told the story of Sarah’s rescue from the freight wagon and Matt’s offer to write a letter.
“Excellent,” Miss Marlowe replied. “A letter from a parent will carry weight. He’s new to Cheyenne, but he’s respected.
Carrie looked at Pearl. “It’s going to work out, cousin. You’ll see.”
Pearl hoped so, but she felt like Sarah alone in the middle of the street staring at a team of mules. Needing to be brave, she thought of the ribbons. Matt belonged to Carrie, but Pearl valued his friendship. Hopefully, his letter would tip the scales in her favor.
Matt didn’t like cooking supper, but he did it for Sarah. He liked washing dishes even less, but it had to be done. As he dumped the scrub basin out the back door, he thought of his little girl tucked in bed, wrapped in the pink quilt she’d clutched all the way from Texas. The blanket no longer reached her toes, but the fabric still held the softness of a mother’s touch.
As he shook the basin dry, he thought of his last chore for the evening. This morning he’d bought stationery and a bottle of ink. All day he’d composed the letter for Pearl in his head, but nothing sounded right. With her interview just two days away, he had to deliver the letter tomorrow. He didn’t regret his offer. He just wished he knew what to say.
He looked at the sunset and thought of her cheeks, flushed pink as she weighed his offer to write the letter. He stared up at the sky, a medium blue that melted into dusk. He thought of the ribbons and felt good that he’d brightened her day. Inspired, he went back into the house, stowed the basin under the counter and fetched the stationery and ink from the shelf where he’d put them out of Sarah’s reach. He sat at the table, smoothed a sheet of paper, uncorked the bottle and lifted the pen. In bold strokes he wrote the date, then added, “To Whom It May Concern.”
He wrinkled his brow.
He scratched his neck.
He’d have been more comfortable throwing a drunk in jail, but he’d made a promise and he’d keep it. He inked the pen and wrote, “It’s my pleasure to provide a letter of reference for Miss Pearl Oliver.”
So far, so good. He dipped the pen again, wiped the excess and described how she’d run in front of the wagon to save Sarah. As the nib scratched against the paper, he relived the rattle of the wagon. He imagined his little girl lying in the mud and Pearl protecting her with her own body.
He owed this woman far more than a letter. Not only had she saved Sarah, she’d restored a sliver of his faith in human beings, even in women with blond hair. Bettina had thrown Sarah to the wolves. Pearl would have died to save her. The thought spurred his hand and he told the story with ease. By the time he finished, he couldn’t imagine anyone not hiring her. In closing, he described her as loyal, honest, dedicated and kind. After the way she’d handled the awkwardness of the ribbons, he believed every word.
He blew the ink dry, then closed his eyes. As he rubbed the kink in his neck, his mind drifted to Jed Jones hanging from a cottonwood tree. Matt had seen men hanged, but he’d never cut one down after three days. He’d lost his breakfast and done his job, but he’d paid a price. The nightmares from Virginia had come back with a new intensity. He hadn’t slept well since then, and he doubted the dreams would settle until he figured out who was behind the recent violence.
His mind wandered until he felt a tug on his sleeve. As he looked down, Sarah leaned her head against his arm. The warmth of her temple passed through the cotton and went straight to his heart. Earlier he’d laced her hair into a single braid. Long and smooth, it gleamed in the lamplight. Thanks to Pearl, he’d gotten the hang of fixing hair. The trick was to pull with a firm hand. Before he’d seen how she did it, he’d worried too much about hurting Sarah’s head.
Dressed in a store-bought nightie, she looked up at him with her big blue eyes. “Daddy, I can’t sleep anymore.”
He draped his arm around her shoulders. With her tiny bones, she reminded him of a baby chick. “You will if you try.”
“I want to hear Cinderella again.”
The week they’d arrived in Cheyenne, he’d bought a storybook with colored pictures for Sarah’s birthday. He’d found it at the fanciest shop in town, and a clerk had told him the story behind it. A Frenchman named Charles Perrault had collected fairy tales in a book called Tales of Mother Goose. Someone else had translated the stories into English, and someone else had drawn pictures that sent Sarah into raptures of delight. She didn’t like the gruesome parts, but she enjoyed the rest. Matt had read Cinderella so many times that he had passages memorized.
“We already had a story,” he said. “It’s bedtime.”
“Pleeeease.”
Whining couldn’t be tolerated. It reminded him of Bettina. “No, Sarah. It’s time to sleep.”
She tried to climb on his lap. Matt picked her up by her underarms and plopped her down on his knee. Rather than march her to bed, he’d play one last game of Horsey, then tuck her in with a kiss on the nose. She liked that.
As he scooted the chair back, Sarah saw the stationery. “What’s that?”
“A letter.”
“Who’s it to?”
“It’s for Miss Pearl.” He wanted Sarah to show respect, so he’d used the “Miss.”
“We’re helping her get a job as a teacher.”
“My teacher?” She wiggled with excitement.
“Maybe.”
Twisting in his lap, she put her hands on his shoulders. The lashes fringing her eyes fluttered upward. “Maybe she could be my mama, too.”
The question didn’t surprise him. Sarah had been talking about mamas since the day she’d seen Pearl. At supper she’d asked him why she didn’t have one anymore. Matt had given the only answer he could manage. Something happened, sweetheart. She had to leave.
What else could he say? I let your mother down and she ran off. She found another man…a better man.
A five-year-old couldn’t fathom such things, but someday Sarah would want to hear the truth. What could he say? That he’d been a rotten husband? The thought turned his stomach. Sarah needed a mother, but there was no reason to think he’d become a better man. Never mind Pearl’s pretty hair and easy manner. Matt had no business noticing her.
“Come on,” he said to Sarah, lifting her as he stood. “You talked me into one more story.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, darlin’.”
He galloped her into the bedroom, tucked her against the feather tick, sat on the stool by her bed and opened Mother Goose. If he angled the book toward the door, enough light came from the hall that he could make out the words. He could also see the picture of Cinderella with her blond curls and blue eyes.
Sarah rolled on her side. “I think she looks like Miss Pearl.”
So did Matt. “A little.”
“A lot.” Sarah folded her hands across her chest. Then she did something Matt had never seen her do. She closed her eyes and mouthed words he couldn’t hear.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m praying.”
Matt had no such inclination, not anymore. A long time ago he’d prayed the prayers and he’d felt relieved of his misdeeds, but not anymore. That boy had turned into a man who had to live with his mistakes. All that remained of his faith were the pangs of guilt that had driven him to work harder than any lawman in Texas. The effort had cost him Bettina, who hadn’t liked playing second fiddle to his badge.
Matt couldn’t change the past, but he could stop others from making the same mistakes. That’s why he’d do anything to protect