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He eyed her speculatively.
“It ain’t poisoned,” she said, thrusting the cup toward him.
“Thanks,” he murmured. He tried to hide a grin as he brought the cup to his lips.
That grin made Cally furious. Her one act of kindness was suspect! Well, sure, it was more an act of encouragement than kindness, but he wasn’t supposed to see it that way. Shoot! It was hard to be nice to this man! Maybe the barn roof wasn’t worth it.
He handed the empty cup to her, and she snatched it out of his hand. She couldn’t stay here and watch him anymore. Waiting for him to dig the grave was worse than digging it herself. She stomped back to the well and hung up the cup. At the house she took her bucket from its hook on the side of the house and went to the garden.
With a sigh she surveyed the tomatoes. Lately she had been picking only what she wanted to eat. “There are more rotten ones than good ones,” she said to Royal before she remembered that Royal hadn’t followed her. She looked toward the little hill where Royal lay in the shade of the cart, guarding Haywood while he worked. There was another mark against that interfering sheriff.
She picked overripe tomatoes and dropped them into her bucket, muttering to herself. She almost called Queen over so she would have an excuse to grumble aloud. She had tossed the second bucketful of spoiled tomatoes to the chickens when she saw Haywood approaching.
He had unbuttoned the damp shirt halfway to his waist revealing glimpses of his hairy, muscular chest. Dirt smudged his face and once-white shirt. His hair was in complete disarray. This, Cally decided, was the way she would remember Sheriff Andrew Haywood next time the always-perfect sheriff tried to tell her what to do!
Chapter Three (#ulink_a1714dd1-fdb2-5d35-a8ac-66e0dc015b65)
“The grave’s dug, Miss Dubois.”
It took Cally a moment to realize that Haywood had spoken.
He eyed her curiously as he went on in that soft voice, “I thought you’d want to say a few words over the body.” He paused, waiting, but she didn’t know what to do. “Do you have a Bible?”
Cally fought down a moment of panic. Nodding, she hurried to the well to wash. Inside the soddy, she found her mother’s Bible and, hugging it to her breast, walked to the grave. Haywood had rebuttoned his shirt and was shrugging into his coat. He looked oddly formal for as dirty as he was.
He had laid Pa’s body out on the ground and wrapped him more neatly in the sheet. She couldn’t help staring at it.
“Do you want one last look?” he offered.
Cally shook her head. Haywood jumped easily into the hole, lifted the body gently, and laid it in the grave. He pulled himself back out and stood beside Cally, his hands clasped in front of him. And waited. “Go ahead,” he urged gently, indicating the Bible.
Cally swallowed. “I…can’t.” She sniffed. “Would you?”
Haywood nodded and took the Bible. Cally watched his hands as he turned the Bible over then leafed through it. In a moment, he found what he was looking for. His soft, warm voice read some verses that sounded faintly familiar to Cally. When he was done, he closed the Bible gently. “Did you want to say anything else?”
Cally shook her head, unwilling to look at him.
After what seemed like a long pause, he said, “It’s sometimes customary for a family member to—”
Cally looked up as his voice trailed off. He held the small shovel toward her. The look on his face was more upsetting than the thought of throwing dirt on Pa’s body. Compassion. Sympathy. She straightened her shoulders. If that was the custom, she didn’t want to disappoint him. And she didn’t want him thinking she was about to fall apart!
As calmly as she could, she took the shovel and slid it into the pile of dirt—dirt the color of his eyes, she reminded herself. Using all her irritation at Sheriff Haywood to give her strength, she lifted as large a load as she could handle.
As she let it fall into the grave, Haywood spoke gently, “Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. We commit this body back to the earth from whence it sprang. Amen.”
Cally watched him for a long moment before his eyes met hers again. “Are you a preacher?” she asked.
“No,” was all he said. He took the shovel from her hands, handing her the Bible, and nodded toward the cart. “Why don’t you hitch the mule to the cart and take it back to the barn? I’ll finish up here.” He was already removing the coat.
There he was, telling her what to do again! He turned his back on her as if he expected her to do just what she was told. Well, maybe she wanted to finish up here.
She watched those fascinating muscles flex as scoop after scoop of dirt fell on the corpse. Maybe she was being ridiculous. She hurried to Jewel, brought her to the cart and hitched her up. She called to Royal, and this time the dog followed her to the barn.
When the cart was put away and Jewel was staked once again, this time on grass as far from the grave as was practical, Cally walked slowly toward the house. She knew she should return to her garden. The tomatoes needed to be picked before they all rotted. Instead, she sat down on her rocker.
