Yellowstone Memories (9 page)

“And then ‘look up.’ ” Wyatt’s voice dripped wonder. “So … up in the rafters?” He felt his eyebrows nearly touch his hair. “You think it might still be there?”

“I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.”

Wyatt faced her, his breath huffing as his mind whirled through the possibilities. Ticking off all the crazy clues one by ridiculous one.

“The spurs in the wooden box,” he said hoarsely, resting a hand on his forehead. “They had crescent moons.”

“Like an outhouse door.” Jewel stood so still that Wyatt could see a stray snowflake catch in her hair as it blew through a crack in the log walls—a tiny white sparkle among gleaming black, like a lone star. He felt the sudden urge to reach out and brush it away, but instead he stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Let’s go then.” Wyatt reached over the wooden post and patted Samson’s shiny neck.

“Now?”

“I’ll tell my uncle you’re indisposed for the evening.” Wyatt straightened his hat. “First one to Pierre’s gets dibs.”

Jewel’s eyes glowed. “I’ll beat you there.”

L
ight snow whirled around Wyatt as he scrambled off his horse. He threw a wool blanket over Samson’s back and gathered up his lantern, rifle, and shovels. A brooding sky hung in blue-gray layers over the pines, like translucent paper.

“Come on.” Wyatt looked over his shoulder, the cold wind nearly blowing his hat off. “I don’t like the way these clouds are rolling in. Looks like a snowstorm.”

“If the gold is up in the rafters, it shouldn’t take long.” Jewel slid off her sleek Indian pony’s back, her long black hair blowing. She’d tied it back with a simple velvet ribbon; Wyatt was amazed at its length and thickness. The women in Cody would pay big bucks for a wig made of hair like Jewel’s.

“But do you really think an old outhouse could support the weight of, say, a hundred pounds of gold?” Wyatt finished tying Samson and shouldered his things, forcing his eyes away from Jewel and into the gray distance past Pierre’s house. “And if there’s as much gold as he said, it would weigh a lot more than that.”

“Depends on the outhouse, I suppose.” Jewel ducked her head into the wind and walked side by side with Wyatt. “The structure and the design.”

Wyatt shook snowflakes off his glasses and snorted. “If it’s really there, old Pierre was crazier than I give him credit for. Or smarter. Nobody in their right mind would hide gold in a privy—and nobody in their right mind would look for it.”

They rounded the corner of the old cabin, and the front door creaked in the wind, swinging slightly open. Wyatt hushed, listening for footsteps or voices. “That old place gives me the creeps,” he whispered, moving closer to Jewel. “I guess we are really crazy to do this.”

“Maybe so.” Jewel set her lips in a determined slant. “But I’m not giving up now—maybe never. I need to find this gold. I have to. It’s more important than you can possibly imagine.”

Wyatt looked sideways at her, lifting a thick spruce branch for her to walk past. His shovels and rifle clinked together, hollow and metallic.

“What’s so important?” he asked. “Why do you want the gold so badly?”

Jewel hesitated a moment, her eyes briefly meeting his. “I need it to start over.” She rubbed her nose, which had reddened in the cold. “Nothing more.”

“Start over?”

“You know what they say about me. That I killed my husband. But I didn’t. I give you my word.” Her eyes glittered, but Wyatt couldn’t tell if it was tears or wind that made them fill.

“Did you have any reason to want to kill him?”

“Many.” Branches snapped under Jewel’s boots.

Wyatt drew back in surprise but said nothing. The wind rattled bare tree branches together like skeleton fingers, and Jewel lifted her long skirts to step over a fallen limb.

“But I didn’t kill him. His death was mysterious all right—but I didn’t do it. Although I think I’ve figured out who did.”

“Who?”

“Someone who wanted the letter.”

A shiver of cold fear tingled Wyatt’s spine. “But
you’ve
got the letter. Do you mean somebody might be looking for you now?”

“Possibly. My husband wasn’t exactly tight-lipped about secrets,” she said, passing the lantern to her other hand and accepting Wyatt’s arm to pass through a thicket of briers. “A little whiskey, a hand or two of cards, and he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. He spoke about the letter a week before he died, and that same week some men ransacked our house—apparently looking for the letter.”

