West of Heaven. Victoria Bylin
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her throat. “Sheriff, would you please tell Mr. Trent that we need to borrow a horse.”
The rancher shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t have one to lend. I ride the roan, and the gelding’s not going anywhere.”
The sheriff dipped his chin at her and arched his eyebrows as if she were a child. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dawson, but circumstances can’t be changed. Mr. Trent has kindly offered to give your husband a decent burial. You need to take him up on that offer.”
Kindly wasn’t how she would have described the man clutching the shovel as if it were a weapon. He resembled a half-crazed grizzly more than he did a human being. And maybe something even more dangerous—an animal wounded beyond caring about himself or anyone else.
She’d heard tales of trapped animals gnawing off their own paws to escape from steel traps. As she looked into Ethan Trent’s hard brown eyes, she knew those stories were true. She didn’t want her husband to be buried by this bitter man.
“All right, Sheriff,” she said, standing straighter. “You and I will leave as soon as Hank is buried, but I need a few minutes alone with him.”
The rancher huffed, grabbed a pickax to go with the shovel and stormed out of the barn. “You deal with her,” he said, glancing back at Handley.
The sheriff put his hands on his hips. “Ma’am, Mr. Trent is right. That storm could turn to a blizzard in the blink of an eye, and it’s gonna get mighty cold. I’m partial to sleeping in my own bed, and for you, young lady, I recommend the comfort of the hotel.”
But the hotel held nothing but bad memories of the night Hank walked out on her, and of the three foolish days she had waited for him. She wasn’t ready to go back to that emptiness. She had to make Handley understand. “Are you married, Sheriff?”
His eyes stayed as hard as rock. “For thirty years.”
“Then you understand why I have to stay.”
“No, ma’am. I understand why you have to leave. Your husband would want you to be safe.”
The sheriff had a point. Hank would have been annoyed with her for riding out here in the first place, but she had taken a vow, “Until death us do part.” Though death had come, they weren’t quite parted, and they wouldn’t be until Hank was buried.
“Please, Sheriff, ride back to town without me. If the rain gets worse, I’ll sleep in the barn and go back to town tomorrow. I’m a good rider, and I’m sure Mr. Trent will loan me a blanket.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” He chuffed like a mule and Jayne knew she had lost the argument.
If she couldn’t win with logic, she would have to find another way to see her husband laid to rest, but no matter what else happened today, she had to retrieve the money hidden in his duster.
“I understand, Sheriff.” Steepling her fingers at her waist, she glanced down at Hank. “I won’t take more than a few minutes.”
Handley gave a curt nod and paced out the door.
As soon as he was gone Jayne dropped to her knees, looked at the frozen mask of her husband’s face and broke into sobs. She had given him her heart and trusted him with her future. How could he have done this to her? Who was “Jesse,” and why had Hank gone off with a stranger? What secrets had he kept from her?
A moan tore from her throat as she made a fist and pressed it into his belly. His duster had gaped wide, revealing the denim shirt she’d mended for him in Lexington. The sight of it shot her back in time to their first kiss, the brief marriage ceremony and the wedding night that had been a disaster from start to finish. She couldn’t bear to think about that night, the grimy train ride that followed or their last moments in the Midas Hotel.
Tears as thick as oil spilled from her eyes. Would Hank still be alive if she’d gone to the sheriff sooner? She had followed his orders to a tee, waiting for three full days before she told the story to Handley.
The balding sheriff had been skeptical and rude. “Your husband’s probably off with an old drinkin’ buddy, ma’am. He’ll be back when he’s sobered up.”
But Hank never drank. When she had told the sheriff, he’d shrugged it off. She had searched on her own, but no one had given her the time of day, except for Reverend John Leaf. He’d asked a dozen questions, none of which she could answer, and then promised to keep his ears open. Not until a rancher reported finding the body of a U.S. Marshal had the sheriff paid her a visit.
In spite of his objections, she had insisted on riding with him to the Trent ranch today. She had to see the facts for herself, and yet this moment wasn’t quite real. She had expected to feel a connection to Hank that bridged the gap between life and death, but she sensed only a terrible stillness. She wanted something to hold, a memory that wouldn’t fade with time, but she had no keepsakes. Hank hadn’t given her a wedding ring, and with their one pitiful night of coupling, she doubted she’d conceived a child.
Her 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