by Jo Goodman
Hannah opened the bag with something akin to reverence and found the tweezers. She placed them in the doctor’s palm.
“Thank you,” said Ridley. “You are all excellent assistants.”
From her corner on the sofa, Lily asked anxiously, “What is it? What do you see?”
“I’m not sure yet. Give me a moment.” She touched the tip of the tweezers to a sliver of cobalt blue glass embedded in Ham’s fleshy heel. She was not able to extract it on the first attempt. The boy howled when she dug more deeply and Ben had to hold his leg in place. Ham whimpered when she pulled it out and held it up to the light. “Hmm,” she murmured. “Hannah, could I have a little bowl or saucer?”
By the time Hannah returned, Ridley had a second glass splinter waiting for her. She dropped them on a cream-colored saucer with dainty pink and blue flowers along the rim and then tilted Hannah’s hand and saucer so Ben could see. The second sliver was amber glass, not cobalt. “Are you all right, Ham? I can see there are more splinters, and I imagine there are some I won’t be able to see until they work themselves closer to the surface. Looks as if you took a stroll across broken glass. Does that sound right?”
Ham looked at his brother and said nothing.
Ben was not expecting a confession, and neither, did it seem, was Ridley. Lily, though, had a different idea.
“Hamilton Salt,” she said, brooking no interference from anyone. “Tell me true. What did you break?”
Ham was powerless against that voice, although he did shrug as if he could minimize the importance of his explanation. “Just some old jars, Ma.”
“Now where’d you do that?” Lily was no longer speaking to Ham. It was Clay who was on the receiving end.
“Down by Crider’s Creek.” The lamp shook ever so slightly in his hand, but the flame flickered and danced with abandon. “Came across a crate of jars and bottles, like maybe someone left them to wash out and never got around to it.”
“So you took it upon yourself to make sure they never could. I swear, Clay Salt, I don’t know what gets into you. And Ham right there beside you, learning such things as he should never be taught.”
Clay hung his head. Ben thought Clay looked properly contrite, and likely regretted that Ham was injured, but the truth as he’d laid it out was a fragile thread and convincing only to a mother who wanted to be convinced.
Ben was grateful that Ridley asked Ham if she could keep removing the glass from his foot before Clay’s story unraveled. Ham responded with the gravitas of a stoic and then squeezed his eyes shut.
Ten minutes later, Ridley pronounced she was finished. She bandaged his feet and put them in thick socks that Hannah found in his chest of drawers. “You can remove the bandages tomorrow before bedtime, but you need to keep socks on your feet. Do you understand, Ham?”
He nodded, and when she continued to stare at him with that single arched eyebrow, he said, “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
“Good.” She produced a handkerchief and gave it to him. “Wipe your eyes and blow your nose. Go on.”
He did and then neatly folded the handkerchief into quarters before he returned it to her. “What if there’s more?”
“Then I’ll remove them as well. You’ll come by my office with your brother. You know where it is, correct?” She looked from boy to boy.
The answer came in unison. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Doctor,” she said.
“Yes, Doctor ma’am.”
Ben snickered and was immediately on the receiving end of her sideways disapproval. He pressed his lips together.
Ridley snapped her bag closed and stood. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening, Mrs. Salt—”
“Lily. Please.”
“Lily. Tomorrow evening. Sooner if you need me. Please rest. Legs elevated. Clay, your mother needs your help now. Hannah, that means you’ll need to tuck in Ham.”
“Who will tuck me in?” She tilted her head and turned a coquette’s coy smile on Ben.
He swallowed hard. The doctor was in the business of saving lives, and she did not let him suffer long before she stepped in to save his.
“I’ll tuck you in and listen to your prayers,” she said. And that was that.
Chapter Six
Ridley’s steps slowed as she and Ben neared what she now understood was the rear of the sheriff’s office and jail. Ben also slowed, but it was because she had, not because he had intentions of paying a call on the sheriff. She decided right then that she would force his hand.
“I am not moving until you speak to the sheriff about the Salts. In fact, I believe I will go in with you. He may be glad of a medical opinion.”
Ben cocked his head to one side. “Do you really think that Doc Dunlop never gave him one?”
“No, but—”
“And do you suppose, you being a newcomer and all, that your opinion will carry more weight than his?” He saw her blink in surprise at his response. He paused, spoke more softly. “It’s like this, Dr. Woodhouse, Doc probably delivered Lily Bryant, and he was there when her babies were born. You made Lily’s acquaintance barely two hours ago, and it seems to me that you think you know what needs to be done. Did Lily encourage you to speak to the sheriff?”
“No.”
“The opposite, I bet. She doesn’t want anyone to know how badly Jeremiah hurt her this time. I’ll probably get an earful when I see her again. I wasn’t sure she’d let you treat her, which is why I took you there without asking her.”
“Who is she to you?”
“Someone I’ve known since school days.” He shrugged. “I might have had a little crush on her once upon a time, but she was a couple of grades ahead of me and didn’t pay me any mind.”
“She told me she’s thirty-one.”
