Johnston - I Promise Page 10

  But not that day. In fact, Marsh was out of jail in less than four hours. An advantage, he supposed, of being arrested early in the day. Cyrus surprised him by paying his bail. Maybe the old man cared a little for him after all, he thought. He thanked him on the drive home.

  “Couldn’t afford to leave you in jail,” his father replied. “Need you to get the chores done around the place.”

  Marsh swallowed that bitter pill along with the others he had been served over his lifetime. Whatever his father’s reason, he was grateful he hadn’t been left to languish in jail.

  That evening, when Marsh went to the hospital to see Delia, he learned Sheriff Davis had been right about one thing. The town had already convicted him. He got some downright nasty looks from people in the waiting room who recognized him.

  The nurse wouldn’t let him see Delia because her mother was with her.

  “When do you think I could see her?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

  “Mr. North,” the nurse called after him.

  He turned to look at her.

  “I think what you did was despicable. If it was up to me, they would never have let you out of jail.”

  It doesn’t matter what anybody thinks. I know I’m innocent. And so does Delia.

  Only it did matter. Because he had to live here. He was a rancher, and he couldn’t pick up his land and move it somewhere else. But there was no way Delia could tell the complete truth, not without making it impossible for her ever to live here with him.

  He had almost reached the second set of automatic glass hospital doors when they opened and Ray John Carson stepped inside.

  Marsh threw himself at the man headlong. “You bastard! You sonofabitch!”

  His attack caught the other man by surprise, and he went down under Marsh’s weight. Marsh clamped his hands around Ray John’s throat and squeezed. Ray John’s eyes were bulging by the time rough hands pulled Marsh away.

  “Are you plumb crazy?” Ray John gasped, his hands gripping his mangled throat. “You could have killed me.”

  “I wish I had!” Marsh raged. “I wish you were dead. I’d like to kill you myself.”

  “What did I—?”

  Marsh kept his eyes locked with Ray John’s and saw when the other man realized he knew the truth. Fear flashed. And defiant anger.

  “Call the sheriff,” someone shouted. “Tell him the North boy is making trouble again.”

  “No,” Ray John said. “Let him go. This is purely personal. The kid and I can settle this between us.”

  Marsh sneered. Naturally Ray John didn’t want the cops involved. The truth might come out. He yanked himself free of the arms holding him captive and backed his way toward the door. “We’ll meet again,” he said.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Ray John replied.

  Marsh left before he did something else stupid. Like bash the oily smile off Ray John Carson’s face.

  Chapter Seven

  Delia sat bolt upright in bed. The sound of a gunshot reverberated in her head. Sweat bathed her body. Her heart pounded in her chest. She had done it. She had finally killed Ray John Carson. She darted a glance at the pillow beside her. Even in the faint light of dawn she could see it was pristine white.

  She dropped her head in her hands and groaned. It was the dream again. The same awful, wonderful, vengeful dream that had come every night in the week since her father had insisted—over her mother’s vehement refusal—that she be allowed to come home to the Circle Crown after her brief stay in the hospital.

  She had called Peggy the first chance she got and discovered that Marsh was out of jail, if not out of trouble. She hadn’t seen him, and wasn’t sure she wanted to see him. Not after everything that had happened.

  She had lost the baby.

  Delia felt empty inside. Bereft. Even though she hadn’t wanted the baby. Even though she had wished it away a thousand times before it was gone. She didn’t understand her grief, she only knew it weighed on her.

  Like her refusal to see Marsh at the hospital.

  She couldn’t face him yet. It was her fault he was in so much trouble. She knew Marsh had seen the panic in her eyes the day of the accident and responded to it. In her weakened state, she hadn’t been able to make the sheriff understand that Marsh hadn’t done anything wrong. She loved Marsh more than ever for what he had done. But she couldn’t face him again until she had gone to Sheriff Davis and made things right. She planned to do it before Marsh had to go before a judge again.

  Which meant today. Or tomorrow.

