The Outrage - Edge Series 3 (2 page)

Then, at last, she went to the front door of the house, nowadays kept locked after a number of homes in the area had been robbed in recent weeks. She fitted her key into the lock, swung the door open and felt her already rising spirits soar at the sight of Nancy in the hallway.

‘Hello, mother,’ the girl greeted brightly. ‘I didn’t hear the buckboard. Did you have a nice trip to town . . ? Oh my goodness, you do look a mess!’

Martha sighed. ‘Thank you, daughter dear. You really know how to hit your old ma hard when she’s down, don’t you?’

Nancy Quinn was twenty-two: the age her mother had been when she was delivered of a daughter in such a traumatic birth that it ended any chance that Martha would bear further children. She was a petite redhead with a pale complexion, freckled lightly at either side of her pert nose. A pretty girl, except when she was in a bad mood and the natural pout of her mouth line was accentuated so she looked petulantly sullen. But mostly she was an eventempered young woman and her good teeth and dimpled cheeks perfectly complemented her sparkling blue eyes in an easy smile.

She looked brightly cheerful then puzzled as she stood at the foot of the stairway: held rigid in a half turn toward the kitchen door at the rear of the hallway as she peered fixedly for stretched seconds at her dishevelled mother. She was wearing a skimpy pink robe, the fabric almost translucent so, belted tightly at the waist, it clung erotically to her slender but decidedly female form and showed that as usual, Nancy had slept naked.

Martha stepped over the threshold into the bight coolness of the large entrance hall, closed the door, leaned her back gratefully against it and said in further response to Nancy’s greeting: ‘And I feel like an utterly awful mess.’

Now the girl became suddenly deeply concerned. ‘Dear God, did something bad happen to you, mother?’

Martha made a dismissive hand gesture and briefly explained how the buckboard’s wheel had been broken then finished: ‘And so I had to walk back here. Only a couple of miles I suppose, but it felt like it was twice that much to me.’

‘On a hot morning like this I just bet it did! You must be beat. Should I make you a cup of coffee?’ Her tone and expression both became anxious again. ‘Although after you hear my news it could be you’ll need something stronger.’

‘Oh?’

Nancy urged: ‘You go ahead and put your feet up in the parlour, why don’t you? I won’t be a minute.’

Martha went to do as her daughter suggested while Nancy continued on to the rear of the hallway and through into the kitchen.

The extensive parlour at the south-west corner of the house was filled with sunlight shafting in through the large window that looked out on to the flagstone terrace. It was a high-ceilinged, white walled room, perhaps a little over filled with the paraphernalia of comfortable family life. There was a two-tone light grey and white leather sofa and three matching armchairs, all positioned to face the big stone fireplace under the oak-beamed mantelpiece. Small tables were adjacent to all the chairs. On one side of the door from the hall was a floor to ceiling glass-fronted bookcase, on the other a sideboard with a cluster of liquor bottles and an array of crystal glasses on top.

The carpet and the drapes hung at the two windows were of differing shades of red and relieving the flat plainness of the neutral walls were oil painting of local landscapes in ornate gilt frames.

Everything in this room and most of what furnished the others had been bought new when the house was built. And like the house itself, it now showed signs of the wear and tear of ten years of routine daily use. By two people who took care of what they owned without treating material possessions like irreplaceable heirlooms. And one adolescent girl growing into a carefree young woman who respected her parents’ values: at least when her mind was not entirely devoted to whatever absorbing passing interest held her attention for the moment. Mostly young men, Martha now reflected as she sank with a grateful sigh into one of the armchairs. Although for awhile now there had just been one young man to occupy Nancy’s mind. This was Matt Colman, a boy of whom she and Nicholas wholeheartedly approved. And who, she now suspected, would be the subject of the news Nancy intended to tell her. Was there an engagement, perhaps? Or had there been a lover’s tiff that threatened an end to their friendship? She fervently hoped it would not be the latter. She was certainly apprehensively intrigued by what her daughter had said about her perhaps needing something stronger than coffee to drink. At this time of day . . ?

From the kitchen came subdued sounds of Nancy fixing coffee, the girl humming tunelessly to herself while she did so. Which went some way to calming Martha’s anxiety. Then Nancy swept into the parlour with a tray on which there were two mugs of steaming, good smelling coffee that she stooped to bring level with her seated mother as she announced:

‘There you are. This’ll make you feel better.’

Nancy set down her own mug on one of the tables, threw herself on to the sofa and exposed a slender length of pale upper thigh as she folded her legs beneath her, belatedly tugged at the hem of the robe.

Martha said a little tautly: ‘It’s no wonder Matt thinks you’re such a wonderful girl if you display so much of yourself while you’re with him, Nancy!’

‘Oh, it was just an accident in the privacy of my own home, mother,’ the smiling girl chided. ‘And I don’t as a general rule go out of the house with no breeches on!’

Martha’s expression softened to a smile, in part because she was enjoying the taste of the freshly made coffee she sipped and also because she had not intended her remark to be taken seriously. Both she and Nicholas had implicit trust in their daughter’s ability to fend off the unwelcome advances of hot-blooded young men. And they were certain, too, that Nancy was able to keep a firm grip on her own feelings whenever masculine attentions were not entirely unwelcome,

Nancy frowned suddenly but her sullen pout was absent as she sipped the coffee for several seconds then finally said: ‘Matt can be fun for most of the time. But when he’s had one whiskey too many he can get – ‘

‘Honey, you don’t have to go into detail,’ her mother assured her and smiled as she added: ‘It could spoil my opinion of young Mr Colman. And you know how your father and me have always considered him such a fine young gentleman.’

