by Anne Avery
The sheriff looked like he’d have welcomed a noose around his neck before this kind of confrontation.
“I didn’t know about Drury’s until it was too late,” he said weakly.
Molly wrenched her horrified gaze from him back to her son. “Who’s Frank?”
“Frank Caldwell. He sweeps out Drury’s most every afternoon. Like Tom does Jackson’s. But there was this baseball game, see, an’ Frank—”
“Mr. Drury didn’t hire you?”
Dickie shook his head. “I didn’t see him. Only Frank.”
“I see,” said Molly weakly. Her son. Her eight-year-old Dickie, sweeping out a saloon. That Mr. Drury hadn’t been party to it didn’t help matters much. Already, she could hear Emmy Lou’s acid comments on the shameful way some parents neglected their children.
The eager light went out of Dickie’s eyes. He looked up at her anxiously.
“I didn’t think you’d mind. It was just cleanin’ up. There weren’t any customers or anything. I was just sweepin’ floors, like in the jail.”
“But it’s a saloon,” said Bonnie waspishly. “You know we’re not supposed to be around any of those.”
“We’re not supposed to hang around the jail, either,” her brother shot back, “but Mother’s letting me work there.”
The sheriff winced.
Molly’s stomach churned. Had she been wrong in letting Dickie sweep out the jail? Worse, had she let him do it because she wanted an excuse to see more of DeWitt Gavin?
She held up her hands for quiet. Right now, what was needed was a little parental authority. She’d worry about her own guilt later.
“All right, all right. There’s no need to quarrel.” She frowned at her daughter. “Bonnie, this is none of your business.”
Bonnie glared, but resentfully subsided.
“And you,” Molly added, pinning her son with another hard stare, “go get cleaned up for supper. We’ll talk about this later.”
Dickie dejectedly shoved his precious coins back in his pocket. “Yes’m.”
Head hanging, he trailed out of the room.
“He didn’t get into any trouble, Mrs. Calhan,” the sheriff earnestly assured her. “And the saloon was closed. I—”
“Let’s go into the parlor, Sheriff Gavin, shall we?” Molly deliberately didn’t look at him or her daughter. “We can discuss it there.”
It wasn’t a big parlor, but it seemed a whole lot smaller with DeWitt Gavin filling it up. Or maybe she was just more aware of him than she was of most visitors.
Pushing aside that troubling thought, Molly gestured to the armchair that had been her husband’s favorite. “Please, sit down.”
He sat. Gingerly. Even when the chair showed no sign of giving way under him, he didn’t relax. Instead he leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, fingers wrapped around the brim of his high-crowned Stetson.
“I’m sorry about Drury’s,” he said. “I found the boy coming out of the place a quarter of an hour ago when Drury was opening up for business. He was so excited about earning that extra dime, he couldn’t wait to tell me all about it.
“He was strutting a little and checking his pocket every minute or two just to be sure the money was still there. He’d got a big boy’s job all by himself and he was just proud to busting about it.” His mouth softened into the beginnings of a smile. “I swear he didn’t stop talking about it until we walked in the door here.”
Molly flinched. DeWitt Gavin understood Dickie’s feelings with the instinctive sympathy of a man who liked children and hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to be a child. It wasn’t an insight she wanted to deal with right now.
She sighed, suddenly tired and more than a little confused. Her children came first. She couldn’t go mooning around after a man she scarcely knew, no matter how tempting it might be.
He took her sigh for disapproval. The smile vanished. “I truly am sorry, ma’am. If I’d known—”
“I’m not blaming you, Sheriff. If anyone’s to blame, it is I. I shouldn’t have let him take the job with you in the first place.”
The big hands stilled. “Because it’s the jail? Or because it’s…me.”
“Because he’s only eight years old. If he’d been twelve or thirteen…” Her voice trailed off.
