They hit a bump and she dropped down into the seat. “Trust me, I’m not much in the mood for that, either.” She waved her good arm at Leo and Matilda.
The marshal drove the buggy into the yard and pulled the horse to a gentle halt next to the white plank corral fence.
“Ma!” Leo called out, leaping off the porch and hurrying to take hold of the horse’s harness. “You’re all better!”
“Not quite, Leo, but I’m on the mend and happy to be home.”
The marshal hopped down and walked around the buggy, appearing at Jo’s side to help her down. She glanced quickly over the top of his hat at the ranch hands looking on and wished one of them had been quicker to assist her instead of this man.
She reached for the marshal’s hand, but he took her by the waist and lifted her like a feather to the ground. “Wouldn’t want you to fall,” he said.
She quickly withdrew her hands from his shoulders.
Leo approached Marshal Collins. “Did you catch Six-Shooter Hank yet?”
“Not yet, but I will. And Leo, don’t believe everything you read.” He winked at him, and Leo smiled brightly.
Matilda approached.
“The marshal insisted on driving me home,” Jo said, trying to explain herself to her housekeeper.
“It was a good thing I did.” He rested his hands on his hips, gazing down at her as if they shared a special secret.
She cringed at what people must be thinking.
“Are you all right, Josephine?” Matilda asked, worried.
The marshal removed his hat. “No need to worry ma’am. She just felt a little tired, is all.”
No one said anything for a minute or two, and the long silence was more than a little awkward. Surely everyone must be wondering what he was doing here.
Determined not to let her uneasiness show, Jo spoke up. “Well, thank you for the ride home, Marshal Collins.” You can go now, she wanted to add, but of course held back the rude remark.
“It was no trouble at all.” He moved to put on his hat, but Leo stopped him.
“Why don’t you stay for supper, Marshal? We’re having beef stew with dumplings.”
If the last silence had been awkward, this one was downright painful. Matilda stared in shock at Leo, whose face colored sheepishly. Marshal Collins stood waiting for someone to say something, while Jo wanted to bury her head in the nearest haystack. If he stayed for supper, he’d have more opportunity to ask questions about the night of the shooting and she just wasn’t sure she could handle any more of that.
“Of course, you’re welcome to stay, Marshal,” Matilda said coolly.
He looked down at Jo, telling her with his eyes that he knew she wanted him to leave.
Which was precisely why he intended to stay.
That didn’t sit well with Jo. Not one bit.
“How can I refuse?” he said, patting his firm, flat stomach. “A man’s gotta eat.”
Fletcher pulled off his shirt and washed up outside the bunkhouse, where the ranch hands kept their shaving equipment on a white painted shelf under the window. Leaning forward, he splashed cool, soothing water from a wooden bucket onto his face and over his chest and arms, lathering himself with lye soap, trying to clear his mind.
He thought about the drive and how he’d gotten none of the information he’d wanted from Mrs. O’Malley. He’d been struck foolish with some kind of tongue-flapping disease, spilling out his soul to her about his father. He hadn’t spoken about personal things to anyone in years, but her interest had seemed genuine, he’d thought. She’d been through something similar not long ago, and maybe that was why she wanted to talk and why she seemed to think she understood.
Which she didn’t, of course.
Fletcher splashed more cool water on his face and rubbed his fingers over his tired eyes, trying to get his mind back on track. He straightened and looked across the yard at Leo, who was walking toward him carrying a clean white shirt. Fletcher toweled off and summoned a smile.
“Ma said to bring you this to wear at supper,” Leo said. “It belonged to my pa.”
Fletcher toweled his hands and face dry, eyeing the shirt with some hesitation. “Much obliged.”
Leo handed it to him and Fletcher shrugged into it. It was a bit small through the shoulders, but he managed to fasten all the buttons, and at least it was clean. He pulled his vest on over it and buttoned that, too.
