Bending her head over the sewing, she said, “I met the new sheriff last night. He was the man you let in while we were serving dinner. Remember? Do you know him?”
“No, I didn't know who he is.”
“His name is Mr. Graham, and he wants to board with us. Did you know he’s a sheep rancher?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I can’t understand why the mayor would appoint a sheep rancher when there is a feud between the ranchers and railroaders. It’s not exactly an unbiased choice.”
“No, I didn’t know he was a rancher,” Elisa replied. “I heard the mayor was desperate when Señor Cunningham quit his job so quickly.”
“What do you mean by quickly?”
“I told you someone shot at Sheriff Cunningham, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you didn’t explain why, except to mention the feud.”
“There was a meeting and one of the ranchers got angry. Sheriff Cunningham asked for order, but the angry rancher shot the hat off his head. Then the sheriff quit his job, saying he didn’t want to be part of the feud. The mayor appointed the new man because he was a bounty hunter before he was a rancher. And everyone says he is very brave, this Señor Graham.” She paused and bit the thread in two. “I would like for him to live here. A brave man is always welcome.”
Not knowing the circumstances, Abigail had come to the same conclusion when she’d met him. There was something about him that inspired confidence and made her feel safe.
But an ex-bounty hunter?
Chapter Three
Abigail pushed open the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room, carrying a platter of fried chicken. She placed the heavy platter in the middle of the long dining table. The boarders were already seated, eagerly awaiting their evening meal.
Her eyes swept the table, making certain she hadn’t forgotten the butter or gravy or some other essential item from the kitchen. When her gaze reached the bottom of the table, she caught her breath. In the chair that had been vacant for the past week sat Sheriff Graham.
Her father must have agreed to rent to him. Gazing at the sheriff, her heart lifted. Instinctively, she felt he was a good man. What had he said that first night? That he had some ideas to settle the feud peaceably. She liked his positive attitude.
Sheriff Graham snagged her gaze and smiled his lop-sided smile.
Glimpsing his off-center smile, her heart thumped against her chest. She wiped her hands on her apron and pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
The boarders, all six men, rose from their seats and stood beside their chairs. Two seats were vacant; those lodgers were out on the railroad.
“Please.” She waved them down. “Be seated, gentleman.” Inclining her head toward the sheriff, she asked, “Have you gentlemen met our new boarder, Sheriff Graham?”
Mr. Palmer, a portly widower, who usually served as the spokesman for the group, replied, “We’ve not been formally introduced, Mrs. Sanford. But we all know Sheriff Graham by reputation.”
Abigail touched the cameo at her throat. She was hesitant and uncertain of how to proceed. Usually when a new boarder arrived, the others knew him from the railroad yards.
But Mr. Palmer was polite enough to offer, “I’m Henry Palmer. To my left is Paul Farr, to my right is Matt Anderson, across from me is Zachariah Mooney, and next to Zach is Tom Weaver.”
The railroaders followed Mr. Palmer’s lead, offering to shake hands with the newcomer, except Tom Weaver. He’d lost a hand in a switching accident. Weaver might have a legitimate excuse to not shake the sheriff’s hand, but the hate and anger blazing from his eyes told another story.
For a moment, Abigail wondered if it was a mistake to have Sheriff Graham stay. But her father had made the decision. It wasn’t her concern. And four of the five men present were ready to accept him so that was a start.
“May I ask your given name, Sheriff?” Mr. Palmer requested.
“Of course, it’s Clint, and I’m pleased to meet y’all.”
The men nodded and mumbled among themselves, taking their seats. They passed the platters and bowls around the table. Abigail heaved a sigh of relief, glad to see things returning to normal. Except for Tom Weaver, who sat stiffly in his chair, refusing food and staring openly at the sheriff.
“What do you men want to drink?” Abigail asked. “Milk, buttermilk, or coffee?”