Eight years. Her baby was eight years old, yet he’d been without a father for half his life. And when he was twelve…
“He’s only eight,” she said again, firmly cutting off that train of thought. “Too young to be working, and certainly too young to be working in a jail. I should have thought of that right from the start.”
The sheriff’s gaze dropped. His eyes narrowed as if he were displeased with the roses and ivy leaves trailing through the carpet. “He did a good job. As good as a boy twice his age would do.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t like—”
“He was proud of what he accomplished.”
“Well, yes, but—” The words died under his suddenly fierce gaze.
He straightened in the chair, squared his broad shoulders. “If you have a problem with me, Mrs. Calhan, say so. You didn’t seem to yesterday.”
“It’s not—I don’t—” She stopped, dragged in air. The stricken look on her son’s face when he’d been met with disapproval rather than the cheers he’d expected was painfully clear in memory.
“I’m sorry. It’s just…hard, sometimes. His father’s dead and I worry. Maybe more than I should, but I do. I can’t help it.”
The instant the words were out, she wished she hadn’t said them. Too late to call them back now.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to inflict my worries on you.”
Somehow, the hard lines of his face and jaw didn’t look quite as hard as they had a moment ago.
“A woman alone, with children to raise,” he said softly after a moment, “it’d be hard not to worry.”
“Yes.” The single word was scarcely a whisper.
She’d heard the same thing from so many sides, yet always before she’d thought she heard disapproval in the words, as if there were something wrong in her not remarrying when she had two children to provide for. There was none of that in his voice, though, just understanding and an unexpected sympathy that carried no hint of pity.
“Well,” she said because she desperately needed to regain her balance and couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Thank you for bringing him home.”
She ought to stand, offer her hand, show him to the door. Instead, she simply sat there staring at him, unable to move.
This time, he didn’t look away. “If you don’t want him coming by the jail, I’ll understand.”
“But I want to work. I did a good job!” They both jumped, twisted to see Dickie standing in the doorway, his face drawn tight with dismay.
“You said I could clean the jail. You said I could!”
“I—”
“Dickie—”
“No!” His mouth set in an unyielding line. “I did the work. The job’s mine!”
Startled by her son’s unexpected defiance, Molly glanced at the man who was at the center of it. The sheriff was struggling to keep his expression impassive, but the glint of laughter in his eyes was almost as unsettling as Dickie’s independence. His left eyebrow slid upward half a notch, just enough to let her know that he was waiting to hear how she was going to handle this rebellion in the ranks.
She’d never realized a slight lift of an eyebrow could be so…appealing. Or so dangerous. It made her feel like a conspirator, as if they shared secrets between them.
Just the thought unsettled her. The last thing she needed was to feel this close to a man she scarcely knew.
With an effort, she focused on her rebellious son. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow, all right?”
His jaw hardened. “It’s my job.” He swung to the sheriff for support. “Right? You said it was my job.”
“Only so long as your mother approves. And your mother doesn’t much approv
e of your having swept out Drury’s.”
The calm, deep voice shattered the rebellion more effectively than either logic or stern parental warnings would have. Dickie’s shoulders sagged. His mouth curved downward as his lower lip pooched out.
“And men take the orders like a man,” the sheriff added.
Like a well-drilled Marine, Dickie snapped to attention.
“The biscuits are burning!” Bonnie announced from the kitchen.
“Oh, dear!” Abandoning all dignity, Molly raced to the kitchen.
“The roast’s getting real dry, too,” her daughter added with satisfaction, stepping back from the stove.
The biscuits weren’t burned—Bonnie had taken them out of the oven before it had gone that far—but they were browner on the top than they should have been. The roast had survived, but the peas had turned into mush and the potatoes would have to be mashed since they were more than halfway there already.
Molly sighed, then moved the sheet of biscuits farther from the heat of the stove. The sound of a man’s footsteps made her spin around.
“I’d best be getting,” said the sheriff. He shifted the hat in his hands, his expression carefully neutral.
