it?” he asked, tossing the accusation over his shoulder as he glanced out the back door. “All we have is Miss Smith’s word that she can’t remember who attacked her. Her escort said the same thing. Sure, they’d been beaten up, but it couldn’t have been that bad. They both survived.”
What was this guy saying? Zane dug his fingernails into his palms, resisting the urge to grab the bartender and remind him that the attacks had been so brutal they’d been considered attempted murder. There was no statute of limitations on that crime. So, yes, they were that bad. And sometimes, memory loss followed. He’d seen it several times in the course of his work.
Only God had pulled some victims through their ordeals. Maybe not remembering was a good thing, considering all they’d gone through. Either way, blaming them for losing the memory of such a vicious attack seemed cruel.
When the bartender reached the long strip of faded and stained pine that served as a counter, he lifted his brows in a smug, knowing fashion. “The money had been stolen. Of course, with her status in town, no one would insist that she pay it back, even as rich as she is.”
Zane fought back the annoyance growing in him. He didn’t trust this bartender. At first glance, he seemed to support Rachel, but now, he was accusing her. These were tactics of the guilty. Glancing through the open door at Rachel as she continued to dab Alice’s eye, Zane countered in a low growl, “But if she is that rich, where was the motive to steal? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Thieves take advantage of opportunities. Even the wealthy want more money.”
Zane folded his arms, the stiff paper tract Rachel had thrust at him now poking into his chest, right through his coat pocket. “Why would she even consider stealing if she could just walk into the bank and take some of her own money? You’ve seen how she dresses. Surely someone like that would have a generous amount at her disposal.”
The man shrugged again. “It was five years ago, Sheriff, and her pa wasn’t dead then. Maybe Miss Smith didn’t have any money she could get to without permission. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but that father of hers wasn’t the most generous, and back then, she’d have been underage, so any withdrawal would have to be approved first. Now, though? I heard she owns the bank.”
That didn’t make any sense. Zane couldn’t help wonder where her mother, the bank owner’s widow, fit in all of this.
For that matter, who had inherited the partner’s share? According to a footnote left in that file, Clyde Abernathy had died of a heart attack in jail the night before he was to face his first day of trial. He’d left no widow or family. The file read that he’d been buried quietly in Proud Bend’s cemetery, the expenses to be settled when his will was probated.
Zane grimaced. He would clarify whether or not Rachel owned the bank later. “But, back then, would Miss Smith have orchestrated that brutal an attack just to get money? She lives a comfortable life.”
The bartender’s small smile turned sly as he shrugged. “Hey, I’m just the man who pours drinks, but if there is one thing I’ve learned from working here, it’s that things can change in the blink of an eye. And sometimes they aren’t even what they seem.”
That man was not just a simple bartender. For starters, he was too chatty, too willing to offer information. But Zane wasn’t about to accuse him of anything just because he freely offered answers instead of keeping the confidences bartenders were so famous for. No, Zane would keep an eye on him.
He returned to the back door and peeked out into the yard. A series of mixed laughs rippled out from another crib, but, besides that, all was quiet.
Annie had apparently retreated into her crib, leaving Rachel to stow the things she’d taken from her basket. In the yellow light from the lamps, her shoulders heaved with what looked like a burdened sigh. It wasn’t hard to guess that she felt her night was unsuccessful. If she owned a bank, why was she out ministering to those sorry women? What had driven her to this particular type of mission work? When one of her bandages rolled away from her, Zane resisted the urge to stride out and help her.
No, she wouldn’t appreciate that.
The bartender walked up and continued talking as though the din behind them didn’t matter. “Ya got a lousy memory, Sheriff. I’ve told you all this stuff before. You even wrote Miss Smith’s name down that first night you were here, after you asked who looked after the women.”
The tone was accusatory, the same as when the man was talking about Rachel’s status. Zane turned back to him. Either the bartender liked Rachel or not. Time to stop dodging a commitment one way or the other. “How does she look after these women? Does she cook and clean for them? Either she’s trustworthy or not.”
The bartender shifted his gaze away. “All right. Miss Smith’s been trying to help them for years. I’ve seen her elbows-deep in laundry, scrubbing blood out of those women’s clothes, telling them about some new, safe job that opened up in Denver, or which family needed a maid and how important it is to keep yourself clean and disinfected. Most of it falls on deaf ears, but Miss Smith keeps trying.”
“So why make it sound like she stole that money herself?”
The tract he held would affirm her faith, and that she hadn’t staged a robbery that had gone so horribly wrong. But what if she’d hired someone to rob her without hurting her, only to have him double-cross her and try to kill both her and her escort?
Such a scenario didn’t line up with her Christian actions here and now. Cruel deceitfulness toward the soiled doves she worked so hard to help didn’t make sense. He took out the tract and weighed it in his palm. He refused to reach any conclusions until he had more information.
“By the way, Sheriff,” the bartender called out as he moved away, “you never did pay me for that postcard you took. They aren’t cheap, and you wasted it by writing Miss Smith’s name on it.”
Zane snapped his attention back to the man. Was that the postcard Rachel had found? The bartender said Alex had asked, on his first night here, who took care of the soiled doves. Did that mean it wasn’t connected to Alex’s disappearance after all? Mentally, he told himself not to discard any evidence just yet. Alex had held on to that postcard all this time—there had to be reason for that. Maybe the card itself was the crucial clue, not the name written on it. “Where did you get it, anyway? It’s not a photograph of Proud Bend.”
From the far end, a loud, scruffy man called to the bartender, who moved quickly to tend to his request. Only when he’d finished his task did he toss Zane a fast look. He offered nothing more, choosing instead to return to his work.
Frustrated, Zane pushed open the back door a bit more. Rachel had finished stowing her supplies into her basket. Her work looked curiously out of sorts with her fine outfit, yet, she held her head high as she continued to stow her things. However humble the work, she did it with dignity.
Then, abruptly, her head shot up and she stared out at something beyond his line of view. He bent forward to peer in that direction, also hearing the high-pitched, quiet sobs that had caught Rachel’s attention.
Zane let out a short gasp. A small, dark-haired boy, barely out of diapers, toddled into the pool of thin light that lit the yard.
Pinned to his dirty coat was a crumpled piece of paper.
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