by Hebby Roman
She returned the hug. “You’re welcome, Son. We’ll talk about riding later. And I don’t mind filling the wood box occasionally but let’s not make a habit of it.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Let me take the wood for you.” The sheriff stepped forward and opened his arms. She acquiesced, giving him the logs. Turning to Kevin, he directed, “Get another load for your mother. We’ll have the wood box filled in no time.”
“Kevin has never jumped in the leaves before,” she said. “Did you give him the idea?”
He nodded, admitting, “Guilty as accused.”
“You must have been raised where there are more trees. There aren’t many in this area.”
“I didn’t get around trees much when I was a young’un,” he said, “just dusty streets. But my ranch house is surrounded by trees. There are huge live oaks and pecans, drawing their life from the river.”
But when he said the word “river,” his face contorted and he turned away. She glimpsed a muscle jumping in his jaw.
Suddenly, he seemed in a rush to leave her. She watched him climb the back steps and take the load of wood into the kitchen. She wondered at his odd reaction. It was as if the word “river” had dredged up some awful memory.
The backdoor slammed and Kevin trotted into the yard again. “One more load to go,” her son said before he went to the woodpile and filled his arms.
The door opened and closed again. The sheriff took the back steps, two at a time. Seeing Kevin with his arms full, he said, “That should do it. Good job, Kevin.”
Hearing his words of praise, Abigail felt a prick of guilt. She didn’t praise her son often enough. It was a bad habit she’d picked up from her father, taking the boy for granted. Making a mental note, she vowed she would do better in the future.
She watched her son climb the steps carefully, his arms filled with logs. When she glanced up, she found the sheriff there, standing so close she could touch him. She could feel the heat from his body and smell the pungent, honest male scent of him. The sensations unnerved her.
She retreated a few steps, thinking she needed to be inside, helping with supper.
He glanced around the back yard. “What did you plan on doing with the leaves?” As if answering his own question, he said, “I see you have a garden. Packed down and left to rot for two or three years, leaves make good fertilizer.”
“So I’ve been told,” she found herself responding when she should be rushing inside. “Unfortunately, the garden is Juan’s domain. And he prefers…” She paused and wrinkled her nose, uncertain of how to broach the delicate subject.
“Animal droppings,” he supplied.
“Yes, that’s it,” she agreed, grateful for his discretion. “I’m certain your mare will do her part.”
He laughed and she found herself joining in, enjoying the warm timbre of his male laughter as it washed over her. The shared pleasure felt strange, and she realized it had been years since she'd laughed with a man.
Sheriff Graham was different from any man she’d met before. No other man had gone out of their way to take an interest in her son. She was glad her father had allowed him to stay.
“What happens to the leaves after Kevin rakes them? I like to see a job through to the finish.”
“Juan usually burns them. But it’s not your concern, Clint.” Realizing what she’d said, her hand flew to her mouth and her neck warmed.
She'd used his given name. It was unspeakably forward of her.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I want you to call me Clint.” He hesitated before asking, “May I call you by your given name?” Reaching up, he pulled her hand away from her face. His fingers lingered before he released her.
She heard his question as if from far away. Her immediate attention was riveted on his hand and where he’d touched her. Her flesh felt tender and sensitized. Wondrous and unfamiliar longings coursed through her body.
After years of avoiding a man’s touch, she hungered for contact, was greedy for the feel of skin against skin. She grew warmer, heat flooding her face and cheeks. And she wanted to run away and hide.
Chapter Four
“What is your given name, Mrs. Sanford?” He touched her arm.
His light touch, no more substantial than a whisper, drew her to the ground and suddenly, she wished he was holding her and touching her.
My goodness, what was wrong with her?
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, but she managed, “My given name is Abigail.”
“Abigail…Abigail,” he tested her name, as if he were savoring the taste of it on his tongue. “It’s a beautiful name but too formal. I shall call you Abby—that's it—Abby.”
