Moses never spoke, he just slid the single page across the desk. “Read it for yourself.”
Flynn picked up the letter, his eyes darting quickly over the large handwriting. He looked up from the page and swallowed hard.
“What are you going to do?” Moses asked.
“So it’s all up to me, huh?” Flynn stood up. He would have liked to pace, but the cramped office wouldn’t allow it. “What would you do if you had to deal with it?”
Moses grimaced and read the letter again. “Claims complete responsibility for the murder in Louisiana.” He mused aloud as if he had not even heard Flynn’s question. “Could it be possible?”
“If it is, then Marydyth Hollenbeck…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.
Moze swallowed hard. “Now, let’s not be too hasty. At the worst it may mean that she didn’t kill her first husband, Andre. This second part could be a confession of guilt, I suppose, if you are inclined to interpret it that way.”
“And it could just as easily not be. Is that what you’re saying?” Flynn searched the attorney’s face with narrowed eyes.
Moses sighed and placed the letter in the middle of his desk. “Any way you look at it, it’s a judgment call, Flynn. The decision and the responsibility are all yours, I’m happy to say.” The words fell harder than the judge’s gavel had on that fateful day. “Victoria made it real clear—any and all decisions regarding Rachel and the Hollenbecks are yours alone.”
Flynn picked up the letter and stared at it. “Did you notice the signature?”
“Yes, I did. I have to admit it shocks me. I thought Murdering Mary was all alone in the world. If she had an uncle, then why didn’t she tell anybody?”
Flynn glanced up. “Kind of sticks in your craw, don’t it?”
“I don’t want to even entertain the notion that we might’ve separated Rachel from her mother and sent an innocent woman to prison,” Moses replied. “In fact I don’t like to think about that a’tall.”
Flynn gave Jack his head as they rode out of town. The bay enjoyed the run and Flynn was glad to let him pick his own trail so he could wrestle with the problem of the damned letter.
If he decided to interpret the letter as a full confession for both murders, Andre Levesque’s and J. C. Hollenbeck’s, then Rachel could have her mother back.
The memory of the child’s latest nightmare brought a shiver coursing through him.
And if it isn’t a confession? the voice of the cynical retired U.S. marshal prodded. Years of training, years of single-minded devotion to the law, made it difficult for Flynn to forget that big if.
The letter was vague on J.C.’s murder. That was God’s honest truth. But it was blunt and to the point about the first one—about Andre, Marydyth’s first husband.
But if Marydyth were innocent of killing Andre Levesque and she had an uncle, then why didn’t she defend herself at the trial?
Flynn shook his head, realizing finally what it was that had bothered him about that damned trial.
Day after day Marydyth had sat there in silence. She had grown more pale and drawn as the damning evidence was revealed, and not once had she raised a finger or uttered a single word to defend herself.
She had stood there dry-eyed and silent while the town judged her guilty.
Why?
That question hammered at Flynn’s brain. It was a question he had no answer for.
He rode for hours, and with every mile the letter nagged at him. It would be so easy. If Flynn chose to read between the lines, he could give Rachel what she needed most in the world.
If he chose to.
Was it possible that he wanted to see Rachel reunited with Marydyth so badly that he could, or would, turn a blind eye to the weakness in the wording of that letter?
“Hell no, I wouldn’t,” he declared with hearty conviction. “And I’d have harsh words with any man who thought otherwise.” The sound of his raspy voice started Jack’s ears working back and forth again. “If I believed Marydyth killed J.C., I’d let her rot in Yuma and damn her to perdition without a second thought,” he assured himself and his horse.
But do you really believe that? the stubborn voice asked. Or are you like Moze?—afraid that you escorted an innocent woman to prison and mighty unwilling to face that possibility? Even if it means leaving her there?
Later that afternoon, Flynn had made a big loop around Hollenbeck Corners and ridden through Sheepshead. He had checked on the herd and felt satisfied that the grass would hold through the summer. While he rode, he had argued with himself over and over, and still he had not made a decision about the letter.
He pulled his Stetson hat from his head and used his bandanna to wipe the moisture off the inside of the sweatband. A white ring of crystallized salt had stained outward onto the brim.
If he believed the letter was genuine, then he was beholden to see the territorial judge about Marydyth’s sentence. But he hadn’t quite come to that decision—just yet.
The sun was a red-gold disk when Flynn unsaddled Jack and rubbed him down. The expansive adobe stable behind the Hollenbeck house was cool and dim. It was big enough to hold four horses and two buggies but Jack lived all alone inside. The smell of hay, dust and cracked corn surrounded them.
It was a comforting odor, a familiar one that had drawn him to this spot many times since he came to live in Hollenbeck Corners. Flynn rolled himself a smoke and let it dangle unlit from his mouth.
Flynn brushed the horse and ran an empty gunnysack over him to give him a shine. He tossed down his unlit cigarette, picked up each of Jack’s hooves, one by one, and carefully cleaned them, taking particular care with each frog.
An hour had passed while he kept his hands busy, and still he had not come to a decision. Flynn walked toward the mansion, still lost in thought. He was near one of the tall colonnades at the back of the house when the smell of smoke reached his nostrils.
He turned his head and lifted his nose like a feral animal. He inhaled deeply, narrowing his eyes and allowing the scent to guide him to the source. The smoke was coming from the direction of the stable.
Flynn ran to the well and grabbed up a bucket of water. It sloshed over his Levi’s as he ran. When he threw open the double doors a column of smoke roiled out. One bucket doused the smoldering manure and straw, but as the smoke wafted around his head a tendril of suspicion wove around his mind.
It was damned hard to start a fire with a cold cigarette.
Flynn made sure the blaze was well and truly out before he went to the house. A nagging sense of unease was his constant companion. He hadn’t started that fire, so who had? The stable was behind the house, a damned long way from any road or alley. If someone had been smoking around there, then they were hiding.
As soon as Flynn opened the door a streak of calico ruffles and bouncing russet curls flew at him.
“Unca Flynn!” Rachel squealed. She hugged his knees so tight he thought they both might go end over teakettle into the hallway.
“Whoa, little lady.” He untangled her arms and lifted her up. Her cheeks dimpled when he tickled her.
It never ceased to amaze him that in the light of day she had no memory of her nightmares. As long as she was awake she was a happy, laughing