“So you think one of them did it?”

“Of course. It’s pretty obvious to me, but no one would listen.” Jewel shrugged. “His whole clan had always disliked and distrusted me for being
Indien d’Arapaho
, as if that made me less than human. So when he died, everyone blamed me without a second thought.”

Wyatt paused and surveyed the forested stretch outside Crazy Pierre’s homestead, scanning the trees for anything resembling an outhouse. His breath fogged and faded like the thin hope of comfort Jewel must have felt back in Idaho among the trappers.

“Why do you still wear his ring then?”

She shot him a dark look. “I assure you, Mr. Kelly, that a woman alone in this part of the country is far safer if she wears a ring than if she doesn’t. I’m surprised you didn’t think of that yourself.”

“Sorry.” Wyatt scratched his neck, ashamed. Until now he’d thought of Jewel mainly in labels: Indian. Female. Hired hand.

But under it all, she was painfully vulnerable. Just like himself, but perhaps more so.

“Did … did you love him?” Wyatt asked in a near whisper, barely managing to speak the words. He kept his burning face turned toward the cabin, shivering under his thick leather coat.

“I beg your pardon?” Jewel twisted around to see him.

He shouldered his shovels and rifle uncomfortably, and everything clattered together. “I’m sorry.” He felt heat flood his face in racing pulses. “It’s none of my business. Forgive me.”

Jewel brushed strands of hair from her eyes with her free hand. “Did you ask me if I loved my husband?”

Of all the fool things for me to say
. “I truly apologize.” Wyatt rubbed his face in his calloused palm, eyes scrunched together in embarrassment. “Forget I said anything, will you?”

“No, I did not love him.” Jewel’s steady gaze caught his. “Ever.”

Wyatt remained as still as a blue spruce, not daring to speak or even to breathe.

“He treated me as nothing but property, Mr. Kelly. I was bought, sold. He wasted our money on whiskey and women, and he beat me. Quite severely at times. Once he might have killed me if I hadn’t defended myself with a pitchfork.” She ran her hand over her forearm—the one where Wyatt had seen the long scar.

In a blinding second Wyatt remembered Jewel in Crazy Pierre’s cabin, raising the blunt end of the pistol stock to swing at Kirby Crowder with surprising force and agility.
But she did not pull the trigger
.

“Why do you ask?” Her cheeks were red with cold.

“Huh?” Wyatt turned, too shy to look at her. “Why do I ask what?”

“If I loved my husband.” Jewel turned her eyes on him, their darkness keen and penetrating.

Wyatt paused a moment, his chest rising and falling under his coat with his breath. Afraid to speak, to ruin the hush. “Did I ask that?” he stammered, painfully aware of what a short distance separated them. A foot? Six inches? Jewel’s breath misted, dissolving into thin air near his cheek.

“You did.”

Wyatt looked down at his boots in reddened humiliation, twisting the lantern handle and trying to come up with a reason that made any sense at all. “I … I have no idea.”

“No one’s ever asked me that before,” Jewel whispered. “Thank you.”

Then she reached out boldly and gave his cold hand a gentle squeeze.

“Over there.” Jewel pointed as they tromped through fallen pine branches and autumn-thin leaves. Snow gathered in white patches in the crooks of tree trunks.

“What’s over there?” Wyatt had to force his attention away from her, willing the wild hammering of his heart to slow down. Straightening his knocking knees.

“The outhouse, Mr. Kelly.”

He could still feel the fleeting warmth of her fingers against his. “Oh, that.” Wyatt swallowed and crossed his arms, trying to feign nonchalance. “You’re right. It sure looks like a privy to me.”

Jewel strained on tiptoe to see better. Not that she was short. In fact, she came all the way up to Wyatt’s chin—not a mean feat for a girl. The Arapaho were tall and stately, great warriors, and Jewel must have come from hardy stock.

“The outhouse has a stone base, Mr. Kelly. Will you look at that.” She caught her breath. “And a crescent moon carved in the door.”