He felt a little strange wearing a dead man’s clothing, though. How would Mrs. O’Malley react when she saw him wearing it? Would it make her think of her husband?
Just as Leo was about to turn away, Fletcher stopped him with a question. “Tell me, does your ma spend much time in town?”
The boy leaned his back against the log wall of the bunkhouse. “Not since Pa died. She only goes for supplies when she has to, and even then, she’ll put it off or get Mrs. Honeyworth to go for her.”
“Does she stay out here alone when that happens?”
“Nobody’s ever alone out here this time of year. I mean, there’s always ranch hands around.”
Fletcher knew that, of course, having been raised on a ranch, but he needed to steer his questions gradually. “What about in the winter? Is it just you and your ma and Mrs. Honeyworth? Any visitors?”
Leo kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot. “Not since Pa died.”
“I heard about your pa,” Fletcher said gently. “You must miss him a lot.”
“Yeah. Things were different when he was around. He used to let me do more stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Like helping with the spring roundup. It’s different now, that’s all.”
“Your ma didn’t let you do that?”
“Nah. She barely lets me out of her sight sometimes. She won’t even let me talk to people we don’t know.”
Fletcher tossed the towel over his shoulder. He could hear the frustration in Leo’s voice—a boy desperate to be a man and stand in his father’s empty shoes, and a mother who was afraid of losing him like she’d lost her husband. “I think you just need to give your ma some time, Leo. Things will get better.”
“But she never used to be like this.”
“Maybe that’s because your pa made the decisions about you. Now your ma has to do a lot of things by herself. A lot of things she never had to do before, and I would guess that losing your pa broke her heart and she’s real scared of losing you, too.”
Leo’s voice was quiet. “Maybe. I just…” He stopped talking altogether.
Fletcher rested his hand on Leo’s shoulder. “If you ever need to talk to someone about your pa, I’d be happy to listen. I lost my pa, too, and I know what it feels like.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It might not seem like it now, but it will get easier.”
Just as Leo stared up at him hopefully, Mrs. Honeyworth opened the front door of the house and rang the tarnished brass dinner bell on the porch. The clanging echoed off the barnyard walls as four ranch hands left the corral, swung the wide gate closed behind them and headed toward the house.
Leo pushed away from the wall and brightened a bit. “Supper’s on.”
“Everybody eats in the house?” Fletcher asked, watching the dusty cowboys climb the front steps. Back at his old place, the hired help ate in the cookhouse.
“Yeah. Unless they’re out at the range camps. Then they settle for the chuck wagon. Pa always wanted it that way and I guess it makes Ma feel like some things haven’t changed. Even though they have.”
Leo walked off and Fletcher stood for a moment, watching him and feeling a deep sense of sadness for this boy who had lost his father at such a tender age. At least Fletcher had been a man of twenty-five when it had happened to him.
But as he considered it more, he doubted that his age made much of a difference. Grief was grief. At least Leo still had his mother. And this land.
Fletcher let his gaze wander over the green rolling fields beyond the fenced corral and felt a pan
g of regret. He looked at the windmill behind the barn, listened to the purr of its wooden blades as they sliced the wind. A large herd of cattle grazed quietly in the front pasture. There was much to remind him of the home he had once had, the ranch his family had owned back in Texas when life was simple and cheerful and filled with luxuries he, for one, took for granted. He wasn’t talking about the luxuries money could buy, either—though they had plenty of those. What came to mind now was the laughter and the sense of belonging, the warmth of the big house on stormy winter nights when the fireplace was roaring and the wind was whistling down the stone chimney and they all sat in the front parlor talking and laughing and reading aloud to one another.
But that was another life, he thought wistfully, another time. Those days were gone and nothing could bring them back. He was a lawman now and he was devoted to something else. He went where he was needed, and if that meant the idea of “home” had to be modified a bit, then so be it. There was no point reminiscing about it.
Leo turned back and yelled across the yard, “You coming, Marshal?”