Making a mental note of their choices, she returned to the kitchen to fetch the beverages. Entering the hot kitchen, she went to Elisa, who was pulling an apple pie from the oven. “I didn’t know my father gave his consent for the sheriff to live here.”
Elisa turned toward her. “I thought I told you.” She straightened with the pie cradled in pot holders and then put it on a cooling rack. Shaking her head, she said, “No, you are right, mi hija. I forgot to tell you. I think the sheriff saw your father in town yesterday. Señor Graham moved in today while you were at the general store.”
“Did he find the room to his liking?”
“Sí, he said the room was neat and clean.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she tilted her head to one side. “I believe he said it was too good ‘for the likes of him.’”
Abigail laughed, surprising herself. “That sounds like him.”
Elisa narrowed her eyes, and she gazed at Abigail. “I thought you didn’t know the man.”
“I don’t really know him, but I talked with him the other night.” She decided to change the subject and said, “Elisa, please pour the coffee, three cups. I’ll get the milk. The boarders are waiting. Oh, and do you have Father’s tray ready? I’ll take it to him while you serve the pie.”
“Sí, your father’s tray is ready. I will take the men their pie.”
“Thank you. I’ll be back to help clear and do the dishes.”
Working together, they filled a tray with coffee and milk. Abigail backed through the swinging door into the dining room and served the men. Retreating to the end of the table, she watched as her boarders ate; satisfied they had everything they needed.
Only Tom Weaver bothered her. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t touched a morsel of food. He sat, sipping his coffee, his gaze fixed on the sheriff. It gave her the shudders, but there was nothing she could do about it. Both Sheriff Graham and Tom were boarders, whether Tom liked it or not.
When she reached across the table to remove an empty bowl, the sheriff touched her arm. Glancing up, she found herself staring into his clear blue eyes. “Did your father tell you he agreed to rent to me?”
His touch on her arm, as light as it was, felt like a firebrand, burning through the thin cotton of her sleeve. Her gaze riveted on his brown hand. He must have sensed her discomfort because he let his hand drop. She straightened with the empty bowl.
“No, my father didn’t mention it. And I haven’t spoken with him today. But it’s not important, Mr. Graham, whether he told me. I’m glad we can accommodate you. If you need anything, please let me know.”
“Do you eat dinner with your father?”
What right did he have, asking such a question? It was much too personal. And why did he care?
“No, I don’t eat with my father, but I take him his dinner. We usually talk then.”
She refused to admit she ate in the kitchen with Kevin, Elisa, and Juan. She knew how it would seem to an outsider, to someone who didn’t know her father and his peculiar ways.
“As a matter of fact,” she purposely cut the conversation short. “I need to take his tray to him.” With the bowl in hand, she returned to the kitchen, placing it in the sink and grabbing her father’s tray.
***
Clint leisurely sipped his coffee at the empty dining table. The other lodgers had retired to their rooms or to the porch for an after-dinner smoke. He’d purposely waited at the table, not wanting to thrust himself upon them too soon. Better to let them grow accustomed to him being around.
Tom Weaver was another story. That one would bear watching. Weaver fairly oozed hostility. Not that
Clint could blame him. It must be difficult to make your way in the world with one hand.
After he'd drained the last of his coffee, he reared back in the chair and stretched, yawning. It was about time he turned in. Until he found someone to deputize, he’d taken it upon himself to walk the town after midnight for a couple of hours. Then he tried to grab a few more hours of sleep before beginning the day.
Hearing footsteps on the other side of the door, he brought his front chair legs down. It was probably Abigail, returning to clear the table. He found himself waiting for her, expectant.
Not caring to examine his feelings too closely, he watched as she came through the swinging door. Her gaze found him, and he glimpsed the surprise in her green eyes. But she recovered quickly and nodded. He stifled a chuckle. It was obvious she wished him gone from the table but was too polite to say it out loud.
