The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,62
forward to the horseback ride to town. However, he was anxious to clear up the misunderstanding about what happened at Phantom Springs and convince Hobbs to reopen the investigation deemed an accident two years earlier. Quin was convinced his parents’ wreck was more than an accident. Naturally, Hobbs wasn’t enthusiastic about reviewing the case and risking speculation that he hadn’t done his job right the first time.
Quin wondered if the guilty party responsible for the deaths of his parents might have consisted of four outlaws who wiped away their tracks after the wagon plummeted over the edge of the cliff. They might have stolen money and supplies without the Cahills being aware. Quin had no clue how much money his parents had carried with them to Wolf Grove. Plus, Quin had never itemized the supplies to determine if the receipt of purchased goods matched the items carted away from the wreckage.
Quin had been too busy planning a double funeral and suffering from overwhelming grief, guilt and torment. Not to mention the distraction and anguish he had suffered when his family walked out when he had needed them most. He had been too upset to ask the right questions about the accident.
Quin glanced down at Boston, who knelt in front of him to help him with his boots. Only one person had stood up for him, with him and because of him in the past two years, he reminded himself again. It was this feisty, quick-minded firebrand who he was desperate to protect from involvement in this recent murder. If something happened to Boston, Quin could never forgive himself.
Hell, he was having enough trouble forgiving himself for failing his parents, especially now that he suspected they had been victims of an attack he might have prevented if he’d been home as he should have been.
Same as his brothers should have been around to lend a hand that fateful day, he thought resentfully. They were as guilty of neglect as he was and they had been a helluva lot closer to home.
When Boston stood in front of him, Quin’s tormented thoughts trailed off and he grasped her hand to detain her. “Promise me you’ll keep quiet about following me to the springs last night,” he demanded.
“I am not letting you rot in jail,” she stated resolutely. “You need to be home recuperating.”
He squeezed her hand and managed a faint smile as he rose slowly to his feet, then waited for the room to stop spinning around him. “Promise me,” he repeated emphatically. “I’ll never ask anything else of you if you’ll do this, Boston.”
She exhaled audibly, then regarded him from beneath a long fringe of black lashes. Eventually she bobbed her head, causing the thick chestnut-colored braid to ripple over her shoulder. “All right, but you have only one day to convince Marshal Hobbs that he needs to look elsewhere for a murderer.”
“I’m sure I can talk sense into him, man to man, when you aren’t gnawing on his ear and his ankles,” Quin said teasingly.
Boston rolled her eyes as she assisted him across the room. “Men,” she said, then sniffed.
Quin wasn’t sure what that meant but he was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.
By the time Quin reached town, he had a splitting headache. He noticed the crowd gathering around the jail, as if Hobbs had arrested the worst offender on the Most Wanted list. Heavens above! Whoever was spewing gossip to ruin the Cahill reputation and fuel superstitious nonsense about a curse was doing a bang-up job.
Quin growled under his breath when he saw Preston Van Slyck standing in front of the bank, wearing a ridiculing smile. Whether or not that bastard had anything to do with the would-be informant’s death, he was enjoying Quin’s public humiliation.
Just as Preston had delighted in spreading scandal about Leanna at the party. Damn him.
Somebody should string up Preston Van Slyck on general principles, Quin mused as he dismounted—and clung to his horse for support. Preston was a womanizer of the worst sort and a sorry excuse for a man. Yep, thought Quin, that “gentleman” deserved to be the honored guest at a necktie party. Unfortunately, Quin was the one under arrest for murder and facing the possibility of a lynching.
He grimaced when he met the accusing stares of townsfolk who apparently had been swayed by gossip. The public consensus was that he deserved to suffer. He wondered if folks would be mollified if they knew how lousy he felt already.
“Come on, Cahill,” Marshal