmen dismounted outside and walked past them into the shattered bank.

The big green bank door had once been bright and pretty. But it had been splintered with a shotgun and was hanging drunkenly off one hinge. Amos stared at the threshold. It was covered with splinters and blood.

He sighed and strode in, and the deputy, a boy of hardly more than eighteen, nodded as they walked past.

The sheriff stuck his hands on his hips and surveyed the inside of the bank. It was a scene of carnage. Murdered bank employees and customers lay sprawled over the checkered floor. “How many?” the sheriff asked wearily.

The deputy pointed to the counter. “Two tellers and the bank owner behind the counter. And these,” he added, nodding to three dead bodies lying in a pool of blood on the other side of the lobby.

A soft whimpering pulled Amos’ attention to the opposite corner of the room. An elderly woman was slumped in a chair weeping, and two young men were comforting her.

He turned to the sheriff, and the other man leaned in to whisper, “The bank owner’s wife. She saw it happen.”

Amos’ eyes reverted to the bodies. A faint frown gathered on his brow, and he drifted over to where one of them was lying face down in a swipe of blood.

He knelt over it, slowly and in dread. He put a hand to the dead man’s shoulder and gently turned him over. His eyes widened in sudden shock, and he gasped:

“John!”

He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t unsee John’s staring eyes, his matted hair, his mouth gaping open in surprise.

He stood up so fast that he staggered back and had to brace himself against the wall to keep from stumbling. His heart was jumping in his throat, and for an instant he thought he was going to be sick.

The sheriff’s voice yanked him back to reality. “Amos, Mrs. Townsend says she’s willing to answer some questions.”

Amos pulled a hand over his mouth, gathered himself, and walked across the bank sales floor. He was grateful that the sheriff was busy with the old woman. Hopefully, he’d been too busy to notice his reaction to the dead man. He nodded to the elderly woman respectfully.

“My condolences, ma’am. I’m Amos Reed. I’m a Texas Ranger. Can I… can I ask you a few questions about what happened here?”

He stared at her and was grateful for the momentary distraction from his own grief. The woman was as pretty as a doll in spite of her age. Her white hair was pulled up in a loose bun atop her head, and her cheeks were soft and pink as pillows. She nodded tearfully.

“Why don’t you start by just telling us what happened,” he asked gently.

The woman convulsed with another sob and pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “I came by the bank to bring Rufus his lunch,” she quavered. “He’s so busy that he almost always forgets and goes hungry.”

“When was that, ma’am?”

She pulled her mouth down like a child. “It was noon on the dot, because the church bell was ringing the hour as I walked here,” she quavered.

“Did you get here before the robbery?”

She nodded and dabbed her eyes. “Yes. I took Rufus his lunch in the back office and we talked for about five minutes. I was still there when there was a, a horrible explosion, and a big crash, and, and, the sound of shooting,” she wept. “People were screaming. Rufus told me to stay where I was, and he ran out here. And they shot him down! They just shot him down!” She buried her face in her handkerchief and dissolved into tears.

The sheriff leaned down to put a hand on her shoulder. “Take your time, Eugenie.”

Amos let her cry for a minute, then asked, “Did you see the robbers?”

She sniffed and nodded. “I ran to the office door. I saw five men with long guns. Two of them were behind the counter, grabbing money out of the till. They, they were stepping over our tellers, Jim and Buck. They were stepping over Rufus. He was lying dead on the floor!”
The sheriff shot him a look over his shoulder that said the questions were over. Amos bit his lip in frustration, but stepped back. “Thank you, ma’am,” he told her softly. “You’ve been a big help. And I promise you, we’ll get the men who killed your husband.” He glanced back at the bodies on the lobby floor, and fury roared up in his chest, almost too hot to bear. His fists clenched.

“We’ll hang every one of those snakes from the tallest tree in Amarillo!”

