Wyoming Wildfire. Elizabeth Lane
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was in his fifties and Virgil in his forties, nobody expected that to change. Then, last summer, Allister made a trip to St. Louis and came home with a wife.”
Matt gave a low whistle. “You’re right. That is a story in itself. What’s she like?”
“Younger—a widow, I’d guess. Nice looking. And she knows how to dress. I’ve seen her in town a few times, but that’s all. I can’t say I know her.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Lillian—I heard someone call her that.”
“Lillian.” He repeated the name thoughtfully, as if he were tasting each syllable. Maybe the marshal had an eye for rich, good-looking widows, Jessie thought with a stab of irritation.
Impatient, she seized his arm. “Don’t you see? Now she owns half the ranch. And Virgil owns the other half. If he marries his brother’s pretty widow, he gets it all! Virgil had a lot more motive for killing Allister than poor Frank ever did!”
“So how do you explain the fact that Allister was shot with Frank’s gun? Nobody could have known the gun would be there.”
“No, but Virgil could have found it and seen the perfect opportunity to kill Allister and let Frank take the blame. Or it could have been someone else—maybe one of the ranch hands who had a grudge against Allister. Heaven knows, he wasn’t the most likable man in the world.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
The coldness in Matt’s voice hit Jessie like a slap. For the space of a breath, she weighed the wisdom of telling him about Allister’s behavior when he came for the stallion. No, she decided, that would only lend weight to the case against Frank.
“I know him by reputation. From all reports, Allister Gates was an arrogant, abrasive man.”
“But I’ll wager he wasn’t stupid. Allister had to have known the horse wasn’t his to take. My guess is, if you’d called his hand, he would have given the two of you a choice—the horse or the family homestead.”
“And he was betting we’d choose to give up Midnight rather than lose the ranch. Allister didn’t need our land, and neither does Virgil. But now he’ll take the place. It’s that or lose his money.”
Matt exhaled wearily. “You should have kept the stallion, Jessie. With Frank gone, you might have been able to trade with Virgil and keep your home.”
Jessie shook her head, fighting tears. “Frank died for that stallion! I won’t dishonor his memory by giving up Midnight to Virgil Gates!”
They were coming over the last ridge now. Gazing down into the narrow valley below, Jessie could see the cabin, with its outlying clutter of sheds, corrals and pens that had been her home for the past fifteen years. It was a poor and shabby place—calling it a ranch bordered on a joke. But she’d been happy here. The years of poverty and backbreaking work had been sweetened by the harsh splendor of this mountain country, the warmth of family love and the beauty of horses. Her father had spent some time among the Shoshone and had learned the skill of “Indian breaking” a horse with gentleness and trust. Horses broken by Tom Hammond were valued by cowhands and ranchers all over the county. Even the big roan that Morgan Tolliver favored had come to him by way of the Hammond Ranch.
Tom had passed his horse-breaking skills on to his children. But his unexpected death had left them ill-prepared to handle the business of horse selling. Worse in terms of the future, more blooded horses were being imported from the East and bred on the big ranches. There was less demand for the wild-caught mustangs that had furnished their livelihood for years.
Jessie and her brother had been at the point of selling out when Frank had seized on the idea of buying a prize stallion. Midnight had become his dream, then his obsession. Now there was nothing left.
“Where will you go, Jessie?” Matt Langtry asked her. “Have you made any kind of plans?”
Jessie stared down the hill at the ruin of her world.
“No,” she said, swallowing the ache in her throat. “Frank and I were given three days to clear off the property. That time will be up tomorrow night. But I’m not leaving the county. Not until I know who really murdered Allister Gates.”
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