Chris went to the woman, smoothed her hair, crossed her hands over her breast. Even in the darkness, she could see how young the woman was, that her hair, under the blood that stained it, was the color of wheat. She was much too young to have died, especially to have been murdered.
Standing, Chris looked at the bundles around her, a meager lot of women’s clothing in a carpet bag, another little sewing bag, one bag of the man’s clothes. These had scattered across the ground when the wagon had tumbled down the side of the hill. Something shining in the moonlight caught Chris’s eye. When she went to it, she saw that it was a little leather bound book with a brass clasp.
Quickly searching the man’s bag, she found a box of matches, lit one and scanned a page of the book. As she hoped, it was a diary and, before Asher saw her, she made out the words, “We must help him” and “Lionel’s life may be in danger. He’s only a child and he has no one but us.”
When she heard Asher behind her, she slammed the book shut and slipped it into the pocket of her habit.
They left the wagon and the bundles where they were for the sheriff to examine, mounted their horses and rode south.
They got to the inn, and, vaguely she heard Asher murmuring complaints and apologies about the food and the dirt of the place, but Chris wasn’t really listening. Over a dinner of burned beans, all she could think of was the diary.
When Chris was finally alone in her room, she sat in the bed and began to read the diary. It started three years ago when Diana Hamilton had married the man she’d thought was the wisest, cleverest man on earth, Whitman Eskridge. It hadn’t taken her but a few months to find out that he’d married her for her money. Within six months he’d spent everything she brought to the marriage and wanted more.
Chris read how this man had wheedled his way into the Hamilton business—and it wasn’t until after Diana’s father’s suicide that she found out that Whitman had been embezzling funds.
The company went bankrupt, but Diana stood by her husband through all the scandal and the public auction of their belongings. When he said he wanted to go live with her rich relatives in Washington Territory, Diana had reluctantly agreed. She wrote her cousin, Owen Hamilton, a man she’d never met, and begged him for mercy and kindness—and for a roof over their heads.
There were several days when Diana didn’t write in the diary, then she took it up again with the news that Whitman had told her that Owen was stealing from Lionel. Chris found this confusing until she’d read a few pages more. As far as she could tell, Lionel was really the owner of the Hamilton holdings in Washington. He was a boy of about eleven, and everything had been left to him in care of his uncle, the man who was Diana’s cousin. And Whitman Eskridge had produced some type of proof that Owen Hamilton was cheating his nephew out of his inheritance. Unfortunately, the diary didn’t tell what that proof was.
It was hours later when she finished reading and fell asleep, the book across her lap. She had a dream that she was Diana Eskridge.
“Chris, wake up,” Asher was saying, shaking her awake. “I pounded on the door but no one answered. Did you stay awake all night reading that book?”
Yawning, Chris nodded.
“Well, whatever it is, I hope it was worth it. I just rode in and I wanted to tell you that the sheriff has the bodies. I’m going to sleep now. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Chris was tired but she could sleep only fitfully. She kept thinking and dreaming about what she’d read. It was so unfair that the pretty young woman had had such a terrible life. And what would happen now to that poor little boy whose inheritance she was trying to save? Lionel now had no other relatives except his dishonest uncle.
By evening, she was convinced that she should do something about this young woman who had died. She couldn’t let her die in vain, couldn’t let her agony and pain be for nothing.
At dinner, she asked Asher many questions about the looks of the young woman who’d died.
“Chris, how can you be so morbid?”
“Do you think she was built like me? Was she anything like me at all?”
When he saw she wasn’t going to cease, he began to answer her. “Why don’t you tell me what you have on your mind,” he said softly.
Chris nearly choked from trying to tell too much too quickly. When she’d calmed herself, she began again. First, she told him about the diary and Diana Eskridge’s miserable marriage. “She never had a chance for happiness. And she was on her way to do something very good. She was going to save her cousin whose estate was being stolen from him by a wicked uncle when she was killed.”
Asher looked at his plate of food. “Did it ever occur to you that the wicked uncle might have been the one who killed her?”
“Of course it did. But her dying request was that I help by protecting Lionel.”
“And just how do you propose to do that? Walk up to this uncle and say, ‘Excuse me, but are you stealing from your nephew? If so, would you please turn yourself in and go to jail for the rest of your life?’ Really, Chris! This is too absurd.”
Chris took a deep breath. “I thought that since this man has never seen his cousin, I might be able to pose as her.”
Asher’s jaw dropped as he gaped at her. “But if he’s the one who has had her killed, don’t you think he’ll be a little suspicious when you walk in the door?”
“I don’t guess he can say that he thought I was dead, can he?”
“Not you, Chris, Diana Eskridge. You couldn’t possibly get away with this. There’s too much that you don’t know about her. How are the two of them related? Maybe this Diana has a birthmark that’s a family trait. There are a thousand things that you don’t know. Why has she never met this man before? No, you couldn’t possibly do it.”
Chris looked down at her plate and she tried to control herself but she felt the tears coming.
“What’s the matter, Chris?” Asher asked, reaching for her hand.