square! Bumps and ridges decorated the edges and top.
Grasping the corner between her first two fingers, she finally got purchase and dragged the item from the belly of the batting. It was too large to fit through the opening she'd made, but bent in half and cupped in the palm of her hand, it slid right out.
She stared at the object in her hand and recognized it immediately. A dance card! Nell had hidden a dance card deep in the cushion of a chair in her bedroom. Surely her intent was to keep this apparently innocuous item a secret from her parents, her sister, and even Meg herself.
But why? What meaning could an old dance card possibly have?
The heavy tread of footsteps on the uncarpeted wooden stairs reminded her that most of the guests had left. If Mr. Carver were returning to his daughter's room, he likely wouldn't tolerate her still being there. Smothering her inclination to hide in the closet, she ducked instead behind the bedroom door.
The thud of steps faltered at the entrance to the room while Meghan held her breath. Then the slightly ajar door was pulled shut with a finality that seemed both sad and ominous to Meghan's ears.
#
James Wade slouched at a table in a dark corner of Dudley's Tavern, nursing a whiskey and wondering how to get himself out of the shitty mess he was in. And all the while he couldn't purge images of Nell's heaving breasts and his hand around her neck. Of seeing consciousness ebb from those lively blue eyes while his cock jabbed against her stomach.
He noticed the slight trembling of his hands as he reached for the glass and took another swig. What the fuck had he done?
When the Marshal had hauled his ass into the Station House and thrown all sorts of suggestions and accusations at him, he hadn't been worried. Not at first.
Sure, he seen Nellie the night she disappeared. Hell, most every night she could sneak out, but he sure wasn't the only one she kept company with.
Lots of fellows had a crush on Nellie Carver. She liked making easy promises to all kinda men. Plenty of them could've had it in for her, tired of her teasing and flirting, promising favors she had no intention of giving.
Jim knew how quickly Nell made a man's blood boil. She'd done it to him and probably the others. Whatever games he and Nell had played together, she liked them as much as him. She might've played those same games with other fellows.
He wasn't the only one who could've become mad at her and, in a moment of fury and passion, bashed her head in. Or put his hand around her pretty throat – so weak and vulnerable – and squeezed the life out of her.
Nah, he wasn't really worried. He'd been sweet-talking women from babies to grannies as long as he could remember, and he'd always gotten whatever he wanted. He told himself this situation wasn't much different.
What Marshal Tucker Gage saw as cockiness was just self-confidence, and that same trait would protect him now if it came to a criminal charge. Wouldn't it?
Jim realized he'd made a big mistake lying to Tucker Gage at the beginning. The Marshal had a way of catching people in lies, twisting their words round and round like a tangled thread.
And now Gage was suspicious of him.
Chapter 9
Michael Hayes had sobered up by the time Gage returned to the Station House after a quick change of clothing.
Locked into the largest of the jail cells, Hayes lay on his back on a wooden cot, his long legs dangling over the end, one arm flung over his eyes. The smell of carbolic from Pruitt's scrubbing lingered in the air, replacing the sour stench of retching.
Pruitt looked up from the booking desk where he labored over a hand-written report. His knuckles were still red from his tussle with the carbolic.
"Next time use washing soda," Gage suggested. "Easier on the hands."
"Yes sir. Our visitor is wide awake for questioning," Pruitt said unnecessarily, nodding toward the cell where Hayes had turned his head their way at the sound of
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