“By gravy.” Wyatt stroked his jaw. “That stone base might make it sturdy enough to hold a stash of gold, if the rafters are built sturdy. And it’s solid pine log. You just might be right.” Wyatt looked over at her. “You’re not too squeamish to peek inside a crazy old man’s latrine?”

“As I recall, I wasn’t the one scared of spiders.”

Wyatt scowled and pretended not to hear.

The outhouse stood in a thin stand of trees, not far from an old barn. It was a simple structure, with log walls and a peaked roof. A few shingles had come off over the years, but otherwise the outhouse probably looked much the same as when Crazy Pierre spent his days digging up the forest.

Snow blew in fast flakes as Wyatt attempted to pry the outhouse door open, tugging on the swollen wood. Jewel put down her lantern and pistol and helped Wyatt pull, and the bottom of the door creaked open, scraping across soil. Wyatt stuck his boot inside the crack and leaned against the door, easing it wider for her to duck inside.

“Do you see anything?” Wyatt struck a match and lit the lantern wick. He pushed the door wider with his shoulder and held up the lantern, straining for a glimpse of the rafters over Jewel’s head. “It’s boarded over.” Wyatt’s heart leaped. “And the board’s buckling in the middle. Can you see that?”

“Look at the wood he used.” Jewel leaned her hand on Wyatt’s shoulder and stepped up on the wooden seating platform, avoiding the cavernous dark hole. “It’s a different wood type than both the structure and the door. Here.” She reached for the lantern and shined it on the joint between the wall and the ceiling. “It looks like heavy barn board.”

“And nailed up in a hurry. It’s a bit crooked, unlike the rest of the structure.” Wyatt felt around over his head.

“See the nails over there? They’re starting to pull out.”

“Braces.” Wyatt’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “By George. He put braces and trusses in here.”

Jewel shivered, and her teeth chattered together. “It’s got to be the treasure.”

“I’ll break it open.” Wyatt reached for his ax.

“And let it all fall through that open hole?” Jewel gasped, pointing at the shadowy toilet opening in the platform. “If you break the ceiling and rafters open, all the gold will crash down on top of us.” She tapped the wooden seating platform with her foot. “You know this thing isn’t very sturdy, right? And there’s an open pit underneath that’s probably been … shall we say … well used over the years?”

“I get it, I get it!” Wyatt stuck his head through the creaky wooden door and peered up at the roof. “We can hack the roof open, but there’s no way I can crawl up there myself. I’ll have to boost you up.”

“All right.” Jewel put her things down and pushed past him. “Hurry though. This snow’s coming down hard.”

Wyatt bent down and locked his fingers together. He waited for her to step, first one pointy, high-buttoned boot and then the other, and then he boosted her up. Jewel grabbed at the edge, her fingers clawing at shingles, and Wyatt pushed her up to the roof.

Jewel steadied herself on the rough shingled peak, her wool skirts fluttering in the wind, and reached for the ax. She brought it down hard at an angle, turning her face as splinters flew from the boards and shingles. Then again. Two brittle shingles cracked and tumbled off in pieces.

“That’s it—keep going!” Wyatt shielded his eyes as heavy white flakes melted and beaded on his glasses. “Do you see anything yet?”

Jewel braced herself again and swung the sharp ax blade, and Wyatt heard the thump of metal cutting into wood. She hacked a few minutes, splitting open a crack, and then brought the ax down with a mighty whack.

The boards split open, and broken chunks of wood rolled down the shingled roof and into the grass.

Wyatt strained his head excitedly. “What’s up there?”

“I don’t know.” Jewel bent and put her face to the crack and then shook her head. “It’s dark, and the snow’s coming down too hard. Let me open it up a bit more.”

Wyatt watched Jewel’s steady brown hands and felt a stab of shame at the way he’d spoken of her, tried to use her. Why, he and his uncle hadn’t done much differently than her French trapper husband, who viewed her as property to be beaten.

Jewel’s lips moved, her face turned toward him—and Wyatt realized she’d said something.

“Pardon?” He shook the snow from his hat.

“I said there’s something here.” Jewel’s voice was sharp, urgent. Triumphant. “An old burlap sack full, bulging and tied at the top with twine. And …” She sucked in a gasp. “Something’s glittering through the place where the burlap’s worn through.”