  A bloodcurdling scream resounded up the stairs, raising the hair on Delia’s arms and nape.

  She scrambled from her bed. That was no dream!

  The screaming continued. Chilling. Macabre.

  It stopped abruptly.

  Delia flung her door open, expecting to see Rachel in the doorway across the hall. Rachel’s door stood open. Her bed was empty.

  “Rachel?” Delia shouted as she raced toward the stairs. “Rachel!” She met her mother at the top of the stairs.

  “Was that Rachel screaming?” Hattie asked, as they ran down together.

  “She wasn’t in her room.” Delia caught the newel post and swung herself around toward the source of the sound. She stopped short in the doorway to her father’s gun room.

  His blood and brains spattered the papered wall.

  Rachel stood at his side, her eyes shining white around enlarged black pupils, one hand fisted on the walnut butt of Ray John’s favorite Colt .45. Her mouth hung open as though to scream.

  No sound was coming out.

  Daddy is dead. Rachel shot Daddy.

  A tremor of joy and horror rolled through Delia. Followed by guilt and shame. Her younger sister had done what she had not had the courage to do herself.

  Delia felt her mother brush past her.

  “God. Oh, God.” Hattie grabbed Rachel’s arm and yanked her around so she faced away from the carnage, then tore the gun from Rachel’s iron grip and threw it onto the desk. “What have you done?” she demanded furiously. “You fool! You damned little fool!”

  She shook Rachel violently, until her head snapped back and forth.

  “Stop it!” Delia cried, rushing to her sister’s side. She pulled at her mother’s arm, trying to break her grasp on Rachel. She finally managed to separate the two and wrapped her arms protectively around her sister.

  Her mother stood facing her, silvery blue eyes narrowed and cold as ice, her body quivering.

  “It isn’t her fault!” Delia snarled. “I told you what he was doing to her. To both of us. But you wouldn’t believe me. Now look what’s happened!”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Rachel said.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Hattie said. She turned reluctantly to look at the remains of Ray John Carson and quickly looked away. “It was an accident. Ray John was cleaning his gun and accidentally shot himself.” She frowned and said, “Or it might have been suicide. I had asked for a divorce, and Ray John was upset about it.”

  Delia stared at her mother openmouthed. “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Ask Daddy for a divorce?”

  “It doesn’t much matter now, does it?” Hattie said.

  Delia had never seen her mother cry, had never even seen tears in her eyes before. But one spilled onto her mother’s cheek and slid down her face.

  Delia’s throat ached. She wished she could cry. But she felt no sorrow, only horror. And relief.

  Hattie swiped at her eyes with her fingertips and wiped the resultant tears on her jeans. A moment later she was back in command of herself and the situation.

  “I’ll call Sheriff Davis,” Hattie said. “Delia, you take Rachel upstairs and put her back to bed. Stay with her. Don’t leave her alone.”

  Hattie stopped them before they could leave the room. She put her hand under Rachel’s chin and lifted it to look into her ey
es. ''I’m going to tell the sheriff you came down here after you heard the gunshot and found your father dead. You saw the gun on the desk and picked it up.”

  “On the floor,” Rachel corrected.

  “All right, on the floor. That is all you will tell the sheriff, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Sheriff Davis arrived with his county patrol car lights flashing and siren blaring. He was followed by Fire Rescue and more police and a crowd of gawkers who had heard the call on their police scanners or through the CB radio network.

  Delia sat beside Rachel on her bed and kept her arms around her sister the whole time Sheriff Davis questioned her. She felt Rachel trembling with fear, but she didn’t incriminate herself in any way. The sheriff had no inkling she had murdered their father.

  Her mother escorted the sheriff from the room, and Delia sat holding her sister, needing as much comfort as she had to offer.

  “I didn’t do it, Delia,” Rachel whispered. “I swear I didn’t.”

  Delia felt a clutch somewhere in the region of her heart. Poor Rachel. She couldn’t face what she had done. And who could blame her. Surely the sheriff would conclude Ray John’s death had been a terrible accident. Rachel would be safe then.

