Sweet Heart Of Mine
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It was time. Morgan had been waiting for this day for a long, lonely year now—a year in which he’d felt as if every moment of his life would never come again. But the end finally arrived.
He was on stage at last. His first performance since the accident that should have killed him. And all he wanted to do was forget about himself and give everyone else a good time. He hoped it showed from the start when his voice rang out above the applause. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to those gathered inside the auditorium.
“The show is about to begin.” Then he smiled with genuine pleasure as the crowd settled down, then applauded enthusiastically themselves. The orchestra began playing the overture music, and Morgan launched into his first song.
After that, he sang a dozen more songs, including “I’m Looking Over A Four Leaf Clover,” “The Old Grey Mare” and “My Darling Clementine.” At one point, he paused in his singing to talk directly to the audience.
“There are some people in this town who aren’t too happy with me because I’ve decided to sing on my own terms. They’re unhappy because they can see how much better I am than them.” When they booed him, he ignored their noise, but continued talking right to them:
“I know what you really want, folks. You want me gone, dead and buried, so your precious peace will return to Whispering Pines. That’s why I’ve asked myself every night before going on stage. Should I do it? Am I doing the wrong thing?”
With a grin, he added, “But if it wasn’t for these folks who came tonight, the answer would be ‘yes.’ It would be yes because there’s no way you could ever forgive me, or love me again. So, thank you very much for coming.”
As the applause died down, Morgan returned to the piano bench and played another tune. By then, the audience knew what to expect from him, so he could relax and let the notes flow naturally, even though his left hand didn’t move perfectly with the right.
But the audience wouldn’t notice the imperfection; not with the bright smiles and laughter surrounding them. He finished off his set by playing “When I Grow Too Old To Dream,” and then walked back off stage with his left arm over his heart. As soon as he was out of sight, his audience gave an audible sigh of relief.
Morgan sat backstage, feeling as exhausted as he looked. The audience hadn’t been as big as he’d hoped it would be, but they seemed to enjoy the show. Still, he’d expected it would be bigger, given its importance, and after the success of last month’s performances.
After the lights dimmed and the curtain fell, it took Morgan a few moments to realize that his left hand no longer moved smoothly across the keys of the piano. For a while, he tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. The pain was too bad. Then he realized he was sitting with his elbows propped up against the piano instead of resting on the seat.
His hands hurt worse now than when he had broken the wrist two years ago. It had been a minor break that healed in a short period of time, but this time his hand had suffered an internal injury. He knew it would only get worse until he had surgery.
The only problem was that it might kill him. There were complications involved with any kind of major operation on a body part affected by paralysis. The surgeons told him there was only a 30 percent chance of surviving the procedure.
If he did survive, he would have to learn how to use his left arm as well as his right, something that would take years. Not to mention the risk that his hand could rot away like his leg had done.
With that thought foremost in his mind, Morgan went onstage once more. He played the first half of the program without incident, but his hand grew steadily weaker until it stopped moving altogether. When he finished playing “The Last Rose Of Summer,” the audience applauded politely and then filed out.
Morgan waited until the theater emptied out completely before walking off stage. No one had seen his left-hand stop working. They probably assumed that he’d simply decided to quit. Or maybe they just hadn’t noticed.
He went to the dressing room alone, hoping to find someone in charge, but none was around. The other singers and dancers who usually worked in the small space didn’t seem worried. They laughed and joked among themselves as if nothing unusual was happening.
In spite of being surrounded by them, Morgan felt isolated. Worse yet, he also sensed that they viewed him differently now. They were still friendly toward him, but they treated him as though they didn’t trust him, or fear him, or both.
Then he found himself thinking of Molly. What must she think? He hadn’t mentioned anything about the accident during her visit. She’d already been through so much. And here he was trying to hide something else from her: the danger he was putting himself in by performing on stage.
He sat on the edge of a chair, staring at the floor in front of him. His left arm hung limply beside his right shoulder as if he’d grown used to it hanging that way, but he hated seeing it this way. He wanted to throw it across his lap and hold it in his left hand—the hand that had stopped working.
The dressing room door opened and a man stepped inside. Morgan jumped to his feet and backed away a step, then turned and ran out of the dressing room, down the hall, and into the street. He heard someone shout behind him but didn’t slow down.
As soon as he reached the street, he headed for an alleyway. A horse-drawn wagon rumbled past, carrying a group of tourists out of town, and he hid in the shadows until they passed. Then he continued down the street and ducked into another alleyway, this one leading to a large barn.
He climbed over a high fence and then crouched in the shadowed darkness of the open hayloft. There he lay face down on top of a pile of straw, letting his head touch the floor.
