16
THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, 1906
The barbershop was more crowded than usual, the simultaneous conversations louder, when Moses came in that afternoon. He wondered what hot gossip had triggered this.
Then he shrugged and strode past the men in the front room. Hell if it had anything to do with him. So, when his father walked into the back room seconds after Moses went to grab the broom, he looked up in surprise. “You left your customer?” His dad never did that. Never.
Gerald Marks rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted you to hear this from me, son. Jane-Ellen Murdock died yesterday.”
Shock reverberated through Moses like a struck gong. “That can’t be right! Hell, you know how the men can be. They’re worse gossips than women.” It couldn’t possibly be true; it—
“Jake told me himself,” Gerald interrupted gently. “When he was in town arranging for a coffin.”
And suddenly Jane-Ellen’s death was a cold, hard fact wishful thinking couldn’t alter. Moses’ shock morphed to guilt. Hattie must have called him the minute she heard Doc Fielding’s diagnosis. But had he been there for her? Hell, no.
Bitter self-blame hammered him, and he refused the luxury of clutching his own out-of-control emotions as a mitigating factor. Situations were either honorable or dishonorable. Black or white—no shades of gray. Hattie had called and he’d avoided her with an excuse lamer than Henderson’s old mare. This wasn’t the first time he had let her down. But it was sure as hell the worst.
Moses viewed his failure as his worst betrayal yet, and figured Hattie did too. It mentally berated him in an endless loop as he rented a bicycle and haunted the road between town and the Murdock Ranch. Twice, he got as far as the gate to Jake’s ranch, determined to offer Hattie his sincerest apologies and what solace he could. Both times he lost his nerve.
He turned away the second time, and his shoulders slumped in defeat as he dispiritedly pedaled back to town. He knew he wouldn’t ride this way again. It was too damn late. He had callously turned her down when she’d called specifically asking for his help. His face was the last one Hattie would want to see now.
“I apologize for intruding on your privacy, Jake, but I wanted to offer my condolences.”
Jake’s head snapped around in surprise. Roger Lord was the last person he’d expect to defy Mattawa’s convention of leaving families to their bereavement until the funeral. Only very close friends were allowed to ignore the custom.
Jake finished fishing a stone from Thunder’s shoe, then unclamped his knees to let the stallion’s hoof drop. After swatting the horse’s rump, he swept up the hobbling reins and led Thunder to a clean stall. Reemerging moments later, he wiped his hands on his worn, clean dungarees and extended his right to Roger. “Thank you, Roger. It was right neighborly of you to make a special trip.” Sure as hell wish you hadn’t, though. He kept that thought to himself.
Roger exchanged meaningless platitudes with Jake for several moments before working the conversation around to his true reason for going out of his way to make this trip to the Murdock Ranch. During the past months, he’d become obsessed with the idea of forcefully relieving Hattie Taylor of her virginity. The idea had consumed him since the afternoon he’d overheard her conversation with the Marks boy outside Armstrong’s Livery. Knowing the perpetration of such an act against Hattie Taylor could carry serious repercussions for him rarely entered his consideration. And when it did, it was brief blips he found easy to brush aside. Hell, he was an elite personage in this town, above the laws governing lesser mortals. Besides, who would believe the slut’s word over his? Everyone whispered that she was a girl of loose character.
His paramount concern was the need to strike soon. Not only was she leaving town in a few weeks, but given her outspoken, free-spirited nature, he doubted she’d long remain a virgin to despoil. It would be just like the lush little baggage to freely bestow her virginity on the first smooth talker to come her way. And that wouldn’t do. Roger was determined the mouthy bitch forever remember her deflowering as the most degrading moment of her life.
It was such a pleasurable way to teach a woman her rightful place in this man’s world.
He’d heard people say the grief accompanying the loss of a loved one was mind-numbing. It was a sentiment he didn’t understand, for a person of superior intellect didn’t allow extraneous nothings to interfere with his thought process. Still, the minute he heard about Jane-Ellen’s death, he realized the confusion of such a time was a golden opportunity for him.
He never doubted he would achieve his objective. He was accustomed to getting his way—it was the only just outcome. Of course preeminent men such as himself were rewarded.
“It must be difficult to keep everything running smoothly at a time like this,” he murmured in the sympathetic tones he’d heard others use. “Handling your ranch. Taking care of your ward.”
“I’m getting by.”
“When is Augusta due back in town?”
“Sunday, if all her means of transport run on schedule.”
“If it would help,” Roger offered, concealing his excitement, “Hattie is welcome to stay with Gertrude and me until Augusta’s arrival. It would give you one less thing to worry about, and it might be easier for Hattie to be in town.”
Jake wasn’t prepared for the rush of panic Lord’s suggestion unleashed in him. Hattie leave? She was the only reason he’d remained relatively sane. Face impassively stoic to conceal his thoughts, Jake leveled a look at Roger Lord and tried to keep his voice neutral when he said, “No. I appreciate the offer, but Hattie has been a great comfort to me, and she needs to be where she feels helpful. It was a generous offer, though. I’m much obliged.”
No? Roger was nonplussed. And furious. Hell, yes, it was a generous offer! Who did Murdock think he was to decline? It had never occurred to him that Jake wouldn’t jump at the prospect.
Not understanding people’s apparent need to forge bonds with friends and family, Roger was left at a loss over Jake’s refusal. His wishes were supposed to be instantly gratified. It was his right. Enraged, but unable to express it, he made polite conversation for another few minutes before taking his leave. His brain, however, worked at a fever pitch.
By the time he turned his buggy onto the county road and clicked at the horses to pick up their pace, he was already turning ideas over in his mind, looking for an alternate means to achieve his goal.