Family Lessons

by Allie Pleiter

  “Miss Sanders spoke in glowing terms of your little town and its ability to rebuild. Looking around, the place has taken a far bigger hit than I expected.”

  Sometimes that teacher’s capacity for optimism made Mason shake his head. “Times have been hard—no doubt about it—but Evans Grove has good people.”

  Brooks tucked a hand into the pocket of his fine-cut trousers. “Lost a lot of good people, too.”

  “Too many.” Far too many. The morning of the town’s Easter service Mason thought there wasn’t a dry eye from here to Newfield. He’d gone to church that morning out of respect for all the grieving. And maybe, if he was honest, on the hope of finding a little solace of his own. Reverend Turner talked in passionate tones about how “death had lost its sting,” but Mason couldn’t agree. He clung to the belief that Phoebe and her baby were in a better place, but knew he had no passage there himself.

  “It’s been my experience that times like that bring out the best in some but the worst in others.” He turned to look directly at Mason, clearly looking for information. “If there’s ‘worst,’ you’d be the one seeing it. How would you say the town is faring, Wright?”

  Mason cataloged his life as sheriff since the flood. “A few drink more than they ought to. Some punches get thrown between men balled up with worry over their homes or their lost kin.”

  “Any theft? Missing goods or...”

  Mason saw where this was heading. “Or gold?” he cut in perhaps more sharply than he ought to. “Mr. Brooks, your money is secure and will be put to good use. What you saw on the train has nothing to do with how Evans Grove shoulders its troubles. The only bandits in this town are locked up in my office.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply...”

  “Didn’t you? Miss Sanders didn’t tell tales—she’s right that this here is a fine town. That spread the whole town put on for you and the youngsters ought to have told you that. There’s nothing but good people here, people who ought to have every chance to rebuild and get on with their lives. In answer to your question, it’s done nothing but bring out the best in folks.”

  “Three children placed!” Mayor Evans fairly beamed as she walked up to them. “I don’t know when I’ve been prouder of our little town. Miss Sanders has more insight than the whole of us put together, seeing how a blessing could come out of such a tragic turn of events.” She turned to gaze upon the bustling room with an air of proud affection. “It’s a sight to see, isn’t it, Mr. Brooks?”

  To his credit, the banker looked genuinely impressed. “A fine thing, indeed.”

  “I’d like to think you know now how the good folk of Evans Grove rise to a challenge. I believe your objectivity has had value to our committee. Robert always said that sometimes a fresh eye is the sharpest of all.”

  “He was a fine man and a good mayor,” Mason added, catching the slight waver in the widow’s voice. No, sir, death still seemed to have plenty of sting left to go around.

  “That he was.” She gave a small sigh. “He would have been the first to back Miss Sanders’s idea. Robert cared a great deal about helping people in need.” She turned to look at Brooks. “His father founded this town. Did you know that, Mr. Brooks? Evans Grove was grown from the belief that good people do good business. And we do. Your bank’s funds are in capable hands.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it, but I do like to keep a close eye on things. That’s good business, too. Even your late husband would understand that.”

  “Robert believed in people. He trusted what could be accomplished with strong faith and hard work. Those aren’t always assets that show up on ledgers, but they mattered dearly to Robert.”

  “Sounds like an admirable man. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  Mayor Evans swallowed hard. “He is greatly missed. But you should know, I share Robert’s values. We can accomplish mighty things here.”

  “I look forward to watching mighty things accomplished.”

  Her look showed that she, like Mason, had noticed the telling emphasis Brooks gave to the word “watching.” She gave a leery smile. “All I want is for hard-working people to get the fresh start they deserve.” She glanced over her shoulder as Ned Minor called her name from the front of the room. “And I’d say these sweet little girls got just that. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Brooks, Sheriff?”

  The banker tipped his hat. “Good evening, ma’am.”

  Mason tipped his as well, watching her walk toward the young hotel clerk. Minor had lost his mother in the flood, and she’d extended so many kindnesses to the young man as they both grieved their losses. “She’s a strong woman, she is. I don’t know that anyone would have thought she had so much steel in her before the flood took Robert. Stepping into his shoes took no small amount of nerve.”

