The Last Renegade (7 page)

Kellen looked up from the letter to the pair of Colts. Nat Church had packed his Peacemakers. It was difficult to know if Mrs. Berry’s reference was to the gun or a diplomat. She might very well have meant both. He set the letter with the other but did not pick up the third. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his vest and removed the badge he had taken from Nat Church, a six-pointed star with rounded tips, engraved by hand and bearing the words “U.S. Marshal.”

He turned that badge over and examined the pin. It was bent halfway along its length. He didn’t try to straighten it. Nat Church hadn’t.

He had seen a great many badges, some of them on lawmen still living, too many of them on lawmen at death. They were a collectible curiosity in the East, where they could be purchased for a quarter. He knew women who wore them as brooches or as a garnish on their hats. Not all of them sold as genuine were in fact so, but he didn’t believe that was the case here. This badge bore the faint evidence that it had been pounded and sawed from American or perhaps Spanish coin. The tarnish at the points and along the outline of the letters added to its authentic look. The act of pinning and unpinning it to different vests over the years added a layer of sweat and oils to the back that polishing could never quite erase.

Kellen returned the badge to his vest pocket and took up the last letter. This one indicated it was written September thirtieth, less than a month ago.

Kellen’s mouth quirked. Here was the explanation for the sack of jerky, half a loaf of bread, and five apples they found when looking through Nat Church’s valise for clues. As it happened, the food was unnecessary, but perhaps Mrs. Berry would be comforted that Mr. Church heeded her advice.

Kellen looked up from the letter and glanced around the room. The wide, iron-frame bed was smoothly turned out with a colorful quilt, two plump pillows, and a second quilt folded neatly at the foot. Small tables stood on either side of the bed at its head, each one a resting place for an oil lamp. The one on the left held a carafe and glass for water. The walnut armoire easily held his clothes and had a sufficient number of drawers on one side to store his incidentals. There was a stove in one corner and a bucket heaped with coal beside it. Neither the maid nor Walt had considered the temperature sufficiently cold to fire it up. Kellen was sorely tempted.

The bathing room was a revelation with its hot and cold running water and deep, claw-footed tub. He had a modest idea
of the expense involved in making those amenities available in a hotel and wondered about the depth of Mrs. Berry’s purse. Her first letter to Nat Church indicated she was prepared to pay generously for his services, and her second letter offered compensation for his journey whether or not he accepted her terms.

He did not think the Pennyroyal could account for all of her income. On the way to his rooms at the end of the hall, he counted only five other doors, and when he inquired about accommodations on the third floor, he was informed that the Widder Berry was in sole possession of those rooms.

Kellen did not recall tipping his chair back on its rear legs, nor did he think he was so engrossed with reading and reflection that he would not hear someone approaching his door, but at the first knock he nearly upended the chair and himself. Grabbing the edge of the table saved him from an ignominious fall.

His guess was that it was Widder Berry herself at the door.

He carefully folded the letters and returned them to the bottom of his valise. He packed several more items on top,
closed the bag, and nudged it back under the bed with the toe of his boot. The only items remaining on the table when he invited his caller to enter were the Colts.

Raine closed the door behind her but did not step away from it. She nodded briefly. “Mr. Coltrane.”

He appreciated her straightforward gaze. She could hardly miss the Colts, but she ignored them in favor of giving him her full attention. She had a husky, smoky voice that could not help undermining a good man’s resolve whether or not that was her intent.

Kellen started to rise; she waved him back. “Mrs. Berry.”

“I escorted Rabbit and Finn back to the station. I just returned from there.”

Kellen nodded. That explained the deep pink color in her cheeks. Bitter Springs breezes. It had been tempting to flatter himself that he might be the cause.

A small crease appeared between Raine’s eyebrows. “I spoke to Mr. Collins. He told me there was a murder on the last train that went through here.”

“So I understand.”

“You were on that train.”

“I was.”

“He offered the name of the murdered man.” She pursed her lips. “You could have said something downstairs.”

“I could have, but why would I?” Kellen shifted in his chair, drawing his legs from under the table and stretching them out in her direction. He set his forearms against his midriff, threaded his fingers, and lightly tapped the pads of his thumbs together. He regarded her with an absence of expression as she struggled to rein in her frustration.

“I should think that would be obvious. You heard me mistake you for Mr. Church.”

“Yes, I did hear that.” Kellen did not think her level gaze could cut more sharply, but it did. Her green eyes glittered brilliantly. He added, “And I was supposed to say…?” He let the question hang for a long moment. When she did not respond, he said, “I regret to inform you, Mrs. Berry, but the man you’ve taken me for is dead. Would that have satisfied?”

Her nostrils flared slightly, and for the first time since entering the room, her gaze moved to the guns. It quickly returned to him. “Did the Burdicks hire you?”

