Page 72 of If the Boot Fits

Samantha nodded. “I’ll tell him.” She nudged Bruno forward, moving to the right toward the house while Asher stayed left with Sheriff Jeter and headed to the bunkhouse.

Asher kept his eyes on Samantha until she dismounted and disappeared into the house, then he turned his attention to the lawman at his side.

“You finally gonna tell me what we’re lookin’ for?”

“A crescent-shaped birthmark,” Asher said. “On a man’s chest. Beneath his collarbone.”

“A birthmark?” The sheriff spat out the word as if it were a wad of tasteless, well-chawed tobacco. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Asher reined in his horse outside the bunkhouse and dismounted. This wasn’t a conversation to be had in anything but the closest of quarters. He waited for Jeter to climb off his horse, then walked up beside him.

“It’s a delicate matter,” Asher murmured in a hushed tone. “I’ve given my word not to reveal any details, and I aim to honor that promise. All you need to know, Sheriff, is that there is a man who believes he stands to inherit a portion of the Three Cedars—a portion that would be a good sight bigger without Samantha around. We don’t know who he is, but Samantha recently learned that he can be identified by that birthmark I told you about. I know you can’t arrest a man for having a mark on his chest, but I figure culling him from the herd is the first step. Once we know which cowhand to target, we can start gatherin’ evidence and get him to confess.”

Jeter frowned. “If this mark is the only evidence we got, we best keep that bit of information close to the vest. Don’t want to let the fella know we’re onto him until we have enough evidence to arrest him. I’ll come up with some other excuse to get them to take off their shirts. Follow my lead.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sheriff strode toward the bunkhouse. “When we get inside,” he said, “position yourself by the back door. That way no one can slip out with us knowin’.”

“Will do.”

Glad to let a man with actual authority do the talking, Asher stayed in Jeter’s shadow as they entered the bunkhouse. Once inside, he scouted the second door on the back side of the building and planted himself in front of it. A couple of men sat on their bunks, working up the gumption to get out of bed, but most were still sawing wood.

“All right, boys. Time to get up!” The sheriff banged his fist against the front door a few times, and feet began to hit the floor.

“Sheriff Jeter? That you?” Martin rubbed his eyes as if he didn’t trust what he was seeing, then slowly rose from his cot. “Whatcha doin’ in our bunkhouse?” The drunkenness of sleep fell away from him in an instant as clarity dawned. “Did something happen to Miss Dearing?”

The grumbles and scuffling from the rest of the men fell silent as they all listened for the answer.

“As a matter of fact, someone set fire to the house where she was staying in town. Trapped her and the Hopewells inside.”

“God have mercy.” Martin braced an arm against the nearby wall. “Is she . . . ?”

Asher’s throat tightened as old panic resurfaced inside him momentarily. The smell of the fire, his desperation to get in the house, the fear that he might be too late.

“She’s alive, thank the Lord. As are the preacher and his missus.”

A collective sigh echoed through the bunkhouse. Asher watched each man’s face, looking for signs of disappointment or frustration. Nothing stood out, unfortunately. The men’s concern seemed genuine. ’Course some fellas were awful good poker players and knew how to run a convincing bluff.

“We got evidence that the fire was deliberate,” the sheriff continued. “Arson. Attempted murder, in fact. Whoever set the blaze sealed off the exits, making it nearly impossible for those inside to escape.”

“Who would do such a thing?” one of the men muttered beneath his breath.

Sheriff Jeter widened his stance. “That’s what we’re here to figure out. We got reason to believe that the man who set the fire sustained an injury to his torso while committing the act. We also have reason to suspect the man hails from the Three Cedars. So I’m gonna need each one of you to strip down to your drawers and submit to inspection.”

A roomful of eyeballs blinked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

The sheriff kicked the cot closest to him, causing a loud clatter. “I didn’t ride all the way out here before the crack of dawn for my health, boys. Strip. Now!”

Men stood, all in various states of undress. Some tugged on trousers before pulling off nightshirts. Others yanked shirts over heads. One poor fellow had to unbutton himself out of the top half of a union suit.

Sheriff Jeter grabbed a lantern hanging from a nail on the wall by the door, lit it, and turned the wick up high. Then he walked the line, inspecting each man’s torso. Asher joined him, scrutinizing every collarbone.

“There has to be some mistake,” Martin said after the sheriff moved past him. “The Dearings are like family to us. No one here would ever hurt them. The Hopewells either.”

They neared the end of the row, having found nothing resembling a crescent. A few scars and one cowboy with enough hair to rival a buffalo, but no birthmarks.

“I’m gonna need a list of any man on the payroll who ain’t here,” the sheriff said as he frowned at the final unmarked chest.