  Oh, God! How could she tell the sheriff now that Marsh had not raped her, that her father had been the culprit? No one would believe her father’s death was accidental if they knew the truth about what he had done to his daughters.

  “We’re free, Delia,” Rachel whispered. “Daddy can’t ever hurt us again.”

  Delia looked into her sister’s hazel eyes. Innocence had long since fled them. But she didn’t see guilt, either. She put her arms around her sister and laid her forehead against Rachel’s.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Free.”

  Then why did she feel so trapped?

  Marsh had been sitting in the same chair in the same room at the county sheriff’s office in Uvalde for sixteen hours. He thought this sort of interrogation only happened in the movies. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer because he didn’t think he needed one. Now he was beginning to wonder.

  He glanced up at Sheriff Davis, who was leaning against the wall with his hands folded over his belly. “I told you before,” Marsh said. “I went driving by myself last night in my pickup. I was in my bed sleeping this morning until I went out to feed the stock.”

  “Nobody saw you?”

  “My father was asleep when I got home last night.” Out cold in front of the TV. “He wasn’t awake when I got up this morning.” He hadn’t sobered up yet.

  Marsh’s story hadn’t changed. He didn’t know why Davis kept asking him the same questions.

  “You don’t know anyone—besides yourself—who might want Ray John Carson dead?” Sheriff Davis asked.

  “No one.” Except Delia. He missed her. He needed to talk with her, see her. He was convinced her mother had kept him from seeing her at the hospital. He was anxious for her to get well enough to meet him at the live oak. He knew she would come when she could. He went there every day to wait for her. Except today. He had been in the sheriff’s office all day.

  He wondered how Delia felt about her father’s death. Had it been an accident? Or had she taken revenge for what he had done to her? He wouldn’t blame her if she had. He didn’t think many people would. His own feelings were no secret. He was glad the bastard was dead.

  “There’s someone to see you, sheriff.”

  Sheriff Davis turned to the deputy who had appeared in the doorway to the interrogation room. “Who is it?”

  “I think you better see for yourself,” the deputy said.

  Sheriff Davis turned to Marsh. “You sit there and think about telling me the truth.” Then he left.

  Marsh rose from his seat at a wooden table that held an ashtray full of Sheriff Davis’s Marlboro butts and a Texas Longhorns mug half-filled with cold, milky coffee. He paced the width of the room—four steps across the beige linoleum—then turned and paced the length—five more. He stared at the two-way window, wondering if Sheriff Davis was behind it talking to someone, if they were watching him. He turned his back on it, but there was nothing to look at on the walls except a large black-and-white clock like the ones in schoolrooms that visually ticked off the minutes until you could leave.

  He wondered how much trouble he was really in. The rape charge had been bad enough. He had held some hope—fading as his arraignment hearing loomed—that those charges might get dropped.

  It surprised him that the sheriff had been so persistent in questioning him about Ray John Carson’s death. He had no alibi, but there was no hard evidence to link him to the scene, either. There was no way they could pin Ray John’s death on him. Could they?

  Marsh was leaning against the wall with his legs splayed far in front of him when Sheriff Davis opened the door.

  “You can go now.”

  Marsh stared at him. “What?”

  “You can go.” The sheriff swung his hand toward the hallway. “Get on out of here.”

  Marsh scrambled to get his feet under him. “You’re done questioning me?”

  “You’re in the clear. Ray John Carson committed suicide.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That’s official police business, not yours. Now beat it.”

  Marsh didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed his Stetson from the table and stuck it far back on his head. Whoever the sheriff had spoken with must have given him further information about Ray John’s death, something that had apparently cleared Marsh.

  He glanced at the sheriff. The man was frowning, deep in thought. “Who was it came to see you?” Marsh asked.

  “None of your damn business, boy. Now get on out of here before I arrest you for loiterin’.”

