father fought on the other side, but I still don’t know if there was a winner or loser. Just lots of lost lives.”
He showed his agreement with a nod. Her voice was soft and easy to listen to and that bothered him. Everything about her bothered him in ways he shouldn’t be bothered. Mainly because they weren’t bad ways. Just unusual. He noticed things about her he shouldn’t. Things that shouldn’t be any concern of his. Like the sadness that seemed to surround her when she thought no one was looking.
“A surgeon,” she said. “That explains your doctoring abilities.”
“He’s still a doctor. So is my brother Chet.”
“My father worked in the salt mines in Iowa before the war, but couldn’t afterward.” She sighed and her chair creaked as it rocked back and forth. “Perhaps if the North had had a surgeon like your father, mine might have come home with two arms.”
Not sure why, except he’d never been one to look at the bad side, he said, “At least he came home.”
“You’re right,” she said. “That’s exactly what my mother said. She always said things would work out, too. So when he decided we should move out here, to his brother’s place, we packed up and left Iowa.”
He pushed a foot against the porch floor, keeping his rocker in motion as he turned her way. “That would be Walter?”
She was staring toward the sunset and didn’t look his way, but nodded. “Billy told you this is his place.”
“He did. Said Walter died a while ago.”
“Three years.” She sighed heavily. “I’m not sure Billy really remembers him. He was only four.”
“He remembers Walter went out to round up cattle and fell in a ravine. That he’s buried out there.” The story had come from a seven-year-old, so it could be as off-kilter as a three-wheeled wagon, but Tom sensed even the boy didn’t totally believe the Uncle Walter death tale. A man who’d lived here most of his life didn’t just fall into a ravine.
He should flat out ask her about that. Normally he would. Normally he’d ask where her husband was, too. Or have already left to keep tracking Hugh Wilson. Instead he’d been here for the better part of a week, mending barns, corrals and roofs, doctoring her and looking after Billy. He couldn’t have just ridden on, though, not in good conscience, but now that she was up and showed no signs of the infection returning, he should leave.
Would leave.
“What else did Billy tell you?”
She was do-si-do-ing, wondering if Billy had let it be known that his father was an outlaw. The boy hadn’t. Probably because he didn’t know. He thought his father was out buying or selling cattle. Billy said he wasn’t sure which because his father did both. Tom, on the other hand, figured it was all selling on Hugh’s part, and that if Hugh Wilson had a cow to sell, it was because he’d stolen it first.
He hadn’t questioned Billy about anything. Children shouldn’t be used as informants. He’d never done that before and wouldn’t now. Furthermore, he’d bet the reason Billy didn’t know was because Clara didn’t want him to know. She had to realize she couldn’t keep it a secret forever. Sooner or later, Billy would figure it out. Which wasn’t, or shouldn’t be, his concern.
“Things that are important to little boys,” he said. “Where Walter’s dog is buried. Where he found that old prairie gun of his. How he saw an Indian up on the ridge one time. Which chickens lay brown eggs, white eggs, and the occasional green one. How you make him take a bath and comb his hair whether he wants to or not.” There were a hundred other things Billy had mentioned, but her soft laughter was making him chuckle.
“Oh, dear, I must apologize. He does like to prattle on, and usually has no one but me to talk to.”
“No apologies necessary.” He enjoyed spending time with the boy and didn’t mind her knowing what he thought on that issue. “Billy’s a good boy. Smart and caring. You’ve done a fine job with him and he’ll do you proud.”
She stopped the chair from rocking and had four fingers of one hand lightly pressed to her lips. Her blond hair was still in the long braid as when he’d arrived, but she’d coiled it and pinned it to one side of her head, which was very becoming. So were her eyes. They were as blue as the sky had been earlier, and right now, shimmered in the evening light.
“Thank you, Mr. Baniff,” she said softly. “You may never know how deeply I appreciate what you just said.”
It had been years since he’d felt green around the ears, but did so now. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything to say, nor could he pull his eyes off her. He finally managed, and glanced around the yard before looking her way again. “He is a good boy. And this is a nice place. You’ve got a lot to be proud of.”
She flinched. Slightly, but he saw it, and the way she suddenly grew tense. Her gaze flitted around, landing nowhere, especially not on him, while she gnawed on her bottom lip. He waited, half expecting her to make mention of her husband. He was certain that was what had made her so nervous all of a sudden.
“No, I don’t.”
She said that so quietly, so softly, he wasn’t sure if he heard it or thought it. “Excuse me?”
This time, she acted as if she hadn’t heard him and set both hands on her knees. “Speaking of Billy, I best go see that he washed before crawling into bed. He’s been known to skip that part.”
An unexpected bolt of guilt shot across Tom’s stomach. He’d wanted her to say something about her husband. Not necessarily where he was, but maybe that he wasn’t a good father or husband. Which was apparent, but inside, Tom wanted her to say it, mainly to confirm his assumptions. That wasn’t like him, either. He’d never needed his assumptions confirmed. Nor did he now. He was a lawman tracking down an outlaw. Normally, nothing would get in the way of that. Not a run-down homestead, an injured woman, or a little boy eager to please. And it shouldn’t this time. Yet it had. “Let me help you up,” he said, rising to his feet.
“No, thank you,” she said, slowly rising by using the arms of the chair. “Moving around today has helped my leg tremendously. It’s doing well. Better than well. It’s fine. Hardly hurts.”
She’d said most of that with a grimace that belied her words, yet he kept his distance. The smart thing to do on his part. He then stepped aside as she walked to the door, but hurried around her to open it.
“I—I feel bad that you’re sleeping in the barn,” she said, holding on to the door frame. “Billy could sleep with me and you could—”
“No, I’ll sleep in the barn again. It’s fine. More than fine. I’ve slept in far worse places.” He was the one prattling now, and clamped his lips together to stop.
Her eyes were glistening again, and he couldn’t stop staring at them. At her. She was a pretty woman. The prettiest one he’d ever seen. Strong and determined, too. Her life out here wasn’t easy, yet she hadn’t voiced a single complaint.
“All right, then,” she said, stepping inside. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tom spun about, but two steps later, stopped before stepping off the porch and turned about. He knocked once on the door and then opened it. She stood near the table, and for a moment, he wondered if he saw something he could only describe as hope in her eyes. That confused him. Hope for what?
Collecting his thoughts, most of them at least, he stepped into the house. “I best carry that lamp for you. Don’t want your leg to give out while you’re carrying it.” Before she could protest, he picked the lamp off the table and started for the room Billy slept in. “I’ll put it on the table beside your bed once you’re done seeing to Billy.”
“Thank you. Th-that’s very kind of you.”
“Just don’t want any setbacks with your leg.”