Heart Of The Lawman. Linda Castle
of throat.
Smoky topaz and diamond earbobs with a necklace to match.
In a voice colder than the grave, Victoria had read the inventory of missing jewelry at the trial. Marydyth had sat silent, never denying her guilt, never defending herself. But now Flynn had the nagging question at the back of his mind. The letter that was signed “Uncle Blaine” mentioned that jewelry, even went so far as to talk about J.C. giving it to him as some sort of payoff.
But why wouldn’t Marydyth have mentioned that? Even when Flynn brought in the old Wanted posters and they spoke of a man she had been seen traveling with, she never said a word about having an uncle.
Why wouldn’t she have fought for her innocence?
“Who is that lady?” Rachel whispered.
Flynn jerked himself away from the memory of the trial. He searched his mind and his heart. If he told Rachel she was staring at a likeness of her mother it would open a floodgate of questions, questions he didn’t want to have to answer. It would be even worse than the other night.
If you don’t tell her it will be the same as lying, his prickly conscience accused. You’ll be no better than Victoria.
Flynn tightened his jaw against the thought. He grasped Rachel’s pointy little chin and tipped her face up. Trust glowed in eyes the exact shade of the ones that silently watched him from the painting.
Flynn O’Bannion had the power to give Rachel a piece of her past. But his mouth grew thick when he thought about what he was about to do.
He could change her life. But was it fair to tell her the portrait was of her mother and then turn around and leave it and all of Rachel’s questions like discarded furniture in the attic? If he told her about the painting, then wouldn’t he have to tell her more?
Could he ignore the letter in his pocket and leave Marydyth behind those thick walls of Yuma when Rachel needed her so much?
The confession wasn’t so vague; in fact, now that he thought about it, it was plain as day. Marydyth had an uncle named Blaine, and he had her missing jewelry. He killed her first husband and then had come to Hollenbeck Corners and killed again. It was not so hard to follow.
It might’ve happened that way. I can believe it happened that way for Rachel.
“That’s a painting of Marydyth Hollenbeck, sweetheart. That is your mother.”
Night sounds filled the Spartan cell. Marydyth had been unable to sleep even though her body cried out for rest. She had been plagued by thoughts of Rachel—plagued and comforted.
She turned over on the cot and put her face toward the wall. If she tried real hard and concentrated with all her might, she could almost feel the texture of Rachel’s satiny skin beneath her fingers. She did it now, ignored all that surrounded her and thought only of Rachel. Her sweet blue eyes, her soft downy cheeks, the way a little dimple appeared when she giggled.
Suddenly rough hands jerked Marydyth around, and she raised her hands to protect herself. As she struggled, the moonlight coming through, she felt the edge of a blade.
The complicated machinery started to turn right after Flynn met with the territorial governor. He had moved as quickly as he could, but he had been careful to make sure that nobody knew what he was doing.
He didn’t want to see the Hollenbeck name dragged through the newspapers again. And he intended to talk to Marydyth first.
Prison changed people and he wanted to make sure that the woman coming out of Yuma had the same kind of affection for Rachel as the one that went in.
Marydyth was innocent, the indicting voice of his conscience kept reminding him.
He shook his head, not allowing himself to dwell on that too long. Flynn could not change the past, but he was doing everything he could to change the future—Rachel’s future.
Protecting Rachel was his only thought. She deserved to meet her mother under the best of circumstances. He made arrangements for Rachel to stay with Victoria, under the care of her nurse and housekeeper, so he could ride to Tombstone to meet Marydyth to make certain the woman would be good for Rachel. He wanted to have a talk with her first, to prepare her for the changes that had taken place while she was gone and the way things would have to be for the future.
It wasn’t a chore he was looking forward to.
Marydyth dragged her hand across her forehead to wipe away some of the sweat. Her dry throat begged for water, but it was hours until the guard would ring the watering bell. Until then she was expected to toil in the inferno of the prison laundry silently.
Or else suffer the consequences.
A strand of her short, jaggedly cut hair fell into her eyes. She impatiently nudged at it with the back of her wrist, breaking her rhythm on the washboard for only a second. When she thought of the horror of her hair being sliced away by that wicked blade, a hot burning pain constricted her throat.
She had thought she was going to die that night.
Had been sure that her throat would be the next target of the blade. But the poor demented woman who attacked her had only wanted the blond curls. After she had them in her trembling hands she had shrunk against the adobe wall, cackling and mumbling incoherently. Marydyth had felt nothing but pity for her when the guards came to drag her away.
Marydyth shoved away the soft thoughts and rubbed the cloth hard against the cake of strong lye soap, then she dipped it and repeated the process. Steam rose from the water. Her flesh burned as she washed the garment.
She had no more pity for the woman—or for herself. It was not something she could afford to have in here.
Pain was not a sensation she responded to any longer either. Her fingers bled in spots while she rubbed the fabric along the perforated ridges of the scrub board, then rinsed it in the scalding water. Doing the prison laundry was considered a privilege by the committees and people who came to visit the facility, but in truth it was like toiling in the humid bowels of hell.
Marydyth’s stomach growled. She wondered what time it was. In the dim confines of adobe walls five and half feet thick there was no way of knowing. Being inside Yuma was like being entombed alive. She felt as if she had been swallowed by the earth. There was no light, no air.
And no way out—ever.
She bit her lip. Only by concentrating on the repetitious task in front of her was she able to slow the pace of her pounding heart. A drop of sweat dripped from the end of her nose. She watched it fall on the stone floor beside her foot, wetting the dust for a moment before it dried away.
Today the heat was searing but tonight when the sun went down the prison would turn freezing cold. She would shiver in her bunk with the thin blanket pulled up to her chin and she would dream.
Her life had settled into a routine of suffering. The only thing that kept her from taking her own life to end the torment of this place was the memory of her beautiful child.
Rachel.
She whispered the name aloud, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice. A smile tugged at her dry lips causing them to crack and sting.
She didn’t care. Thinking of Rachel was like having enough to eat and drink. It was like being clean, and not lying awake in terrorized exhaustion, waiting for a dirty guard to come or another prisoner to hack off her hair.
Rachel was the only bright spot in Marydyth’s existence.
She clung to the hope that God might take pity upon her and let her see Rachel again someday.
Hadn’t she paid enough for her crime? Wasn’t the time she had missed with Rachel enough to pay for what she had done?
Marydyth