make excellent biscuits. My grandmother taught me.” With a quickness and skill I’d never seen in a man before, Nathan made breakfast. As he worked, he talked about Ravenwood and the peculiarities of the house. He knew much more about it than I did. His voice was deep, reliable. It seemed only a few minutes before he put a plate of bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits before me. He took a seat opposite.
Although I thought food would choke me, I ate with surprising appetite. Nathan kept up the conversation with cheerful ease. It wasn’t until he’d cleared the table and poured us both another cup of coffee that he stopped talking for a long moment.
“Would you like to tell me why you’ve been crying this morning?” he asked finally.
I did not want to tell him. I had no intention of doing so, but the words poured out. I told him everything. Every single detail of my madness. And he listened. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t question me. At some point, he reached across the table and picked up my hand. When I finished, he gave it a long squeeze.
“I know the first thing that’s crossed your mind is that you’re going insane. Well, you aren’t.”
For the first time that morning, I smiled. “How can you be so certain?”
“As a historian, I guess you could say that I believe in ghosts, or at least messages and inspirations from the spirit world. And having known you for all of two hours, at the maximum, I get the impression that you aren’t the least bit unhinged.”
I suppose it was his confidence—in himself and in me—that was so comforting. I needed a vote of confidence, even from a stranger. “Thanks, Nathan. Thanks for listening, and thanks for not treating me like a budding lunatic.”
“Since you came to Ravenwood to see Mary Quinn, have you seen her?”
I shook my head. “I was hoping today might be the day.”
For the first time worry crossed Nathan’s face. “It’s none of my business, you know.” He stood and paced the kitchen. “I probably shouldn’t say this at all.”
“Say what?”
“Emma, is it possible that your husband’s death wasn’t completely accidental?”
The idea shocked any response from me. Frank, deliberately murdered? “Absolutely not. Frank didn’t have any real enemies. He was a man of integrity, of honor. People respected him. They looked up to him.”
Nathan crossed the room and stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders in a gentling motion. “Easy, Emma, easy. I didn’t mean to imply that he was murdered because he was a bad man. Don’t you know that sometimes people are killed because they’re good? Especially men of integrity and honor. They can gum up the works for dishonest people.”
“Who would want Frank dead?”
He squeezed my tense shoulders and then released me. “I’m afraid that’s a question only you can answer. But the way I’m looking at this is that Frank feels wronged. He’s defied the odds and returned to tell you, the woman he trusts, that he’s been betrayed. If he isn’t accusing you…”
“Then he’s looking to me to help him.” A distinct chill touched my back and rolled down my entire body.
“If not to help him, then at least to understand.”
I was captured by the idea. I had not betrayed Frank. Not in any word or gesture during our marriage or since his death. Was it possible that he was seeking my help to find someone who had?
“What should I do?” I looked across the room to the sink where Nathan had begun to wash the dishes. He wiped his hands on a dish towel as he took my measure.
“It depends. Remember, this is just a theory.”
“It makes more sense than anything I’ve thought up. Unless, of course, I want to believe I’m going crazy.”
“Did you examine the police report of Frank’s death?”
I shook my head. “There didn’t seem to be a reason to. I mean, it was a robbery attempt and Frank tried to help a woman they were abusing. The robbers were crazy, and when Frank gave them trouble, they killed him.”
“It sounds logical, but it may not be. If there’s anything to my theory, then the police reports are the place to start. Did they identify the killers?”
“No.” I sighed. “I don’t even know that they tried all that hard. After the first few weeks, I didn’t push it. Frank was dead and there was nothing that would bring him back. Revenge, or justice, if that’s a better word, was my last thought. I guess I just wanted to survive.”
“Enough time has passed now, Emma. Maybe justice is necessary. For Frank.”
I looked up into the blue eyes of a man who was virtually a stranger. “I loved him so much. I still do.”
Nathan smiled. “I know. And I’ll bet Frank knows that, too.” Dropping the dish towel on the table, he took his seat opposite me again. “Promise me that you’ll heed this warning, Emma. If we’re on to something here, if there’s something to be found about Frank’s death, it could be very dangerous. If someone had good enough reason to kill your husband, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”
Chapter Three
If Nathan’s unexpected theory gave me a rope to cling to in the free-fall of my life, then the morning ride we shared gave me the energy to pursue his idea. The buckskin mare, Lucinda, was as good and solid as any horse could be. My rusty horsemanship improved after a few miles, and when we returned to Ravenwood, I actually felt as if I wanted to live.
Nathan left on Frisco, with Lucinda following behind. Duty called, and his reenactment forces were awaiting his command. My own duties called me, and I took a cross-stitch hoop to Mary Quinn’s bedroom to see if she might honor me with a visit.
The cross-stitch was an attempt to learn patience, never a strong suit in my character. In one of her often-repeated lectures my mother warned that if I went to hell I’d harangue Satan to light the fires faster. There was some truth to what she said. After the first three minutes I’d pricked my finger twice. Blood had gotten on the pristine whiteness of the cloth and I was ready to pitch the entire thing out the window. So much for demurely conjuring up Mary Quinn. What I did accomplish was a lot of thinking. And I made a decision. Jackson was only an hour away, at the most. I’d drive over there and look at the police reports.
By one o’clock, I was standing at Sergeant Benjamin Vesley’s desk. Once again my brother the lawyer had pulled some strings for me. Sergeant Vesley hadn’t handled the original case, but he said he’d look up the reports for me and go over them. He talked about unsolved crimes and the shame of it and how the human race was going to hell. He was a man who would have made a wonderful grandfather, but constant exposure to the worst of human nature had made him tired and weary. He was not hopeful that the police report would yield anything.
He left me alone at his desk with the papers. I think he sensed the difficulty I was experiencing. I read the statements of the officers, the evidence of the fingerprints, the procedural reports. The words “died instantly” had once brought me some comfort. Now they were cold and meant only a permanent separation.
