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Hurricane Utah Territory, August 1870
Hertha rode silently behind Raswell, her heart going out to him now. He’d grown silent since she’d seen the poster. Something told her that he was a good man, that there was an explanation, but how could murder be explained?
So instead of showing mercy and listening to her husband, she ignored the urge. He’d lied to her, another issue that couldn’t be forgotten.
When they finally reached Raswell’s ranch, the night was upon them. On occasion, Hertha caught sight of the glowing eyes of a raccoon. Crickets sang them home, making up for the silence of the young couple.
“I’ll take the horses if you’d like to go inside.” She reached for her valise, but Raswell gently grabbed her wrist. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it. Your room is the door on the right.”
Too tired to argue, Hertha left her valise in the hands of a murderer and moved groggily towards the house. It wasn’t a particularly tall structure. She guessed that Raswell would hit his head on the ceiling if he stood on tiptoe.
Looking around the dark kitchen, it was already obvious that a man lived there. In the middle of the table, there was a bridle and a bottle of leather oil, judging by the scent. She tripped over a bucket on her way to her room.
Upon opening the door, Hertha was greeted by a large window, through which she could see the sky. There was a small chest of drawers and a very inviting bed. With a contented sigh, she flopped herself on the bed, burying her face in the pillow. A lovely smell, like wood dust, hay, and something else she couldn’t place wrapped around her.
It wasn’t long before her eyes drifted shut as she wondered if Raswell had slept there. Did he smell as nice as her pillow did? She tried to remember, but couldn’t through the sleep clouding her thoughts. Perhaps resting her eyes would be nice.
Raswell lit a lantern and started looking for his wife. He smiled when he found her in his old room, sleeping comfortably. Her mouth hung open, her hair was already a mess. He quietly set her valise on the floor, then turned to leave. At the door, he looked back again.
Despite the fact that Hertha hadn’t listened to a word he’d said, she was still his wife, and he’d still take care of her. It helped that she looked adorable when she slept, and also when she glared at him.
What was he thinking? He didn’t have time for that. Raswell remembered the note he’d found in the barn. It had been nailed to the door and said simply, “I’m here.” The message had succeeded in frightening him. He’d have to keep an eye out.
It was strange to Hertha that, though she and her husband hardly spoke, he seemed to be at the house far more than necessary. Raswell had become agitated, as though he was watching for something.
One day, when she was in the garden, she heard a loud crack, almost like a gunshot. Dropping the basket of tomatoes she’d gathered, she hiked up her skirt and ran for the barn, sure that’s where the sound had come from.
Entering the barn, she found Raswell, who kicked the remains of a splintered stall post. It looked like someone had fired a shotgun at it. Hertha sucked in a sharp breath, startling him.
“Did you do this?” she breathed. He shook his head, the fear in his eyes proving his honesty.
“I promise, it wasn’t me. In fact, I was on my way up to the house when I heard the gun. I ran in here as fast as I could, but he’s gone.” Hertha frowned, moving closer to her husband as his fear became her own.
“Who’s gone?” Raswell handed her a slip of paper with the messy scrawl of a man. It said, “Keep an eye out, boy.”
“My father,” he whispered, turning away. He pushed his hands through his hair. “I didn’t murder my uncle.”
Hertha’s hand flew to her mouth, and she dropped the paper as though it had scalded her. She grabbed Raswell’s arm. He turned to look at her, remorse taking the place of fear.
“What does this mean?”
“It means my father is here. That’s not something you want.” He laughed harshly. “He beat his five-year-old son within an inch of his life. I’d hate to see what he’d do now.”
Ice dripped through Hertha’s veins as she realized that if Raswell’s father came, he would be willing to kill his own son. He’d been the one to kill his brother, too. Guilt wrapped around her like a cloak as she recalled the way she’d been treating her husband.
“I’m so sorry, Raswell. Why didn’t you tell me it was your father?” He shrugged.
“If I’d told you that would mean remembering. Memories . . . they hurt twice as badly as the event.”
Gingerly, Hertha wrapped her arms around Raswell, not caring when he didn’t hug her back. Even if he didn’t like it, the broken need someone to hold them together.