Chapter Two

The cell door clanged shut, and the old man turned a thick key in the lock. Clara Mayfield curled her fingers around the bars and glared at the gray-haired sheriff. He gave her a narrow look and nodded, “Now you just settle down. I know you’ve been through a lot tonight, but taking a swipe at me or my deputy isn’t going to solve anything.” His eyes drifted down over her body, and he mumbled, “I’ll bring you some coffee and a plate. You got a chamber pot in the corner and a bowl of water and a rag.”

He walked out, and the door closed behind him. Clara sank down onto the little cot and put her head in her hands.

Her man was dead, murdered almost in front of her eyes, and her life was over.

She balled her hands into fists and wept in despair. If only he’d listened to her and stayed in their room! If only she’d been faster when she followed him to the saloon!

The sight of his wide, staring eyes, his throat slashed open, his gaping mouth full of blood—she’d see it until the day she died. And the coward, the cerdo who’d killed him, she called down every curse in the world on his head. She hoped he died in agony, in screaming pain.

She hadn’t been fast enough to catch him. To even see his face.

She slumped over onto the cot and convulsed in tears. She was still lying there when the door opened again and a loud scraping sound announced that the sheriff had pushed a tin plate and cup through the open slot at the bottom of the cell door.

He didn’t move away, and when she raised her head, he was standing there, staring down at her. He cleared his throat.

“You’re being held on suspicion of murder,” he mumbled. “For the death of Ben Hartwell. You understand?”

She pulled her mouth down bitterly and shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to speak. She might start screaming.

He nodded toward her blood-stained dress. “If you tell me where to get your things, I’ll bring you some clean clothes, and anything else you need.”

She turned away from him and bowed her head. Her clothes didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

“You’ll be provided a lawyer as soon as we get one. You’ll be tried by Judge Wilson. He’s a circuit judge, and he doesn’t get around here for another two months, so you may as well get comfortable.” He cleared his throat again. “If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”

He walked out, and the heavy door closed and locked behind him. She was alone with her despair, and she collapsed on the cot.

She was exhausted, and she sank into sleep like a stone falling to the bottom of a lake. The darkness slowly shifted, like lapping water, and she was sitting under the big tree in the meadow on the edge of her parent’s farm. It had been late afternoon, and the gold of the setting sun was in the tops of the trees. It painted the meadow gold, and the air was warm and sleepy. Even the bees in the meadow had been lazy, clinging to the swaying meadow flowers as they nodded in the breeze.

She had fallen asleep herself, with one arm over her brow and her skirts and hair billowing out around her. It was a good place to sleep, a good place to dream. The tree was far from the house, far from the road, and the meadow stretched out around her on every side.

She yawned and stretched and looked up at the sky. She’d had a good dream, a dream about a stranger. A shadow man had come to her and bent to kiss her as she slept. His lips had been as warm as the sunlight on her skin, and his hands had tangled in her long hair.

The sound of a horse made her raise her head, then sit up. A hat was slowly rising from a hollow in the meadow, followed by a pair of broad shoulders, followed by a horse. A strange man was approaching, and she twisted to glance back at her parents’ house, then at him. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she rose in alarm. She bent to pull a knife from her boot and held it behind her back as the horse walked toward her.

The man pulled it to a stop a stone’s throw away and touched his hat. “Afternoon, miss.”

She stared at him warily. His face was shadowed by the hat, but his voice was warm. It smiled at her.

The man dismounted and came walking toward her as easily as if he’d known her all his life. As he neared, she saw that he was a young man, a handsome man. His face was strong, and his hair and his eyes were dark.

He stopped a few paces away, stuck his hands on his hips, and smiled. “I’m Ben Hartwell, miss. I came here to ask for a meal and a place to stay, because I’m lost and there’s not a town within twenty miles.” His smile deepened, and he moved in, his eyes on her face.

“But law, darlin’, you are one beautiful woman. You just kicked every thought I ever had clean out of my head.”

He reached for her, pulled her to his chest, and kissed her. He was the shadow man in her dream, and his lips were warm as the sunlight on her skin, and her hands moved up his chest and tangled in his hair.

* * * * *

The heavy clank of the outer door opening woke her. Morning light was streaming through the window behind her, and the sheriff appeared carrying a tray in one hand and a bag in the other.

