Free Yellowstone Memories by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

it if I told you.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Jewel whirled around.
    “In Cody.” Wyatt dropped his voice and took a step closer. “You know why.”
    Jewel’s face went pale, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “You told them, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You told them I’m staying here.”
    “I didn’t tell them anything.” Wyatt kicked the mud off his spurs against the hard floor, still angry.
    Jewel blinked as if confused and drew back, nearly dropping the rake. She lunged for it, catching the handle before it clattered to the floor. “You … mean you didn’t tell them I’m here?”
    “Of course I didn’t.” Wyatt tossed the cloth over a wooden gate. “What was I supposed to say? ‘The girl you say killed her husband is working at my uncle’s ranch—come and get her’?”
    “They’d drag me out of my bed.”
    “Doggone right they would.” Wyatt took a step closer, his hands clenching. “And I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to think of you.” He pointed a shaking finger at her, hoping the ache didn’t show too much in his eyes. “But let’s get one thing straight. You stay away from my uncle, hear me? If anything happens to him, so help me, I’ll call the local sheriff and have you dragged off to the gallows.”
    “I’d never touch your uncle.” Jewel spoke so softly Wyatt could barely hear.
    Wyatt sized her up, arms crossed. A lump swelled in his throat so tightly he had to breathe deeply through his nose.
    “Don’t you think I would have done something already if I’d planned to? I’ve been here more than two years.” Her eyes filled suddenly, and she looked down at the straw-covered floor, kicking at it with a high-buttoned boot. “And I didn’t kill my husband. It’s a lie.”
    Wyatt didn’t answer. He stuck his hands in his pocket and looked away, clenching a muscle in his jaw.
    “You didn’t turn me in.” Jewel raised her head, her expression changed to one of gratitude, almost humility. “That speaks more of your belief in me than anything you can say.”
    “I haven’t said anything,” Wyatt snapped, kicking a bit of straw with his boot. “I just want the truth, and that’s it.”
    Jewel studied him a moment, not speaking. A gust of wind blew snow flurries through an open window in the stable, and she shivered.
    “It’s in the outhouse.”
    “The outhouse? What’s in the outhouse—the truth?” He scrunched up his forehead. “What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?”
    Jewel glared, shushing him fiercely with a finger to her lips. “Crazy Pierre’s outhouse,” she whispered. “I think I’ve figured out the riddle.”
    Wyatt threw his arms up in disgust, ready to turn and stomp away, when the words fell across his memory like snowflakes:
“Throne of solitude in the light of the moon.”
    Moon. Crescent
.
Outhouses sometimes have a crescent moon carved in the door
.
    “Of all the …” Wyatt’s face bleached, and he snatched off his hat and whacked a post with it, not sure whether to laugh or kick something. Two horses backed and reared in indignation, and Jewel scolded him, rushing to calm the horses.
    “You’re telling me ol’ Crazy Pierre left his gold in a doggone privy?” Wyatt stalked closer.
    “Throne of solitude.” Jewel shrugged with a smile. “I guess they don’t call him crazy for no reason.”
    Wyatt considered this a second, letting out a snort of laughter. “He was eccentric all right. A strange fellow. But there’s no way under the sun I’m digging into somebody’s privy—I don’t care how long he’s been dead.”
    “Not under, over.” Jewel spoke in hushed tones. “The rest of the letter said this:
‘Deux pieds en bas et lèvent les yeux.’
‘Two feet down, and look up.’ Do you understand?”
    “Exactly. Two feet down. I already told you, I’m not digging up a john. Got it?”
    “No, no, no!” Jewel shook her head furiously. “You’re not listening. Two feet down. You’re thinking