Mrs. Young was already tying on her bonnet. “Evening, Mr. O’Bannion.”
“Evening, ma’am.” He shifted Rachel’s weight to his bony hip, tickling her as he did so.
She giggled shrilly.
“Chicken and dumplings on the stove, cobbler on the warmer. See you tomorrow at seven.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Young,” he said to the flash of white petticoat that showed beneath the Scotch tweed muslin of her skirt before the door slammed with a rattle.
Flynn had been so busy chewing on the problem of the letter that he had plumb forgotten about looking for another housekeeper. He had to find somebody who would be better with Rachel. At least now that the cattle were moved he would be home with Rachel more during the day. Until roundup in the fall he would have time aplenty to spend with her.
“I been waiting for you,” said the golden sprite clinging to his neck. Excitement telegraphed through her body and up his arm. She gnawed at her bottom lip, as if she were about to explode. “I’ve been waiting a long, long time.” She sighed as if to emphasize the extreme hardship it had been.
“What’s got you hopping like a Mexican jumping bean?” He left the kitchen and went-into the study. He folded his body into a big padded chair.
Rachel scrambled up and positioned herself squarely in his lap. She stared him in the eye and then she leaned close as if she was about to tell him a secret. “Mrs. Young wouldn’t help me get into the attic today.”
He felt his eyebrows rising.
Then cool smooth palms clamped on either side of his beard-stubbled jaws. “She said I had to wait for you…so I waited.”
Flynn felt the strain of the day winnow from his bones as he stared into cornflower-blue eyes. “What in tarnation do you want to go into the attic for?”
“’Cause I need baby clothes.” She patted him with those tiny hands that felt softer than goose down. Then she impulsively kissed his cheek and giggled. “You are an old silly, Unca Flynn.”
He laughed with her. “Yes, I guess I am, sugar.” Rachel was like a ray of sunshine all bottled up in a Mason jar. “’Cause I can’t figger out why on earth you need baby clothes. You’ve been out of nappies for a long while now.” He chuckled at the expression that flitted across her face, a combination of horror and embarrassment, as he teased her.
“I am a big girl now—they aren’t for me. Mary Wilson’s mama had another baby girl. Mrs. Young said my baby clothes are in the attic.” She turned serious. “Could we take the baby some?”
Flynn didn’t know whether to laugh or moan. There were so many things that he didn’t know about little girls. Was this the kind of thing he could look forward to, crawling around in the attic for baby clothes to give away?
“Please, Unca Flynn.”
“All right, punkin. As soon as we’re through with supper we’ll go into the attic and find you some baby clothes.”
“I knew you’d say yes.” She grinned triumphantly. “I told Mrs. Young you would say yes.”
“You just wrap me around that little finger of yours, don’t you?” He rose from the chair with her in his arms. Rachel clung to his arm as he swung her around and perched her up high on his shoulders. He gripped her ankles above the high buttons on her black leather shoes. The rough skin in his palm snagged against her white silk stockings and the lace on her pantaloons.
“Hurry, Unca Flynn, hurry. Let’s eat fast so we can go to the attic.”’
He added a little speed and a lot of bounce to his walk. “I’ll hurry but you may be sorry you asked when we run—” he ducked low to miss the threshold of the study “—into a big—” he dipped again to miss the chandelier in the hall “—fat, hairy spider!” He flipped her off his shoulder and tickled her ribs when they reached the kitchen.
Rachel’s screams of glee echoed through the house. His laughter mingled with the savory odor of chicken and dumplings, and for a while Flynn was able to forget about the damned letter.
When the dinner was eaten, the dishes washed, wiped and put away, Flynn and Rachel lit a lantern and went in search of the attic. He had never been in that part of the Hollenbeck house—the closed off wing where Marydyth and J.C.’s bedroom had been—and it took a few minutes to locate the right set of stairs that led to the attic.
Flynn held the lantern high and swept his hand across the gauzy veil of cobwebs when he opened the last door.
A hundred feminine articles met his gaze in the flicker of the lamp. Frilly doilies were piled on top of an armless rocker, the kind that women favored. Three dome-topped trunks were shoved in one dark corner.
By the time Victoria had had her stroke and wrangled Flynn into becoming Rachel’s guardian, Mrs. Young or some other hireling had packed away every trace of Marydyth that had ever existed. The day he had walked into the house it had been clean and completely devoid of anything personal. Over the years he’d had regular tintypes of Rachel taken to put on the piano and the mantel.
So far Rachel had not asked him too many questions, but her nightmares told him that she was asking questions in her mind. She had a natural curiosity about her folks, and the day was coming when somebody was going to have to give her some answers.
Flynn had a flash of memory of his own childhood. He remembered sitting on Sky’s lap and listening to the story of her life over and over. Victoria’s hatred and bitterness toward Marydyth had left a great big hole in Rachel’s life. And no matter how hard he tried, Flynn hadn’t been able to fill it.
While he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, he stumbled over a big hatbox and staggered against a chest. The pain in his shin snapped him back to the present. A table with a cracked marble top provided him with a convenient place to set the lantern so he could rub his barked shinbone.
“Unca Flynn, can I come in?” Rachel’s voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the discarded furniture and trunks.
“You can come in, honey, but you be real careful.” He scanned the area with narrowed eyes. The cool, dry attic would be a favored nesting site for spiders.black widows.
Black Widow.
The name brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He froze for a moment, knowing that the letter in his pocket could remove that brand from Rachel’s mother. If only he could put aside his doubts.
“Looky, Unca Flynn!” Rachel’s excited voice brought him spinning around on his boot heel. She was stroking the hair mane of a carved wooden pony. The horse was white with black spots painted on its hindquarters.
Flynn took a step toward her but his boot caught on a red fringed shawl that was draped over something. The more he tried to free himself the more the shawl tangled around his foot. Rachel watched him wide-eyed while he did a dance with the thing hanging from his spur. But suddenly her frozen expression halted him in his tracks.
“What is it, honey? Are you bit?” He knelt down and gathered her to his arms. Her face had gone pale as chalk. She was quiet as death. “Tell me, does it hurt, Rachel?”
She shook her head in denial. “No.” Her eyes were wide and unblinking.
Fear of a kind Flynn had never imagined squeezed around his heart. “Rachel? What is it? Talk to me, honey.” His chest contracted while he searched her hands and arms. He could find no marks, but if Rachel was quiet, something had to be wrong. “Rachel, answer me. What is the matter?”
She lifted her tiny hand and pointed. He swiveled around to see what she was staring at. It was a portrait. The flickering lantern light caused the azure-blue eyes to look as if they were alive. A cascade of flaxen curls tumbled over one shoulder and down out of sight at the bottom of the painting. Artfully painted