After Sundown (2 page)

And the quiet sound of James’s children, crying.

Lucas clenched his jaw and glared down at his worn boots, trying to push it all away. He had to treat this like any other assignment. Subdue the need for retribution that burned him hotter than the August sun high overhead.

Hunt down the coldhearted bitch who had murdered his brother.

The train’s bell clanged as the whistle made its long, mournful call. A conductor shouted “All aboard!” and the last few passengers spilled out of the depot, clutching their baggage. The stationmaster hustled along with them, handing out the last few tickets as people hurried across the platform to catch the 1:15 to Jefferson City.

Lucas forced himself to wait patiently, as requested. He yanked at the open neck of his shirt, unknotted his kerchief, and mopped sweat from his face before stuffing the sodden piece of cloth into the pocket of his black trousers. He had almost forgotten how hot St. Charles could get in August—hot enough to make him feel like he was standing in the middle of a frypan.

Finally, the last passengers were on their way and the stationmaster rushed over to him. “Sorry for the delay, Marshal McKenna. But like I said, I’m not sure I can help you. I talked to the town constables last week—”

“I was hoping maybe you’d remembered something more since then,” Lucas said, loud enough to be heard over the noise. “Anything that might be useful.”

The man’s spectacles reflected the sunlight as he looked up to meet Lucas’s gaze. “Well, sir, like I told the constables, it was raining that day. Hard enough to drown a man. None of us could see much, what with everyone ducking their heads in that downpour. And the women were all decked out in traveling cloaks, carrying parasols and such—”

“And no one remembers seeing this woman?” Lucas dug the wanted poster out of his pocket. “Dark, curly hair she always wears long and loose. Brown eyes—”

“Oh, I know her, Marshal. Saw her many a time.” The man shook his head as he handed the paper back. “Mr. McKenna always treated her real well—first-class Pullman compartment, champagne, caviar. We all called her Lady Antoinette,” he admitted with an apologetic smile. “It’s just, with the rain and all, I can’t say if she was here that day, and I can’t say if she wasn’t. Wish I could help you. It’s a damn shame what happened to your brother. He was a good man.”

Lucas nodded curtly and folded the paper, wanting to crush it in his fist or tear it into pieces.
A damn shame
didn’t begin to describe what had happened, and
good
didn’t begin to describe his older brother. James hadn’t deserved to die, cut down at the age of thirty-two. Shot by a woman to whom he had shown only generosity and compassion.

Too much compassion. If James had had one flaw, it was that. “If you hear anything,” Lucas said, sick of repeating those four words, uttered so often the past days, “I’m staying up at the house for a while.”

“I’ll pass along any word, Marshal, I surely will. Something’s bound to turn up. Everyone in town admired your brother. And the local constables are doing all they can.”

Lucas shook the man’s hand and left, keeping his opinion of local law enforcement to himself. In the week since the murder, they hadn’t even been able to pin down how “Lady Antoinette” had left St. Charles, much less what direction she had taken. But at least they hadn’t protested when he stepped in to help with the investigation.

His boot heels echoed on the wooden platform, then on the steps that led down to the street. After talking to the constables, he had personally questioned the witnesses to the crime: James’s servants, who had never seen Antoinette at the house before that evening, when they overheard her arguing with their employer in the study.

James had been telling his mistress he never wanted to see her again. Then there had been a gunshot. Then Antoinette had been seen fleeing the grounds, covered in blood—with a sackful of money taken from James’s safe.

Obviously the old saying was true: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

And where was she now?
Lucas wondered as he stalked back toward town. Living high on the hog in some fancy hotel back East? Spending the money she had stolen from James on ball gowns and jewelry down in Natchez? Decorating the arm of some rich
señor
in Mexico? Enjoying a sea voyage to Europe?

The possibilities made bile rise in his throat. One thing had become clear: “Lady Antoinette” might have the morals of an alley cat, but she was smart. Lucas had hunted down some of the most wily criminals ever to plague the territories. He hadn’t expected this light-skirt to be much trouble. But she had apparently planned her escape as carefully as the crime, because she had managed to evade the law, so far.