Startled from his thoughts, Fletcher replied, “On my way!” Then he looked toward the small creek that babbled near the road, the wooden barrels stacked outside the barn, and the smokehouse next to the chicken coop. This place was probably already engraved on Leo’s soul, Fletcher thought with some melancholy, just like his Texas home had once been engraved on his, and Leo probably didn’t know it. Fletcher decided he would make a point very soon to tell the boy how lucky he was to have this place. His birthright.
He tossed the towel over the side of a half-full water barrel and started walking toward the house, laboring to force all thoughts of lost dreams from his mind, and keep only two others.
Beef stew and answers.
“So what brings you to Dodge City, Marshal?” one of the ranch hands asked, as he passed a plate of thickly sliced rye bread down the large table. The redcheckered tablecloth was barely visible beneath all the serving bowls full of steaming potatoes, corn and green beans. Forks clinked against plates as eight hungry men chowed down as if it was their last meal.
Knocking elbows with the man, Fletcher accepted the china plate and picked up two slices for himself. “My sister, really—Elizabeth Stone. She came here this past spring and I thought it was high time I live near my kin. At least for a little while.”
Mrs. O’Malley sat next to him at the head of the table. Her gaze remained lowered as she ate her stew. “Bread?” he offered.
Without looking up, she took the plate. The pads of their fingers touched beneath it. Fletcher tensed at the swift surge of awareness and wondered if she had felt something, too, and if that was why she refused to make eye contact with him.
Bowls passed from one end of the table to the other and Fletcher was glad when the conversation picked up again. “Where are you from, Marshal?” one of the men asked.
“Texas. My family owned a ranch there, but after my folks passed on, Elizabeth and I sold the place.”
“That don’t make a lick of sense to me,” the man said. “A place like that is worth a—”
Mrs. O’Malley interrupted. “Mr. Birk, I’m sure the marshal has his reasons and it’s really none of our business. Pass the lemonade, please, Marshal, and would you be kind enough to pour it for me?”
Somehow she had sensed how he felt—that he didn’t want to talk to these people about why he’d sold his ranch—and Fletcher was grateful to her for sparing him that task. He wanted to lean over and quietly whisper “thank you,” but instead, all he did was pour her lemonade.
During the remainder of the meal, he thought about everything she’d said to him that day and about what her life must be like on a daily basis. Judging by the faces at the table, he knew she held everyone’s respect as the head of the household. She was intelligent and strong, to be sure. He could tell by the condition of the ranch. She’d kept things going efficiently around here, and done it without a husband. Most women probably would have packed it in and gone back to their families. Did she have a family to go to? he wondered. He wanted to know so much more about her.
With some uneasiness, he realized that he wasn’t curious because it was his job and she was a witness. Something more personal was stirring inside Fletcher now. He wanted to make up for what had happened to Mrs. O’Malley the other night and make sure it didn’t happen again. She already had enough pain in her life. Anyone could see that.
One of the cowhands handed the plate of bread down the table and Fletcher passed it to his hostess.
“Thank you, Marshal,” she said, and he felt something friendly pass between them.
“Thank you, ma’am, for inviting me to supper. The stew is delicious.”
“Sure beats beans and bacon!” someone said, and the whole table cheered.
After that, Fletcher’s mood lightened and he settled in to eating. It was a busy meal, bowls and pitchers being passed along for second helpings. By the time everyone finished their stew and there was nothing left of the bread and vegetables, Fletcher was stuffed. Mrs. Honeyworth gathered up the plates and disappeared into the kitchen.
At the opposite end of the table, sitting at the head, Leo leaned back and laced his fingers together over his full belly, just like some middle-aged banker after a big meal. Fletcher couldn’t help but grin to himself, and when he glanced at Mrs. O’Malley, he caught her doing the same thing, trying to hide it as well, and they smiled at each other.
