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The tears were forming again, and she squinted her eyes to try to stop them. The realization that she wouldn’t have to leave her home came to her and she brushed it away guiltily.
Royal’s whine drew her attention. The dog slunk to her side, cautiously placing his head on her lap. She ruffled his fur and looked into the big, sad eyes. “I gotta talk to the undertaker,” she muttered. “And the doctor.” Her tears dried quickly. “Yes, I want to talk to that doctor.”
When Cally rode into Salina an hour later, she wondered if she shouldn’t have waited until evening. There was much more activity than she was used to. The little two-wheeled cart Jewel pulled bounced noisily over the rutted streets, drawing even more stares in her direction.
When she slid off Jewel’s back in front of Lafferty’s, Royal crowded her against the mule, and Cally had to push the dog out of the way before she could reach the hitching post.
The door to the feed store stood open, and Cally stepped inside. “Mr. Lafferty?”
“Would that be Cally, come to visit an old man?” Mr. Lafferty walked slowly toward her from the darkness of the back of the store.
Royal barked a cheerful greeting.
“Heard about yer papa, lass,” the old man said. “‘Twas a sorry thing.” He laid a bony hand on her shoulder and added softly, “Still, I’m glad he didna hang.”
Cally felt the tears sting her eyes and pretended it was the oat dust that caused it. “I’ve come to town to see him. Sheriff Haywood says he’s at the Furniture House.”
She was grateful Mr. Lafferty knew her well enough to realize that was a question. “It’s just three doors down from me, lass. It has the tall red sign. The carpenters are undertakers as well, y’see, and they’ll fix yer papa up nice. Would ye want me to be goin’ wi’ ye, lass?”
“No, thanks,” Cally said quickly. The fewer witnesses, the better.
Mr. Lafferty’s weak eyes narrowed, and she wondered what he was thinking. After a moment he patted her shoulder. “Ye know ye can be countin’ on me if’n ye need anythin’.”
“I know,” was all she could say before the lump in her throat choked off her voice. She touched the old hand briefly then hurried into the sunlight. The brightness brought more tears to her eyes, and she hid beside Jewel as she brushed them away.
Rubbing the mule’s nose, Cally looked up and down the street, quickly locating the tall red sign. She studied it and felt a wave of dread. Once she saw Pa’s body there could be no more hoping he wasn’t dead.
It would make more sense to talk to the doctor first, she decided quickly. Cally had been to Dr. Briggs’s home after a couple of Pa’s fights and knew it was just a few blocks away. She started down the street with Royal trying valiantly to turn her back.
“It’s all right, boy,” she murmured, patting Royal’s head. The dog relented but growled low in his throat whenever someone passed too close to his charge. Several ladies stepped clear off the boardwalk to let them pass.
Andrew saw the little scarecrow and her dog as soon as they came into town. He had been expecting her and had positioned himself casually across from Lafferty’s feed store. Cally was at least predictable.
He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to watch her. He told himself his job included protecting Miss Cally DuBois from the rougher element of town. And protecting the gentler element from Miss Cally DuBois. He felt guilty even as he thought it. She was harmless now, surely.
When she left the feed store, Andrew guessed she was headed for the doctor’s. He let her get well ahead of him before he angled across the street, stepping around a corner in time to see her enter the small frame house that belonged to Dr. Briggs. A moment later, the door reopened, and the huge dog was virtually pushed out.
Andrew smiled as he remembered the first time Cally had come to visit her father. His reaction to Royal inside his office had been immediate and severe. He could imagine the doctor’s was at least as strong.
The huge dog whimpered and turned in circles on the porch. Finally he sat, his eyes fixing squarely on the sheriff. Andrew had never intended to interrupt the girl’s conversation with the doctor. He had only wanted to see to her safety and offer to help her any way he could. For one brief moment as he looked at Royal, it seemed presumptuous to the point of stupidity to think she needed his protection.
He decided to wait for Cally across the street from the doctor’s office. He took one step toward a shade tree, and the dog came to his feet. One more step and the hairs on the dog’s back bristled as his shoulder muscles tensed.
Andrew stopped. Royal relaxed.
Andrew took another step, and the dog bared his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
Andrew felt a surge of anger. He wasn’t even walking toward the dog! Cally was inside, certainly out of his reach. He wondered, irrationally, if the dog recognized him, if Cally had given Royal orders to attack him on sight.