“Yeah? Well, I’d take her at her word.”
“She looks a decade older. You must see that.”
“Sure. Sometimes. But she was pretty bad off tonight. You can’t judge her by what you saw this evening. You’ll hardly recognize her or the young’uns when you see them walking to Sunday church. Dressed to the nines, I think it’s called. All of them turned out just so, looking as fine as anyone taking a pew, and the children are better behaved.”
Ridley’s sour look was wasted on him in the dark, but it made her feel better. “It won’t be this Sunday. Or even next. I doubt she’s in the habit of explaining away black eyes, stiff shoulders, and belly pain. Everyone knows, don’t they? What he does to her. They know.”
“They know,” he said quietly. “And she probably knows they know, but it’s kept hushed, exactly as she wants it.”
“So there is a conspiracy of silence that, while sparing her humiliation, will most likely contribute to her death.”
“That is a harsh judgment on folks who are doing what they think is best, and like I said, it is precisely what she wants them to do.”
Ridley gripped the handle on her bag more tightly and turned on her heel.
“Where are you going?”
“Around the corner there to see the sheriff, and if I get a glimpse of Jeremiah Salt, all the better.” It occurred to her that he might try to hold her back, so she kept her elbows close to her sides and lengthened her stride. She did not look over her shoulder when he didn’t follow her.
Ridley peered in the front window of the office. It was gritty with dust but she could clearly see a desk with papers organized into neat piles above the green blotter. The chair behind the desk was empty but the seat was turned at a right angle, suggesting perhaps that someone had recently vacated it. She saw no movement. There was no one sitting on the bench; no one brewing coffee at the stove. The office looked spare and utilitarian. There were two chairs for visitors, a full gun rack on the wall behind the desk, and a score of wanted posters and notices tacked above the long empty bench.
Ridley saw that the
door between the office and what she suspected might be the cells was ajar. That gave her the impetus to step inside.
“Hello?” she called, closing the door behind her. “I’m looking for the sheriff. Is someone here?”
The voice that called back was loud and rough and rife with anger. “Yeah, someone’s here. I got a pissant pointing a gun at me with no intention of using it, which anyone can tell you is a very bad idea because I won’t always be in a cell, and he’ll always be a pissant.”
Ridley did not move away from the door. “Is the pissant someone in authority?”
“He’s someone with a gun. You decide.”
There was a pause, and Ridley could hear an exchange between the prisoner, who she assumed was Jeremiah Salt, and the pissant, who she assumed was the jailer, if not the sheriff. She could not make out a single word that passed between them, but she knew when it was over because Jeremiah’s booming voice reasserted itself.
“Who are you, ma’am? Thought at first you might be Deputy Pissant’s mama, but Amanda Springer would have her boy by the ear and halfway to home by now. Ain’t that right, Deputy?”
She did not hear what the deputy said but thought it probably did not matter. “My name is hardly important,” she called back. “I’m here to speak to the sheriff, but I am willing to speak to anyone holding a gun to your head.”
She imagined Jeremiah’s mouth snapping shut because she did not hear a sound from that quarter. She could make out footsteps but not whose they were. She heard another exchange, and although she strained to distinguish voices and words, nothing was clear. Ridley braced herself to hear the sound of a gunshot, not because she thought the deputy would shoot Jeremiah Salt, but because the deputy probably needed to get a little of his own back by proving he could fire his weapon.
The door between the cells and the office swung open and a young man, no more than twenty in Ridley’s estimation, stepped into the room. He was of average height, probably five foot seven, and of medium build. His shoulders were neither broad nor narrow, and his arms fell loosely at his sides. He raised one of them now, tipped his hat, and gave Ridley a glimpse of nondescript brown hair and a better look at a round and hairless face.
Here was a man, hardly more than a boy, really, who would not catch anyone’s eye in a crowd. Perhaps this was not undesirable in a lawman, but it was certainly the reason the prisoner called him a pissant.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” he asked. He tilted his head toward the back room. “You might have been able to tell that I’m kinda busy at the moment.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand.” She pointed to one of the visitor chairs. “May I?” Ridley did not favor him with an opportunity to gainsay her. She was in the chair, her bag firmly in her lap, before he found his voice.
“Of course.” He approached the desk but did not take the chair. “I’m Hitchcock Springer. Folks call me Hitch. And you are?”
“Ridley Woodhouse.”
Hitch blinked and his mouth parted ever so slightly. “The Ridley Woodhouse?”
Ridley chose to purposely misunderstand. “E. Ridley Woodhouse, yes.”
Hitch frowned. “I meant . . . never mind. You’re Doc’s replacement? The one he told us about?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re a woman.”
“You are the second person to remark on that.”
He blushed. “Sorry.”
She waved his apology aside. “I came to have a word with the sheriff. I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?”
“I might have an idea.”
“This is important. You are his deputy, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly. Not yet. But I hope to be. He told my mother to send me over tomorrow so I took it as he’s interested in hiring me for the post. Thought it best not to wait until tomorrow. Wanted to impress him with my initiative.”