Clara pulled her mouth down in despair. It had only been a dream. Ben was dead, and she was going to hang for it.

“Here’s your breakfast. And I sent my deputy over to the boarding house to get you a change of clothes.”

The old man pushed the tray through the slot, and the bag after it. She sat there with her eyes on her lap until the door closed, then she fell on the tray like a hungry animal. She stuffed bread into her mouth and gulped down a swallow of coffee. She felt weak and famished, and she gobbled the bacon and eggs.

She closed her eyes and sank back against the wall. Ben was dead, and she should be dead, too. She wanted to die.

But she couldn’t die. Her hand moved to her stomach. She was pregnant with Ben’s baby, and she was starting to feel a little flutter. Their baby was moving, growing.

It was all she had left of him.

She sat there, miserably existing, for hours in silence and stillness. When the door opened again, the sheriff and his deputy walked in, and she turned to face them warily.

The sheriff crossed his arms, and the young deputy pulled out a pad of paper and a pen.

“Miss Mayfield, it appears that the dead man, Ben Hartwell, was a bank robber. A member of the Cyrus Maddox gang. Can you tell us what connection you had to him?”

Clara turned her face into the wall and ignored them.

“Are you a member of the gang, too, Miss Mayfield?”

The silence stretched out, and the sheriff cleared his throat and resumed, “What were you doing in the room with him the night of the murder, and why were you holding the murder weapon in your hand?”

She said nothing, and the sheriff barked, “When your lawyer comes, Miss Mayfield, he’ll tell you that it isn’t wise to refuse to answer questions. Silence makes you look guilty, and you look guilty enough already.” He paused, then added, “When Judge Wilson gets here, you’re going to be tried for murder. If you’re found guilty, you’ll hang. You need to think about that real hard.”

He turned on his heel, and the two of them stalked out. But Clara leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She would live if she could for the baby. But if she died, she would not be sorry.

Her life was over anyway.

Chapter Three

Samuel Hartwell winced as the stagecoach bounced over yet another rock in the road. He clapped his bowler to his head to keep it from flying off and stifled a curse.

He’d been staying in San Marcos, a small but pretty town in the Texas hill country. He’d been very comfortable there. He wouldn’t have chosen to leave so soon, but he’d been compelled by a grim telegram from Clear Creek.

Its only importance to him was that his twin brother had been murdered there. He was going there to make the funeral arrangements.

He was going to bury the only family member he had left in the world.

It still didn’t seem real. Samuel frowned, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a worn daguerreotype. It had been taken of him and his twin brother a few years before. They were staring straight into the camera, grim as judges, with their hair slicked flat and their collars starched and their arms around each other. Same height, same dark hair, same mustache. They’d been a dapper pair. They looked like fine, upstanding men in that picture. But part of the reason they were frowning was that they’d both been hung over. They’d just come off a night of painting the town red.

He stared at their faces with a stifled sigh, then put the picture back into his inner pocket.

They had grown apart. They hadn’t met up or written for a while. He didn’t know what had happened to his twin, and he couldn’t bear to let his imagination run on it.

His mouth tightened to a grim line. But one thing was for sure. Before he left Clear Creek, he was going to know everything. The stage crashed on for another hour, making the ride miserable, and by the time it rolled into Clear Creek, Samuel was ready to be grateful for whatever he found. It wasn’t much.

He looked out the stagecoach window to see the same kind of tiny, desperate backwater town that he and his brother had grown up in: A handful of clapboard buildings facing each other across a dusty road. No trees, no big buildings or houses.

Just an ugly little huddle of buildings against a backdrop of hundreds of miles of empty land. Little dust devils pushed tumbleweeds across the road as he watched, and they were about the only thing moving, if you didn’t count a cur dog trotting into an alley to scavenge scraps.

He groaned as he stretched his cramped his arms and legs and opened the door. The driver unlocked the foot ladder and stepped back to let him climb carefully to the street.