“It would be just like that little hellion,” he muttered under his breath. Well, he wasn’t going to let a dog keep him from doing his job! If he wanted to march up to the doctor’s door and wait for Cally DuBois on the front steps, her trained beast wasn’t going to stop him.
He took three determined steps directly toward the dog before he stopped. There was nothing like a snarling dog, poised to spring, to cool a man’s anger and remind him of the advantages of patience.
Andrew took a step backward. He and the dog stared at each other and waited for Cally to finish her conversation with the doctor.
When Cally first heard Royal’s reaction to danger she worried that a patient was being kept from the doctor’s door. She hurried to a window in time to see the sheriff stop in his tracks. It almost made her smile.
“And that’s when Haywood came to get you?” she prompted, turning back to the doctor.
“Yes. I did try to revive him, Miss DuBois. But when the heart stops…” He shook his head.
Cally couldn’t bear the pity on the man’s face. She turned and opened the door, mumbling, “Thank you, Doctor,” as she went. She had to nudge Royal out of her way before she could step out of the house.
Without a word to Royal, she walked toward the sheriff, knowing her dog would keep himself between her and any stranger. She wanted to see the cool, self-assured sheriff back away.
The closer they got to Haywood, the more Royal bristled, barking a warning between deep menacing growls. The poor dog was trembling when Cally finally stopped, laying a hand on the dog’s back to reassure him. She felt guilty for using Royal that way. Especially when it hadn’t worked.
Haywood removed his hat. “Miss DuBois,” he said softly.
“Sheriff,” Cally said, trying hard to sound as calm as he did.
“I wanted to offer my assistance.”
Cally wanted to scream. She looked directly into the sheriffs eyes and decided they were the color of dirt. The thought gave her enough strength to accuse him. “You killed my father.”
He had the grace to look surprised—for a second, anyway. Then he looked angry. She had to admit it was quite a thing to say, but, oh, how she wanted to hurt him! She was prepared for him to answer in kind, some cutting remark that she could use to feed her anger.
He disappointed her again.
“Is that what the doctor told you?”
“Yes,” she lied, telling herself it was a small lie and didn’t really count. “You gave him a drink. That’s what killed him.”
Haywood blinked. That was all. Blinked! She had watched his dirt-brown eyes as long as she could. The cool gaze was giving her the chills. She lifted her chin with the last of her courage and went around him, walking purposefully toward the Furniture House.
Royal gave the sheriff a parting glance before joining her.
Cally wanted to mutter her frustration aloud to the dog as she walked, but the streets were too crowded. She didn’t need to attract any more stares than she was already getting. Men and women in all manner of fine clothes were walking on the boardwalks or crossing the street, and they all seemed to think she was the most interesting thing to look at. Hardly any of them spared a glance at the tall buildings, wagons and horses or each other.
Under the tall red sign, Cally stopped and braced herself. With squared shoulders, she stepped through the open door of the big furniture store. A man with a drooping mustache hurried to meet her. “Young man! Leave that dog outside!”
Cally glared at him for a moment. With a wave of her hand and a soft word, Royal returned to the threshold and sat, effectively blocking the doorway.
The mustachioed man scowled. “What can I do for you?”
His tone implied he hoped it wouldn’t take long. So did Cally. “Sheriff Haywood said my pa’s here.” The man’s scowl deepened. “I’m Cally DuBois,” she added.
His demeanor changed drastically. “Oh, Miss DuBois. I’m so sorry. Please, come this way. We’ve laid the poor soul out in the back.”
The dog growled, and they both turned to see two ladies hurry away. The undertaker glared at the dog but smiled sympathetically when he turned back to Cally. “We have a nice selection of coffins, and you’ll be wanting the services of our hearse.”
Cally’s irritation at the man’s phony thoughtfulness made her bold enough to ask, “Will the county pay for it?”
The man’s mustache drooped a little lower. “I wouldn’t think so.” He opened a door and led her into a storeroom. Lighting a lamp, he crossed to a long narrow table where the body lay covered with a sheet.
Cally barely glanced at it. She felt her stomach tremble and wanted to run away. But this was what she had come for, and there were things to be settled. “If he’d hanged, would the county have paid then?” she asked.
“Perhaps. Now, our services can include mourners if your father wasn’t…ahem…well, if he didn’t…”
Royal growled again, and the man leaned to the side, trying to see the front room.