Ridley’s cheeks puffed as she released a breath to a ten count. “I think you better tell me where he is, then. I can tell you it concerns Lily Salt. That should be enough to get his attention, especially when you explain how you were holding a gun on Jeremiah when I got here.”
“That? That weren’t nothin’.”
Ridley intended to tell the would-be deputy it was a little more than nothing, but her attention was drawn to the door as it was pushed open for the second time. She tensed, wondering if she was about to come face-to-face with Jeremiah Salt, and then wondering how she would know until he spoke. Her shoulders relaxed when she saw who it was.
Ben Madison stepped in the room and closed the door on Jeremiah’s vituperations. “He has a set of lungs on him, doesn’t he?” he asked no one in particular. To Ridley, he said, “Back door.” A key dangled between his fingertips before he set it on the desk. “Did Hitch offer to make you coffee or a cup of tea?”
“I believe he was just about to.” She stared at the key and all the tumblers clicked into place.
“I was,” said Hitch. “Damn, if she didn’t just read my mind.” He headed for the stove. “She’s the new doc, by the way. I guess you would know that if you’d met her at the station.”
“Who says I didn’t?”
Hitch stopped shoving kindling into the stove’s maw. His eyes darted from the sheriff to the doctor while a question hovered in his mind that he couldn’t quite grasp. He finally shrugged and returned to his task.
Ridley set her bag on the floor. When she straightened, she unbuttoned her coat and slipped out of it, letting it fall over the back of her chair. She folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes, sharp as glass, never once strayed from Ben Madison’s face. He did not even have the grace to blush, and she knew very well that he had the complexion for it.
“You’re the sheriff.” It was not a question. “I suppose you were amusing yourself. You must have been because it certainly is not amusing to me.”
Ben also removed his coat. He hung it on a peg by the door, and when he turned, his star was finally visible where it was pinned to his vest. He offered no defense. He sat in the chair at the desk and turned ninety degrees to face her.
Ridley was the first to look away, not because he’d stared her down, but because she became aware of the frosted glass paperweight keeping one short stack of documents in place. Her fingers twitched and her eyes narrowed appreciably as her imagination took her to a dark place where she introduced that paperweight to the sheriff’s thick skull.
Ben followed her gaze. “You’re tempted, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“I have to advise against it.”
Her gaze returned to him. Her fingers stilled, but her eyes remained narrowed. “Unlike you, I don’t surrender to every temptation.”
“Hmm.”
She waited, and when he offered nothing else, she said, “That’s it? That’s all you intend to say?”
“I’m not sure what I can tell you that will erase that murderous look in your eye.”
“Try.”
“Well, I’m new to the job. Been a deputy for five years, but I’ve only been sheriff for six weeks, give or take.” He swiveled slightly in Hitch’s direction. “That sound about right, Hitch?”
Hitch was setting the kettle on the stove. His brow furrowed and he did a count on his fingertips. “Yep. Seems like it might be.”
“Your point?” asked Ridley.
“Just that I’m not in the habit of introducing myself as Sheriff Madison. Folks haven’t quite come around to thinking of me that way, though they sure as hell voted for me.”
Hitch centered the kettle and lifted three cups from a nearby shelf. “I voted for you, Sheriff.” Ben gave him a quelling look and Hitch returned one of the cups to the shelf. “Um, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just go in the back and keep an eye on Jeremiah.”
Ben nodded. “Keep your gun in your holster and stay out of his reach.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and tell him if he keeps calling you a pissant, I’m going to extend his stay in Hotel Madison.”
“Right. I’ll do that.” He shuffled his feet a little and ducked his head as he bade good evening to the doctor.
“It was a pleasure, Hitch.”
“Same here, ma’am . . . Doctor.” Then he was gone.
Ridley turned sharply on Ben again. “Was there perhaps any other time you might have told me? Say, when we were sweeping the surgery or the very first time I told you I wanted to speak to the sheriff?”
“It just didn’t feel right to me.”
“It didn’t feel right?”
“No.”
Under her breath, she said, “Unbelievable.”
“Pardon?”
“I said, ‘Unbelievable.’”
“What is it about me keeping quiet that upsets you the most?”
Ridley knew the answer: He’d made her feel foolish. She also knew she was not going to tell him that. “There was no reason for it. None at all. You deliberately withheld information.”
“I told you my name.”
“I’m beginning to question the veracity of that.” It was an imprudent thing to say made worse by a supercilious tone. She did not need him to cock an eyebrow at her to know how she sounded.
Ben reached for the paperweight globe and idly passed it from palm to palm when he leaned back in his chair. “Looking back on the point of our introduction, I’d have to say I decided not to tell you I was the sheriff the moment you made it so important for me to call you ‘doctor.’ Something in your manner struck me sideways, I suppose, and that’s when I figured you didn’t need to know I was the sheriff. Not that I’m saying my title trumps yours. More likely the opposite is true since yours is academic and professional and mine is . . . well, mine is an elected office where the requirements are a certain amount of common sense and the ability to shoot straight.”