“He’s truly gone,” she whispered to herself. Royal whimpered in response to her sorrow and settled down beside her, his head resting on his paws, watching her with sad eyes. “I should have saved him.”
Her eyes turned to the hill where Haywood worked steadily. Soon he would be done, and she would be alone again. He was the reason Pa was dead! When he left, things would be closer to normal. She would be glad when he was off her farm and out of her sight!
That didn’t explain the stab of panic when she watched him drive her crude little cross into the fresh earth and, retrieving his hat and coat as well as the shovels, start toward the house. She didn’t think he so much as glanced in her direction but left the tools beside the barn and walked slowly to the well. He splashed water over his face and neck, revealing his fatigue as he leaned against the low rock wall.
Cally’s own stomach rumbled, and she glanced at the sun, now directly overhead. He could ride that horse into town and have a fancy meal at a restaurant, she told herself. And I can eat alone.
“I’ll be on my way, Miss DuBois.”
She had watched him walk toward her so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized he watched her, too. She simply nodded, letting the chair rock gently.
He took a deep breath. “Miss, I hate to leave you out here alone. Won’t you come into town with me? I could help you find someplace….”
“No!” She cut him off. “I have a place. Right here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood quietly for a long moment as they watched each other.
He started to turn away.
“Do you—?” Cally stopped herself too late. She had caught his attention. She swallowed. “Do you want something to eat?” There. She had said it. Now what was she going to do?
“I need to get back into town. But thanks just the same.”
He strode toward his horse, placing his hat on his head as he went. He tied the coat behind the saddle and sprang aboard. In a moment he was out of the yard.
How could he dare turn down her offer of a meal! Who did he think he was? Too good to eat with her? She was the best cook in the county. Everybody said so. Didn’t folks always snap up her pies and breads when she brought them to town?
“He better not ever show his face around here again,” she told Royal. Feeling indignant was much more comfortable than feeling grateful. With renewed energy, she got up to fix herself some lunch.
Andrew rode into the barnyard of his rented house feeling nearly overwhelmed with pity for little Calloway DuBois. He had tortured himself all the way home wondering if perhaps he should have accepted her invitation to dinner. God knew he was hungry enough, but at the time he had thought he was saving the poor girl the trouble of cooking for someone after the ordeal of the funeral.
For nearly anyone else, the neighbors would have come with food enough to fill her larder for days. But few neighbors knew Cally or her father, and most that did weren’t fond of them, especially since the trial. And, of course, this wasn’t a publicized funeral.
So he had turned her down. Now he wondered if eating with her wouldn’t have given him an opportunity to convince her to come with him to town. Clearly she couldn’t stay on the farm by herself.
He led his horse to the barn and rubbed her down before turning her into the corral. He flexed his sore shoulders as he walked to the house. After some food and a hot bath, he would make inquiries about a position for Miss Cally DuBois. There must be employment for her somewhere, but if not, he would see to her needs while he continued looking for a job.
Or a husband. That, he admitted, would be the most thorough solution. By the time he had cleaned up and dressed in a fresh white shirt and twill trousers, he had virtually dismissed the idea. Considering the girl’s disposition, finding a husband might prove impossible, even though men far outnumbered women in the community. For a moment he considered the man who would welcome the little hellion as a bride, and shuddered. She would need considerable training if she were to snare a man this side of a barbarian.
And training, of course, was another matter. How far, exactly, did his guardianship responsibilities go? Should he use some of his inheritance to send her to a school somewhere? The idea of Cally DuBois in a finishing school stretched the imagination.
By the time he left the house, he had a mental list of people to visit, but his first stop was Bill’s house. The deputy answered his knock, looking somewhat haggard. “I wanted to let you know I was back in town,” Andrew said, eyeing his deputy critically. “You aren’t coming down with something now, are you?”
Bill sighed, running his hand through his already rumpled blond hair. “No, and I think she’s a little better than she was this morning.”
Andrew couldn’t suppress a grin. “You look awful, friend.”
Bill stepped out onto the porch, letting the door close behind him. “Just between you and me, looking after a sick wife is hell. I could chase a bandit clean to Mexico and not be so worn out. She keeps thinking of housework that needs to be done or she says it’ll keep her awake.”
“You made your…”
“Don’t say it! Look, Andrew, three more days, tops. If she isn’t better I’ll see if some of her women friends can’t take turns sitting with her. I’ve got to get out of this house.”
Andrew gave his deputy a reassuring thump on the shoulder before he stepped off the porch. It was hard to build up much sympathy for the man. But then, he reminded himself, he wasn’t really in a position to understand.
He tore his note from the nail beside his office door and started toward Dr. Briggs’s house. A few steps down the boardwalk, he heard someone hail him and turned to see an elderly gent hurrying toward him.