Cally knew he imagined more potential customers scurrying down the street. She was as eager as he was to have this done. “He died in jail,” she persisted. “Why won’t the county pay for his funeral?”
“Look, Miss, if the man was a derelict, the county will bury him in potter’s field. But I can’t imagine a good daughter letting such a thing happen. I am more than willing to discuss some financial arrangement so your father can be buried properly.”
Cally’s eyes narrowed at the man’s harsh tones. “Maybe the sheriff killed him so the county wouldn’t have to pay for his funeral.”
The mustache twitched. “That’s an outrageous accusation! The sheriff wouldn’t be paying, in any case.”
Cally shrugged, as if dismissing a small matter. “I’ll take Pa home,” she said. “My cart’s outside.”
The mustache seemed to take on a life of its own. “Why, you can’t. That is—you’ll still need a coffin.”
Cally had already turned to go. “I’ll make him one…from his cot. He won’t be needing it anymore.”
Cally marched out of the Furniture House, hoping her courage would last until she left town. She untied Jewel from the post in front of Lafferty’s, barely noticing the trace of oats on the mule’s nose, and led her forward until the cart was directly in front of the furniture store.
The undertaker watched her from his threshold, sputtering. Finally convinced of her determination, he drafted a passerby to help and went back inside. Cally rubbed Jewel’s nose while she waited, trying not to think.
In a few minutes they returned and loaded the body into the cart. If the stranger spoke to Cally or even tipped his hat, she didn’t notice. The sheet had slipped to reveal one worn boot hanging over the end of the cart. Cally stared at it, swallowing hard.
The undertaker delivered a parting shot. “I daresay you’ll regret this, Miss DuBois.”
It brought Cally back to her senses. Without responding, she swung onto Jewel’s back, turned the mule in a wide circle and headed out of town.
Andrew watched her go, fighting the urge to follow. The girl intended to take her father’s body home for burial. She intended to dig the grave herself, wrap the body, toss dirt on her own father’s chest. He couldn’t picture it. In fact, he couldn’t allow it.
He had other responsibilities, however, and couldn’t simply leave town. First, he would have to let his deputy know where he was going. Sick wife or not, the man could relay a message if someone needed to find him. And he would leave a note on his office door as well.
In less than half an hour, Andrew was on his way to the DuBois farm. He wanted to kick his horse into a run. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew. He needed to arrive in time to help her, but there was no need to beat her home. As slow as that mule was, he could almost do that anyway.
But he hated to think of Cally making the trip alone, even though it was scarcely two miles. His concern for the girl perplexed him. She had been riding into town every day for weeks, and he had never once worried about her safety. What had caused the change?
Will you look out for my Cally, Sheriff?
He heard the words as if they were spoken by a ghost. Was that really all it took to make him feel so protective, or had something about the girl touched him? He felt a twinge in his upper arm and muttered to himself, “Yeah, the tip of her knife is what touched me.”
In a manner of speaking, as sheriff he looked out for everyone in the county, but he had never been anyone’s guardian. He didn’t know where to begin. Exactly what were his responsibilities to Miss Cally DuBois? It would surely take some time to decide, but for now he knew he couldn’t let her bury her father by herself.
Cally rode the mule to a little rise near her house. A weathered wooden cross barely marked her mother’s grave. All the way home, she had tried to remember what had happened when her mother died. Had neighbors come? Had Pa sent for a preacher? Had he bought a coffin? Or had he made one? It was all a little hazy.
She decided it didn’t matter. She had no choice but to do this herself. When she had unhitched the cart in the shade of the apple tree and led Jewel to grass nearby, she decided it didn’t seem right to leave Pa alone while she went for the spade. “Royal, stay with Pa,” she said.
As she walked the short distance to the barn, she decided nothing seemed right. Her whole world was upside-down, and she was supposed to make decisions she had never before thought about.
Was it wrong to bury Pa wrapped only in a sheet? Should she try to make a coffin from his cot? She had said it only to shut up the undertaker, but now she wished she could really do it.
She was at the barn door when Royal’s warning bark brought her quickly around. Anger helped her forget all her questions. Sheriff Andrew Haywood was riding toward her.
He drew up a short distance away and dismounted. Why hadn’t Royal warned her? As she turned toward her dog, her eyes widened in horror. As this most hated of men walked slowly toward her, Royal, her trusted friend and protector, left his post on the hill and went wagging to meet him.