Kellen didn’t answer right away. He cast his thoughts back and tried to remember how he knew that name. The clear, youthful tones of Finn’s voice came to him suddenly.
Unless you already signed on with the Burdicks.
That’d be a shame.

“What is it you really want to know?” he asked her.

“Did you murder Mr. Church?”

“I think you know the answer to that. I take you for a woman of reasonably good sense. I imagine you already put that question to Mr. Collins, and he told you I wasn’t the killer. I had to satisfy the conductor of the train as to my innocence before I could leave the train at Bitter Springs. I would be surprised to learn if that wasn’t communicated to Mr. Collins when he received word about the murder.”

Raine’s fingers curled into the stiff fabric of her gown. “Who
are
you?”

“Kellen Coltrane. I signed the registry.”

“I know. I watched you.”

“Then I am afraid I don’t understand the question.”

“I take you for a man of reasonably good sense,” she said crisply. “Do not give me cause to regret it.”

His lips quirked once and then he was sober. “All right, Mrs. Berry, but you must answer a question first.”

“We’ll see.”

“Mr. Collins spoke of you as the Widow Berry.”

“Widder,” she corrected.

“Yes, you’re right. That’s exactly what he said.”

“It’s Finn’s fault.”

Kellen’s chuckle stayed at the back of his throat. “I’m sure it is.”

“It stuck.”

Although she continued to keep her gaze leveled on him, he had a sense that she wanted to look away. He watched her draw a shallow breath and release it slowly. “Are you, in fact, Mrs. Adam Berry?”

“Is that your question, Mr. Coltrane? The one I must answer?”

“It is.”

“Then, yes, I am Mrs. Adam Berry.”

Kellen drew his legs back and stood, slowly unfolding out of the chair so as not to give the impression he meant to launch himself at her. He was impressed that she held her ground as he approached. He stopped when he was within arm’s length and extended his hand.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Adam Berry. Nat Church sends his regards.”

She did not put her hand in his. Her hands flew to her open mouth just in time to stifle a sob. Kellen reached for her when he saw her begin to buckle, but she caught herself without his help and stepped back so she could lean against the door. He waited to see if she would slide down the length of it. She didn’t. She stayed pressed to the door, hands at her mouth, eyes closed, and Kellen had the impression she was praying or giving thanks for a prayer answered. In time, she straightened. Her hands fell back to her sides, and she returned to searching his face, unaware or uncaring that her stare had been made softer by the wash of unshed tears.

“Is it true?” she asked on a thread of sound. “He’s really dead?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“You were there?”

“I was. Not when the knife was slipped into him, but later. He sat with me.”

“You knew him, then.”

“Better than most, I suspect.”

She nodded. “It’s my fault that he’s dead.”

“I doubt that. He certainly didn’t blame you. The truth is, he held himself responsible.” Kellen turned slightly and indicated the chair he had vacated. “Won’t you sit down?”

She hesitated. “I think I will, yes. Thank you.”

He stepped aside to let her pass. Her skirt brushed him as she went by, and the fragrance of lavender lingered pleasantly. “I have a flask of whiskey. Would you share a drink with me?”

She shook her head.

Kellen went to one of the bedside tables and opened a drawer. He took out a silver flask and poured a small measure of whiskey into the glass beside the water carafe. He did not return the flask to the drawer but laid it on top of the table. He sat on one of his trunks in his guest’s line of sight.

“You should have asked for two chairs,” she said.

“I think Miss Hage was overwhelmed by the request for one.”

A smile touched her lips. “I’m sure she was.” The smile vanished as quickly as it came.

“And I don’t make it a practice to entertain guests,” said Kellen. “One chair discourages them.”

“I am more of an intruder than guest, I think.”

He didn’t contradict her and commented instead on the worry that shadowed her expression. “You look as if you’re wondering if you made a mistake.”

“I don’t know you,” she said quietly. “Not at all. ‘Nat Church sends his regards’ is hardly a calling card. I think I might have assumed too much.”

Kellen carefully set his glass beside him on the trunk lid. He reached into his vest pocket and took out the badge. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he held it out for her to see. “Better than a calling card, I think.”

She sank her teeth in her bottom lip and nodded jerkily. Kellen kept the badge extended until she found her voice. “He said I would know him by the badge. He would show it to me, and I would know him. He described it in detail so there could be no mistaking it.”

Kellen gave no indication of the relief he felt. When Mrs. Berry wrote that she would appreciate a manner of identifying the man she was hiring with something besides his name, Kellen wondered what Mr. Church might have proposed. He left the Colts on the table to see if they were Nat Church’s other calling card, but the Peacemakers engaged more suspicion, not trust.