Salvation in the Rancher's Arms(9)
“I take it whoever he planned on shooting was a faster draw.”
Caleb nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Who?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Do you know the name of the man who shot my husband?”
He debated lying. Nothing good could come of this. But, she had asked him for the truth and again, he felt compelled to give it. “A man by the name of Sinjin Drake.”
“What happened to him?”
Caleb arched an eyebrow. “Drake?”
“Yes. Did they...did they hang him?” Her bottom lip quivered, the first breach in the stone wall she had built around her emotions. She pulled the errant lip into her mouth catching it with her teeth.
“No. They said the shooting was self-defense.”
“Was it?”
Caleb shrugged, wishing she would let it go. It did her no good to hear this. And it did him no good to tell it.
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood floor. Caleb rose to his feet.
“I thank you for your time, Mr. Beckett. For bringing my husband’s body home—” her hands fisted together in front of her until he could see the white of her knuckles “—and for telling me the truth.”
He said nothing.
“Will you be staying in town long?”
He wasn’t sure why she asked. Politeness perhaps. Although she had risen to leave, she now seemed uncertain of where to go or what to do.
“Unlikely.”
She gave a curt nod. “Well then...I should—”
“There’s another matter I need to speak to you about.”
Confusion flitted across her features. “Another matter?” Then it cleared and realization dawned in her eyes. “Oh. Oh, of course. You wish payment for—” She let out a small laugh and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “How stupid of me.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t expect payment.” He wished she would sit down. She was looking paler by the minute and what he had to tell her was not going to improve matters. “Please.” He motioned to the chair.
She waved him off. “If you don’t expect payment, then forgive me, but I see nothing else we would have to discuss.”
Lord help him, but there was no easy way to do this other than telling her straight out. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the folded papers. He set them on the table and slid them toward her.
Rachel stared down at the folded papers, her heart pounding. She reached out a tentative hand and picked them up, unfolding them with deliberate slowness. The words swam before her eyes and a strange buzzing rang in her ears. This wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be.
“He put your land up as collateral.”
Except it was.
“It appears I’m the new owner of the Circle S ranch.”
The room swayed and tipped and swerved.
“Ma’am?”
Mr. Beckett sounded far away. She tried to find him, but it was hard to keep her eyes focused. She couldn’t catch her breath. Why couldn’t she catch her breath? Blackness encroached at the corners of her eyes and her legs turned weightless.
“Ma’am?”
Something scraped loudly across the floor. A blur passed before her eyes before something solid enveloped her.
Then there was nothing.
Chapter Three
Caleb shoved the table out of his way. The coffee cup crashed to the floor, rendering the chip in the rim redundant as pieces scattered across the hardwood. He caught Mrs. Sutter under the arms and hauled her against his chest, but the impact was not enough to revive her.
“Aw, hell.”
He scooped her into his arms and headed for the lobby, ignoring the gaping stares of the waitress and the sorry excuse for a chef who lumbered out from the kitchen, a stunned expression on his face and a dripping ladle in his hand.
Caleb took it all in with one sweeping motion, sizing up the situation and ruling both of them out as able to offer assistance. The pimply faced boy behind the front desk, with his wide-eyed expression, didn’t fit the bill either.
What was he supposed to do now? It served him right. He had watched her growing paler, noticed the way she wavered. He’d offered her food, such as it was here, and tried to get her to sit down. When she didn’t, he should have stopped. She’d been through enough today. His news could have waited. He could have waited.
“Sir! Sir!” The boy jumped out from behind the counter and ran up the stairs behind Caleb, slipping in front of him as he reached the first floor landing.
“Out of my way,” Caleb snarled. He was in no mood to be polite. This day—heck, this week—had gone from bad, to worse, to downright catastrophic. “You want to make yourself useful go get the doc and send him to my room.”