Texas Hold Him (26 page)

The light of early dawn guided her through the streets of St. Louis to the train station. She purchased a seat on the first
train going south, relieved to learn it was headed for Vicksburg. From there, she would be able to catch a riverboat home
and with any luck at all, she should be at her father’s side within three days.

The valise felt heavy resting on her lap as she waited in her seat for the train to leave the station. By now, Dyer would
have discovered she was gone. Would he care?

Probably not.

Dyer’s life was wrapped up in revenge, and to him she was nothing more than an evening’s entertainment. She only wished the
feeling were mutual. A deep ache rolled through her, ending in a flood of tears she had no more control over than anything
else in her life.

The loss of her home and her father’s health had almost been more than she could bear, but now fate had delivered the cruelest
blow of all. It had allowed her to fall in love with a man she could never lay eyes on again.

“Lottie!” Dyer pounded again at her hotel room door before he finally gave up and kicked in the door. The lamp on the table
cast a glow on the open travel case still sitting on her bed. A quick search found the few possessions she had still inside.
All that was missing was her locket, twenty-five thousand dollars, and the lady herself.

“Damn,” he muttered, hands on hips as he scanned the room as though he expected to find her hiding under the table or behind
a pillow.

“Lottie?” he yelled one more time, not caring whom he woke in the process.

He returned to his room, repeating a similar search before he finally ran downstairs to the lobby. She had left no note, and
no one had seen her leave. He was forced to accept the fact that she had left him without a word, but not without her money.

If she thought that was the end of it, she had another think coming. He’d spent the last four years of his life searching
for a man. He could spend the next four searching for a woman. Made no difference to him. He would find Lottie Mace and make
her explain why she had run from him like she had, but first things first.

First he had to find Harold Mason . . . and kill him.

Lottie?” If Aunt Dorothy’s wrinkled face was any indication at all, a good cry was on its way. “You’re all right?” She grabbed
Lottie’s neck and hugged until Lottie thought her eyes were going to bulge out.

“Yes, Aunt Dorothy. It’s me, and I’m just fine.” Lottie hugged back, as patiently as she could, but they didn’t have time
for long family reunions.

“How’s Daddy?” Lottie tucked a strand of hair into her bun and headed toward her father’s room.

“Oh, he’s doing fine, but he’s missed you terribly.” Aunt Dorothy waddled behind Lottie, talking as she went. “Where have
you been?”

“I told you I was going to visit a friend in St. Louis.”

“Yes, but you ran in and out so quickly that night I didn’t have time to find out more. We were so frightened that something
happened to you.”

If only Aunt Dorothy knew. “I’ve been just fine.” Lottie had to force her voice to sound calm and happy. “But we need to start
packing. We’re going on a trip.”

“What ever are you talking about?”

Lottie didn’t take the time to answer. Her aunt would just need to listen to the explanation as she spoke to her father.

“Hello, Daddy.” She crossed her father’s room to
give him a hug while he sat in his wheelchair by the window.

“Lottie?” His voice quivered, but the smile on his face made her grateful for all the trials she had been through in the last
few weeks. She took a chair beside him and held his hand in hers. He was frail and childlike, and she knew in her gut he would
not have killed Dyer’s family intentionally.

“Daddy, I have some great news. I won some money, and we’re going to use it to take a trip.”

“A trip?” He frowned. “I don’t think I can travel, dear. Maybe you and Dorothy should go without me.”

Lottie squeezed his hand. “Nonsense. I’ve purchased passage on a train for California.” She hesitated for a moment before
she asked, “Have you ever been to the West, Daddy?”

Her father frowned in thought. “I don’t think so.” Her smile of relief was short lived when he added, “Maybe during the war,
but I can’t remember.”

“
California?
” Dorothy asked. “Lottie, what ever are you thinking?”

Lottie kissed her father on the cheek, then left the room, motioning for Dorothy to follow. She led her down the hallway to
her father’s study, where she closed the door to allow for privacy.

“Aunt Dorothy, do you trust me?”