She gathered dirty plates, bowls and platters, stacking them in her arms. Even in her drab brown gown and voluminous apron, Clint couldn’t help but notice the beguiling lines of her body. Her breasts were high and full, straining the threadbare material of her bodice. She possessed a slender waist, and its small span emphasized the womanly shape of her hips.
And when she bent to pick up a discarded napkin, the worn-thin material of the skirt hugged her shapely bottom. Perspiration popped on his forehead.
He didn’t have much experience with women, at least, not respectable women. His background and choice of profession had precluded meeting women like Mrs. Sanford. But there certainly was nothing wrong with her build. Any saloon girl would be tickled pink to be put together like Mrs. Sanford.
“Mr. Graham, there’s one cup of coffee left. Would you care for it?”
Her unexpected offer interrupted his wayward thoughts, making him wonder where he’d been headed. After all, she was a married woman. A married woman without a husband, but married, nonetheless.
Or was she a “grass widow?” There were a lot of grass widows in the West. Things didn't work out and the man moved on. Few bothered to formalize their permanent separation with legal papers.
“Yes, thank you, if it’s no trouble,” he said.
“No trouble, let me take these things to the kitchen, and I’ll get the coffee pot. I won’t be a minute.”
Watching her balance the pile of dirty dishes and push through the swinging door, he had the strongest urge to help her. But he kept his seat, guessing his help would probably be frowned upon. She was a self-contained woman. He wondered if all respectable women were like that. If maybe that was what made them respectable in the first place.
He wouldn’t know. His mother had been gregarious and fun loving and definitely not respectable. His sister had been talkative as a magpie and given to outbursts of affection.
The swinging door whispered open, and he looked up to find Mrs. Sanford had returned with a tin coffeepot.
He raised his empty cup. She took the cup without touching his hand. While she refilled it, he noticed her hair wasn’t pinned up tonight. Her long hair fell in burnished waves to the middle of her back. Its chestnut color shone in the soft lamplight, a tapestry of many hues, rich browns with threads of russet and gold. He wondered if her hair felt as silky as it looked.
He found it hard to believe she was a married woman with a son. With her hair loose and tumbling down her back, she looked very young. On the other hand, she acted far older than her age. Surrounded by men boarders, she remained aloof, avoiding contact.
Where was her husband? Why wasn’t he here? If she’d been his wife, he wouldn’t have left her alone.
Placing the refilled cup on the table, she asked, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, no, thank you.” He dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “After this cup, I’ll be off to bed.”
“So soon? It’s early yet.”
“Yes, but I get up at midnight and make the rounds of the town. Then I come back and try to sleep for a couple of hours.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. That must be difficult.”
“Comes with the job.”
“Would you like a piece of pie for later? We have some left.”
Clint smiled and rubbed his stomach. “That sounds great. If I wasn’t so full of your delicious dinner, I’d be tempted to have a second piece now.”
She didn’t return his smile, merely nodded and pushed through the door to the kitchen. Clint gulped down his coffee and stood, determined to get to bed, despite three cups of coffee. But it had been good coffee.
Mrs. Sanford returned with a slice of pie, wrapped in a napkin. He reached for it, meaning to take the pie from her hands, but she ignored him. Instead, she placed the pie on the table.
“I hope there’s no trouble tonight,” she said.
Before he could reply, she disappeared into the kitchen again. He stared after her. Her actions went beyond avoiding men. He remembered how she’d refused to shake his hand, and how she’d reacted when he touched her arm. Twice tonight, she’d pointedly avoided brushing her hand against his.
He shook his head. He didn’t know much about respectable women. But he knew enough to realize Mrs. Sanford’s behavior went beyond odd. If he had to put a name to it, he would say she was frightened to death of men.
Where was her husband? And what had the man done to her?
***
“Kevin, Kevin, where are you?” Abigail called from the side porch.
Her son should have finished raking the leaves. In the arid climate of Del Rio, there were precious few trees. Her father had chosen this lot because it possessed a stand of pin oaks. And it was Kevin’s job to rake the leaves.
