almost anyone looking for him would know to come to the house on the edge of town. With no prisoner in the cell, he could spend the night in his bed, a luxury he hadn’t experienced since his deputy’s wife had taken sick three days before. In all that time, he hadn’t been home except to feed his horses and to wash and change clothes. While he regretted the circumstances that made it possible tonight, he was more than ready for a quiet evening alone with his books or his sketch-book.
As he locked up the office and started down the darkening street, he realized he had waited longer than necessary, half-expecting to see Cally. Her visits had become a habit—like a toothache.
At home, he settled into a comfortable chair, gathering his sketchbook and pencils from the nearby table. In spite of the shock of his visit with Dr. Briggs and his frustration with Mr. Cobb, he wasn’t totally unhappy with his afternoon’s accomplishments. He had found a home for Cally.
He began sketching the women’s faces as he remembered their conversation. Easter and Noella Gwynn seemed willing to overlook her lack of social graces. It was more than he had hoped for.
“We’ll civilize her,” Noella had said. He wondered if she realized the magnitude of that particular task.
Though it wouldn’t necessarily impress Cally, the cozy room off the kitchen would be far more comfortable than her old sod house. Between the Gwynn’s modern kitchen and large but tightly built house, the work would probably be easier than what the girl experienced now. Certainly, the gentlewomen would be far better influences on her developing mind than her drunken father!
Her father. As he continued to sketch, Andrew recalled Dr. Briggs’s revelation. The fact that he had had no way of knowing the danger when he gave DuBois a drink was little comfort. He reminded himself that it was merely a possibility but still had trouble shaking off the guilt. He felt even more responsible for the girl than he had after DuBois’ request.
He looked down at the picture he had drawn. The women that looked back at him seemed uncommonly stern. Had he seen them that way this afternoon? He tried to soften their features with a few light strokes, but they changed very little. The sisters’ haughty noses and pursed lips defied his gentle efforts.
Poor Cally.
Andrew shook himself and tossed the sketchbook aside. She had spit in his face twice. His arm still smarted where she had cut him. She had threatened to stab him with a butcher knife. Which reminded him of a drawer full of weapons he had forgotten to return to her. Forgotten! He was almost afraid to return them to her.
He should be feeling sorry for the ladies. Stern was the least of what Cally DuBois needed.
Wasn’t it?
The sun was streaming into the soddy when Cally fixed her breakfast. She had rescued her tomato patch the day before, washing and canning the ripe fruit and throwing the rotten ones to her chickens. She had been certain that she would sleep soundly after working so hard, but her night had been filled with strange dreams.
Of course, she had buried her father yesterday; she might have expected some unsettling dreams. But not like these. These had nothing to do with her father. The first dream, at least the first one she remembered, was the worst Haywood had driven her away from her farm.
“It was a bad dream,” she told Royal, feeling a need to hear a human voice. “He took the farm same as he took Pa.” What she couldn’t say aloud, not to her trusting friend, was that in the dream Royal had stood beside the sheriff. She was just feeling abandoned, she decided.
When she had fallen asleep again, she had watched Haywood walk toward her, tired and dirty as he had been after burying her father. Instead of inviting him to dinner, she had pulled a knife from her back pocket and slashed him with it. In the dream, it hadn’t cut just his arm as it had in his office, but clear across his chest.
There was no need to let that dream make her feel bad, she told herself. However, her knees trembled and her head spun when she thought of the bright blood pouring down his white shirt. She had to banish the picture from her mind before she fainted. Her breakfast was ready, and she carried it to her rocking chair, turning her mind to the third dream.
In some ways, it was the strangest. She tried to remember it exactly. She was in her little cart under the apple tree. Strong arms had lifted her. She remembered a starched white shirt that smelled of laundry soap. She felt like a little girl being carried, but she knew she wasn’t a child in the dream. Then he laid her…where? In the grave? She didn’t think so.
She had jerked awake, to find her heart racing. Whatever it was, it still frightened her. Yet, unlike the first two dreams, it intrigued her. She wanted to remember it, relive every detail even as they seemed to fade away.
She finished her breakfast quickly, disgusted with herself for wasting time worrying about dreams that had already made her late since she had overslept because of them. She was taking the empty bowl into the house when Royal barked. A glance out the door told her she was about to have a visitor. She grabbed the shotgun and carried it outside.
Sheriff Haywood cantered into her yard, and Royal went to meet him. For one brief moment, Cally considered the leaky barn roof and the dwindling woodpile. Then she remembered his efforts to get her to leave her farm. She weighed the shotgun in her hand as she considered. Its purpose was to discourage strangers, which Haywood wasn’t—exactly. She had a feeling he wasn’t frightened by it anyway. Still it let him know he wasn’t welcome. She kept it in her hands as she watched him dismount.
“Surprised to see you back so soon,” she said.
Haywood lifted a bag that had been tied to his saddle horn and started toward her. If he thought she was inhospitable after his help the day before, he didn’t mention it.
“I didn’t invite you in,” she said, pleased with the chill in her voice.
He stopped. “These are yours,” he said.
“Leave ‘em where you stand.”
He took his time, as if trying to decide if he should defy her. She wondered if he was gauging his own speed against her ability to swing the shotgun to her shoulder. No, that was foolish. He wasn’t here to hurt her, just annoy the hell out of her. She gripped the shotgun tighter, wishing she knew what to say to make him leave her alone.
Haywood let the bag drop from his fingers. It hit the ground with a clatter. “Miss DuBois,” he called louder than he needed to. She was supposed to feel guilty for making him stay so far from the house. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“So talk. I can hear you.”
She watched the sheriff clench his jaw. She had made him mad. She was elated. She bit her lip to keep him from seeing her grin.
Royal sniffed the discarded bag and turned in a circle to sit at the sheriff’s feet. Cally wondered what would happen if she commanded her dog to kill. Sometime she was going to try it.
Haywood removed his hat, an odd gesture, it seemed to Cally. “I found a job for you in town,” he said.
“I don’t need a job.”
“Miss DuBois, you can’t stay out here by yourself all winter. There are two ladies who are willing to give you a home in exchange for housework. They’re nice ladies, and I’m sure you’d—”
“I got my own housework.”
“But surely you can’t mean to stay.”
Cally lost her patience. “Get on your horse and head on back to town now, Sheriff.”
He didn’t budge. “Your father asked me to look out for you.”
Cally considered that for the briefest of moments. “You sure that wasn’t