Carol Cox Read online

  Melanie looked around as she let the Professor’s words sink in. “Where will the service be held? I’ve walked all around town, and I haven’t seen a church.”

  A dry chuckle rose from the Professor’s throat. “When the circuit preacher comes to town, we hold services in the mercantile.” He chuckled again at her look of surprise. “It’s something George and Alvin instituted when they came to Cedar Ridge. It is a common practice in western towns, as odd as it may seem to someone fresh from the East.”

  Melanie caught her breath. “And the only services for that poor man will be held out at the cemetery?”

  The Professor nodded. “That, too, is common out west, especially when the person in question doesn’t have any family in the area.”

  Melanie latched onto the Professor’s assurance as the only bright spot of news she’d heard that morning. Bad enough to think of the stranger being murdered right under her window. She couldn’t have borne seeing his body laid out inside the mercantile.

  12

  The next Sunday, Melanie fidgeted on the rough wooden bench, more intent on relieving her discomfort than on listening to the low hum of conversation filling the mercantile. All her life, she had heard people talk about feeling as crowded as sardines packed in a tin. Now she understood exactly what that meant. She couldn’t move more than a fraction of an inch without bumping Mrs. Fetterman on her right or Levi on her left.

  Mrs. Fetterman’s sturdy figure blocked Melanie’s view farther along the bench on that side, but she could see Caleb’s solemn face on the other side of Levi, and Dan Crawford, the saddlemaker, sitting beyond him. Up front, she spotted Mrs. Pike and her husband, the mayor. The Professor sat in the row just ahead, along with Andrew Bingham, Micah Rawlins, and Rafe Sutton, the scraggly-bearded freighter.

  She looked in vain to find Will Blake, then remembered him mentioning he had to take care of some business over at the county seat. The ride to Prescott and back would take the better part of three days, so she couldn’t expect to see him back yet. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Will’s presence would have been a comfort on this sad day.

  Across the aisle, she saw the scrawny figure of Thomas O’Shea, owner of the emporium. He turned at that moment and their eyes locked. O’Shea drew his brows together in a fierce scowl, then swiveled around to face the front again.

  Melanie caught her breath at the show of animosity and dropped her gaze to the floor. When she recovered her composure, she went back to scanning the benches, careful to avoid the area where O’Shea sat, his back rigid.

  She met the glances of several of the area’s single men, some of whom had already offered proposals of marriage. She let her gaze slide away from theirs, grateful that none of them seemed to be focused on continuing their amorous pursuits now that the mercantile had been transformed into a church. It was not a day to have to worry about fending off would-be suitors.

  The rest of the benches were filled by an array of people whose names she didn’t know. Who would have thought there could still be so many people in the area she hadn’t met yet, and that they all could fit into the mercantile at the same time? The transformation from store to sanctuary had been remarkable. Three men had walked in the door at closing time the previous evening, ready to help Caleb set up. It was clear they had done this before, needing no direction in pushing all the stacks of merchandise—including the tables holding her new displays—back against the walls, leaving the center area open. From the wagon one of them backed up in front of the store, they produced a number of crude benches and set them up in rows.

  They worked steadily, leaving little for Melanie to do, other than hover over her displays like a mother hen protecting her chicks. After a while, she found herself standing off to one side, reduced to the role of onlooker, feeling out of place, as though she didn’t belong. Not unwanted—the way those horrid anonymous notes made her feel—but unnecessary. And that was almost as difficult to bear.

  She shifted as much as she could in the confined space. The benches had not been made for comfort. Her backside already felt numb, and the service hadn’t even started. As if in tune with her thoughts, Levi squirmed beside her. Melanie quieted him with a finger to her lips, although she understood exactly how he felt.

  The murmurs died down as Pastor James Dunstan rose from his seat on the first row and stepped to the front. Melanie had met him when he’d ridden into town the night before. A lanky man with features weathered from riding back and forth across the harsh Arizona terrain, he seemed like one who would be more at home behind a plow than a pulpit. His voice was surprisingly gentle, in contrast to his rugged appearance, although it was strong enough to carry throughout the building.

  “Friends, I know disturbing events have occurred here since we last worshiped together. Circumstances like this can shake the foundations of our faith and show us what we truly believe. In the book of Matthew, our Lord says that we must build our foundation on the rock, so that our house will be able to withstand whatever storms may come.”

  While he spoke, Melanie scanned the crowd as well as she could from her cramped position, wondering if all these people typically turned out for one of the circuit rider’s services, or if a greater number than usual had come that morning to draw comfort after the killing.

  Beside her, Levi stirred again. Melanie quelled him with a pointed look, then glanced over at Caleb, wondering why he wasn’t dealing with the distraction his son was creating. His eyes were fixed on a point at the front of the store, but he looked as though his thoughts were miles away from the service and the preacher’s words.

  What could he be thinking about? Melanie wondered if his thoughts, like hers, had strayed to the puzzle of the murdered stranger. Only the day before the marshal had told them the man’s identity was still a mystery. The only clue that had turned up so far was a horse left at the livery stable on the night of the murder. Micah Rawlins had been in the Silver Moon Saloon at the time, so he hadn’t seen the man and didn’t know his name or anything about him.

