of what had taken place outside the bank yesterday. The good folk of Gillespie Springs were apparently quite pleased with their new sheriff.
Which was precisely why he must not associate with her. The very last thing the new sheriff needed, if he was to continue to have the support of the townspeople of Gillespie Springs, was a friendship with the infamous Olivia Gillespie, whom everyone knew had driven her husband to suicide by her infidelity.
She was not going to cry about that again, she vowed, staring out the window at the sunshine stealing through her window. It was a warm day for early November, so Jovita had left the window open a couple of inches. Olivia tried to concentrate on the antics of a squirrel cavorting in the branches of the cottonwood tree, clearly visible from where she lay, but it was no good.
“Whore! You took the very last thing I had left to me, didn’t you? You took my pride, and gave it to that greaser when you lay down for him! And now you tell me you’re gonna have a baby, and you expect me to listen to some crazy tale of some man rapin’ you in the barn! I’m no fool, you lyin’ slut! Bob’s been tellin’ me about you and that Luna, an’ how y’all been lookin’ at one ‘nother…”
“But Dan, you have to believe me!” she pleaded. “Francisco didn’t touch me, I swear to you! It was—”
” ‘Francisco’? Well, I guess you would be on a firstname basis with your Mex lover!” Dan roared, and swung his fist, catching her squarely in the side of her head
Everything had gone black, and when she awoke, it was to the news that Dan had killed Francisco Luna and then turned the gun on himself The sheriff’s disgusted face had frightened her—and then he’d read her the note Dan had left, in which Dan had explained that he had killed his wife’s lover, the father of the baby she carried, and intended next to shoot himself.
Her reason for silence—the need to protect Dan from the truth—was gone, but the sheriff hadn’t wanted to hear her side of the story. Neither had anyone else. Her brother-in-law, Robert, had seen to it that the contents of the note had been circulated about town, and before her husband had even been buried, Olivia had found herself an outcast.
Cal was already an outcast in Bryan; it must not happen to him here, too, not when he’d just gained a chance to build a life for himself. But it would happen if he was known to be friendly with Olivia Gillespie. She would be appreciative of the help he’d given her, but that was all; she’d nip in the bud any further attempts at friendship.
But perhaps it was assuming too much on her part to even imagine he’d want to be her friend, especially when he thought she was the one who’d been putting roses on Francisco’s grave…
All at once she heard the sound of footsteps on the porch below and then a firm knock at the door. She heard Jovita’s humming cease, and the creak of the boards as the Mexican woman went to the door. Then, a moment later, Jovita’s voice. “Buenos tardes, Senor Devleen! Yes, the senora ees much better today! Yes, I am sure she would welcome a visitor. Come een! I’ll just go up and see eef she ees awake first!”
It was surprising how fast a woman of Jovita’s plumpness could move when she was excited. “Senora! Eet ees—”
“Yes, I heard,” Olivia interrupted. “Tell him I’m asleep, won’t you? I’m in no condition to receive callers, Jovita,” she protested, her gesture indicating her nightgown, her hair loose on her pillow, the fact that she was in bed.
But Jovita wouldn’t listen. “Nonsense, senora. Thees ees the man who helped you, no? He looks so anxious— just let heem see you are better, yes?” Before Olivia knew what she was about, Jovita had found and draped a lacy shawl about her shoulders, combed her hair and set the room to rights. A minute later, Cal was entering the bedroom.
He was so tall he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. For a moment he just stood there holding his hat in his hands, his presence filling the room as he studied her.
“I—I hope I’m not intrudin’ at a time when you’re not feelin’ very well, Livy,” he began, stroking the brim of his hat self-consciously. “But after yesterday I thought I’d better come see how you were doin’…”
Could he hear the way her heart was pounding? “That was very kind of you, Cal,” she said, being careful to keep her voice coolly polite. “As you can see, I’m much better. Thanks to you.”
He looked down at his boots. “Anyone would have done the same.”
No, they wouldn’t have, she thought, but did not say so.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said. His eyes returned to hers. “You, uh, you have a mite more color in your face than you had yesterday.”
His observation caused even more blood to come rushing up her neck and into her cheeks, heating them. “Yes, I feel better…Still weak, of course, but I guess that’s to be expected.”
He nodded, still gazing at her in his direct way.
What more was there to say?
“I—I like the mustache,” she said at last, idiotically, when the silence seemed to stretch on uncomfortably. “It looks dashing,” she told him, and meant it.
He gazed at her as if he thought she was loco. “Dashing?” he said with a short, disbelieving laugh, and made a gesture that indicated the scarred right side of his face as he shook his head.
“Yes, dashing,” she insisted, her heart twisting as she realized he thought the scars and the patch had made him ugly.
She was ambivalent about asking him to sit down, afraid he would misinterpret it, that he would think she wanted him to stay. But no, he would be right. She did want him to stay—she just couldn’t let him know that.
It seemed rude to keep him standing, though. “Please, won’t you sit down?” she said, motioning toward the chair beyond the small bedside table.
He looked uncertain. “I—I shouldn’t…can’t stay but a minute…” He sat down, nevertheless.
“Jovita tells me you’re quite the town hero,” she said breezily. “They can’t praise you highly enough, after yesterday.”
He smiled, and his face lost a little of its tenseness. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”
“So modest,” she teased. “I never knew you were such an expert marksman.”
His face grew somber again. “I wish I could do it over again, Livy. Two men are dead because of me. I should have just wounded them, so they could have been captured.”
His anguished face caught at her heart. “You mustn’t blame yourself for their deaths, Cal. One of them murdered our sheriff. The other one could have killed you— I hear he shot at you, but missed. You did what you had to do.”
He looked away. “I know…but I just keep thinkin’ about how I might’ve done it differently…if I’d taken time to think. But I was so angry at seem’ that old man gunned down—he was just tryin’ to do his job…”
That was what Olin Watts had said to her, Olivia thought, after he’d read her Dan’s suicide note. I’m just doin’ my job, Miz Gillespie. But that had nothing to do with the event that was tormenting Cat’s soul now, so she resolutely pushed it aside.
“Look at it this way, Cal. If the robbers had been captured instead, probably both of them would have been hanged for killing the sheriff and for the bank robbery. I’d wager they would rather have died quickly, the way they did, instead of at the end of a rope.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, but his expression remained bleak.
“You’ll be a good sheriff,” she assured him. “Gillespie Springs is lucky you came along.” But how was she