Chapter Twenty
TIME SLOWED AS ROMANstared at whatever it was that he held in his hand. Clara dug her fingers into her palms, waiting for him to acknowledge her. He’d be mad, of that much she was certain. But she wasn’t entirely alone. Deidre had come with her, but had turned her ankle just beyond the trees. Clara had reassured her she would be fine, and Deidre waited for her while she rested her ankle.
Although she supposed that meant shewasalone. And not only was she alone, she was far from the boardinghouse. And in a place he’d specifically told her not to go.
She ought to have turned and snuck away, but she couldn’t simply leave him here, looking so bereft. She’d explain to him what she was doing, and maybe—hopefully—he would understand. He couldn’t fault her for wanting to help him in any way she could.
Could he?
Clara prayed harder than she ever had before. “Roman,” she said again.
He finally looked up at her, but although he saw her, his eyes seemed to be seeing something else entirely. As if he were somewhere far away.
Clara gathered her courage. “I know you told me to stay at the boardinghouse, but I thought that maybe if I came here, I might be able to find something . . . I—I’m not alone. Deidre is just beyond the trees.”
He closed his eyes, not responding, his hand clenched around the item he held.
“I wanted to help,” she continued. “A wife is supposed to be a help to her husband.”
He flinched as if she’d struck him. Clara bit her lip, wishing he’d say something.
After a moment stretched between them, one in which Clara thought the birdsong in the trees overhead would drive her mad, he finally spoke.
“This is a hair comb,” he said, opening his hand to show Clara a muddy thing that was once a very beautiful—and expensive—piece of jewelry for the hair. It was far nicer than anything Clara had ever owned. She couldn’t imagine wearing such a thing.
She wasn’t certain what she was supposed to say, and so she nodded.
He looked at it as he spoke. “I’ve seen this very comb before, almost two years ago. A man I worked with, a friend at that time, purchased it for a woman he was courting. A Miss Ethel Porter.
“I can’t forget it, because I’d wondered how Hoskins had come into the money for it. This little thing cost far more than we made running cattle, and he’d bought a pair of them. I asked him how he’d paid for it, and he gave me this . . . look. And that’s when I knew. Or at least, I suspected.”
He looked up at Clara finally, his eyes seemingly seeing her for the first time since she’d stumbled upon him. She caught her breath, waiting for the rest of the story.
“And then I found out for certain. He and another fellow, Thaddeus Jones, had been siphoning off the herd we were being paid to round up and take to Denver. They were selling the cattle—I don’t know to whom—but making a pretty penny doing it.”
“What happened?” Clara asked quietly when he paused.
His face darkened. “I can’t abide dishonesty. Particularly when it puts the livelihood of so many men at risk. I gave them the opportunity to leave, but they refused.”
“You turned them in,” Clara said.
He nodded, glancing at the comb again. “They were none too happy, as you can imagine. The sheriff kept them in the local jail for a while, but they couldn’t ever bring enough evidence against them to do anything about it. Of course, that rancher made sure word got around. I doubt they’ve been able to work since then.”