  Brooks looked after the woman as she talked with the lanky clerk. “Mayor Evans is certainly an astonishment, I’ll grant you that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Holly turned the corner the next morning to be greeted by an unwelcome sight: Mason Wright. She wasn’t ready for this, didn’t want the discomfort of admitting he’d been right about going back to the clearing. Her hands had stopped shaking, and she no longer saw bandits and guns when she closed her eyes.

  Mason’s piercing dark glare? Well, that was another story. That had stuck with her.

  Facing the problem head-on, Holly made herself walk over to the sheriff. “Good morning.” She forced her voice bright as sunshine, pasting a smile on her face.

  His expression remained unreadable. Was he annoyed or pleased at her effort to be cordial?

  “Morning.” He hid under his hat brim.

  “I want to...I ought to...well, thank you for yesterday.” She didn’t want to thank him at all. She’d spent over an hour in prayer asking God where to go from here, and hadn’t liked God’s request for gratitude at all. Obedience didn’t stop the words from feeling dry and hollow in her throat.

  Mason hadn’t expected thanks, that was clear. “For what?”

  Holly chose words that were furthest from his idea of what happened yesterday. “For being kind enough to force me to do what was best.”

  He nearly flinched at her use of the word “kind,” as she knew he would. She felt it a stretch of the truth herself—she still felt her gulping breaths at the railroad track as if they’d been physical blows. “I’d not call it kind,” he said. “Necessary, maybe.”

  At least he’d looked at her. Granted, it was a narrow-eyed, “what are you up to?” kind of glare, but Holly pressed on, changing the subject. “I thought the selection meeting yesterday didn’t go too badly.”

  Mason kicked a small rock out of the dirt with the toe of his boot. It struck her how much he occasionally reminded Holly of a hurt child—all prickly defiance and awkward silence. “But not as well as you’d hoped.”

  Holly had thought she’d hid her disappointment better than that. “What do you mean?”

  That brought a near smile from him. “You wanted to see every one of those youngsters placed the first time out. It bothered you that the boys and Heidi didn’t get picked up.”

  Holly started to protest, but he held up a silencing hand. “That’s okay. It bothered me, too. Hated to see them shuffle back to the schoolhouse like that when the younger girls were skipping off to new homes.”

  It had been difficult in the schoolhouse last night, that was certain. When the boys weren’t acting out to show how much they “didn’t care about some stupid home in this tiny town” as Patrick so bluntly put it, they were quiet and sullen. Heidi hadn’t said two words the whole night. Holly straightened her skirt and looked square at Mason. “The boys need something physical to do. They need to work off their anxiety. I was on my way to ask Charlie Miller but I wonder if you have any ideas.” Holly had indeed been on her way to check up on Sasha and ask Charlie, when God had seen fit to throw Mason in her path.

  “Me?” He looked as if it were the most absurd thing in the world to be asking him. “I har
dly think I should be occupying a squirmy herd like that in the sheriff’s office. Even if I thought it was a good idea to let those boys near the robbers after what they’ve been through, I expect we’d hear from Miss Ward within the hour.”

  It was the most words she’d heard Mason say to her since the railroad tracks. Besides which, he was right. “You have a point there.” She hesitated, then chose to ask the question that had nagged her since the placement meeting. “You do think they’ll be placed, don’t you? We won’t have to send them on to Greenville? I can’t bear the thought of a fine boy like Liam being passed over in one more town.”

  Mason actually managed a small smile at that idea. “He’s got backbone, I’ll give him that, but I can’t say most folks would think of him as a fine boy.” He looked at her, a long, appraising look. “You do see it, don’t you? Why they’ve come this far without being placed?”

  His tone of gentle condescension—the sort of tone she might use to explain spelling to a toddler—irked her. Did he think her some sort of fool who didn’t know how the world worked? She planted her hands on her hips and looked straight up at him. “Why don’t you explain to me how good Christian men and women could fail to see the potential in those young boys?”

