The Devil's Badland: The Loner (5 page)

“Miss Whitfield,” Conrad said as he took her hand. Her skin was cool and smooth. “It is
Miss
Whitfield?” he asked, even though he knew good and well that was the case.

“Yes, of course,” she replied. Her fingers lingered in his.

“As for being too forward, well, times are changing, aren’t they?”

“Indeed they are,” she said. “In less than five years, it will be a whole new century.”

Without being rude about it, Conrad slipped his hand out of hers and asked, “What can I do for you, Miss Whitfield?”

“I’m sure you have no way of knowing this, but my father has a ranch about twenty miles north of here. I just arrived for a visit, and I’m a couple of days early. Father won’t send a wagon for me until the day after tomorrow. So I was wondering if I might prevail upon you to escort me to the ranch? I can’t make the trip alone, of course. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Not to mention it might not be safe,” Conrad said. “But I’m not sure it would be proper for me to accompany you, either.”

“Why, of course it would, Mr. Browning. You’re a gentleman, after all. And once we’re there, I think it would be perfectly charming if you spent a few days on the ranch. If your schedule would permit it. I know you must be a very busy man, what with all your business interests.”

There had been a time when such blatant flirting by a beautiful young woman would have flattered and pleased Conrad. That time was in the past, though.

“Miss Whitfield, perhaps you haven’t heard,” he said gently. “I was married.”

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “Married?” she repeated. “No, I had no idea…Wait a minute. You said
was?”

“That’s right. My wife…passed away several months ago.”

Angeline lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord! I’m so sorry, Mr. Browning. I didn’t know about your loss. I didn’t mean to be so…so…You must forgive me!”

“Of course. And I wish I could help you. But under the circumstances…” Conrad lifted a hand, as if to say that there was nothing he could do.

Although, he thought with the shadow of a grim smile hovering around his mouth, it might have been interesting to see Dave Whitfield’s reaction if the man who had befriended the MacTavishes had ridden up to the Circle D with his daughter for a visit.

“I understand,” Angeline said, still visibly embarrassed. “I won’t trouble you any longer.”

“No trouble,” Conrad said. “I’m glad to meet you. I hope you enjoy your visit on your father’s ranch.”

And I hope no more hell breaks loose while you’re there,
he added to himself, for the MacTavishes’ sake.

Conrad tugged on the brim of his hat, excused himself, and left the hotel. His steps turned toward the mission. He steeled himself for what lay before him.

Then he walked up the street to the graveyard where his wife was buried.

Linus was right. Everything about the mission was neat and well cared for, including the cemetery. A black, wrought-iron fence surrounded it, and several flowerbeds provided some splashes of color. Someone had trimmed the grass. The gravestones appeared to be freshly polished.

Conrad paused outside the stone pillars with a wrought-iron arch between them that formed the gate into the cemetery. He couldn’t bring himself to walk between them.

As Conrad stood there, a side door in the big adobe church, which was more than a hundred years old, opened and a priest walked out into the sunshine. He smiled as he approached Conrad.

“God’s peace be with you, my son,” the priest said. He was a slender man with soft dark eyes and skin the color of old saddle leather. Even though he appeared to be Mexican, he had no trace of an accent. “I saw you standing out here and thought perhaps something was wrong.”

“Something is very wrong, Father.” Conrad nodded toward the graveyard. “My wife is buried in there. She wasn’t even twenty-five years old when she was killed.”

A look of solemn sorrow replaced the priest’s smile. “I was afraid it was something like that. Usually when I see someone hesitating outside the gate, it’s because they have a loved one buried within.”

“Does that happen often?”

“More than you would think. More than I like to think about.”

“You’re Father Francisco?”

“That’s right.”

“You take good care of the cemetery,” Conrad said.

The smile, now tinged with sadness, reappeared on the priest’s face. “Just because some of the members of my flock have passed on doesn’t mean I can’t continue to care for them.”

“My wife wasn’t one of your parishioners. She hadn’t lived here for several years.”

Father Francisco shrugged. “Once they pass through these gates, they are in God’s hands, and I am God’s servant. Through my efforts on their behalf, I serve Him.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” Conrad took a deep breath. “I guess I’d better go in.”

“Would you like for me to come with you?”

Conrad thought about it, but only for a second. Again, the more people who knew who he was and why he was here, the better. So he said, “Thank you, Father. I’d like that.”

The two men walked through the gate. Father Francisco asked, “What is your wife’s name?”

“Rebel Browning.”

“Ah! Such a tragedy! I remember. I conducted the service.” The priest looked over at Conrad with a frown. “But as I recall, it was the poor woman’s brothers who made the arrangements, because her husband had been killed as well.”

“That’s what they believed at the time. I just…couldn’t make it here.”

Father Francisco’s lips pursed in obvious disapproval. “You couldn’t make it to your own wife’s funeral?”