  Chiding herself for letting her attention stray, Melanie turned her focus back to Pastor Dunstan.

  “He is our Rock,” the preacher was saying. “And He is big enough for us to trust with everything—our hopes, our labors, and our fears. Please bow your heads with me while we pray.”

  After the final amen, the pastor raised his head and looked out over the crowded room. “I hope you’ll all proceed now to the cemetery and join me in laying our unknown brother to rest.”

  The congregation rose and started to file out. Beside Melanie, Mrs. Fetterman dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “That poor soul. Imagine dying all alone, far from home and unknown, buried in a grave that won’t even bear a name.”

  Unable to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, Melanie could only nod and walk beside Mrs. Fetterman. Outside, it looked as though the whole congregation had taken the preacher’s urging to heart and joined him in following the route Melanie had taken on her walk through town. Once they reached the south end of Lincoln Street, the crowd turned left, circling the scattered buildings that lay beyond, and followed the rough, rock-bordered path that led from town to the top of a low cedar-studded hill.

  At the edge of the path, Levi leaped from one rock to another. Melanie frowned and looked around for Caleb, finally spotting him some distance ahead, deep in conversation with Dan Crawford. Reaching out, Melanie caught Levi’s hand and held it fast. After a tentative tug, which got him nowhere, the boy settled down and walked along beside her.

  They joined the rest of the group in forming a circle around the rim of the hill, surrounding the open area where headstones and simple crosses marked the final resting places of a dozen or more departed souls.

  On the other side of the circle, Melanie watched Caleb glance around and saw a furrow appear between his brows. When he spotted Levi standing next to her, he gave her a brief, relieved smile and remained where he was.

  Pastor Dunstan opened his wel
l-worn Bible and lifted his head toward the heavens, as if speaking to one whose presence was evident. “Father, while this man is a stranger to us, he is known to you. You have watched his life on this earth unfold in its entirety. We are gathered together today in your name to acknowledge that every life is precious, and we commend his spirit to your keeping.”

  Lowering his gaze, he smiled at those gathered before him. “Moses wrote a psalm that speaks of the brevity of life. On an occasion like this, it seems especially appropriate.”

  Looking down, he began to read: “‘Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.’”

  Melanie closed her eyes, the better to focus on the words penned so long ago.

  “‘The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years . . .’”

  Melanie’s throat tightened. The stranger’s life hadn’t lasted anywhere near threescore and ten years. How old had he been? Probably little more than fifty. Old enough to have a wife, maybe even a family of grown children somewhere. But not nearly old enough to say he’d experienced the joy of growing old with his wife beside him. A silence followed, and she opened her eyes again.

  Pastor Dunstan closed his Bible. “God knows the number of our days, and He tells us to be prepared for the time they will end and we step into His presence. This man”—he gestured toward the mound of fresh-turned earth at his feet—“didn’t expect his life to end so abruptly . . . and in a place where he was alone and unknown.”

  He scanned the assembled group as if he were looking into each face there and reading each one’s heart. “None of us know when we will face that day of judgment. Let me urge you in the strongest terms to make sure you are ready for that day, whenever it may come.” He paused, then added, “Thank you for joining me here. This concludes the service.”

  Levi slipped his hand free and scampered over to his father, who smiled and gave Melanie a nod of thanks. The crowd began to disperse, with people breaking into small groups and talking among themselves. Melanie looked around, wishing she had someone to share the moment with.

  “You thought you were pretty clever, didn’t you, Miss Ross?”

  Melanie whirled upon hearing the voice at her elbow and came face-to-face with Thomas O’Shea.

  His eyes glittered with undisguised malice. “Coming into my store like that, never saying a word about who you were or what you were doing there.”

  “Why, I . . .” Melanie sputtered. She looked around, hoping to see a friendly face coming to her rescue, but no one seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to her.

  O’Shea waved a bony finger under her nose. “Sneaking and prying around like that! If that’s the way you want it, fine. Two can play that game.”

  With that, he turned and stalked away, leaving Melanie standing wide-eyed and short of breath. Apparently, her ploy to scout out the other store in town hadn’t been so clever, after all. Berating herself for her ill-conceived plan, she started back toward the path leading to town.

  A sudden thought halted her in her tracks, and she turned to stare at O’Shea’s retreating back. The owner of the emporium knew who she was—had known it all along—and was clearly angry at what he perceived as an attempt to spy on him.

  “Two can play that game.” What had he meant by that? Was O’Shea the one who had sawn the ladder rung nearly in two, knowing it would only be a matter of time before either she or Caleb stepped on it and might be injured?

  Melanie shook her head. She would have noticed Thomas O’Shea if he came into the mercantile, and she’d never seen him there.

  But he might have sent an emissary sneaking around to do the deed for him. Melanie’s chest tightened, and she forced herself to breathe. Was that the way it had happened? There was no way to know for certain, but she promised herself she would be more watchful from now on. Once again she turned her steps toward town.