Bonnie looked relieved. Dickie, who had slipped into the kitchen behind the sheriff, looked anything but.
“He can stay for dinner, Mother, can’t he?” he said, looking from her to the sheriff and back again.
Molly frowned. The last thing she needed was to see DeWitt Gavin sitting across her kitchen table.
To her relief, he shook his head. “Got to go. Didn’t mean to barge in on—”
“But there’s plenty of food, sir. Isn’t there? There’s always plenty of food.”
The eagerness in her son’s voice stabbed Molly’s heart. Dickie missed his father—she was only beginning to realize how much—but that didn’t mean she wanted DeWitt Gavin at her kitchen table in his place.
“Please stay.” The words were out before she could stop them. “There’s plenty of food. More than enough for four.”
He hesitated. She could see his fingers tighten around the brim of the hat he held in front of him like a shield.
“Yes, please!” Dickie insisted.
The sheriff glanced at Dickie and Bonnie, at the table set for three with an empty place where a fourth should have been. Then he looked at her, a long, clear-eyed look that made her throat tighten and her palms feel damp.
“I’d like that,” he said at last. “Thank you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he stretched out his hand and neatly hung his hat on the peg where Richard had once hung his.
Maybe the shoe-leather steak and overcooked beans that had been his lot for the past few days would have been a better idea, after all.
Witt stood on the back steps of Molly Calhan’s house, a small, towel-wrapped plate of apple pie in his hands, and wondered if he’d left his good sense behind the day he’d first walked into Calhan’s General Store.
Not that the dinner hadn’t been fine. It had, in fact, been the best meal he’d had in ages, and that included the fancy dinner the town council had sprung. He’d had three servings of roast beef and mashed potatoes and made a damned pig of himself over the biscuits and strawberry jam. Only guilt and the pressure on his belt buckle had stopped him from eating more.
He’d hated to leave, but the last thing he’d wanted was to overstay his welcome. After so many years of boardinghouse meals and the often crude talk of hungry men who belched and scratched and cussed as if their mamas had never taught them better, Mrs. Calhan’s tidy little kitchen and simple, tasty fare had been a gift from heaven. He’d almost forgotten how good a meal could be when there wasn’t any rough conversation or the smell of unwashed male bodies to flavor it.
He’d even enjoyed the occasional bickering between Miss Bonnie and her little brother. It was, he thought, one of the essential ingredients for a family meal, like salt on meat or vinegar on greens. You couldn’t have one without the other.
Mrs. Calhan hadn’t said much except, “More jam, Sheriff Gavin?” or “Please pass the butter,” or “No elbows on the table, Dickie.” That hadn’t bothered him, either. He hadn’t managed much more than, “Thanks,” or “Yes, please,” when she’d asked if he wanted more biscuits. Too busy eating, for one thing. Too worried he’d say something he shouldn’t, for another.
Too busy trying not to stare. He had a stomach-twisting feeling his dreams were going to be haunted by visions of a woman’s face aglow in the lamplight for some time to come.
She’d looked so pretty sitting there, poised and soft-voiced with that delicate bit of lace at her collar contrasting so temptingly with the practical navy dress.
The faint shadows under her eyes had made him angry, made him wish there were something he could do to help. She worked too hard, a woman alone with children to raise and a store to run and a house to keep up. It couldn’t be easy, but she was the type who never complained, just squared her shoulders and worked a little harder and a little longer because there was no one else to do it for her.
It wasn’t right she should have to work so hard…and it also wasn’t his business. He’d do well to remember that.
Which would be a whole lot easier, he thought, descending the step with the precious plate of pie firmly clutched in his hands, if he didn’t think about chocolate creams and kisses every time he looked at her.
Molly hovered beside the kitchen window, listening to DeWitt Gavin’s footsteps fading into the night.
Why had he lingered? He’d seemed in such a hurry to leave, then he’d just stood on her back steps, going nowhere. What had he been thinking?