“I was injured,” Conrad said. That wasn’t a lie. He’d been wounded during the battle with Rebel’s kidnappers. In fact, after leaving Carson City on that horrible night, he had passed out from loss of blood and probably would have died if a Paiute Indian named Phillip Bearpaw hadn’t found him and taken him to a doctor.

“Well, at least you’re here now,” Father Francisco said. “I’m sure your wife knew how much you cared for her.”

“I hope so,” Conrad said.

“What happens after people are gone is much less important than how we treat them while they’re still here. That’s one of the things I try to make my parishioners understand.” The priest stopped and waved a hand at one of the graves. “This is where your wife is buried, Mr. Browning.”

Conrad had been through a great deal in his relatively short life. Outlaws had murdered his mother. Some of those same desperadoes had kidnapped and tortured him. Bushwhackers had shot at him from ambush on numerous occasions, and in recent months he had been mixed up in several gunfights. He knew all too well the smell of powdersmoke, the sound of a bullet whining past his ear, the terrible, flesh-ripping impact of a slug hitting his body.

But he had never felt more like turning and running away than he did at that moment. He wasn’t sure he could face it.

This was all part of his plan, he reminded himself. Anyway, he owed it to Rebel. She had lost her life because someone had a grudge against him. The least he could do was take a look at her final resting place.

One of the cottonwoods dotted around the cemetery cast sun-dappled shade on the grave. An expensive marble headstone with an angel’s wings engraved on it gave Rebel’s full name, the dates of her birth and death, and then underneath, an epitaph that read B
ELOVED
D
AUGHTER
, S
ISTER
,
AND
W
IFE
.

For a second, Conrad was annoyed that the acknowledgment of Rebel’s marriage came last in that ranking, but he reminded himself that it was her brothers who’d been responsible for the stone. It was reasonable that they would hold Rebel’s place in their family higher. She had been a daughter and a sister for a lot longer than she had been a wife, after all.

But it should have said more than that, he thought. Rebel deserved more.

What Rebel had really deserved was a long, happy life, surrounded by the children that she and Conrad would never have. That was forever out of reach.

Conrad’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the bouquet of fresh-cut flowers lying on top of the gravestone. He nodded toward them and asked Father Francisco, “Who put those there?”

“The flowers?” The priest shook his head. “I have no idea. I didn’t see whoever it was who left them. But it could have been almost anyone. The cemetery is open day and night, you know. Anyone can come in, any time.”

“Have you ever noticed anyone showing an interest in this grave?”

Father Francisco frowned in thought. “No. I don’t believe…Wait a moment. There was someone…A woman. I’ve noticed her here in the cemetery. She could have brought the flowers, I suppose.”

“A woman,” Conrad repeated. He couldn’t think of any woman who would have been visiting the grave. Rebel’s mother was dead, and she hadn’t had any sisters. “What did she look like?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. She wore a shawl around her head, and I never got a look at her face. But I’m sure it was the same woman. I saw her several times in the past couple of months.”

Confusion filled Conrad’s mind. He had thought that the bastard who’d sent those kidnappers after Rebel might be watching the grave, but he hadn’t expected some mysterious woman to be involved.

“Can you tell me
anything
about her?”

“Well…I think she was young. At least, she didn’t move like an old woman.”

“You never talked to her, never asked her what she was doing here?”

Conrad heard the slightly accusatory tone in his voice. He didn’t really mean the question that way, but that was how it came out.

“I told you, the cemetery is open day and night. People come to mourn, to talk to their loved ones who are gone, or just for the peace and quiet. All are welcome.”

Conrad nodded. “I know. I’m sorry, Father.”

“No apologies necessary, my son,” Father Francisco said with a smile and a shake of his head. He gestured toward the grave. “Would you like to be alone?”

“I…I think so. For a few minutes.”

Father Francisco nodded. “I’ll be in the church, if you need me.”

He walked off, leaving Conrad in front of the grave. Conrad realized abruptly that he still had his hat on. He snatched it off and held it awkwardly in front of him. “Rebel,” he began, then paused, unsure what to say. She isn’t
really
here, he told himself. Her soul was out there somewhere in the wind, galloping across the heavens, her hair streaming out behind her as she laughed.

Conrad took a deep breath. “I’ve told you a hundred times how sorry I am for what happened. I could say it a thousand times, and it wouldn’t change anything. So I’ll just say that I’m going to put things right, Rebel, at least as much as I can. Whoever’s to blame for this, I’ll see to it that he pays. That’s all I can do.”

He closed his eyes and stood there a moment longer, then sighed and turned away. He didn’t put his hat on but continued to hold it as he went into the church through the side door Father Francisco had used.

He found the priest in the sanctuary and said, “Thank you for your help, Father. If you happen to see that woman again, could you let me know? I’ll be staying at the hotel.”

“If the woman comes to visit your wife’s grave, I’m sure she has her reasons, Mr. Browning, and the same holds true if she’s the one who brought the flowers. I’m not sure it’s my place to do anything to disturb her mourning.”