He straightened his jacket and asked, “Is there a boarding house in this town?”

The driver was big, and his face was red and sweaty after the long drive. He turned to point at the only two-story building on the street. “Over there. Ma McKenzie’s.”

Samuel rolled doubtful eyes to the house and its peeling paint and sagging front steps. That ramshackle house was only slightly more desirable than curling up on the sidewalk, but it was apparently all there was.

The driver climbed up to the top of the coach and threw down his carpet bag. He picked it up, sighed, and made for the boarding house, limping as he went.

His eyes moved down the street to the undertaker’s, a small brick building with a heavily-draped front window. He wasn’t ready to go to there. Not yet. He was tired, hungry and sick at heart. He couldn’t face inevitable mortality until he had a good meal in his stomach and a premium bottle of whiskey to chase it down.

He walked to the boarding house and climbed the bowed, creaking wooden steps to the front door. It was standing open, and he rapped on it as he paused in the doorway.

“Is anybody home?”

A woman’s flat voice called to him from somewhere inside. “Come on in, I’ll be with you directly.”
He took off his bowler and stepped in. The scent of dust and frying meat met him in the foyer, and a moment later a grim, middle-aged woman hurried out to meet him. Her mouse-brown hair was falling out of her bun, her expression was grim, and she was wearing a stained apron. She wiped her hands on it and looked up, then looked again.

“I’m Ben Hartwell’s twin,” he explained, and she nodded grimly.

“You made the soul leave my body for a minute,” she confessed. “Need a room?”

“Yes,” he replied faintly.

“It’s ten cents a night, fifty cents a week. Breakfast and dinner included, first come first served in the dining room.” She nodded toward a doorway to the right.

“Do I get the whole room to myself?”

She gave him a look that said he was a fool or a smart mouth. “You see a crowd, Mister?”

He sputtered and shook his head. “No.” He reached into his pocket and gave her a half dollar. She pocketed it and handed him a key. “Second room to the left. Dinner’s at six.”

She turned and disappeared into the bowels of the house, and he dragged himself up the stairs to unlock the second door to the left.

It swung back to reveal a small, dingy, mostly empty bedroom. The wallpaper was faded and peeling near the baseboards. The ceramic bowl on the washstand was chipped and discolored, and there was a long, hairline crack in the window.

The bed was narrow and spindly. He tossed his bag onto it and loosened his collar as he walked to the window and pulled back the flimsy curtain. He reached into his jacket, uncorked a silver flask, and scanned the street below.

As he expected, the most interesting thing to do in Clear Creek at that moment was watch the stage driver unload mail bags. He took a long pull from the flask and leaned against the wall as the big, sweaty driver tossed canvas bags down to the road.

Thump. Thump.

But the town did have one small surprise for him, after all. As he watched, another man rode past the coach on a tall, muscular chestnut. The man had iron gray hair, a bushy mustache, and sat ramrod-straight in the saddle. And as he rode past, the sun winked off something on his chest.

A lawman from out of town, then. Samuel raised his brows, let the curtain fall, and took another long pull on the whiskey flask.

It looked like trouble had just ridden into town.

Chapter Four

“We’ve done the best we could with him. He’s been lying on a bed of ice ever since he was brought in. Are you ready to see him?”

Samuel glanced at the undertaker. He was a sallow, long-faced man with lanky hair and an unshaven chin. It looked to him as if a homeless man had been dragged off the street and stuffed into a formal suit and top hat, and it irritated him. His brother deserved so much better than… that. He glanced around the dim, depressing little viewing room. It was mostly bare, painted a pale green. A lone floor lamp burned in the corner and emitted a pale, sickly light.

“Sir?”

The other man gave him a questioning look and raised the corner of a sheet draped over his brother’s body.

Samuel took a deep breath and nodded, and the undertaker pulled the sheet back delicately. “Like I said. The best we could.”

He lowered his eyes reluctantly, and what he saw was like a punch to his gut. The dead man lying there was his brother, and yet, somehow, not his brother. The face was pale as marble, the eyes were glued closed, the nostrils oddly dark and pinched. He could see the stitches that were holding his brother’s lips together.