She tugged at her collar, nervously smoothed her skirt. She’d probably looked a fright when he’d first walked in, cross and flushed from the heat of the stove, then gaping like an idiot at her bedraggled son.
Thank heavens he was a tolerant man. Bonnie’s and Dickie’s bickering must have driven him up a wall. Single men like him weren’t used to the way brothers and sisters could snipe at each other despite their parents’ warnings.
And what had he thought of her? Had she seemed brazen or unbecomingly pushy by inviting him to supper? It didn’t matter that Dickey had broached the idea, she was the one who’d extended the invitation. A widow woman with two children—had he thought her calculating? Desperate? Determined to snag any marginally eligible bachelor who came her way?
She wasn’t any of those things, of course, but did he know that? In town scarce a week and there she was giving him chocolates and pushing her son to work for him and inviting him to dinner. There were folks around here who regularly added two and two and got five, and they’d be bound to do it here, too. Would he think they were right?
Yet she’d swear he’d enjoyed himself.
Slowly, too lost in thought to be aware of it, she leaned against the old bureau where her pots were stored. In her mind’s eye, she could still see him there at the opposite side of the table, the corner of his napkin tucked into the front of his shirt. She remembered the way he’d smiled when he’d accepted that first biscuit, the way his eyes had half closed with pleasure as he’d taken the first bite, heavy with strawberry jam. There’d been a drop of jam at the corner of his mouth as he’d chewed, and she’d found herself wondering how it would taste on his lips, and on hers.
After four years of looking at Richard’s empty chair, that unfilled place at the table, it had felt good—deep-down good—to have a man sitting across from her again. A good-looking man who liked both her cooking and her beloved children and who had a shy smile that warmed her right through to her toes.
“Mother! Dickie says he’s not going to do the dishes!”
Molly sighed, shoved upright. Her beloved children were glaring at each other like dogs circling for a fight.
“Do I have to?” Dickie demanded, looking aggrieved.
“Yes, you do. Bonnie cooked and set the table. That means you do the dishes.”
“But I wor
ked all day! I got a job now and—”
“And you still have your responsibilities here at home.” She gave her son the steely-eyed stare that said she meant business. “If you don’t think you can keep up your work here, then you’ll have to drop the outside work. Is that clear?”
“Toldja,” Bonnie jeered.
Dickie’s hands balled into instant fists. “You did not! And it’s none of your business, anyway!”
“Don’t yell at your sister. And, Bonnie, mind your own business.”
“So there!”
“Hah!”
“That’s enough!”
The resulting silence wasn’t promising. Hostility crackled in the air between them.
Molly drew in her breath, fighting for calm. “Dickie, do the dishes.”
Dickie kicked a leg of the chair nearest him, not hard enough to earn another reproof, but enough to make his sentiments clear.
“Yes’m,” he said, reluctantly picking up his plate.
“And, Bonnie,” Molly added, turning on her eldest. “If you don’t have a book to read or sewing to do, I’d be glad to find something to keep you occupied. If you’re too tired for any of that, I suggest you go to bed early so you can wake up on the right side of it tomorrow.”
Bonnie screwed her mouth shut and huffed out of the kitchen.
Dickie opened his mouth. Molly’s warning stare shut it again before a word popped out. With a sigh of much suffering, he dragged over to the sink and dumped his plate in the wash basin, then dragged back to the table.
He’d be clearing the table one fork at a time as long as she was there, so Molly left him to his sulk. She had those accounts to work over yet tonight—she’d been thinking about asking Gordon Hancock for a loan that would enable her to expand her inventory and rent the back of the shop next to her so she’d have more storage—and there was all the mending that had been piling up. If she worked late enough, she’d be too tired to lie there in the dark, thinking of her dinner guest. Maybe.
Her daughter stood in the middle of the parlor, arms crossed over her chest, her expression thunderous.