Victoria Bylin - West of Heaven

His shoulders rounded as he blew out a breath and faced her. “I will, Jayney, as soon as I get back. But I have to go with this man. I’ve got something he wants, and that means I’m going to be gone for a few days.”

“A few days? This is crazy. We should go to the sheriff right now. He’ll help us.”

He shook his head. “Going to the locals will just make things worse.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. We’ll talk as soon as I get back, but until then, stay in the hotel. If I’m not here in three days, that’s when you need to go to the law.”

She watched as he slipped into his old brown duster. A week ago she had stitched a packet of money into a secret pocket for safekeeping. “Hank, our savings—”

“Trust me, Jayney. I’ll be back, but I might need something that’s in that pouch.”

She understood how it felt to be poor and friendless. She wanted to grab her scissors and cut out the money, but his eyes were pleading with her to believe in him. Besides, she’d spoken her wedding vows from the heart and she believed in keeping promises.

“All right,” she said. “But hurry. I’ll be worried.”

After he lifted his hat off the bedpost, Hank brushed his lips against hers, a soft kiss that tasted like goodbye.

Which is exactly what it turned out to be.

“L ady, face it. Your husband’s dead and you’ve got to go.”

Jayne pushed to her feet from the crouch she had assumed next to Hank’s body and scowled at the rancher blocking the light from the barn door. The day was as gray as pewter and just as hard. She was standing in a falling-down barn on a ranch in the middle of nowhere with a filthy man glaring at her as if she’d just spit in his face.

Where were his manners, not to mention his compassion? Granted, he’d found a dead man in his barn and he had a right to be upset, but couldn’t he show a bit of sympathy for a new widow? Almost anyone else would have offered a kind word, even a cup of hot tea to take off the chill, but not this man. He was looming in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and one dirty boot draped over the other, staring at her as if she were vermin.

She’d eat dirt for a week before she would let him intimidate her. A wife had duties, and she intended to fulfill them. She also needed the greenbacks in Hank’s duster.

The sheriff was standing just inside the barn door, tapping his boot as if she were wasting his precious time. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson, but Mr. Trent is right. We’ve got to leave.”

“Surely we can wait a few minutes. I’d like to be alone with my husband.”

The rancher huffed like a bull getting ready to charge. “You don’t have a few minutes. A storm’s coming, and I want you and Handley out of here.”

“It’s April,” she said reasonably. “A little rain is nothing. I need some time—”

“It won’t be rain, dammit. It’s going to snow like hell and if you don’t leave now, you’ll be stuck here for a week. I want you gone.”

The sheriff grunted. “Settle down, Trent. You’ve got no call to yell like that.”

“Like hell I don’t.” The rancher narrowed his gaze to her face. Gold flecks burned like a campfire at dusk and his lips thinned to a bitter sneer. “Do you understand, ma’am? You cannot stay here.”

With the silvery sky at his back, he was more of a shadow than flesh and blood, but she’d gotten a good look at Ethan Trent earlier in the day. His face was lean to the point of gauntness, and he was wearing the most ragged clothes she’d ever seen. He needed a bath and a shave, not to mention a few good meals, but it wasn’t her place to march him down to the creek with a scrub brush and a cake of soap. Hank had left her with a mess of her own to clean up.

Rising to her full height, she glared at the man blocking the light. “My apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Trent. We’ll leave right now. If you’ll loan us a horse for my husband’s body—”

“I don’t have a horse to spare. I’ll bury him myself.”

“Thank you, but no. I want to take Hank back to town.”

“You can’t.”

But she had to. She wanted the comfort of standing in a church and singing hymns as she’d done a year ago for her mother, though she doubted Ethan Trent would understand that sentiment. He was staring at her with the angriest brown eyes she had ever seen. They were liquid and hard at the same time, like water frozen across a slick of mud.

“I have to see my husband properly buried, Mr. Trent. I have to say goodbye.”

He huffed as if she had told a joke. “Don’t waste your time. He won’t hear a goddamned word.”

Her mouth gaped. “That’s a cruel thing to say.”

“It’s the truth.”

Shaking his head, he paced across the barn, picked up a shovel with a rusty blade and glowered at her. “The wind’s picking up. You and Handley need to hit the trail.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving without my husband. Not like this.”

Who else in the world knew that Hank was afraid of the dark? That he slept with a lamp turned low and that he feared death? The one time he’d accompanied her to her mother’s grave, he’d stood several feet away, whistling to himself as if that would make a difference.

I don’t ever wanna die, Jayney. It’s just too damn dark.

And it was. Especially today with the hard sky pressing through the splintery walls of the barn and a wild-eyed rancher gripping the shovel, scowling at her as if she’d committed a crime.

Sheriff Handley strode through the doorway, not bothering to take off his hat. The man had no respect for the dead, or for her.

“Are you finished, ma’am?” he asked forcefully.

Jayne glared at him as he glanced down at Hank with marked disgust. Why hadn’t the man thought to bring an extra horse to carry the body? He was both stupid and rude. He didn’t deserve to carry the badge.

She cleared her throat. “Sheriff, would you please tell Mr. Trent that we need to borrow a horse.”

The rancher shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t have one to lend. I ride the roan, and the gelding’s not going anywhere.”

The sheriff dipped his chin at her and arched his eyebrows as if she were a child. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dawson, but circumstances can’t be changed. Mr. Trent has kindly offered to give your husband a decent burial. You need to take him up on that offer.”

Kindly wasn’t how she would have described the man clutching the shovel as if it were a weapon. He resembled a half-crazed grizzly more than he did a human being. And maybe something even more dangerous—an animal wounded beyond caring about himself or anyone else.

She’d heard tales of trapped animals gnawing off their own paws to escape from steel traps. As she looked into Ethan Trent’s hard brown eyes, she knew those stories were true. She didn’t want her husband to be buried by this bitter man.

“All right, Sheriff,” she said, standing straighter. “You and I will leave as soon as Hank is buried, but I need a few minutes alone with him.”

The rancher huffed, grabbed a pickax to go with the shovel and stormed out of the barn. “You deal with her,” he said, glancing back at Handley.

The sheriff put his hands on his hips. “Ma’am, Mr. Trent is right. That storm could turn to a blizzard in the blink of an eye, and it’s gonna get mighty cold. I’m partial to sleeping in my own bed, and for you, young lady, I recommend the comfort of the hotel.”

But the hotel held nothing but bad memories of the night Hank walked out on her, and of the three foolish days she had waited for him. She wasn’t ready to go back to that emptiness. She had to make Handley understand. “Are you married, Sheriff?”