For several minutes, he listened to the sounds coming from the street and the nearby buildings. After the loudest noises faded, he finally dared to turn over. His left hand was still limp and useless, but his left foot was slightly warmer than the rest of his body.
“Molly?” he whispered, not daring to say her name aloud. “Can you hear me?”
No response.
He tried again. “Molly?”
Nothing.
He let the question linger. Would it make a difference if she could hear him or not? He wasn’t sure. Maybe she didn’t know how to answer.
Morgan closed his eyes. What would happen if he never came home to see her again? How long would Molly wait for him? Could he really put her through all that again?
A faint moan made him sit up quickly, almost knocking himself out of his hiding place. He rolled sideways and stared across the loft at a figure lying facedown on the ground below. As soon as he recognized Molly’s familiar voice, he scrambled down to the floor. “It’s me!”
She sat up suddenly, her arms flying wide. Her hair was disheveled and her dress torn, but her face was flushed with excitement and happiness. She looked up at him with such intensity, it seemed as though she was going to leap into his arms; instead, she pulled away, then grabbed his hand.
Her fingers gripped his tightly enough to hurt. But she only smiled in relief, as though she’d feared he might disappear.
They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Finally, Molly spoke. “How did you get in here?”
“I climbed.” He held his hands out like an airplane. “Up, and down, and up again.”
Her face fell, and she shook her head. “What happened? How badly are you hurt?”
“You should ask me that question first,” he said gruffly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at her. He needed to see if there was any visible damage to her left arm, which was still warm and slightly swollen.
When he saw that she was looking back at him expectantly, he asked, “Are your arms okay?”
She nodded and lifted her shoulders, but he couldn’t be sure whether she believed what she’d told him or not. She seemed hesitant to speak, as if unsure how to respond.
Morgan waited impatiently. “Was anyone else injured besides me?”
“Yes, some of the boys, but no more than they deserve.”
“Good,” he replied curtly. For a second, his tone softened, as if he were actually concerned for her well-being. He’d always thought it strange that a man’s concern for his fellow man had never come easily to him. Even when he’d worked in law enforcement, he’d been far more interested in solving crimes and catching criminals than helping those in need.
But now, when it mattered most, he was glad to have it.
He looked into her blue eyes, wondering about all that lay behind them. He knew she hadn’t known that he was coming to visit her and hoped she wouldn’t think he’d come here to make trouble. If so, he was determined to leave. But first, he needed to know exactly how bad things were.
“Did you see my attacker?”
He didn’t need her answer; he could feel the truth radiating from her. It had happened so fast, she hadn’t even realized who the assailant was until after she’d kicked him away and run.
Morgan rubbed his chin. “Do you remember anything about the man?”
She shook her head and took a deep breath. “Just the look on his face, like it was all part of a game he played every day.”
“Were their witnesses?” he asked, and when she didn’t reply immediately, added, “Someone must have seen something.”
She swallowed hard and licked her dry lips before answering, “No one witnessed anything except the fight itself. We’re alone here, Morgan. No one knows we’re here but us.”
As if the words could somehow protect her, she looked away for a moment, as if she were searching for the strength within herself. Then she turned back and met his gaze. “There is no witness.”
Morgan sighed and ran his hands through his hair. That wasn’t the news he wanted to hear, but he understood why it was necessary. In this town, if there were a dozen witnesses, there might be someone willing to testify against Molly for defending herself.
And since he knew the sheriff, the likelihood of finding a reliable judge in town was slim. If he went to jail—or worse—there would be no one left to take care of her.
“What about the gun he used?” he asked.
“The same one he carried to the saloon tonight. A Colt revolver.”
Morgan nodded absently as he mulled over her words. The saloon was where they’d started their search for information earlier that evening, which meant it also happened to be the scene of the assault.
There was a good chance someone there had seen the fight; maybe one of them would even recognize the gunman. If he could find a witness, everything might work out. But he wasn’t going to leave until he had answers to all his questions.
“Why did he attack you?” he asked, trying to sound as gentle as possible. “What has he got against you?”
“Because I’m—”
“Don’t try to explain it to me.” He waved off her words and shook his head. “This isn’t the time.”
“I’ve never done anything to him, Morgan. Please believe me.”
He didn’t say anything more, hoping it was true. She was probably only telling him what she thought he wanted to hear, just like she had at the saloon. And yet, she had a point; she didn’t owe him any explanations.
He leaned closer to her. “What did he want? Why did he follow you into the saloon?”
“His name is Frank Dominguez.” She hesitated and looked down at the floorboards. “I think he wants revenge for the death of his brother.”
Morgan felt his heart skip a beat. “Who killed his brother?”
Molly’s voice sounded hoarse with pain as if the mention of his killer’s name had hurt her deeply. “His younger brother, Josef, shot himself two weeks ago while visiting a friend. His body was buried in California.”