  He broadened his stance. “Folks are looking for stronger stock.”

  “There is more to life than brute force, Sheriff.” It was an amusing assertion for a tiny woman to make to a large brute of a man like Mason Wright. Why was he always making her wish she was twice her size? There were times when she wanted to stand on the church steps just to be able to look down on him and give him the good scolding he deserved.

  He swept his hand toward the crop fields. “Maybe not here, not now.”

  “We can honor qualities other than strength here in Evans Grove. We are not barbarians.” She couldn’t stop herself from adding, “No matter how some of us occasionally behave.”

  The grin that stole across his face shocked her. “Leave Miss Ward out of this.”

  A good Christian woman would not have laughed. She would have scolded Mason for his terrible tongue. Still, Holly found she couldn’t. Beatrice had been such an awful old biddy at last night’s placement meeting, she might have called her a barbarian if the word had come to mind. “Mason!”

  The familiarity jumped out of her mouth, improper and unbidden. His eyes widened and Holly’s hand flew to her open mouth. She deserved every bit of the red her face must be turning. She knew nothing good could ever come of her thinking of him in such familiar terms. “Sheriff Wright,” she corrected far too late to be of any good, “I’ll thank you to mind your tongue.” It was exactly the wrong thing to say, for shouldn’t she have minded her own tongue far better than she just had?

  A dreadful gap of awkward silence stretched between them. Holly couldn’t think of what to say, and the sheriff couldn’t seem to find a safe place to look. While the distance between them had always frustrated Holly, now its loss seemed to open the way for a disconcerting friction. He knew she thought of him as “Mason.” Oh, how that made her feel small and foolish. She felt a child’s urge to turn and run, hating how she’d lost control of the situation—if she’d ever had it to start.

  Mason coughed and settled his hat farther down, hiding deeper under the brim. Holly wanted desperately to be able to judge his reaction to her slip, but he’d stepped and turned slightly, as if to dodge the whole thing. Why must there be so much pretense between them?

  Holly smoothed her skirt, which was no less a blatant avoidance than his hat, now nearly meeting his eyelids. She forced a formal tone into her voice, but it came out more of a squeak. “I remain confident the boys will find homes here.”

  “Sure.” Holly’s only consolation came from the fact that Mason was even worse at hiding his discomfort than she. Which raised the question: was he charmed by the admission, or repulsed by it? He hadn’t turned tail and run, but Mason Wright didn’t seem the sort to back down to anyone, much less a ridiculous tiny church mouse like Holly.

  An uncomfortable pause hung between them. “Any news regarding the robbers?” They’d already discussed this, but she was willing to revisit the subject as a change of conversation.

  Mason leaped upon the topic. “Nothing you haven’t heard.” He straightened and fingered the lapel on his vest that bore the tin star of his office. “Things mostly depend on how fast I can send them on.”

  “To Greenville?” Holly practically exhaled at the safer topic—and how awful that the topic of murderous bandits was safer territory than her telling slip.

  Mason pivoted back to face her, his shoulders relaxing just a bit. He cast his eyes back down the street toward the jail. “I want them out of here. Our jail is not really built to hold four men, and I want the leader to stand before the county judge for murder. If I have my way, those thieves will be on tomorrow’s train for Greenville.”

  A murder trial? She’d tried not to think of that. Holly still had a hard time swallowing the fact that she’d watched a murder take place. Even worse, poor little orphans like Sasha and Galina had been witness to such a cold-blooded crime. The realization brought a chilling thought she’d forgotten to ask him earlier. “Will Rebecca or I need to go before the judge? Give a statement or some such thing?”

  “No. No need for anything like that here.” There was a flash of warmth in his eyes, a startling counterpoint to the edge she usually found there. “I’d never put you through that.”

  Holly didn’t know what to say other than a meek “Thank you.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d dreaded the prospect of testifying until Mason removed it from her shoulders. More astounding, he’d given thought to protecting her. He’d worried about keeping her from further distress. She was right in her persistent belief that his harshness wasn’t all there was to the man; he was capable of caring. He’d cared deeply about his late wife. Did she dare to think that could mean he could care again? If he healed? She knew she wore her heart on her sleeve, but his was hidden behind a lifetime of scars.