Dorothy stood wringing her hands, a look of worry on her aged face and tears pooling in her frightened eyes. “What have you
done, dear? What’s happened?”

“Do you trust me?” Lottie repeated.

“Of course I do.”

Lottie took a deep breath to begin her tale. On the
long journey from St. Louis, she had sorted through what she needed to tell her family and what she needed to omit. Now it
was just a matter of getting them to believe her.

“I won some money while I was away and—”

“Money? How?”

She blew a puff of air out of her cheeks. She should’ve known Aunt Dorothy wouldn’t let her tell the story without interruptions.

“I won it on a riverboat.” She held up her hand to stop her aunt from jumping in again before she continued. “But that’s not
important right now. What is important is that we have to pack what we can carry and be on the train to California first thing
in the morning.”

“
What we can carry?
But what will we live on? Where will we stay?” Dorothy’s face had flushed, and if her eyes got any bigger, she’d run clear
out of forehead.

Lottie took her aunt’s hands in hers. “I have twenty-five thousand dollars. We can buy a house and anything else we need after
we get there.”

“Twenty-five thou—Oh my.” Dorothy put her hand to her forehead and gasped.

“Don’t you dare swoon.” Lottie hurried to scoot a chair under her aunt’s ample bottom before Dorothy’s knees gave out. “We
don’t have time for a swooning. We have to get packed.”

Dorothy fanned her face with her hand. “Lottie, did you—did you steal the money?”

Now it was Lottie’s turn to gasp. “My word,
no
!”

“Then why do we have to run?”

How could she tell her aunt the truth? How could she tell her that her father—Dorothy’s brother—was being accused of murder
again, and the man Lottie loved was going to kill him in revenge? She couldn’t.

And that was that.

“You said you trusted me.”

Dorothy nodded. “I do.”

“Then you’re just going to have to believe me when I tell you that there’s a man out to hurt Daddy, and if we don’t get him
out of here . . .” She let her voice trail off, not for effect, but because she wasn’t sure what else to say. It seemed to
work, though. The look of shock on Dorothy’s face changed to one of determination.

She frowned for a second, then stood. “In that case, we’d best get busy.”

Lottie sighed in relief as she watched her aunt march from the room to start the preparations for their journey.

Eventually, she would send word to their neighbor about what had happened to them, and maybe he would agree to sell their
possessions and send her the money. She couldn’t risk telling him to night. When Dyer came looking, he would no doubt talk
to everyone in the area, and she couldn’t take the chance of someone telling him they were in California.

She hoped that by the time Dyer arrived, they would be well on their way, and he would never know she was Harold Mason’s daughter.
He still had to earn fifteen thousand dollars to pay Wayne for the information, and even as good as he was at the tables,
that should take him a few days.

She stood, surprised that her exhausted body still had enough strength to carry her from the room. A couple of changes of
clothing and a few personal items were all they would be able to take with them to the train station. In just a few hours,
the nightmare would be over.

Then the loneliness would begin.

It was dawn, though the low, dark clouds and thundering rain made it difficult to tell. Lottie checked the clock on her mantel
again to be sure of the time. They would need to leave for the train station in one hour, but given the inclement weather,
perhaps they should move their departure up a little. Maneuvering her father’s wheelchair through the muddy streets might
slow their progress, and she couldn’t take the chance of missing the train.

A crack of thunder drew her to the window, where her view from the second story allowed her to see the street more clearly.
A carriage rolled up in front of the house and stopped. It was difficult to see the shadowy figure who stepped from the coach,
but when the lightning lit the sky enough for her to see his tall form, there was no mistaking his identity.

“Oh no!” She ran from her room, down the hallway to the stairs that led to the first floor. “
Don’t open the door!
” she shouted to her aunt, but it was too late.

Dyer Straights was already in the foyer, and her aunt was saying, “Yes, this is the home of Harold Mason.”

“Dyer!” Lottie shouted, running down the steps to intercept him.

He frowned in confusion. “Lottie, what are you doing here?”

“She lives here,” Dorothy said, her expression as confused as Dyer’s.

