“You can’t stay here,” Mother says, setting a steaming cup of tea before me. “Paul might not believe our story, and if he goes to the sheriff, there’s no guarantee they’ll listen to our side of things. At least not until the story you mentioned is printed and people reconsider the lies Gerald has spread about us here in town. There’s also Parker to worry about. Dead at your hands. How did it ever come to this?”
Her expression is wrought with worry, and rightly so. She is absolutely correct. While one problem is solved, another has surfaced, and I never anticipated Uncle choosing the path he did. I’d expected him to run, starting over as a new person miles away where no one knew him. I’d banked on him experiencing shame and regret. I’d wanted him to suffer, to scrape by, to toil. Just once, I wanted him to truly labor for the things he might call his own. He was supposed to pay for his crimes, not escape them, but I suppose retribution and justice are merely cousins.
“Charlotte?” Mother says.
I take a sip of my tea, trying to blink away the image of Uncle Gerald’s body. It reminds me too much of Parker, only instead of the blood creeping across floorboards, this time it seeped into ledger papers.
“Charlotte, do you hear what I’m saying? Paul will be back tomorrow. He only went to Jerome to check affairs at the mine. And if the people at Banghart’s are looking for Parker’s killer . . .” She exhales heavily. “You need to be gone when he returns.”
“And leave you to be charged with Uncle’s death?”
“Then what do you propose?”
I set the teacup down, tracing the floral pattern on the saucer with my thumb as I weigh our options.
“You should return to Yuma,” I say finally, “but visit Mr. Marion first. Tell him I’ve been staying with the Coltons this past week, and that anyone claiming the death of a bounty hunter in Banghart’s was done at my hands must be mistaken. The Coltons will vouch for me. I’ll have them write him a letter. But if Mr. Marion’s agreeable, urge him to print a story saying as much with haste, and also to cover Uncle’s fraudulent business practices. I had suspected Mr. Marion to be in Uncle’s pocket, but after today, I believe he will do what’s right. I sent the original ledger sheets to Ruth Dodson, but I copied everything into my journal first. I’ll give you those pages before I leave. If it’s not enough for Mr. Marion, have him contact Mrs. Dodson to confirm the story. Once everything prints in the Courier—plus the Inquirer back home—we should be fully cleared. People will believe the suicide was legitimate, not a story we used to cover up a murder. I’ll come home then.”
“And in the meantime?” Mother asks, her brow wrinkled.
“I’ll stay with the Coltons. Kate is pregnant and approaching her time. She’ll need help delivering the baby, and I’ve learned from one of the best.”
A smile flicks over Mother’s face, and I glance away. The light is changing beyond the kitchen window, warning of approaching dusk. I need to leave now. The Rose Riders will board a train in Seligman come dawn, which means they are likely traveling north or already near the depot, and this is the safest time to travel.
I flip open my journal to the pages where I copied Uncle’s ledgers. Tearing them free, I slide them across the table to Mother.
“Stay one night, please,” she urges.
“I have to go. Please just trust me on this.”
“I’ve always trusted you, Charlotte.”
“See you in Yuma?” I ask as we hug.
She smoothes my wild hair, lays a kiss on my forehead. “See you in Yuma.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
* * *
Reece
Jesse and me spend the afternoon going over our plans.
He’ll board the train at the depot, and I’ll chase it down on my horse later. The gang don’t know what Jesse looks like, and that will be the key to duping ’em. Jesse and me can’t be seen together till we’re ready to fire our pistols.
We walk through countless scenarios: if’n all the boys are waiting in the dining car like I requested, if Rose’s got ’em spread throughout the train, who we take out and in what order if’n something goes wrong. (Rose first. Always Rose first.) Kate butts into our planning all afternoon, sometimes offering advice, other times pleading with Jesse to reconsider, and by the time we sit for dinner, she’s rattled something fierce.
“Quit pacing, Kate, please,” Jesse begs.
“I don’t want you to do this.”
“It ain’t about want, it’s about need.” He looks to me for support.
“Don’t put me in the middle of this,” I say.
But I think even Kate knows there ain’t much can be done otherwise, not if they want a normal life. They need the Rose Riders gone. I need ’em gone. The whole Territory’ll be safer with ’em buried, too.
The Coltons argue a bit more, till Jesse takes Kate’s hand and pulls her onto his lap. He presses his lips to her forehead. It’s just the one kiss, but I feel like I ain’t supposed to be present. I retreat to the bedroom and shut the door.
As a kid, I were good at becoming invisible. Whenever Pa went for the bottle, I’d slink into the shadows and move ’bout our house like a ghost, keeping my back pressed to walls, trying not to breathe too loudly. Above all else, I never entered the room he occupied ’less it was absolutely necessary.
This is how I act now, only it ain’t outta fear, but respect.
I want the Coltons to have their own moment, their own room, their own world. They only face the coming dawn ’cus of the blood I brought to their doorstep.
I reckon this is the dark cloud Kate were talking ’bout. I carry deep wells of guilt inside me, and yes, I ain’t innocent in the path I’ll walk tomorrow with Jesse. But Kate also knew what she were doing ten years back when she shot Waylan Rose between the eyes. She killed him and every last boy riding beside him. She believed them all dead, and still her and Jesse took precautions, built a hideaway, knew a day might come when they’d need to flee. The ghosts of our misdeeds can haunt us till we lie in our own graves, and it ain’t helping me to lug my guilt ’round everywhere. I think ’bout Kate, brushing her hair over her shoulder, batting away that cloud of regret. I imagine mine the same, trailing behind like a cape, reminding me of what I done and all the ways I can do better. I’ll tolerate it. Some days I might even wear it. But no matter what, from this day forward, it will not wear me.
I can hear Kate out in the kitchen, reading aloud from Little Women—to the babe inside her or Jesse. Maybe both. I collapse on the bed, still fully clothed. The pillow smells like Charlotte. I weren’t even aware I knew what she smelled like, but this is her, surrounding me. The mattress is stiff, but still so much softer than the floor.
My eyelids flutter shut.
When I jolt awake, the sun’s set and the house is dark. Kate ain’t reading no more, but Mutt’s growling low in the kitchen. I can make out a pair of voices, whispering too soft for me to hear nothing useful.
Then there’s the muffled creak of floorboards. The handle of the bedroom door turns.
I lunge for the nightstand, only to remember my pistol’s out on the Coltons’ table along with my belt and knife.
“It’s me,” Charlotte says from the doorway.
“Jesus Christ.” I sink into the pillow, my chest hammering. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”