“Mr. Sweeney,” Andrew said as the man huffed up to him. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” Sweeney said, reaching out to Andrew to steady himself while he struggled for breath. “I just…wanted to…catch you.”
Andrew supported the old man as best he could and looked around for a place for him to sit. “Are you all right?”
With one last deep breath, Sweeney straightened. “Fine, fine. Can we go inside?”
“Of course.” Andrew unlocked the door and motioned Sweeney in ahead of him. When the door was closed and the lamp on his desk lit, Andrew moved his chair near the one the old man had taken and sat. When he was sure Sweeney was recovered he asked, “What can I do for you?”
Sweeney smiled. “Why, I’m here about the deputy’s job, of course.”
Andrew hoped his jaw hadn’t actually hit his chest. “Mr. Sweeney,” he began, searching for the most diplomatic words, “I was thinking of someone more…vigorous.”
“Vigorous?”
“Well, sir, a deputy’s job could get somewhat… strenuous.”
Sweeney scowled at Andrew. “You saying I’m old?”
“Ah, no, sir, but—”
“Well, see here, young man, don’t dismiss me because I’ve lived a few years. I could teach you a thing or two.”
“I’m sure you could, sir, but—”
“Well, that’s better. I was thinking I could start tomorrow. No sense wasting any time.”
Andrew cleared his throat. “Mr. Sweeney…” He hesitated. How should he put this? He tried to be gentle. “I don’t believe I can hire you as deputy.”
Mr. Sweeney seemed completely surprised. “Why ever not? You just admitted I know more than you do.”
“Yes, sir, but…you’re not…I mean…you’re—” Mr. Sweeney wasn’t taking the hint. “Old,” he finished.
Mr. Sweeney came to his feet. “I don’t think I’d care to work for someone who has no respect for his elders.”
Andrew rose and followed the old man out the door. “Sir, I don’t want you to take this personally.”
“No other way to take it, boy,” Sweeney said, stalking away.
Andrew pulled the office door closed. He stood for a moment looking after the would-be deputy. The old man barely made it off the boardwalk without stumbling. Unfortunately, he had been one of the better applicants.
Andrew shook his head and turned in the other direction, toward Dr. Briggs’s house. His run for the doctor the night before was fresh in his mind. He had been hesitant for a second about leaving DuBois alone but knew he could do nothing for him. By the time he and the doctor had returned, the old man was nearly gone.
Dr. Briggs answered the knock. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”
Andrew stepped inside and considered for a moment how best to approach the subject. He couldn’t very well demand that Briggs tell him exactly what he had said to Cally. “I have a few questions about Mr. DuBois’ death,” he said.
The doctor offered him a chair and once they were seated, Andrew continued. “You suggested last night that it was his heart. Is that still your assumption?”
The doctor nodded. “Maybe.” Dr. Briggs was a tall, thin, middle-aged man, friendly and usually straightforward.
“Maybe?” Andrew prompted.
“Well—” the doctor shifted in his seat “—the man was a drunkard. All that time since his arrest without a drink was giving him the shakes. The one drink he had that night might have been what stopped his heart.”
Andrew grew very still. “You mean the drink I gave him killed him?”
“It’s possible.”
Dr. Briggs did not seem to realize how horrifying this news was to Andrew. “You didn’t mention this last night,” he said.
“Things got a little hectic last night.” The doctor seemed to finally notice Andrew’s expression. “Look, Sheriff, it’s just a theory. Even if it’s true, no one could think it was anything but an accident. Besides, the man was going to hang in a few days.”
Andrew nodded and rose to go. Sure, it was a minor detail. It wouldn’t matter to anyone—but him and Cally.
He thanked the doctor and headed back downtown, hoping his visit with the attorney would be more rewarding. He climbed the stairs to Mr. Cobb’s office and, after waiting a few minutes, was ushered into the inner office.
Cobb stood and shook his hand motioning him to a seat. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“I need some advice,” Andrew said as he was seated.
Cobb smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“A dying man asked me to look after his daughter,” Andrew said. “What are my legal obligations?”
Cobb stared at him a moment, and Andrew wondered if this sounded foolish to the attorney. Finally Cob asked, “Were there witnesses?”
“No.” Andrew shifted forward in the seat. “I’m not trying to get out of this. I want to do right by her.”
A feral smile slowly formed on Cobb’s lips. “The DuBois girl, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s a little land involved, if my memory serves. As her legal guardian you would control that.”
Andrew was too surprised to object.
Cobb pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and began making notes. “Is there family likely to come forward and challenge your right of guardianship?”
