Linda Castle - Heart Of The Lawman

“All right, punkin. As soon as we’re through with supper we’ll go into the attic and find you some baby clothes.”

“I knew you’d say yes.” She grinned triumphantly. “I told Mrs. Young you would say yes.”

“You just wrap me around that little finger of yours, don’t you?” He rose from the chair with her in his arms. Rachel clung to his arm as he swung her around and perched her up high on his shoulders. He gripped her ankles above the high buttons on her black leather shoes. The rough skin in his palm snagged against her white silk stockings and the lace on her pantaloons.

“Hurry, Unca Flynn, hurry. Let’s eat fast so we can go to the attic.”’

He added a little speed and a lot of bounce to his walk. “I’ll hurry but you may be sorry you asked when we run—” he ducked low to miss the threshold of the study “—into a big—” he dipped again to miss the chandelier in the hall “—fat, hairy spider!” He flipped her off his shoulder and tickled her ribs when they reached the kitchen.

Rachel’s screams of glee echoed through the house. His laughter mingled with the savory odor of chicken and dumplings, and for a while Flynn was able to forget about the damned letter.

When the dinner was eaten, the dishes washed, wiped and put away, Flynn and Rachel lit a lantern and went in search of the attic. He had never been in that part of the Hollenbeck house—the closed off wing where Marydyth and J.C.’s bedroom had been—and it took a few minutes to locate the right set of stairs that led to the attic.

Flynn held the lantern high and swept his hand across the gauzy veil of cobwebs when he opened the last door.

A hundred feminine articles met his gaze in the flicker of the lamp. Frilly doilies were piled on top of an armless rocker, the kind that women favored. Three dome-topped trunks were shoved in one dark corner.

By the time Victoria had had her stroke and wrangled Flynn into becoming Rachel’s guardian, Mrs. Young or some other hireling had packed away every trace of Marydyth that had ever existed. The day he had walked into the house it had been clean and completely devoid of anything personal. Over the years he’d had regular tintypes of Rachel taken to put on the piano and the mantel.

So far Rachel had not asked him too many questions, but her nightmares told him that she was asking questions in her mind. She had a natural curiosity about her folks, and the day was coming when somebody was going to have to give her some answers.

Flynn had a flash of memory of his own childhood. He remembered sitting on Sky’s lap and listening to the story of her life over and over. Victoria’s hatred and bitterness toward Marydyth had left a great big hole in Rachel’s life. And no matter how hard he tried, Flynn hadn’t been able to fill it.

While he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, he stumbled over a big hatbox and staggered against a chest. The pain in his shin snapped him back to the present. A table with a cracked marble top provided him with a convenient place to set the lantern so he could rub his barked shinbone.

“Unca Flynn, can I come in?” Rachel’s voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the discarded furniture and trunks.

“You can come in, honey, but you be real careful.” He scanned the area with narrowed eyes. The cool, dry attic would be a favored nesting site for spiders.black widows.

Black Widow.

The name brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He froze for a moment, knowing that the letter in his pocket could remove that brand from Rachel’s mother. If only he could put aside his doubts.

“Looky, Unca Flynn!” Rachel’s excited voice brought him spinning around on his boot heel. She was stroking the hair mane of a carved wooden pony. The horse was white with black spots painted on its hindquarters.

Flynn took a step toward her but his boot caught on a red fringed shawl that was draped over something. The more he tried to free himself the more the shawl tangled around his foot. Rachel watched him wide-eyed while he did a dance with the thing hanging from his spur. But suddenly her frozen expression halted him in his tracks.

“What is it, honey? Are you bit?” He knelt down and gathered her to his arms. Her face had gone pale as chalk. She was quiet as death. “Tell me, does it hurt, Rachel?”

She shook her head in denial. “No.” Her eyes were wide and unblinking.

Fear of a kind Flynn had never imagined squeezed around his heart. “Rachel? What is it? Talk to me, honey.” His chest contracted while he searched her hands and arms. He could find no marks, but if Rachel was quiet, something had to be wrong. “Rachel, answer me. What is the matter?”

She lifted her tiny hand and pointed. He swiveled around to see what she was staring at. It was a portrait. The flickering lantern light caused the azure-blue eyes to look as if they were alive. A cascade of flaxen curls tumbled over one shoulder and down out of sight at the bottom of the painting. Artfully painted stones glowed at the delicate ears and encircled the slender column of throat.

Smoky topaz and diamond earbobs with a necklace to match.

In a voice colder than the grave, Victoria had read the inventory of missing jewelry at the trial. Marydyth had sat silent, never denying her guilt, never defending herself. But now Flynn had the nagging question at the back of his mind. The letter that was signed “Uncle Blaine” mentioned that jewelry, even went so far as to talk about J.C. giving it to him as some sort of payoff.

But why wouldn’t Marydyth have mentioned that? Even when Flynn brought in the old Wanted posters and they spoke of a man she had been seen traveling with, she never said a word about having an uncle.

Why wouldn’t she have fought for her innocence?

“Who is that lady?” Rachel whispered.

Flynn jerked himself away from the memory of the trial. He searched his mind and his heart. If he told Rachel she was staring at a likeness of her mother it would open a floodgate of questions, questions he didn’t want to have to answer. It would be even worse than the other night.

If you don’t tell her it will be the same as lying, his prickly conscience accused. You’ll be no better than Victoria.

Flynn tightened his jaw against the thought. He grasped Rachel’s pointy little chin and tipped her face up. Trust glowed in eyes the exact shade of the ones that silently watched him from the painting.

Flynn O’Bannion had the power to give Rachel a piece of her past. But his mouth grew thick when he thought about what he was about to do.

He could change her life. But was it fair to tell her the portrait was of her mother and then turn around and leave it and all of Rachel’s questions like discarded furniture in the attic? If he told her about the painting, then wouldn’t he have to tell her more?

Could he ignore the letter in his pocket and leave Marydyth behind those thick walls of Yuma when Rachel needed her so much?

The confession wasn’t so vague; in fact, now that he thought about it, it was plain as day. Marydyth had an uncle named Blaine, and he had her missing jewelry. He killed her first husband and then had come to Hollenbeck Corners and killed again. It was not so hard to follow.

It might’ve happened that way. I can believe it happened that way for Rachel.

“That’s a painting of Marydyth Hollenbeck, sweetheart. That is your mother.”

Night sounds filled the Spartan cell. Marydyth had been unable to sleep even though her body cried out for rest. She had been plagued by thoughts of Rachel—plagued and comforted.

She turned over on the cot and put her face toward the wall. If she tried real hard and concentrated with all her might, she could almost feel the texture of Rachel’s satiny skin beneath her fingers. She did it now, ignored all that surrounded her and thought only of Rachel. Her sweet blue eyes, her soft downy cheeks, the way a little dimple appeared when she giggled.