Free Yellowstone Memories by Jennifer Rogers Spinola Page B

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