His eyes drifted down. His brother was dressed in a rumpled suit and his collar was unnaturally high, pulled right up to his chin to cover his slashed throat. Samuel’s mouth jerked slightly.

His brother’s fingers were laced awkwardly across his chest. There were slash marks across his knuckles, as if he’d grabbed at the knife that killed him.

“Is this your brother Ben, Mr. Hartwell?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat with an effort. “Yes.”

The undertaker folded the sheet gently over his brother’s chest, leaving his upper body visible. “Would you like a private moment with him, Mr. Hartwell?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The undertaker nodded and withdrew silently. When the door closed behind him, Samuel took a reluctant step toward his brother’s body, but he wasn’t seeing the ghastly corpse.

His entire history with his brother was flashing before his eyes: a laughing child’s face, running feet just ahead of him, a hand slapping his hair, a voice talking to him softly from the other bed at night. He was seeing and hearing thirty years of shared history.

His brother had been with him his whole life.

He reached out in longing to brush his twin’s cheek. To touch him one last time. But his skin was hard and cold as ice, and he yanked his hand back as if he’d been stung. He rubbed his fingers, as if to work warmth back into them.

He pulled his mouth down as he stared at his brother’s dead face. A bitter sadness filled his chest, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry.”

A howl of grief was building up in him, and if he didn’t leave quickly, it would claw the plaster off the ceiling. He pulled his hand over his mouth and hurried from the room. He pulled the door closed behind him and leaned on it, breathing hard.

The undertaker was waiting discreetly in the carpeted parlor outside, a silent shadow standing there with his hands clasped. He looked as patient as a vulture, as the angel of death.

Samuel repressed a shudder and reached into his jacket to pay the man. “Thank you,” he muttered, “You did a good job.”

“We do our best, Mr. Hartwell. The burial will be tomorrow morning,” the undertaker told him softly. “Is there anything particular you’d like to be done?”

Samuel shook his head. “No. I won’t be able to be there. Just… make it a nice service.”

“I will. And… my condolences, sir.”

Samuel frowned. His stomach was suddenly churning, and he pointed to a door at the back of the room. “Is that the back exit?”

The undertaker frowned. “Yes, sir.”

He hurried out, closed the back door of the funeral home, and staggered down the steps to collapse over the railing. He threw up, threw up again, and wiped his trembling mouth with a handkerchief.

He crammed the handkerchief into his pocket with a shaking hand. He hadn’t allowed himself to imagine how seeing his brother dead would hit him. It was all he could do just to show up.

So he hadn’t been prepared for how bad it would hurt. He closed his eyes.

He was usually a much stronger man. But looking at his dead brother was like facing the fact he’d die himself one day. He’d been looking at his own cold, bloodless face, his own dead body lying on a table.

No, he wasn’t ready for that, and he wouldn’t be for a long, long time.

He clutched the rail and descended the rest of the steps, then made his way back to the street. He braced himself with the thought that the hardest part was over. Now it was time to find out what had happened.

Why his twin was lying in that dim, greenish room with his lips sewn shut.

* * * * *

The sheriff’s office in Clear Creek was an unimpressive one-story clapboard building. It was unpainted, graying, and the front window was almost opaque with dust. There was a crooked hand-painted sign outside reading: SHERIFF’S OFFICE. TERRENCE O’SHEA, SHERIFF.

Samuel opened the door and stepped inside. The office was small, and the two big men sitting in it filled it up. The sheriff was seated behind a battered wooden desk, and another lawman, the one he’d seen ride by earlier, was leaning back in a chair in the corner.

Both of them looked up as he entered, and he nodded to them. “Good afternoon. I’m Samuel Hartwell. I’ve come to find out who murdered my brother.”

The sheriff grunted in acknowledgment. He looked sixty and permanently tired. He had a thin fringe of white, close-cropped hair, pale brows, pale eyes, and a thin mouth. The other man was also gray-haired, but he was burned brown, had a hard look in his eye, and was as lean and muscular as a young man. His big boots were propped up on a potbellied stove in the corner, and he kept them there.