She stared as Haywood and the dog greeted each other like long-lost friends. How had this happened? Then she remembered leading the snarling Royal toward the sheriff and laying her hand on the dog’s head for reassurance as they stopped in front of Haywood. She groaned, closing her eyes in disbelief. Royal had misunderstood.
Well, there was little chance of explaining to the dog now. She decided her best reaction was to ignore him—them! She wouldn’t so much as nod to the sheriff. She certainly wasn’t going to call her dog! She spun around and went into the barn, grabbed her garden spade and walked back to the little cemetery without another glance in Haywood’s direction.
Haywood had the nerve to mutter something to Royal as they followed her up the hill. She picked the spot and pushed the spade into the dry earth. Her tiny feet inside her father’s old work shoes could barely press the spade into the ground. This would be harder than she’d thought, especially with Haywood watching.
“Do you have another shovel?”
She turned to discover that Haywood had removed his coat and was rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. She lifted another puny spadeful of dirt. “It won’t work any better than this.”
“Go get it.” His voice was soft, but she heard it as a command. She thought she would enjoy telling him where he could go when his hand came down on hers, warm and gentle. It reminded her of her father’s loving touch and tears blurred her vision. She let go of the spade and escaped to the barn.
When she had herself under control again, she took the shovel to the rise, surprised at how much sod Haywood had broken in her absence. The shovel, though not as sharp as the spade, was wider, and she tried to use it to scoop up the dirt as Haywood loosened it. She only succeeded in bumping her shovel against the spade.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said gently.
Cally glared at him a moment. She hated to have any decision taken out of her hands, especially by Haywood, but it would be stupid to turn down his offer. She shrugged as if it made no difference.
After a moment of glaring at his back, she stalked to the barn, glancing over her shoulder once to see Royal lie down in the shade of the cart. Her dog’s defection rankled as much as the sheriffs interference. Muttering to herself, she found a hammer and knocked two short boards off a stall divider that she never used. With the old nails, she fashioned the boards into a cross. It wasn’t much, but it went with the cross at her mother’s grave.
By the time she returned, Haywood had made considerable progress. It would have taken her forever to dig the grave. She would bite her tongue off before she admitted it to Haywood, though. She leaned the cross against the cart and sat down under the apple tree near Royal. Haywood didn’t seem to notice that she had returned.
It was impossible to watch him work and not see the play of muscles across his back and shoulders as he broke dirt loose with the spade and tossed it aside with the shovel. A strong back like that could have the barn roof mended in no time, she thought. If the man felt guilty about Pa, maybe she shouldn’t discourage him. All manner of odd jobs came to mind, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning.
With Pa gone, the farm was all she had. Somehow, she would keep what was left of it and survive with it alone. The weather was warm for September, but she knew there wouldn’t be many more days before frost. She couldn’t help feeling regret and resentment for the days she had wasted while she dreamed of rescuing Pa.
She tried to shake such thoughts away by concentrating on her future. She had yet to dig the potatoes, and, after the first frost, she would have to carry all the pumpkins and squash into her cellar. The hayloft would be a better place to store some of these things but the roof leaked. She watched Haywood’s muscles flex as he shoved the spade into the dark earth, and imagined the roof repaired.
Besides harvesting her garden produce, she would have to chop enough wood to last through the winter. She watched Haywood send another shovelful of dirt onto the pile. It was easy to picture him replenishing her woodpile.
Somehow, watching him too closely made her stomach nervous and her cheeks warm. Deliberately, she pulled her thoughts back to her plans.
She needed to put up as many jars of tomatoes from her neglected patch as she could. The money she made selling her pies and bread paid for flour, sugar and a few other supplies, but mostly she had to live through the winter on what she saved from the garden.
Cally was used to hard work and deciding upon a plan felt better than the persistent hopelessness of the weeks since Pa’s arrest. In a way, she knew life would be easier. Pa, bless him, wasn’t really much help. Cally scolded herself for the disloyal thought. Poor Pa was right beside her!
Haywood’s shirt had become soaked with sweat, defining those useful muscles even more. Yes, her best bet was to humor the sheriff and play on his guilt as long as it lasted. With that in mind, she scrambled to her feet. She walked to the well and brought back a tin cup full of water. She didn’t speak but stood in front of Haywood until he looked up.
