gaze locked on the badge pinned to his duster. She had never seen it before and she couldn’t imagine why he’d put it on. Sucking in a breath, she unpinned the silver star and put it in her pocket. Like it or not, she had her keepsake, and it was time to get down to the business of living.
Her fingers shook as she turned back the bottom flap of his duster in search of the secret pocket. Her stomach lurched at the thought of being penniless. She had been too small to fully understand poverty when her father died, but her mother had kept her own memories alive.
Always save for a rainy day, Jayne. You never know when a storm will strike.
What had Hank been thinking when he’d walked off with their nest egg? She should have stopped him, or at least demanded that he leave the money. She’d let love get in the way of practicality, and that was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat. It was only by God’s grace that she hadn’t ended up flat broke.
She picked at the seam of the pocket until she managed to make a small hole, then she ripped the stitches, took out the envelope and broke the wax seal. It tore the paper like a scab that wasn’t ready to fall off. Feeling the wax tight under her nails, she slid the contents of the envelope into the light. Instead of greenbacks she saw a collection of papers covered with several kinds of writing.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “This isn’t right.”
Her stomach lurched as she focused on the first sheet of paper, a crinkled advertisement for land in Los Angeles. Across the top Hank had written the name of a bank. As she set the handbill on the dirty floor, she saw a sheet of stationery bearing the name of a Lexington attorney. Beneath the letterhead she saw typewritten words that made her gasp. Franklin Henry Dawson had written out his Last Will and Testament the day before they had married. In stiff, formal language, he had bequeathed to her all his worldly possessions.
What worldly possessions? They had nothing but hope, and now that was gone.
“Hank, how could you?” she whispered.
As she turned to the next page, she saw another formal letter, this one from a bank confirming the receipt of Mr. Dawson’s wire deposit. It didn’t make sense. Hank wasn’t a wealthy man. They’d used the money from the sale of her dress shop to buy train tickets.
Confused, Jayne scanned the next sheet of paper where she saw Hank’s blockish printing. As if reaching down from heaven, he started to answer her question.
Dear Janey,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I love you, girl. I wanted to give you that “always” we talked about, but—
“Ma’am? It’s time.”
The sheriff’s bellow rumbled through the barn as he paced in her direction. She suspected that he’d drag her out by her hair if she didn’t come willingly, but she couldn’t leave Hank to be buried alone. Not with his final “always” echoing in her heart.
She couldn’t stand unfinished business or ragged seams of any kind. She needed a last goodbye, but if Handley wasn’t willing to give it to her, she’d take it. The trail back to Midas wove through the hills like a tangled thread. Her livery mare was surefooted. She would lag behind and then race back to the Trent ranch. The sooner she left with the sheriff, the sooner she’d be back.
Slipping Hank’s letter into her pocket, she pushed to her feet. “I’m ready, Sheriff.”
As he marched out the door, she hunched against the cold, following him to the pine tree where their horses were tethered. A distant thump drew her gaze to a grassy slope about fifty feet from the barn. There she saw the rancher in profile as he raised the pickax high above his head. The blade sliced through the air with a whoosh, then struck the hard earth with a thud.
She winced.
The sheriff gripped her arm. “Ma’am? Come along now.”
“I’m all right.” Shaking off his grasp, she pulled herself into the saddle. Handley mounted his bay and led the way down a path that cut across the meadow near Hank’s gravesite. As they rode past the brown gash in the grass, Ethan Trent pushed back his filthy hat and looked at her with eyes as unyielding as petrified wood.
The remnants of a life lurked in that hardness and her heart pulsed with understanding. She knew how it felt to be alone and in pain. But she also knew how it felt to drag herself out of bed in the morning and face each day. She’d done it when her mother died and she’d do it again tomorrow, without Hank.
She believed in herself and in God, and no matter what difficulties came her way, she’d find a way to survive. She always did.
Trust God and stay strong.
Louisa McKinney had used those words to stitch her way to success. In spite of being a twenty-year-old widow without family or resources, she had established herself as Lexington’s leading dressmaker. Jayne vowed to follow in her footsteps.
Today she would bury her husband. Tomorrow she’d find work in Midas and put every penny aside for the train fare back to Lexington. She’d cry for Hank, but it wouldn’t stop her from cleaning up the mess he’d left, nor from helping the authorities find his murderer. His letter chafed in her pocket. She would show it to Handley in the morning, but tonight she wanted to be alone with her husband’s last words.
Her mare followed the sheriff’s bay into the forest without being nudged. Silent minutes passed as the temperature dropped with the coming storm. The path wound through thick pines, then dipped into a ravine and climbed up a slope littered with pine needles.
Handley had almost reached the top of the hill when his horse lost its footing. Righting the animal took all his attention, and Jayne saw her chance. She turned the mare, dug in her heels and took off for the Trent ranch at a gallop.
Chapter Two
“M rs. D-a-a-a-w-s-o-n!”
Jayne sat tight in the saddle and gave the mare full rein. The hood of her cloak slipped from her head and her hair collapsed in a tangle. When a shower of sleet burst from the sky, icy needles crackled through the trees and stung her face. The wind howled, masking the mare’s hoofbeats as they rounded the first curve. In another minute the road would be slick with mud, but for now it was safe for the mare to gallop.
“Mrs. D-a-a-a-w-s-o-n!”
The shout was fainter now. Surely the comfort of a warm bed and a hot meal would draw the sheriff home to Midas. The trail steepened and then veered east. Listening for Handley, she heard nothing but the storm and slowed the mare to a fast walk.
As suddenly as the sleet had started, it stopped. She raised her face to the sky where snowflakes as big as teacups were collecting on the trees. In front of her eyes, the pines were changing from towering sentries to lacy white angels.
Taking the greeting as a sign that coming back to bury Hank was right, she nudged the mare into a trot and rode straight into Ethan Trent’s meadow.
The rancher was nowhere in sight, but the grave was deep and surrounded on three sides by freshly turned earth. Snow mottled the brown mounds, and a loamy fragrance drifted to her nose on the stiffening wind. The scrape of canvas against dirt drew her eyes down the slope where she saw the rancher dragging a burlap sack past the splintery wall of the barn.
He