  A stone marker several yards away caught her eye, and she moved closer, bending to trace the name with her fingertips: George Martin Ross. Tears stung her eyes, and she dashed them away. So this was Cousin George’s final resting place, the spot where his body would lie until the resurrection. Next to his grave, she spotted another marker, this one belonging to Alvin Nelson. The tears came again, along with a watery smile this time. Cousin George wasn’t resting alone. He had his treasured friend beside him, his partner throughout his life’s adventures.

  And who did she have?

  The thought caught her up short, but then she smiled, remembering the preacher’s words. She had the Lord. He was her foundation, and that was enough. Setting aside the temptation to be drawn into self-pity, she began to make her way back down the hill alone. As she walked, snatches of conversation drifted her way.

  “Such a sad thing, coming here, only to be killed.”

  “Who do you think he was?”

  “Nobody knows, not even the marshal.”

  “Well then, who do you think did it?”

  “I’m thinking it must have been someone he was traveling with. Maybe they got into an argument and his friend bashed him over the head.”

  Melanie quickened her pace. She’d had enough of thinking about the stranger’s untimely demise for one day. Or any number of days.

  But her mind refused to focus on anything else, fretting over the scrap of conversation she’d just overheard like a terrier gnawing on a bone. Could there be something to the idle speculation? Was the killer another stranger just passing through Cedar Ridge . . . or could he be someone local?

  Her steps lagged, and she turned to look back at the scattered group with a fresh awareness, wondering if the murderer could be standing right before her eyes, a familiar face in the place she was beginning to think of as home.

  13

  What about this one, dear?” Mrs. Fetterman plucked a tall, slender box with gold lettering off the shelf and held it out to Melanie.

  Melanie scanned the box and shook her head. “This is Scott’s Nerv-O-Sol. The label says it’s a speedy and reliable remedy for headache and neuralgia.”

  Mrs. Fetterman sighed and went back to browsing the shelves.

  Melanie pressed her fingers against her right temple. Shaking her head had been a mistake. It had been throbbing all afternoon, and the quick movement only made it worse.

  Glancing at the front window, she took note of the sun’s position. After their initial clash over the curtains, she and Caleb had reached a compromise. The curtains could remain in place—as long as they were tied back during the day to allow passersby to view the store’s interior. Melanie had dug her heels in at first, but it proved to be one issue on which Caleb steadfastly refused to budge. Now she grudgingly admitted his plan was an improvement, allowing sunlight to stream inside the store—and show off their wares to better advantage—while maintaining the pleasing appearance she’d been striving for. Not that she would ever admit that to him.

  Judging from the length of the shadows outside, she had another two hours to go before she could set the Closed sign in the window.

  She turned her attention back to the selection of patent remedies—now set well away from the veterinary supplies—and perused the shelves. “Look at this one.” She selected a brown bottle with a black label. “Dr. White’s Dandelion Alterative, the great liver corrector, blood purifier, and tonic.”

  Another nostrum caught her eye. “H. H. Warner & Co. Safe Cure, beneficial for the liver and kidneys. Either of these might be helpful. What do you think?” She handed both bottles over for Mrs. Fetterman’s inspection, although she doubted whether the other woman could see more than the largest print at the top of the labels. While the older woman turned the bottles this way and that, Melanie closed her eyes and massaged her temple again.

  Mrs. Fetterman clucked like a setting hen. “Are you feeling all right, dearie? You look lik
e you might need one of these tonics yourself.”

  “I have a bit of a headache—that’s all.” Melanie summoned a weary smile. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

  Mrs. Fetterman cocked her head like a curious sparrow.

  “Would you like to look through the catalogs with me some day and see if we can find a better pair of spectacles for you? I don’t mind reading labels to you at all, but I hate to think of you missing out on all the other things you would be able to see.”

  “What a lovely idea!” Mrs. Fetterman clapped her hands. “Do you really think a change of spectacles might improve my vision?”

  A man dressed in a bowler hat and a herringbone suit walked toward them, and Melanie shied like a frightened colt, relaxing only when he passed them without a second glance and continued on to the counter where Caleb stood tending their other customers.

  Mrs. Fetterman’s forehead puckered. “Are you sure it’s just a headache? You seem a bit on edge.”

  “I thought he was going to propose.”

  The crease between Mrs. Fetterman’s brows deepened. Melanie tried to brush off the other woman’s concern with a laugh. “I know that must sound vain, but it keeps on happening, over and over again. You were here the first time. Remember?”

  “How could I forget?” Mrs. Fetterman’s face lost its frown, and her pale blue eyes danced. “The way Dooley Hatcher leaped over that crate of washboards was a sight to behold.” She cocked her head and peered up at Melanie. “And you say that hasn’t been the only time?”

  “Far from it!” Melanie wailed. “It’s been going on since I arrived.”

  Mrs. Fetterman waved her hand. “That isn’t unusual when a good-looking woman like you moves into the area. With such a shortage of eligible ladies, a few proposals are to be expected.”

  Melanie shook her head. “I might be able to understand a few, but this has been happening almost nonstop. . . . In fact, it seems to have gotten worse, especially over the past week or so. Miners, cowboys, even some soldiers from Fort Verde—all men I’ve never seen before! It’s like watching bees swarm out of a hive. I can’t imagine what I might have done to encourage this.”