She shook her head, not knowing if she were agreeing or disagreeing. “My mother called me Abby,” she said. Her heart twisted, thinking of her gentle mother. Swallowing, she ventured, “You may call me Abby but only in private Mr. Graham—Clint. Not in front of anyone else, even my son.”
“I understand, Abby.” The backdoor slammed and Clint looked up. “Here comes your son with a surprise.”
She made an effort to compose her features, knowing Kevin would sense any lingering embarrassment. She watched his slow progress down the back steps, this time, hampered by a large, orange pumpkin.
“Kevin, where did you get that?” she asked.
When he reached the ground, he put the pumpkin down and ran to her, his eyes glowing with pleasure. “Ain’t it wonderful, Ma? The sheriff brung it for me.”
“Brought it for you, Kevin,” she corrected again. Glancing at Clint, she found him grinning.
He held up his right hand as if taking a vow. “Guilty again.”
Her gaze slid from Clint to Kevin and back again. Why was Clint taking such an interest in her son, bringing him gifts? And wanting to call her by her given name? Did he have designs on her? Was he using Kevin to get close to her?
But she was a married woman. A married woman who had admitted her husband hadn’t lived with her for years. Thinking about it, she cursed her honesty.
And her engrained wariness took over. She stepped back again, far enough so he couldn’t touch her and sway her better judgment. She wished she hadn’t called him by his given name because it encouraged a degree of familiarity. And with that familiarity, came a subtle shift in their relationship. A change she wasn’t prepared to handle.
“Can I keep it, Ma? The sheriff promised to show me how to carve it.” Kevin interrupted her troubled thoughts.
“Carve it?” She asked, not understanding.
“I saw it at the farmer’s market on the way home,” Clint explained. “It’s almost All Hallows Eve, and I couldn’t resist. I used to carve pumpkins when I was a boy. You’ve seen jack o’ lanterns, haven’t you? You don’t mind if I show Kevin, do you?”
Abigail gazed at her son’s expectant face. Excitement illuminated his features. She couldn’t bring herself to deprive her son of such a rare treat. She would deal with Clint in her own way.
“Yes, I’ve seen jack o’ lanterns when I was growing up in St. Louis. I know what they are.” She moved to her son’s side and stroked his hair, silently reminding Clint that, no matter how many surprises he might bring, Kevin was her son.
“Of course, you may keep the pumpkin. I have stubs of candles that should do nicely to light him. Have you thanked the sheriff?”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Kevin obediently said.
“And thank you, Mrs. Sanford, for giving your consent.”
She nodded, gratified to hear him use her surname as she’d requested.
“I better get inside and help Elisa with supper,” she said.
“When can we carve the pumpkin, Ma?”
“Not tonight, Son. It's too late. Maybe tomorrow afternoon, if that’s agreeable with the sheriff.” She glanced at Clint.
“Tomorrow will be fine,” he agreed.
Abigail nodded again and hurried off.
Clint watched the provocative sway of her hips as she climbed the steps to the kitchen. He’d almost breached the wall she used to protect herself—almost. But for no reason he could fathom, she’d withdrawn again, as clearly as if she had shut a door in his face.
“Where should I put the pumpkin to keep it safe for tomorrow?” The sound of Kevin’s voice brought him back.
He had forgotten the boy remained. He’d been naturally drawn to Abby's son. Timothy had been about Kevin’s age when he… Stopping himself, he realized he couldn’t think about his nephew. The pain was too fresh, and the guilt was like a living thing, gnawing at his guts.
He squatted so his eyes were level with Kevin's. “If it was my pumpkin and I wanted it to be safe, I’d keep it in my room.”
“You don’t think Ma would mind, do you?”
“Nah, I don’t think she’ll mind.” Clint rose to his feet. “Now, scoot! Supper will be ready soon, and you’ll need to settle the pumpkin and wash up.” Turning his own hands over, he inspected his palms, smudged with dirt from raking leaves. “I think we both need a wash.”
***
On this particular All Hallows Eve, Abigail could almost believe in ghosts and things that “go bump in the night.” It was as if evil spirits had invaded Kerr House, wreaking their own form of mischief.