But not for much longer.

Lucas stopped at a street corner, next to a three-story brick building that had the name JAMES MCKENNA, ESQ. lettered in gold on the door, half-covered by a sign that read CLOSED. He felt his throat tighten, remembering how proud he’d felt of his older brother the first time he’d seen this place—the offices that took up an entire block, the business James had established and managed with such skill. Soon it would be sold.

His head lowered, Lucas moved toward a lamppost and leaned against it, arms folded as he tried to think. From below the brim of his hat, he watched carts and carriages and townsfolk crisscross, kicking up red Missouri dust as they went about their lives on this sultry afternoon.

Every time he returned to St. Charles, it astonished him how much the town had changed since he was young. It had been little more than a scattering of cabins and cornfields in the woods back then—like the one where he and James had done the backbreaking work of plowing and planting beside their father... and challenged each other to races when they hauled feed and water for the animals... and snuck off to the swimming hole together on summer afternoons.

Until the war. Everything had changed after that, when marauders began stalking Missouri looking to drown their bitterness in blood and fire.

Lucas spat in the dirt, forcing the memories away, not wanting to feel the fresh grief and loss that knifed through him. He had to keep his mind on the hunt. Plot his next move.

He was supposed to meet up with his deputies back in Indian Territory as soon as possible—and the Territorial Governor wouldn’t look kindly upon him taking an extended leave to pursue a personal vendetta. Not when he and his men were finally closing in on the Risco gang after two years of work.

When the telegram about James had arrived, Lucas had told his deputies to go on without him, but ordered them to stay together and stay coolheaded. To a marshal, emotion could be as dangerous as any bullet or bowie knife.

He had lived by that adage for so many years, he no longer had to think about it.

But he thought about it now, as he turned and headed down the street toward the telegraph office, to send a message to his men. He needed more time here in St. Charles, had more people to question, had to find some lead he could follow. He wouldn’t be returning to the territories. Not yet.

Not until he saw Antoinette Sutton pay for what she had done.

~ ~ ~

It was almost eight by the time darkness fell over the town, bringing a summery hush disturbed only by droning cicadas and the chirp of a cricket now and then. Lucas felt grateful for the cool that descended as the moon rose, but the silence and peace didn’t match his mood. Lamplighters had just begun their work as he made his way quickly back to the house, the mansion James had built on a hill above St. Charles.

He finally had a solid lead to follow, but even that didn’t lessen the thick, hot feeling that choked him as he looked up at his brother’s home—the place where James had died.

The moon’s silvery glow haloed the east and west wings and illuminated the pillars that seemed to stretch halfway to the sky. In the back, the mansion’s southern windows looked out over the woods where the McKenna homestead had once been; on this side, each commanded an impressive view of everything the McKennas’ eldest son had helped build from nothing but ashes after the war.

Lucas shifted his gaze to the sidewalk as he hurried toward the front gate.

If only he had come here more often, accepted the invitations to Thanksgiving or Christmas. A couple of times, he’d said yes—but something always came up. His work. His duty. There was always another criminal that had to be hunted down. He’d always thought there would be time later to spend with his brother, his family.
Later
.

Now it was too late for anything but regret.

Olivia’s floral arrangements and black wreaths, draped so carefully around the front gates, had gone limp in the heat. Lucas strode past them and up the walk and took the steps two at a time. He lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated, still not sure whether he was supposed to announce his arrival each time or walk right in, like a member of the family.

A servant solved the problem by opening the door before he could decide. An efficient bunch, they were. Lucas had given up trying to remember the titles of the various doormen and housekeepers and under-whatnots, never mind their names.

“Evening,” he said with a nod as he stepped inside.

“Good evenin’, Mr. Lucas, sir. The ladies just finished their supper,” the gray-haired man told him in a deep baritone. “There’s a plate warmin’ for you in the kitchen, and the ladies are takin’ their tea in the drawin’ room. They asked if you would please join them directly when you returned.” He motioned toward the ornate double doors at the far end of the hallway.