The sheriff nodded to him. “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Hartwell. I’m sure sorry about your brother.” He gestured toward the other man. “This is Amos Reed. He’s a Ranger.”

Samuel acknowledged the other man, and the Ranger gave him a keen, searching look. “I didn’t know Ben Hartwell had a twin brother,” he muttered.

Samuel didn’t respond, and the sheriff added, “Your brother Ben was found stabbed to death in a brothel here in town. The young woman with him in the room that night was found with the knife in her hand.”

Samuel glanced quickly at the other man. “A woman killed him?”

The sheriff nodded. “Yes, most likely in his sleep. Pretty open and shut case. I arrested her and she’s locked up in the cells back there.” He jerked a thumb toward an open door on the rear wall. There was a row of locked cells behind it.

He frowned at the older man. “But why would a woman want to kill him? Did she tell you why?”

The sheriff sputtered, as if the suggestion was funny. “Robbery, most likely. She’s denying she killed him, of course. But I’m thinking maybe she saw he had more money than he paid her and decided to get it. Or maybe he beat her up and she got even once he dropped off.”

The older man shot a quick look at his face and coughed. “Sorry. Mr. Hartwell. But you did ask.”

The man in the corner piped up. “She keeps claiming that she loved him, so we can assume they had some kind of prior relationship. What did your brother do for a living, Mr. Hartwell? What kind of business was he in?”

Samuel was cut to the quick and scowled at him. “He wasn’t a pimp, if that’s what you’re saying!” He felt his face going hot.

The sheriff jumped in. “There’ll be a time for questions, Amos, but this ain’t it. This man has yet to even bury his brother.”

Amos exhaled pipe smoke, nodded to him, and said nothing more.

Samuel shot the Ranger an irritated glance, then drifted across the room to stand in the open door at the back. He wasn’t going to start a fight before his brother’s funeral.

He was curious why the sheriff thought a woman had murdered his brother. He stepped into the back room just far enough to see her. The woman was young, slender. She was wearing a simple white dress pulled down off her smooth shoulders. She was sitting on the edge of her cot with her head in her hands, and her long black hair covered her face.

He stared at her in open-mouthed amazement, and she must’ve sensed that someone was there, because she raised her face. It was tearstained, slightly swollen. She had huge brown eyes, a delicate nose, a lovely mouth.

She was beautiful, but her eyes widened in terror at the sight of him.

“Qué demonios!”

They stared at one another in frozen shock. Samuel licked his lips, then tried to open them, to talk to her, but the words died on his lips. He shook his head in bafflement, and tears pooled in the woman’s lovely, frightened eyes.

He backed away, staring at her. His heart was pounding like a train piston. The sheriff was right. It was way too soon for questions.

He turned on his heel and walked out before he started yelling. But he slammed the door behind him, and not even a premium bottle of whiskey was going to touch his nerves that night.

Chapter Five

Clara stared after the stranger in frozen shock. Her heart was jumping in her throat, and she put a hand to her head as she collapsed onto the cot. The room swam slightly, and for an instant, it winked out.

Ben’s spirit had come from the home of the dead. He’d crossed the black river to appear to her just as he’d been in life: tall, strong, handsome. Her trembling fingers curled into the canvas cot. It had been an act of love from beyond the grave. A gesture of comfort.

But it was also a sign that she would soon join him.

Hope and dread stirred in her heart: hope for herself, and dread for the baby. She only had two months before the judge arrived, and she needed six more to give birth. Tear stung her eyes, and she blinked them back fiercely. She would not cry. If her baby died, it would come to her in the home of the dead.

The door opened again, and her eyes snapped up. But Ben was gone. It was only the sheriff, and she drooped in disappointment.

“You have another visitor, Miss Mayfield.”

She looked up again, then straightened in surprise. Lucy Evans was standing on the other side of the bars, and her mouth crumpled in pity.

“Oh, Clara!”