‘He is, mother.’ Nancy was earnest as she peered intently into her coffee.

‘Except when he’s a little drunk? That doesn’t make him any different from many other

– ‘

‘It’s not that.’

Martha recognised they were on the verge of a serious mother-daughter discussion. Nancy had tested a light approach to a weighty subject and found it unsuitable in this instance. For her part, Martha determined not to trivialise anything she was about to hear.

‘Last night – ‘ Nancy was interrupted by a demanding knocking at the front door, scowled her irritation and pouted sullenly at being checked just when she had organised her thoughts. She started to rise as she muttered: ‘Drat, I bet that’s him come to blubber how sorry he is. Well, he’d better be ready to – ‘

‘You stay right where you are, young lady!’ her mother instructed firmly as she came sharply upright and slopped a little coffee when she set down the mug. ‘You’re not going to answer our front door to Matthew Colman or anyone else while you’re all but naked!’

‘Oh, mother – ‘

‘If it is young Mr Colman come to talk with you I’ll show him into your father’s study and he can wait there while you sneak upstairs to put on some clothes.’

‘Yes, all right, mother dear.’ Nancy was good-naturedly mocking in response to the mild scolding.

Martha closed the parlour door on the sound of a giggle and smiled as she moved along the hallway. And not for the first time she felt a little envious of her daughter’s youthful age, unmarried status and confidence that men would always pursue her, desperate not to lose out to a rival. Then there was another, more insistent thudding of a fist on the door and Martha advised softly:

‘Don’t be so impatient to make amends, young man.’

She paused before the mirror hung on the wall alongside the hall stand, remembering how she had been too exhausted to check her appearance when she first entered the house: and now she could do no more than give a token pat to her untidy hair. And regret there was

no opportunity to make further repairs as she ensured her reflected smile struck the right note

– did not impart any hint she knew why the young man had come here. Then she opened the door and her mouth gaped wide to vent a scream. But no sound emerged from her terror-constricted throat as she took a backward step and raised both hands, palms forward in a defensive gesture. She had not retreated far enough to be out of reach of the two men wearing kerchief masks who lunged across the threshold. Nor was she fast enough to block the fist that smashed viciously into her face.
CHAPTER • 2

EDGE WAS starting to think Nick Quinn was a pain in the ass but allowed the man
was drunk, had generously shared a bottle of fine sipping bourbon with his fellow passenger and had neither said nor done anything that was not good-natured since they became fellow travellers.

Edge had boarded the Concord at the Pine Wells stage stop some fifty miles short of its scheduled and his intended destination: having ridden up to the way station a couple of days earlier, shortly after his horse developed a bad case of colic. And the man who ran the place, Ethan Grover, who was both a defrocked priest and a former farrier, confirmed Edge’s own opinion that the bay gelding needed rest and maybe some expert veterinary attention before he would be fit to ride again.

After waiting two days without seeing any improvement in the animal’s condition, Edge discussed a deal with Grover: the sick but sure to survive horse in exchange for a one way ticket on the next stage to Austin, plus a ten dollar cash adjustment in Edge’s favour. The stage was only a half-hour away when the elderly Grover suggested the deal. And Edge, who had been visited by an unexplained yen to go to Austin ever since he drifted on to the trail that ultimately led to the town, sealed the arrangement on impulse after a handshake as the Concord rounded a distant curve and trundled into sight. Then he was issued with a ticket and placed the sawbuck in his hip pocket as the stage rolled to a halt. It seemed at first to be carrying only the driver and shotgun rider. But while these two helped Grover to switch the wearied team for fresh animals, Edge swung his saddle and accoutrements up on to the roof then opened the door and saw there was a passenger aboard already. This was a man slumped in the off-side front facing corner seat of the stage, breathing deeply in a contented sleep that was undisturbed by the activity of the brief halt. Which suited Edge fine as he dropped into the near-side corner backward facing seat and tipped his hat over his eyes while he waited for the two men on the outside seat to exchange farewells with the new owner of his horse.

Then the stage pulled out for its next scheduled halt that was a town named Springdale. And it was no surprise to Edge that sleep eluded him aboard the jolting, rocking and creaking vehicle while his untroubled mind wandered at random, filling and emptying of many disparate lines of thought behind his closed eyes under the tipped forward Stetson. For he was well rested from his enforced stopover at the isolated way station after much wearisome travelling so he was clearly slept out.

Which did not necessarily mean he welcomed conversation with his fellow passenger.

‘Would you care to join me, sir?’

Edge opened his eyes, shifted his hat up off his face and looked more closely than before at the man in the opposite corner who showed an amiable grin as he extended a bottle with an impressive label.

‘The name is Nick Quinn. Homewards bound at the end of a most successful business trip.’

Quinn was in his mid-forties. Perhaps not quite a match for Edge’s six feet three inches height, he looked to be somewhat heavier than two hundred plus pounds. But whereas Edge carried most of his excess weight around the middle on account of advancing years, Quinn looked to be flabby all over beneath his well cut, travel crumpled business suit. This was an irrelevant assessment based upon the fleshiness of the man’s double chinned, pale complexioned face that signalled a long-time indulgence in the good life. Quinn’s eyes were blue and perhaps clear when they were not clouded and bloodshot from too much bourbon. His mouth line was a little pouting which suggested he might be easy to irritate. And there was an irregular shape to his nose that indicated it had been broken and badly reset a long time ago. Like Edge he sprouted the kind of dark bristles that probably developed a five o’clock shadow a couple of hours after he shaved. The hair on his head no longer grew lushly except at the sideburns and at the nape of his neck where it was mostly silver grey.