The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,66
man’s back. A stab wound. But there was no dagger in sight. Van had taught Natalie well, hadn’t he? He was surprised she hadn’t left his bowie knife at the scene of the murder to throw suspicion on him.
“Good God,” Bart muttered when Van rolled the dandy onto his back to get a better look at his expensive jacket, cravat and fashionable breeches. The corpse’s light blond hair was filled with straw. His skin was pale, as if he rarely ventured into the sunlight. His hands didn’t have a callus anywhere to be found and his green eyes stared sightlessly into the darkness.
“He looks like the tenderfoot I used to be when I first arrived in Texas from Boston,” Bart remarked.
“You never looked this prissy,” Van insisted.
“Thanks. I’d like to think not. Still, this man doesn’t fit into this rowdy town at all.”
“He won’t have to fret about looking out of place anymore,” Van murmured after he checked for a pulse in the man’s neck—and found none. “This tailored suit will be fine where he’s going.”
“Is he carrying identification?” Bart asked.
Van dug into his pants pockets to find them empty. “He’s been robbed.” He fished into the pocket of the brocade vest to retrieve an engraved pocket watch. “Well, hell. It’s Thurston Kimball III. He’s in no condition to give us a physical description of the real Natalie Blair. How inconvenient.”
Did Natalie think he wouldn’t incarcerate his own wife for theft and murder? Had she played him for a fool from the very beginning? He swore every action and every comment had been designed specifically to lend credence to her convincing performance.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bart said. “But you could be wrong. This could have been self-defense—”
“A stab in the back with my missing knife?” Van scoffed.
“Someone other than Nat might be involved,” Bart went on quickly. “Maybe robbery was the sole intent and Kimball fought back then turned to run.”
“And maybe pigs fly in Boston, Bartholomew, but they sure as hell don’t in Texas,” Van muttered sarcastically. “Go fetch the city marshal, will you? Jed Dawson has sleeping quarters in the back of his office.”
Bart lurched around and jogged off. Van rose from a crouch to stare at the sophisticated and stylishly dressed Thurston Kimball III. He doubted the man had known what hit him until it was too late. Kimball probably wished he had never become entangled with the dark-eyed beauty that had flitted off into the night.
“You should be thankful I married her before you did,” he told Kimball, though the man was long past listening. “Avoiding wedlock didn’t save you, though, did it? Wonder what wedlock has in store for me?”
Grimly, Van strode off to fetch the livery owner from his quarters to rent a horse for Bart to ride. By the time Bart and Marshal Dawson arrived, Van had saddled Durango and the rented sorrel.
“Any idea who did this?” Dawson hiked up his sagging breeches while he stood over the body. “Wonder if the two men who robbed the stagecoach in no-man’s-land last week hit town to prey on a few more victims.”
“I don’t have a clue,” Van lied so Bart didn’t have to. “Bart and I have an errand to run at a nearby ranch.” That sounded plausible, didn’t it? “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
Dawson arched his thick brows. “You taking a job with one of the ranchers hereabout? They are having fits with trail herders who help themselves to a few calves to take along to sell for extra profit to the meat buyers in Dodge City. Not to mention the report of a few horses being stolen lately.”
“I’m thinking of looking into the situation,” Van mumbled evasively. “Can’t say if I’ll be interested in taking the assignment or not.”
“I sent word to the Rangers about those two stagecoach robbers. But if you come across those bandits, bring them in. The stage line is offering a reward. It’s all yours if you capture them, Crow.”
Van had no interest in doing the Rangers a favor, or capturing the thieves or collecting the reward. All he wanted was to track down Natalie—pronto.
Dawson stared at the sprawled body, heaved a sigh, then pivoted on his heels. “I’ll fetch someone to help me haul this departed soul to the undertaker.”
When the marshal exited, Van and Bart led the horses outside to mount up.
Bart settled himself in the saddle then glanced curiously at Van. “Do you have any idea which way Nat might have gone?”