The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham Read Free Book Online Page B

prisoner and him her jailer.
    I suppose , she thought, what I am doing is illegally denying my husband his marital rights . Remembering the cruel thing he had said about her father fixation, she comprehended at last that he was right: She might never be able to love a man fully, since no man could ever take Papa’s place in her life. Yet some man must, or she was doomed to be an old maid, at least in her heart.
    Crying softly, she curled up on the cot and slept.
    Frances was about to write the final page of her story when she realized that the young auburn-haired man with the liverish complexion was standing at the foot of the grave, only a few feet away! Despite his smile, in his black frock coat and trousers he looked like Death’s dark angel come for someone in the cemetery, possibly herself.
    She closed the writing tablet quickly and banged the desk closed, then shot him a single angry glance and prepared to leave, hoping he would be intimidated and go away. But he remained, and she heard him ask, most respectfully: “Excuse me, ma’am—aren’t you Mrs. Parrish? I knew you from your wedding picture. I’m Henry Logan, from Kansas City, a friend of John Manion’s. I don’t mean to intrude, but we really do have to talk.”

Chapter Six
    The woman in the cemetery turned in surprise to stare at him, her face pale. He had studied that face so many times that every feature was familiar, as though he had known her for years. But the archness he had seen in it was missing—in fact, now that he was noticing the flared nostrils and quick breathing, what he saw was fright.
    â€œI’m sorry?” she said. “My wedding picture? I don’t understand.”
    â€œI’m Henry Logan. Your husband sent the picture to my attorney friend,” Henry said. He had already checked the marker and found that two names were carved into it, neither of them Richard Parrish’s.
    ELIZABETH MOTLEY WINGARD. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE WINGARD.
    He remembered that she was a Wingard—that the bride’s name on the photograph had been inscribed “Frances Wingard Parrish.”
    Again she thrust her fingers into her hair, distractedly, as though a bee had lodged there. “Well, I can’t talk to you now! I have to see my attorney before I can talk to anyone. And please don’t leave the flowers!” she exclaimed, brushing him away as he went to one knee to place them in the vase on the grave. “Put them ... on his uncle’s grave.” Her hand continued to wave him off like a beggar.
    But Henry smiled and went on arranging the wildflowers. “Oh, my,” he said. “I knew there was fire behind that face. Now, I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m here to help you, not make trouble for you.”
    â€œHa!” she cried. “Well, I don’t need a gunman’s help!”
    Henry looked up from the flowers. Then he laughed. “A gunman? I’m not a gunman, Mrs. Parrish. Where did you get that notion?”
    She extended her arm down the hill toward the depot. “The telegram. It came yesterday. That man in Kansas City, he said for my husband to extend all ... courtesies or something, to a gunman named Logan, who was going to ask some questions.”
    Henry stood up. “That’s rich. I’m a gun smith , which has nothing to do with my being here, anyway.”
    Frances said, “Oh, that idiotic telegrapher! You want to know where my husband is, is that it?” She definitely had a faint accent—another intriguing element in her, like a peekaboo blouse promising hidden charms.
    â€œThat’s it,” Henry said. “I simply need to find and talk to Richard.”
    The uptilted blue eyes mocked him. “So do a few other people, Mr. Logan, including a number of merchants and his wife.”
    â€œHe’s missing, then?”
    â€œTo put it ... prudently....”
    Henry could not take his eyes off her,