From finding her wash basin cracked in the morning to the burnt pork chops at supper, everything had gone wrong. And when her father discovered he didn’t have a clean pair of overalls to wear on his run, her spate of bad luck had culminated in a nasty scene.
Her laundry schedule had fallen behind while she dealt with several near-disasters in the kitchen and Kevin being sent home from school, scraped and bruised from falling out of a tree at recess.
The only lucky thing, if one could call it a perverse kind of luck, was Kevin’s injuries weren't serious. With some iodine and bandaging, he was as good as new and thoroughly excited about tonight. So excited, he couldn't sit still.
Abigail grinned to herself, remembering what her mother would have said. Jean Kerr would have said her grandson had “ants in his pants.”
Exhausted but determined for Kevin to enjoy the holiday, she joined her son on the front porch to light the jack o’ lantern. Kevin spent half an hour positioning the carved pumpkin on the front porch for maximum effect. He sprinted into the street and strolled by the house, play-acting at being a passerby to view it.
Abigail watched him from the relative peace of the porch with her tired feet propped on a stool. Despite her fatigue, her son’s animated antics revived her spirits. And she hoped, with the setting of the sun her jinxed day would end.
Clint hadn’t come to supper tonight. It was the first meal he’d missed since moving to the boardinghouse. Unlike the railroad men, who spent their free nights at the local saloons and other “unmentionable” establishments, the sheriff spent his evenings at the house, usually retiring early.
Since the afternoon when Clint gave Kevin the pumpkin, he’d kept his distance, respecting her wishes. He’d shown Kevin how to carve the pumpkin and had given him riding lessons on his mare, but he didn’t approach Abigail or call her by her given name.
At first, she’d been relieved, but with the passage of time, she found she missed talking to him, missed his lop-sided smile and deep laugh.
She wondered again why he hadn’t been at supper.
When Kevin was ready, Abigail retrieved the candle stubs and sulfur matches from the kitchen. Experimenting together, she learned with Kevin how to place a candle in a pool of its own melted wax, toward the front of the jack o’ lantern, so the face glowed eerily in the dark.
Gazing at the effect they’d created, she exclaimed, “He’s wonderful, Son! You did a great job.”
“The sheriff helped,” her son admitted modestly.
“I know,” she replied. “I wonder why he hasn’t come home yet.”
“He’ll be here,” Kevin declared. “I know he wants to see our jack o’ lantern.” In an uncharacteristic gesture for his age, he grabbed her hand and drew her toward the chairs on the porch. “Come on, Ma, let’s sit down and wait for him.”
Nodding, she followed his lead, grateful for the opportunity to rest her feet again. Her son perched on a wicker chair beside her, his feet dangling. She glanced at him, noting his barely contained excitement and smiled. If she were a betting woman, she’d wager Kevin would beg to stay up late with his jack o’ lantern for company.
“Ma, do you know any ghost stories? If you do, could you tell me some?”
Under the cover of darkness, she found herself smiling again. He was enjoying this impromptu holiday and so was she. It had been weeks since they'd shared special time together. And she was happy for him. This was what childhood was about. And all because Clint had been thoughtful enough to bring home a pumpkin.
“Let me see if I can remember. It’s been a long time, Kevin.”
He reminded her of her childhood, before her mother had died, and the thought brought a lump to her throat. She’d been fascinated by spooky stories, loving the delicious feeling of being both safe and protected by her large family, while frightened to death at the same time.
Gathering her thoughts, she happened to look up and glimpse someone approaching the house. Straining her eyes against the darkness, she made out the familiar shape of Clint’s Stetson.
Kevin must have seen him coming, too, because he let out a whoop and jumped up, rushing to the street and pointing proudly at the glowing jack o’ lantern.
They came up the steps of the porch together, Clint casually resting his hand on her son’s shoulder and praising the boy for putting the grinning pumpkin in just the right place.