Morgan remembered how she’d told him that her father and mother had died years ago. This must have been Josef’s older brother. How tragic, and how terrible that Frank had lost another family member to suicide.
And if his hatred for Molly was based on Josef’s death, it made sense to assume that his anger was fueled by grief and sorrow. He’d probably believed killing her would bring him peace.
He rubbed his chin again and thought about what else she’d said. “Did you ask the sheriff about the gun he used tonight?”
“Yes,” she answered shortly. “He said he found it in the saloon’s bar.”
Morgan frowned and wondered why the man hadn’t called him instead of leaving it up to Molly to find the weapon. “And he hasn’t taken any action or arrested anyone?”
When she didn’t answer right away, Morgan glanced around and saw that she’d moved closer to the door, her back pressed firmly against it. He waited impatiently for her to respond but she remained silent. When her head lifted slightly, he noted the way her mouth formed a small O. It seemed that she finally realized he was waiting for an answer.
She cleared her throat and took a breath before saying, “No.”
“Why not?” he demanded sharply.
“I tried, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He was very angry and didn’t see the reason for bringing charges against anyone involved. All he cares about is getting things back to normal.”
That was obvious from the sheriff’s attitude toward him and his men at the saloon. But it still didn’t make sense.
“You know who he’s referring to when he says ‘the rest? What does that mean?”
“No.” She turned away and stared at something outside the window. “All he told me was that the sheriff would contact the mayor after I returned to my room.”
“The mayor? Mayor Dominguez?”
“Yes. After the incident tonight, he ordered him to arrest everyone involved and charge them with attempted murder.”
Morgan cursed under his breath. If he couldn’t get the sheriff to do a thorough investigation, then there was no telling what he might do.
Molly looked up quickly. “I don’t think you should go in there,” she said.
“It’ll take too long to come up here later.” He stood up and walked around the desk so he was standing behind her. “Let’s go now.”
A hint of relief washed through her eyes, but she didn’t reply. She stayed perfectly still, watching him as he approached. Then he pulled her hair back and wrapped it around his fingers, twisting it gently. When she didn’t resist, he brought his lips close to hers.
He kissed her lightly once, twice, before stopping abruptly. They both stared at each other for several seconds, their breathing labored, as though they were caught somewhere between wanting to kiss again and fighting the urge to do so.
Finally, he stepped back and looked at her face, noting the slight flush on her cheeks and the way her pulse was racing. He could almost feel it beating beneath his thumb when he rested the tip of his index finger on her lower lip.
With a soft sigh, he brushed a kiss across her lips and left. He knew she would follow him because he’d seen her leave the door open earlier.
***
In less than ten minutes, Morgan was seated inside the jailhouse with three deputies surrounding him. The sheriff was still gone, and they had no idea where he was.
The three deputies glared at him and said nothing, apparently assuming that he intended to talk Molly out of confessing to killing Josef Dominguez. Instead, he explained that he planned to question her alone.
He wasn’t expecting any cooperation from the officers, but Molly surprised him by answering every one of his questions without hesitation. She described the events leading up to the night of the shooting in painstaking detail—how she’d met Josef in the saloon and then followed him to his brother’s home.
Morgan leaned forward, intent on hearing everything. “What did Josef say to you while you were following him? Did he tell you anything? Ask you to wait outside for him?”
“No, nothing like that.” Her voice sounded strained as if she wanted to cry out in pain over all of the memories flooding back to her.
“Did you hear any gunshots that night? From where?”
“Around midnight,” she answered slowly, and Morgan nodded appreciatively when she finished. “Josef was standing near the front door. He was holding something that appeared to be a gun. It was dark so I couldn’t really tell.”
Morgan remembered that the mayor had mentioned seeing the muzzle flashes from a couple of shots fired. “Did you notice anything else unusual that night?”
“Only that there was no light coming from the house.”
“Light?” he asked curiously.
“There wasn’t even a candle burning.”
“But how could anyone have slept during a storm? There weren’t any lights in the windows either.”
Molly shook her head. “I didn’t see anyone inside the house that night. Only Josef.”
“So you never heard anyone shout or scream?”
“No.” She paused and glanced around nervously before continuing. “Then, suddenly, he was running toward the door. He pushed it open and threw himself through it before I could stop him. His body flew straight into my car. I remember thinking that someone must have hit him with a baseball bat.”
He was impressed by Molly’s calm reaction to such an unbelievable scene. “Were you injured?” he pressed.
“Not badly. But I was afraid Josef was dead, so I got out to help him. And I screamed when I saw his wound.”
Morgan leaned back against the wall to stare at her. So much was happening too quickly and none of it made sense. Why would Josef shoot the mayor and then throw himself inside the same car Molly had just driven away from Dominguez’s house?