“Why would she live
here
?” He directed his question to Dorothy, but his eyes never left Lottie’s face.

Dorothy sputtered and glanced at Lottie for help. There was no getting out of it now. The truth was going to come out, and
it would probably be best to come out of Lottie’s mouth. “Because I’m Harold Mason’s daughter.”

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and squared her shoulders, readying for what ever he had to dish out.

Slowly, his head shook in disbelief. “You
knew
? You knew he murdered my family and you didn’t tell me?”

She stepped toward him. “No, Dyer, I didn’t know—”

He put up his hands to stop her. “You set me up from the beginning. You were trying to keep me from finding out the truth,
but it didn’t work, did it?” His voice was calm, but the underlying rage was palpable. “I’ve got to admit, you’re a great
little actress. I actually believed you were a damsel in distress.” The scathing look he gave her took her breath away.

“Dyer, he didn’t do it. I’m sure there’s a mistake.” She grabbed his arm, but he yanked away from her.

“No more, Miss
Mace.
I’m going to kill the murdering son of a bitch.”

“Dyer, no!” She reached for his arm again, but he moved quickly past her.

“
Where is he?
” His anger matched the thunder of the heavens as he rushed up the stairs to the bedrooms. “
Mason!
” he bellowed, jerking open bedroom doors in his attempt to find her father.

Lottie ran to her father’s study and crossed the room to his desk. She rummaged through the drawers until
she found his gun. With trembling hands, she loaded the revolver and followed Dyer’s shouts, realizing with horror he had
moved his search downstairs. And based on his rampage, he was near her father’s room.

She ran down the hall carrying the cold, heavy pistol, praying to God that she would not have to shoot one man she loved to
save the other. Holding her breath, she stepped into her father’s room, where she pointed the gun with shaking hands at Dyer’s
back.

“Who are you?” her father asked him. “What are you shouting about?”

Dyer stood facing her father, unaware of the gun trained on his back. The clenched fists at his side were the only indication
of the anger he held in check.

“Are you Harold Mason?”

Lottie’s father nodded. “And who are you?” he asked.

Dyer’s shoulders slumped. “No one, sir.” He tipped his head. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. My apologies.”

Lottie dropped the gun to her side as Dyer walked past her without speaking.

“It’s all right, Daddy,” she said, sounding as calm as she could under the circumstances. “I need to speak with him. I’ll
be back in a moment.” She hurried to catch Dyer at the front door.

“Thank you,” she said to his back. “Thank you for sparing him. I know he wouldn’t have killed your family—”

Dyer spun to face her, interrupting before she could continue. “Your father isn’t the man I’m looking for.”

“I heard Mr. Dawson’s claims. How do you know it’s not my father?”

Dyer leaned his back against the door and ran his hand down his face. His sagging shoulders and drawn expression tugged at
her heart.

“One of the neighbors saw the murderer leave the scene. He gave me a description, and that’s what I’ve been going on for the
last four years.” He sighed. “The man I’m looking for had red hair.”

“Did you ask Mr. Dawson if Harold Mason had red hair?”

Dyer shook his head. “When he told me about the word ‘traitor’ carved on the tree, I was sure it was the right man. No one
knew about that except me and the killer.”

“How did Wayne Dawson know?”

“He claimed your father got drunk one night in a saloon in Natchez and bragged about teaching a Yankee traitor a lesson.”

Dyer stepped across the foyer and sunk into a settee by the door. The raindrops still glistened in his disheveled hair, and
the shadow of a beard bespoke the haste in which he had rushed to find her father.

She glanced at him, not sure if she wanted to know the answer to her next question, but she had to ask.

“Would you have killed my father?”

Sighing heavily, he leaned his head against the back of the settee and stared up at the ceiling. “Not without more proof,
but if your father had been the murderer, I would have made sure he hanged.”

Lottie felt his exhaustion as well as she felt her own. Even though she was relieved her father was innocent, part of her
sympathized with Dyer’s plight. He had been so sure his search was over, and now . . .

“Why did Dawson wait so long to tell you what he knew?” she asked.