Conrad reined in the surge of impatience he felt and said, “I don’t want to disturb her. I just want to know who she is and why she’s visiting Rebel’s grave.”

“That would be her business, not yours,” Father Francisco said, his voice gentle but inflexible.

Conrad drew in a deep breath through his nose. “All right, Father. You have to do what you think is best.” He put a hand in his pocket. “I suppose the church takes care of the widows and orphans around here?”

“We do our best to take care of everyone in need.”

Conrad took out a handful of double eagles. “Then I know you’ll put this to good use,” he said as he held out the coins.

Father Francisco’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Browning…are you trying to bribe me?”

“Not at all,” Conrad answered honestly. “It’s just that since Rebel died, money doesn’t mean a whole lot to me except for the good it can do.”

“In that case…this money can do quite a bit of good, indeed.”

The priest took the double eagles. Conrad nodded to him, turned, and walked out the front door of the church, not clapping his hat on his head until he was outside again. He headed for the hotel, pausing to look back at the graveyard one last time.

It was empty, no mysterious woman to be seen anywhere.

But Conrad had a feeling she would be back, and when she was, he intended to be there and get some answers from her.

When Conrad got back to the hotel, he studied the situation for a few minutes, then asked Mr. Rowlett, the proprietor, if he could switch rooms.

“But Room Twelve is the best in the house,” Rowlett said.

“I know, but I’d rather be on the front,” Conrad told him.

Rowlett frowned. “It’ll be noisier. You’ll be right over the street.”

“That’s what I want,” Conrad insisted.

“Well, of course, if that’s your preference…” The hotel man turned to look at the rack of keys. “Let’s see…I can put you in Room Seven. That overlooks the street.”

Conrad nodded. “That’ll be fine.”

Rowlett gave him the key to Room Seven. He went upstairs to move his gear across the hall. Once he was in the new room, he went to the window and looked out, prepared to go downstairs and ask to move again if he didn’t like what he saw.

The view was all right, though. He could see the graveyard behind the church from there.

For the next two days, Conrad spent most of his time at the window of his hotel room, watching the cemetery. He moved the room’s single chair over to the window and sat there for hours on end, dozing occasionally but for the most part alert. He left his self-appointed post to go downstairs and take his meals in the hotel dining room, and he slept at night, since he couldn’t see what was going on in the graveyard, but other than that he barely took his eyes off the place.

Not too surprisingly, the woman in the shawl didn’t show up. Those flowers Conrad had seen on Rebel’s headstone had been placed there recently. It might be a week or more before the woman came to visit the grave again. If it took that long, or even longer, Conrad didn’t care. He would wait as long as it took.

The presence of Angeline Whitfield in the hotel could have been a distraction, if he had allowed it to be. She ate in the hotel dining room, too. While she waited for the wagon her father was supposed to send to Val Verde, Conrad saw her there at nearly every meal. She smiled politely at him. He could tell that she wanted to come over and talk to him, but she didn’t. Knowing that his wife had died recently caused her to be discreet. She hadn’t totally lost interest in him, though. He could tell that, as well.

Around the middle of the afternoon on the second day, a flash of bright red hair in the street caught Conrad’s eye. He took his attention away from the graveyard long enough to look down and see Margaret MacTavish at the reins of a wagon coming into town. Her little brother Rory sat beside her on the wagon seat, and James MacTavish rode alongside. Hamish wasn’t with them, so Conrad supposed that he had stayed out at the ranch.

As Conrad watched, Margaret pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the general store across the street. The MacTavishes had come to Val Verde to pick up supplies.

Conrad frowned as he looked back along the street. Another wagon was entering the edge of town, flanked by several riders. Conrad recognized Dave Whitfield and the gunman called Trace among them.

A grimace tightened Conrad’s mouth. He had known that Whitfield was due to arrive today to pick up his daughter, but it was sheer coincidence that the MacTavishes had come to town on the same day, and practically the same time, at that. Coincidence, or pure bad luck. In this case, they might be one and the same.

Conrad glanced at the cemetery. His job was to stay here and wait for the mysterious woman to show up again, he told himself. Surely no real trouble would break out between the MacTavishes and Whitfield’s bunch right there in the middle of the settlement.

But he couldn’t be sure of that. He recalled how hotheaded James MacTavish was. It would be easy for Trace to goad the young man into a fight, if the gunfighter decided to do that. Conrad didn’t know if Trace was the one who had gunned down Charlie MacTavish, but it wouldn’t surprise him a bit to learn that was true. Nor would it surprise him if Trace had provoked the fight.

Even if that wasn’t the case where Charlie was concerned, it could happen easily with James that day. Conrad knew he couldn’t stand by without trying to prevent it.

With a sigh, he stood up, abandoning his post for the moment. He shrugged into his suit jacket and put his hat on. By the time he went downstairs, through the lobby, and out onto the porch, he saw that Margaret and Rory had gone into the store. James was still outside, lounging with a shoulder against one of the posts holding up the awning over the store’s porch.