“That’s when he started shouting,” she continued, speaking rapidly, as though she didn’t want to dwell on the memory. “He yelled that it was his brother who killed his brother. That we were going to hang for it. That I was next.”
When Molly finally stopped talking, Morgan looked at the two deputies with him and asked them if they would escort him back to Molly’s room. The sheriff would return shortly and Morgan wanted to speak to Molly alone first.
He took her hand in his after they left the office. Her skin felt cool, almost cold, as though the heat from the afternoon sun had been sucked away. “We’re going to find a way to clear your name,” he promised her. “I promise.”
They rode back to town together in silence. Molly seemed preoccupied as she sat stiffly beside the driver. As soon as they arrived in the square, Morgan escorted her down the street to his hotel. After he unlocked the door, he guided her inside and turned to close the door behind him.
She stood frozen in place, staring at him in stunned amazement. Then, he heard her whisper, “You can’t believe what I’ve done.”
He moved closer to her and pulled her into his arms. “It wasn’t you,” he whispered against her hair. “This is all just a misunderstanding.”
“How do you know?” A sob choked her voice before she managed to get the words out. “Did you talk to Dominguez’s widow?”
“I spoke with Mayor Almond today.” He stroked her hair gently. “She told me that she and Josef often fought over his drinking problem. I don’t think there’s any doubt that he shot the mayor.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue,” he interrupted. “Just listen to me carefully, okay?”
Molly closed her eyes and listened intently. He went on to explain how he believed Josef had gone back to Dominguez’s home to kill the mayor. How he had probably taken the sheriff’s badge to disguise his presence.
Since Dominguez had died during the shooting, Josef was now officially in custody under suspicion of murder. If anyone asked about the dead man’s identity, Josef would be identified as the mayor’s killer.
As soon as he was finished, Molly’s expression brightened. She nodded slowly, agreeing to everything he said. “And you’ll prove that I’m innocent? You’ll help me find Josef?”
“Yes.” He smiled faintly, relieved by her quick agreement to cooperate. “But I need more information before we begin looking for Josef. We’ll start tomorrow morning.”
“What kind of information?”
“First I want to know more about Josef and his family,” he answered. “Who are they? What did his father die of? Do you know anything about Josef’s mother? Anything at all?”
Her voice was hesitant as she explained. “His mother died while giving birth to Josef. They found her on the kitchen floor unconscious.”
“Anything else?”
“Josef doesn’t like to talk about his past—at least not to strangers.”
He frowned at her answer. She hadn’t given him much to go on. Still, he knew better than to expect too much of anyone at the beginning of their investigation. In the meantime, he needed to learn about Josef’s family history and his father’s death.
He would also need to find out where he lived, who owned his horse, whether he kept weapons on him and if he had any other means of transportation.
Morgan glanced down at the small notebook he’d brought with him from New York. He flipped through it to see what information he already had. When he came to a page filled with numbers, he stopped and read it again. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything else?” he asked.
“No.”
“What did you write?”
Molly shook her head. “Nothing. Just numbers.”
“Numbers!” He stared at her for several seconds, unable to make sense of it.
The sheriff returned with his deputy, but Morgan ignored both of them and went outside to check on his horses. When he came back inside, the sheriff was standing by the front desk with the deputy. He held up something between his thumb and forefinger. “Found this in one of the pockets. It matches the description.”
The sheriff handed Morgan the item which happened to be a pair of scissors.
Molly looked up, then quickly averted her gaze to study a framed picture on the wall behind Morgan’s desk. “What does it mean?”
“It’s no coincidence that someone has been cutting holes in our clothing,” the sheriff answered. “Someone knows exactly where our clothes come from.”
Morgan turned to the deputy. “Go to the tailor shop and have the owner call me.”
After the deputy left, the sheriff took a seat across the desk from Morgan. “Do you know anything about this?” he asked, handing him another item.
Morgan accepted it without touching it first. He recognized it as an ink pen. There was something odd about the writing on the side though. It was in a different alphabet. Something foreign. Not English or Spanish, but some strange alphabet used in Central America or maybe in South America.
He turned the pen around to look closely at it and noticed that the name engraved in gold on the barrel was written in this strange script.
He turned back to the sheriff and shrugged. “I have no idea who wrote this.”
“You don’t recognize it?”
“Not yet.”
The sheriff’s face darkened at his answer. “What do you plan to do next?”
“We’ll begin by interviewing everyone in town,” he answered, “and we’ll follow up on every lead.”
“And when will you arrest Josef?” The sheriff’s tone had hardened into anger.
“If I have anything to say about it, he’ll never see daylight again.” Morgan stood and stepped away from the desk. “But before I can do any of that, I need more information on Josef.”
The End