The sheriff turned to go. “I’ll be right outside,” he announced. “Knock on the door when you’re finished.”

Clara let him go, then stood up and walked to the bars. She and Lucy had worked at the brothel in town before she met Ben. Lucy still worked there.

Lucy’s big blue eyes filled with tears, and she pulled her mouth down in sympathy. “I heard what happened,” she murmured. She reached through the bars to squeeze her hand.

“Ben is dead,” Clara replied flatly. “A man killed him in one of the rooms. I came in just after. He died in my arms.”

Lucy pressed a tattered handkerchief to her mouth. “Honey, I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine. Is… is there anybody you want me to… to tell where you are?”

Clara shook her head. Her parents were on a reservation in Oklahoma, far away. She would be dead before they could reach her.

“They will hang me,” she replied flatly. “They have decided. I see it in the old man’s eyes.”

Lucy frowned at her and replied fiercely, “I knew the charges against you were a lie the first time I heard the story,” she hissed. “I never knew any woman to love a man like you loved Ben. I know you didn’t kill him. I believe you!”

Clara glanced at her and said nothing, and the other woman went on, “I heard there’s a lawyer just come to town on the stage. He’s staying over at the boarding house. I’ll go over there tonight and ask him to help you. You need a lawyer.”

She paused and bit her lip. “I… I know you didn’t do it, but it looks bad against you. What with you holding the knife and all. But what woman wouldn’t try to pull a knife out of her man’s chest when he’d been stabbed? You just want to take the pain away, that’s all.”

Clara glanced at her gratefully. “You are a good woman,” she murmured.

“When I die, bury me next to Ben. Promise me.”

The young woman’s face twisted in pity. “Oh, sweetie, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that! I’ll go over to the boarding house and see what I can do. Maybe I can get you some help. Don’t lose hope!”

Clara didn’t reply, and Lucy reached into her bag and pulled out a napkin. She pushed it through the bars. “I thought you’d like something better than jail food,” she whispered. “I brought you some biscuits and an apple. I’ll try to bring more later. You got to keep your strength up.” She gave her a meaningful glance, and Clara nodded and took the food.

“Thank you, Lucy.”

“Honey, do you want me to… to tell them you’re in the family way? Sometimes, even if they find you guilty, they’ll let you have your baby before… well, they’ll let you have the baby.”

Hope flickered in Clara’s heart, and she shot the other woman a quick glance.

Lucy nodded. “It’s true. Let me tell them. It can make a difference. It might even save your life. A judge ain’t as quick to hang a pregnant woman.”
Clara was silent for a moment, then replied, “There is time. I will think on it.”

Lucy looked disappointed, but she nodded. “Just don’t think too long,” she warned. “I’ll go talk to the lawyer. He’ll be able to tell you a lot better than me.” She leaned in to squeeze her hand again. “I’ll be back soon. Send for me if you need anything!”

Lucy gave her a bracing smile and turned to knock on the door. It opened for her, and she shot another smile over her shoulder before she stepped out.

But the door closed behind her with a clang, and Clara sank down on the cot again.

Lucy’s visit brought it all back to her: the dark, dimly lit hall, the row of narrow little cribs at the back of the saloon. The parade of men moving through her work nights, all ages, all kinds, until they melted in a blur.

She put her face in her hands. She had worked as prostitute even when she lived with her parents at home. They were old and poor, and there was never enough food, or hands to work the farm. Her parents had no sons. They needed money to eat, to hire help, so she went out and got it.

She still didn’t know if anyone had told them, if the rumor had reached their ears. The only thing she knew was that they never mentioned it, and neither did she.

Ben was the only man who had never judged her for it, never made her feel cheap. He told her that he didn’t care about her past, and she could see the truth in his eyes. He told her that he’d done a lot himself he wasn’t proud of, and it wasn’t even to help his parents. He told her she was a better person than he was.

He’d asked her to marry him.

Grief surged up in her, as raw and hot as steam from a wailing kettle. She was not a married woman any more. She was a widow, and she slumped against the wall and wept.