But it was also his job to keep the wood box filled—his most important chore. Preparations for tonight’s supper were underway, and they needed wood for the cook stove. The leaves could wait, supper couldn’t.
Where was the boy?
Striding to the end of the porch, Abigail rounded the corner and stepped onto the front porch. Delighted squeals drifted to her from the other side of the house. She recognized her son's voice and wondered what he was doing.
She turned onto the third side of the wrap-around porch and glimpsed Kevin, poised to jump into a pile of leaves. Her son screamed at the top of his lungs, took a running leap, and landed with a loud crunch, scattering leaves to the four winds. She could scarcely believe her eyes. Kevin was usually such a responsible boy.
But her son wasn’t alone in his mischief. To her surprise, the sheriff stood beside the mound of leaves with a rake in his hand, laughing and urging Kevin on. They were an incongruous pair to say the least, her solemn son and the flinty-eyed lawman.
She opened her mouth to call to Kevin, to remind him of his responsibilities. But she couldn’t do it. It had been a long time since she’d seen her son frolicking. She remembered her longings as a young girl when she’d watched other children play in the leaves. But there had been no leaves for her to play in. Her family had lived in a tenement apartment to save money.
A part of her wanted to stay and watch him, but she knew she couldn’t spare the time. Her father expected the lodgers to be served their supper at six o’clock sharp. She didn’t dare linger.
Tearing herself away from the happy scene, she decided to fill the wood box herself. She hurried to the back of the house where the woodpile was and gathered an armload of logs, taking them to the kitchen. When she returned for a second load, she heard Kevin and the sheriff approaching.
It was obvious, even to her casual glance; they’d been playing in the leaves. Both of them sported tousled hair interlaced with bits of leaves and sticks. And their clothes were a sight, too, dusty and strewn with stray leaves. They seemed completely oblivious to their appearance, as only men could be, laughing and joking. The sheriff’s hand rested lightly on her son’s head. They looked good together.
“Your son remembered he hadn’t filled the wood box,” the sheriff offered by way of greeting. He looked at her arms loaded with lo
gs and added, “I guess you beat us to it.”
“I didn’t know you had met my son,” she replied stiffly.
She didn’t know what had made her say that. She hadn’t expected the sheriff to take an interest in Kevin. His interest saddened her somehow, seeing them together. And at the same time, it made her angry, realizing what Kevin was missing.
“Well,” the sheriff drawled in his low-key way. “I can’t say we’ve been formally introduced. When I came up, I saw him raking leaves and one thing led to another…”
“Ma, don’t be mad at him,” Kevin said. “I’m sorry about the wood box. I plumb forgot. The sheriff was showing me how to—”
“Frolic in the leaves and forget your chores,” Abigail finished for him.
“Aw, Ma, I promise to do better. You’ll see.” Then his face lit up. “The sheriff has a horse, and he’s gonna brang—”
“Bring, dear, bring the horse here,” she corrected.
“Uh, yeah, that’s what I said. He’s gonna bring the horse to stay in the barn out back. Grandpa said he could. And the sheriff is gonna show me how to ride and shoot his Colt pistol. Just like a real lawman.” He turned to Sheriff Graham and excitement animated his brown eyes. “Aren’t you, Sheriff?”
“I, ah, that is,” the sheriff hemmed and hawed, looking sheepish. He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. “Uh, Kevin, I don’t know about riding and shooting. Your mother would have to agree to—”
“And I don’t agree,” she broke in, her voice firm.
Kevin’s face fell. The light shining in her son’s face disappeared as quickly as a storm cloud swallows the sun. Seeing his reaction, Abigail's heart squeezed.
“I don’t mind you learning to ride if the horse is gentle enough,” she said, softening the blow. “But I don’t want you to touch the sheriff’s gun. Not under any circumstances. Do you hear me?” The thought of Kevin handling a Colt pistol gave her the shudders. It reminded her of her husband, Lucas, and his unholy obsession with firearms.
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