Lucas felt his gut clench. The stage would be leaving in an hour. He had hoped to talk to Olivia alone, then take his leave. Without facing his sisters again. All three were staying with Olivia to comfort her in her time of sorrow, even though she wasn’t always the easiest person to get along with, under the best of circumstances.

“Thanks,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll do that.”

The servant was still holding out one hand. It took Lucas a moment to remember he was supposed to surrender his hat. He took it off and handed it over, raking his fingers through his mashed-down hair before he headed for the drawing room.

A series of red Persian carpets muffled his steps on the marble floor as he walked past framed daguerreotypes, porcelain vases displayed on stands, and paintings illuminated by miniature crystal chandeliers. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a gilded mirror and stopped, grimacing.

The man grimacing back at him had bleary eyes and a dark stubble of beard on his jaw, his skin darkened and clothes faded from too much time in the sun. A thorough coating of dust and sweat hardly improved matters. He looked as unfit for polite company as a rangy wolf that had just loped in from the woods.

He thought to make himself more presentable, and wasn’t quite sure how to achieve that, when he heard the creak of a door nearby, followed by a quiet voice.

“Uncle Lucas?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Peter?” His thirteen-year-old nephew hovered in the shadows of a doorway. “What is it?”

When the boy remained silent, looking from him to the polished floor and back again, Lucas tried to think of something more to say.

But the words seemed to clog up in his throat. Every time he looked at Peter, he saw James, the boy favored him so much. “You all right?”

Stupid question. Of course he wasn’t all right. Peter had just lost his father, at an age when a boy needed one more than ever. Lucas knew how that felt, yet he didn’t know what to say to ease his nephew’s pain. He couldn’t offer platitudes, assure him it would be all right.

Because it wouldn’t be.

Lucas felt another fierce shot of anger at the woman who had taken his brother’s life—and torn up so many others.

“Uncle Lucas, I...” The boy looked uneasily toward the drawing room, where the sound of feminine conversation could just be heard from the other side of the doors. “I want to...”

Before Peter could finish, one of those doors slid open. “Lucas? I thought I heard you. I’m so glad you’ve returned.”

The voice was soft, polite, proper. Even in mourning, Olivia McKenna was still completely a lady, well suited to her place as James’s wife.

Or rather, his widow.

She clasped her hands at her waist, her skin pallid against the black dress she wore, her blond hair pulled back in a neat chignon. “Did you have any luck today?” Only her blue eyes conveyed what she felt: hope that was almost desperation.

Conscious of the boy’s presence, Lucas didn’t want to go into details. “Yes.”

Olivia closed her eyes and lifted a hand to her heart for a second before turning to her son. “Peter, would you be a dear and go up and see how Cordelia is feeling? She might like some more tea.”

James’s nine-year-old daughter hadn’t been eating much, had barely left her room since the funeral.

Young Peter frowned at the request. “She’s got her nurse and her nanny—”

“And a kind, considerate brother.” Olivia walked over and ran her hand through her son’s sandy hair, then leaned down and whispered something to him. Peter nodded sullenly and moved toward the staircase, his gaze on the floor.

Lucas wanted to say something more to the boy, tell him they could talk tomorrow. But that wouldn’t be possible. Lucas wouldn’t be there tomorrow.

And he would only say the wrong thing anyway. He wasn’t any good with children, wasn’t cut out to be a family man.

He was not his brother.

As soon as Peter disappeared up the stairs, Olivia ushered Lucas into the drawing room, closing the doors behind them. Inside, his three sisters waited amid the mahogany and velvet furnishings and soft lamplight, looking warily at the man who had just stepped into their midst. They didn’t seem to know what to make of him, this brother who was almost a stranger, who wore a gun and a badge. And he didn’t know how to fix that.

Lucas glanced away. He hardly knew them anymore, they were all so grown up and sophisticated: Callie, the eldest at twenty-three, home from her medical studies in Philadelphia; Eden, who was in her final year of college in New York and dreamed of being a writer; and Faith, so sweet and elegant, fresh from her Boston finishing school.