“Evening, Mrs. Sanford.” Clint doffed his dun-colored Stetson. “I see you and Kevin are celebrating All Hallows Eve.”
“Yes, good evening, Sheriff.” Not wanting to appear curious but unable to stop herself from making reference to his tardiness, she commented, “It must have been a long day for you.”
“Yes, it was a long day. I meant to send word I wouldn’t be here for supper, but I was busy with meetings. My apologies.”
“It was kind of you to think of us, but it’s not a problem. Leftovers in this house seldom go to waste.” Rising from her chair, she asked, “Are you hungry? I’m certain I can find something for you.”
“No, no thank you, Mrs. Sanford. We held the last meeting over supper at the hotel.”
“I see,” she said.
He smiled his lop-sided grin, an unspoken apology for profaning himself by eating the hotel’s inferior food. “May I sit with you and Kevin for a while, Mrs. Sanford?”
“Certainly, make yourself comfortable.” She took her seat again. “Kevin asked me to tell him a ghost story. Do you know any?”
“Do I know any,” he repeated dramatically, thumping his chest with his fist. “I’m the best ghost-story teller this side of the Pecos.”
“Is that so?” Abigail shot back.
Kevin bounced up and down on the edge of his chair. His voice rose an octave when he pleaded, “Please, Sheriff, tell us, tell us.”
Clint glanced at Abigail for approval. She nodded. She couldn’t help but smile again. The last thing she’d expected was for Clint to brag about his story-telling prowess.
Settling himself in a chair, Clint crossed one long leg over the other. Adopting the hushed tone of a teller of spooky stories, he wove a tale about a dead Apache chief who had lost his family and returned from the grave, on nights when the moon was dark, to seek his revenge with a razor-sharp tomahawk.
Kevin listened, rapt, his head cocked to one side. Occasionally, he would stop the sheriff and ask a question, clearing up some point. Abigail felt a thrill of pride, listening to her son’s intelligent and intuitive questions. This was a side of Kevin she rarely saw.
The story was plenty scary with enough blood and gore to delight an eight-year-old boy. Abigail enjoyed th
e story but was thankful when Clint ended it on a positive note. After much suffering, the Apache chief found a portal to the other world and went to join his family in the afterlife, no longer bringing terror to this world.
At that moment the candle in the jack o’ lantern gutted out, as if a fitting ending to the story. Kevin jumped up and replaced the candle, babbling about the tale, and how he would have defended his family against the revenge-seeking ghost.
Abigail happened to glance up and find Clint looking at her. He inclined his head toward her son. As one adult to another, they exchanged glances over the top of his head. It was a strange feeling, Abigail realized, sharing her son with this man.
“It’s your turn, Mrs. Sanford,” Clint prompted.
“Yeah, Ma.” Kevin plopped into his chair. “It’s your turn. And the scarier the better.”
She took a deep breath and decided to relate Washington Irving’s classic tale of the headless horseman. And her son loved it. Clint applauded at the end, and Kevin joined him.
Then they alternated, dredging up ghost stories from their childhood. After spending two hours trying to best each other’s efforts, they realized the candle stubs had burnt out and Kevin was fast asleep.
Abigail reached over and smoothed her son’s hair from his forehead. He looked so peaceful, curled in the wicker chair, despite the gory stories he’d heard. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the evening and knew it would be a night her son would remember for a long time.
Gazing at her son tenderly, she realized how vulnerable he looked while sleeping. A stab of guilt shot through her. Belatedly, she wondered if she and Clint shouldn’t have exercised more restraint, rather than getting caught up in a friendly rivalry.
What if Kevin had nightmares?
“Thinking about letting him sleep with you tonight?” Clint asked.
Amazed he’d accurately gauged her thoughts, she replied, “How did you know?”
“I had a younger sister and a…” He stopped himself and shook his head. He shrugged. “I know how these things go.”
She felt a sudden chill when he said had and then stopped. What did he mean by had? She remembered the day when he’d mentioned the river at his ranch. He'd reacted the same way, as if he didn't want to think about some awful memory.