  Mason coughed. “What I mean is...I have plenty of witnesses to call on before I’d put you or Miss Sterling through anything like that.”

  “Yes,” she sputtered, still flustered, no longer capable of dismissing the glimpse of Mason’s true spirit she’d seen. “I’d just as soon put all that behind me.”

  Holly suddenly understood his impulses even better that she had before. He was throwing up every wall he could think of in order to keep her out—only she’d already seen what was on the other side.

  Knowing that, Holly found she could actually look him in the eye. They were too much alike, each covering admissions neither planned to make. “I’ll pray for justice to be done.”

  He wasn’t dismissive of her Godly comment, but he didn’t embrace it, either. “Well now, you go ahead and do that.”

  She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Mason in church—and most of those had been funerals. He’d made it clear yesterday that he thought himself beyond redemption.

  “I will, indeed. Do you believe in God’s mercy, Sheriff? Even for weak boys and barbarian spinsters?” And for men who can’t bring themselves to ask for the forgiveness they deserve, she added silently.

  “I know Miss Ward believes she has no call for mercy, as she’s certain God admires her very much indeed. Except I do find myself hoping He doesn’t take a shine to my roof the way he did to Beatrice’s.”

  How cleverly he avoided her question. “He seems to have let your roof be. But what about you? A man who runs headlong into gunfire must give thought to his soul now and then.”

  Her question drew his eyebrows together in an irked scowl. “Have you been scheming with Reverend Turner behind my back?”

  “Why?” Was something indeed pricking the soul of the good sheriff?

  “He asked me much the same question.”

  She’d thought God’s insistence that she reach out to Mason today to be just for benefit of her conscience—a command
to clear the air. Maybe there was more to it. “What answer did you give him?”

  He examined a scar on his thumb, still scowling. “I told him I kept to my business and let the Good Lord get on with His.”

  Holly smiled, rather sure of the answer Reverend Turner would give to a dodge like that. “And I suspect the Reverend told you each of us is God’s business?”

  Rolling his eyes, Mason tipped his hat back. She was glad to see him come out from under the shadow of his hat brim. “As a matter of fact, that’s pretty much it word for word. Do you all rehearse?”

  “Not at all.” Holly folded her hands calmly in front of her, the jitters of their earlier exchange replaced by strong certainty that this was a talk she and the sheriff had needed to have. If it took a bit of embarrassment to get to this conversation, then so be it. “But we do all read the same book.” She turned toward Charlie Miller’s smithy shop. “God bless you, Sheriff Mason Wright. You and your roof.”

  * * *

  “My leg’s on fire,” the lead bandit moaned for the fourth time.

  “I called Doc Simpson and he’ll tend to you when he can.” Mason looked up from the wanted list the county sent over earlier this week. The man’s face, while sweaty with fever, matched the crude drawing. It hadn’t taken long to confirm Mason’s suspicion that at least two of these rascals—if not all four—were wanted men. Mr. Arlington hadn’t been their first murder. If the one wouldn’t hang for Arlington’s murder alone, it seemed more than one of them would be swinging for the collection of crimes he saw on the county list. No mercy for these evil men.

  Mercy. The word brought Holly Sanders’s face to mind. For a handful of seconds, he allowed himself the indulgence of the teacher’s own slip: Holly. How much richer and easier it rolled around his mind than the formal “Miss Sanders.” Holly. He’d always felt like “Miss Sanders” had too many s’s anyway.

  She’d called him Mason. Worse yet, she’d called him Mason in an unguarded moment, which meant she thought of him as Mason. That took his thoughts to all kinds of dangerous places. She was always careful to call him “Sheriff Wright” or just Sheriff—and he knew why. It was the exact reason he forced himself to think of her and address her as Miss Sanders, even when not in her presence. He needed that distance, relied on that formality.