spoke gently. “You talked about character earlier, Mrs. Moreau. Ask anyone about me and they’ll tell you everything. No secrets.”
Dark strands of hair had come loose from Jewel’s braid, falling in soft lines around her ears, and he longed to brush them back from her smooth forehead. But he stuffed his hands in his pockets instead, hoping the rush of color stayed out of his face.
“Then why do you care where my husband is? What business is it of yours anyway?” Jewel’s cheeks glowed an unusual pallid pink, and for a second she looked small and vulnerable there against the rough pine door. Clad in the blue-and-white cottons of a people not entirely her own and gossiped about by townsfolk she’d never met.
“Listen to me, miss. If I’m going to work with a criminal, I need to hear your side before I make up my mind.” Wyatt leaned forward.
“So you can turn me in?” Something in the way she said it held a warning. A fearful quiver but with a dagger beneath.
Wyatt’s heart pounded in his throat, and he breathed through his nose, trying to keep calm. Thinking through his words. “I don’t want to.” He spoke gently, meeting her eyes. “I truly don’t.”
He reached out and put a hand on her arm, trying to still the frightened look in her eyes. “Tell me. Where is your husband? You wear his ring.” He gestured to her plain silver band. “Where is he, then?”
Jewel glanced down at his pale hand on her arm, but she did not pull away.
“Will you believe me if I tell you the truth?” Wyatt licked his lips nervously and then nodded.
“Fine then.” Jewel closed her eyes. “My husband is dead.”
Chapter 5
W yatt lay uneasily in his bed, unable to sleep. Every whistle of wind around the corner of the house haunted him, and the steady creaking of the pine floor made him jump. All his rusty red hairs standing on end.
If Jewel had killed her husband—a sinister guess when he put the ugly pieces together—then might she not just as easily kill him, too? A business partner with fifty percent of the goods she’d like to have all for herself?
She’d already gotten the key from him. What purpose could he possibly serve her now?
Wyatt fingered his Colt revolver under his pillow and wondered, with a tight pinch of his stomach, if he should warn Uncle Hiram—and maybe get Jewel off the ranch before she struck again. Not long ago a disgruntled cattle driver in Buffalo had set fire to an entire ranch, taking the lives of six ranch hands and nearly killing the ranch owner himself.
Is that why Jewel had taken the job? To seek out all the information she could about Pierre’s gold and then get rid of the evidence?
Black widow indeed
. Wyatt pulled his revolver from under his pillow and checked the chamber then loaded in an extra round. He put the gun down and flopped back on the bed in misery, staring up at the darkened plank ceiling. He didn’t want to think the worst. Not at all. Not about Jewel, with her earnest black eyes and long scar on her forearm.
After all, she’d trusted him with her name—her story. Even the contents of her private letter. Why would she deceive him now?
Or maybe the whole thing was a lie. What if her name was not Collette Moreau after all, and she was merely stringing him along—hook, line, and sinker?
Because goodness knows, he wanted to believe her.
Badly.
So much so that his stomach curled into a quivery knot, and he felt the blood rush up his neck, pulsing in his throat. He saw her standing in Crazy Pierre’s root cellar with tears in her eyes, her fingers briefly brushing his as she handed him his glasses. Her dark head bent over the Bible.
She was different, this strong-minded Indian girl, from the giddy, empty-headed females he’d seen in Cody and Deadwood, swilling whiskey and banging on cheap player pianos. Fanning their ample cleavage with feather fans and giggling over ignorant jokes.
“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and your own good
Dark strands of hair had come loose from Jewel’s braid, falling in soft lines around her ears, and he longed to brush them back from her smooth forehead. But he stuffed his hands in his pockets instead, hoping the rush of color stayed out of his face.
“Then why do you care where my husband is? What business is it of yours anyway?” Jewel’s cheeks glowed an unusual pallid pink, and for a second she looked small and vulnerable there against the rough pine door. Clad in the blue-and-white cottons of a people not entirely her own and gossiped about by townsfolk she’d never met.
“Listen to me, miss. If I’m going to work with a criminal, I need to hear your side before I make up my mind.” Wyatt leaned forward.
“So you can turn me in?” Something in the way she said it held a warning. A fearful quiver but with a dagger beneath.
Wyatt’s heart pounded in his throat, and he breathed through his nose, trying to keep calm. Thinking through his words. “I don’t want to.” He spoke gently, meeting her eyes. “I truly don’t.”
He reached out and put a hand on her arm, trying to still the frightened look in her eyes. “Tell me. Where is your husband? You wear his ring.” He gestured to her plain silver band. “Where is he, then?”
Jewel glanced down at his pale hand on her arm, but she did not pull away.
“Will you believe me if I tell you the truth?” Wyatt licked his lips nervously and then nodded.
“Fine then.” Jewel closed her eyes. “My husband is dead.”
Chapter 5
W yatt lay uneasily in his bed, unable to sleep. Every whistle of wind around the corner of the house haunted him, and the steady creaking of the pine floor made him jump. All his rusty red hairs standing on end.
If Jewel had killed her husband—a sinister guess when he put the ugly pieces together—then might she not just as easily kill him, too? A business partner with fifty percent of the goods she’d like to have all for herself?
She’d already gotten the key from him. What purpose could he possibly serve her now?
Wyatt fingered his Colt revolver under his pillow and wondered, with a tight pinch of his stomach, if he should warn Uncle Hiram—and maybe get Jewel off the ranch before she struck again. Not long ago a disgruntled cattle driver in Buffalo had set fire to an entire ranch, taking the lives of six ranch hands and nearly killing the ranch owner himself.
Is that why Jewel had taken the job? To seek out all the information she could about Pierre’s gold and then get rid of the evidence?
Black widow indeed
. Wyatt pulled his revolver from under his pillow and checked the chamber then loaded in an extra round. He put the gun down and flopped back on the bed in misery, staring up at the darkened plank ceiling. He didn’t want to think the worst. Not at all. Not about Jewel, with her earnest black eyes and long scar on her forearm.
After all, she’d trusted him with her name—her story. Even the contents of her private letter. Why would she deceive him now?
Or maybe the whole thing was a lie. What if her name was not Collette Moreau after all, and she was merely stringing him along—hook, line, and sinker?
Because goodness knows, he wanted to believe her.
Badly.
So much so that his stomach curled into a quivery knot, and he felt the blood rush up his neck, pulsing in his throat. He saw her standing in Crazy Pierre’s root cellar with tears in her eyes, her fingers briefly brushing his as she handed him his glasses. Her dark head bent over the Bible.
She was different, this strong-minded Indian girl, from the giddy, empty-headed females he’d seen in Cody and Deadwood, swilling whiskey and banging on cheap player pianos. Fanning their ample cleavage with feather fans and giggling over ignorant jokes.
“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and your own good
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