  Marsh was almost out the door when the sheriff put a flat palm against his chest to stop him. “By the way, the rape charges against you have been dropped.”

  A silly grin appeared on Marsh’s face. Delia had come to the rescue, after all. She must have told Sheriff Davis the truth. That also explained why Ray John had committed suicide. Delia must have told Ray John she planned to go to the sheriff. Ray John had killed himself to avoid facing the consequences of his acts.

  Marsh spun around, freeing himself from the sheriff’s restraint, and backed his way out the door. He touched a finger to the brim of his Stetson. “I won’t be seeing you!”

  On his way out, Marsh looked for Delia, but saw no sign of her. He hunted for the young deputy who had come to get Sheriff Davis, to ask him how long Delia had been gone and which direction she had taken. But the deputy wasn’t around, either.

  Marsh let himself out the front door of the sheriff’s office and realized just how long he had been held for questioning.

  It was dark out. A few lightning bugs glowed here and there. It dawned on him he had no way to get home. The sheriff had brought him to town in his county car. He would have to call his father to pick him up. Assuming Cyrus was sober.

  He hated like hell to have to call his father. Cyrus hadn’t even bothered to come to the sheriff’s office. The most his father had done was call to make sure he wasn’t under arrest. Marsh had told him, “No, Dad, they’re just questioning me.”

  “Then get home as soon as Davis is finished with you. There’s a calf chute that needs to be fixed before branding.”

  Sometimes Marsh felt like picking up and leaving. Cyrus sure wouldn’t miss him. Except he would have to hire somebody to do all the work Marsh had been handling. There was nothing keeping him here—except Delia. And in a year she was going away and leaving him behind, perhaps forever.

  You could go with her.

  He felt tethered to the land by past generations of Norths, who were counting on him to make the most of what was there. He was trying. But it was hard to do it all by himself. He had learned enough about the ranch in the past couple of years to know some vast changes would have to be made for it ever to become a profitable enterprise.
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  Maybe the best way to save the land was to go away and make his fortune and then come back and fix things up the way they ought to be. Only, what skill did he have that would earn him a living, let alone make him a fortune?

  He could work as a rigger in the oil fields. There was good money in that. Even better money if he worked in the Middle East. He could do that the years Delia was in college and come back with a nice nest egg. They would have the rest of her senior year in high school to be together before he left, time enough for him to hire and train somebody to help out on the ranch while he was gone.

  With Ray John dead and gone, Delia could have no objection to returning here to live. They could be married when she finished college. She could commute to law school in San Antonio during the week. Maybe everything would turn out all right, after all.

  In the end, he hitchhiked home. Cyrus was sitting in his chair, asleep. The broadcast day was over. The TV was hissing snow.

  He punched the TV off, and the sudden lack of sound woke his father.

  “Wh-a-t? What’re you doing?” Cyrus demanded in a sleep-slurred voice. “Why the hell’d you turn off the TV?”

  “It’s time for bed, Dad.” Marsh pulled his father up out of the chair and slid an arm around him to support his uncoordinated efforts to stand.

  Cyrus stared at Marsh in an alcoholic stupor. “Wouldn’t be . . . like this . . . if you hadn’t killed your mother. Loved her. Hate you for it.”

  “I know, Dad,” Marsh said wearily as he walked his father to his bedroom.

  The bed was unmade, the sheets dirty. Marsh missed the days when his grandmother had taken such good care of them. He didn’t have time to do everything, and the house had suffered as a result. He would do some laundry tomorrow—Hell, it already was tomorrow—and remake his father’s bed with clean sheets.

  “Miss her so much,” Cyrus sobbed. “Wanta die sometimes.”

  “I know, Dad,” Marsh said. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  He could almost feel sorry for his dad. Except he couldn’t forgive him for his meanness or for being a lush. He didn’t think if he lost Delia forever he would spend the rest of his life pining for her like this. Sure, he would grieve. But he would go on with his life. He would never do what his father had done.