The kitchen door swung open and Mrs. Honeyworth swept into the dining room with a tray of desserts and served Mrs. O’Malley first. Then she set a glass pedestal dessert cup in front of Fletcher, filled with what smelled like raspberry cream custard, and finally she poured coffee for everyone from a shiny silver pot.
“What’s it like to be a lawman, Marshal?” Leo asked, delving into his dessert.
Fletcher was grateful for the conversation to distract him from thinking about his hostess. “It can be dangerous, son, if you’re not careful. But I try to be careful most of the time.” He considered the question some more over a sip of hot, black coffee. “I reckon the best part is when I help somebody.” He felt Mrs. O’Malley’s gaze studying him but didn’t look up.
“If I were a marshal, I’d catch all the outlaws,” Leo said, playing with what was left of his dessert. “Especially the horse thieves who—”
“Leo!” Mrs. O’Malley burst out.
Fletcher saw the look of shock on her face, then saw a similar emotion dance across Leo’s.
“May I be excused?” the boy asked.
Mrs. O’Malley stared at her son, her womanly facial features tightening, then her authoritative tone vanished. Clearly, her love for her son was her number-one weakness. “Are you finished with your dessert?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then yes, you may be excused.”
He shoved back his chair and walked quickly from the room, which had gone deathly silent.
Fletcher glanced at Mrs. O’Malley. She leaned an elbow on the table and covered her mouth with two trembling fingers. After a moment’s deliberation, she made a move to rise, but winced and touched her shoulder. Fletcher saw the frustration as her eyelids fell closed.
“I’ll go,” he said, lightly touching her hand.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Someone has to go.”
“But not you,” she whispered, looking up at him with narrowed eyes, both pleading and commanding at the same time.
Fletcher hesitated, confused by her desperate expression. “Trust me,” he said simply, then he walked out, feeling every eye watch him as he left the quiet dining room.
Chapter Eight
With Matilda’s help, Jo managed to rise from the table and say good-night to the other gentlemen. She had to follow the marshal and prevent him from talking to Leo, from getting too close to him. Leo was vulnerable now. He needed a father figure, and a lawman sworn to protect Zeb Stone was the last person her boy should turn to. Just the
thought of it made her stomach turn.
Walking quickly, she reached the front hall, peered out the window and listened for voices on the dark porch. She heard nothing but crickets chirping and cows lowing in the distance. She pulled the door open. The moon hung like a lantern in the clear black sky, lighting the barnyard.
She knew where Leo had gone.
A wave of apprehension swept over her. Ever since Edwyn’s death, Leo had chosen the barn as his private hideaway, the place he went to think. Jo’s heart ached with the painful realization that he chose it because he knew it was the one place his mother would not go.
As she crossed the yard, she tried to calm her erratic pulse. After everything she’d lost, was she losing her son, too?
She reached the barn door, which had been left open a crack, and stopped outside to listen. Hearing the faint murmur of voices and seeing light from a lantern coming from the tack room, she tried to find the courage to go inside, but icy terror licked at her flesh.
It had been six months since she’d been in the barn, and if not for Leo and the other men, the animals never would have survived. Each time Jo went near the huge gambrel-roofed building, she could still smell death, hear the rope creaking as it swung back and forth like a pendulum. She could see Edwyn’s well-worn boots suspended only a foot above the hay-strewn floor, his body limp, his bare hands bleeding from trying to defend himself against Zeb’s two hooded henchmen, who had beaten Edwyn before dragging him inside.
She wished she had heard Zeb say why he had murdered Edwyn. Then there might have been a way to convict him.
Squeezing her eyes shut to force the memories away, she tried to listen to the voices inside the barn but could hear nothing clearly from where she stood. She worried about what the marshal might say to Leo. Or worse, what Leo might say to him. But should she go in? Could she go in?
She sucked in a deep breath of cool air to fill her tightening chest. She’d had the courage to confront her enemy with a loaded weapon a few nights before. Why couldn’t she face the spot where her husband had died? Why must it continue to haunt her with such terror?
The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley Page 6
