Linda Castle - Heart Of The Lawman

A smile tugged at the corners of Marydyth’s mouth. For a short march of time she was able to forget her environment. In her mind, if not her battered body, she could rise up from the depths of Yuma’s hellhole and live through the hopes and dreams she cherished for Rachel.

Her little girl would be a beauty, of that Marydyth had no doubt. And she would be a lady.

Victoria would see to it.

Rachel would never have to go to bed hungry. And she would never have to worry about money.

But would she be loved?

Would Victoria be able to put aside the poison of her hatred and embrace Rachel? Or would the bitterness of J.C.’s death be a blight on Rachel’s life?

The chilling question made Marydyth shiver more than the bleak cold of the Arizona desert. Would Victoria be able to love the daughter of a woman convicted of killing two husbands?

The moon rose and sent a silvery shaft of light through Rachel’s frilly starched curtains. Flynn had opened the window halfway to allow a little fresh air into her room while he got her ready for bed. Now she was tucked up and listening to him with a look of pure fascination on her face.

“…and the little princess lived happily ever after.” Flynn closed the slender volume and placed it on the table beside Rachel’s bed. He leaned close to give her a kiss on the forehead.

“That was a nice story.” She yawned and stretched, nearly giving him a shiner with her small clenched fist.

“You ought to know it by heart, as many times as you’ve had me read it. I think tomorrow you can read it to me.”

“Unca Flynn, I can’t read!” Rachel giggled and snuggled down in her feather bed.

“No? All right, then maybe I’ll read it one more time—but that’s all. Now it is time to say your prayers and get some shut-eye.” Flynn helped Rachel out of her bed. She knelt beside it with her head bowed. Delicate pink toes peeked from under the edge of her yellow flannel gown.

“Dear Lord, bless Grandma, Unca Flynn and Carolee Martin’s baby goat.”

Flynn nearly guffawed, but he supposed that God was as interested in Carolee’s kid as he was every other living thing.

Rachel didn’t say anything else for a long time, and finally Flynn cleared his throat to hurry her along.

“And please bless my mama, and if it isn’t too much trouble, Lord, please send her back home from wherever it was that she had to go. Amen.” She scampered under the quilt and closed her eyes without meeting Flynn’s stunned gaze.

So, Rachel had decided to enlist the help of the Almighty in getting a mother—her mother.

Flynn leaned over and tucked the covers beneath her chin. “Good night, little one.”

She squeezed her eyes tight and burrowed into the softness of her eider coverlet. “Good night, Unca Flynn.” She yawned again.

He picked up the lamp and walked to the doorway but something made him pause at the threshold and look at her. She was lying flat on her back with her eyes squeezed shut. The moonlight skimmed over her little turned-up nose and her square chin.

She was beginning to favor her mother.

Flynn nudged the unwanted thought aside. It would do Rachel no favor to become the beauty her mother was. In fact, he feared that the good people of Hollenbeck Corners would start treating her like a pariah if she started to remind them of Marydyth.

He shook himself and turned away from Rachel’s door. It wasn’t like him to be so damned maudlin. Must be old Charlie’s babbling, bringing up the past.

What he needed was a stiff drink and a smoke. And now that Rachel was fed, bathed and tucked in for the night he was going to have one.

He crept down the stairs on tiptoe, taking care to keep his spurs from ringing on the treads. He went into the study—the only room in the rambling mansion that he had ever felt really comfortable in.

Flynn pulled the makings from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke. It dangled unlit from his lips while he poured himself two fingers of good whiskey.

Old Doc Scoggins had told him that smoking shortened the life span. Course, Doc Scoggins never had a puff of tobacco in his life and he dropped dead during church services only two months back. But Flynn had not wanted to take any chances—for Rachel’s sake. He had stopped smoking—at least he had stopped lighting them—but he hadn’t stopped rolling them.

Every night as he went through the ritual he told himself it was foolish to cling to his tobacco habit like a sugar-tit, but he got a certain amount of stubborn comfort from rolling a smoke, even if he never lit up.

He laid the unlit cigarette in the ashtray and took a drink. The first sip blazed a hot trail down his gullet and sent a flash of hot lethargy to his limbs. There had been some days in the past two and a half years when he had wondered how women managed to raise a houseful of children without getting roaring drunk once a week.

The thought had finally come to him that men and women were different in more ways than the obvious one—otherwise they would be a pack of falling-down drunks. Motherhood was damned hard work.

He collapsed into the big easy chair by the fireplace, cursing the leather for creaking like a riled cat under his weight. He held his breath and cocked his head, listening.

When the house remained silent, he let out a relieved breath. The noise had not woken Rachel. Perhaps tonight she would sleep.

He took another drink and drew the envelope from his pocket. The paper was of good quality—or had been when it was new. The fancy watermark was still visible beneath the stains.

Flynn stared at the travel-stained paper until a strange feeling crept over him. He felt as if he was violating Marydyth Hollenbeck in some way. Once he even glanced behind him, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched.

With a snort, he tucked the letter back in his pocket.

What am I going to do with it?

The sensible thing would be to just throw it away.

No, I am not like Victoria Hollenbeck. But there had been times when he wondered if that were true. Maybe he was as cold and cruel as Victoria.

Flynn took another drink and mentally argued with himself about the letter. What if it was important? Charlie had been worried enough to come out in the night to bring it…

No, he wouldn’t open the damned letter.

He finally decided to take it to Moses Pritikin, Victoria’s attorney. He could make the decision about whether to open it or to send it on to Marydyth at the Territorial Prison.

Flynn took another drink. Outside, the familiar scratch and whisper of the wind pushing a tumbleweed across the front porch caught his attention. He allowed himself to relax—as much as he ever relaxed in this house.

Since he had gotten tangled up with the Hollenbeck family there hadn’t been one truly worry-free moment that he could remember. By day he worried if he was doing a proper job managing little Rachel’s estate. And by night…well, at night the demons that most lawmen lived with came to haunt him.

“Only Rachel makes it all worthwhile,” he muttered. Rachel’s welfare was the tie that bound him tightly to the life he now led.

Rachel’s terrified scream jarred Flynn awake. The empty glass shattered on the hearthstones as he jerked to his feet. He bounded toward the stairs. He took them two at a time, his spurs clanging with each impact all the way to Rachel’s room.

The moon had moved on but her frantic thrashing and whimpers guided him through the dark to her bedside.

“I’m here, honey, I’m here.” He untangled the sheets from her little body. He kept up a steady stream of chinwagging, not even sure what he was saying, but saying it in a voice intended to soothe and calm.