by Anne Avery
“You shouldn’t have invited him to dinner.”
And how, Molly wondered, did a mother handle this?
“We’ve had guests to dinner before,” she said mildly. “Including gentleman guests.”
“Reverend James, who’s old,” her daughter grumbled in disgust. “And Mr. Fenwick, who’s even older, and only because Mrs. Fenwick was off visiting her sister and all the ladies were taking turns feeding him. Mrs. Trainer would never say anything about them.”
All true, and Molly knew it. She reached to brush back a stray curl that had worked its way loose from Bonnie’s pigtails.
“Yes, dear, but—”
Bonnie jerked away. “Now those old biddies are really going to be talking about you and the sheriff, and there won’t be anything you can say, will there?”
Before Molly could think of a reply, her daughter had darted out of the parlor and thundered up the stairs to her small room under the eaves.
Chapter Eight
Two days later Witt still had Molly Calhan’s plate and the memory of the cinnamony-rich pie it had held. He’d washed the plate and folded the towel, but hadn’t worked up the courage to return either. He hadn’t been able to do anything about the memories.
He’d been right to be nervous. She had haunted his dreams. Continued to haunt them, in fact, and he didn’t even have to be asleep for her to do it. He didn’t dare risk making things worse by seeing her again.
The plate and towel would go home today, however, because Wednesdays were one of Dickie Calhan’s sweeping-up days. Let Dickie take them, he’d told himself. He was busy and so was Mrs. Calhan. She wouldn’t miss the things in the meantime.
Still, he’d felt guilty about not going back to thank her for the hospitality. His mama had brought him up better than that.
On the other hand, she hadn’t raised a fool, and only a fool would court temptation. Which was why Dickie Calhan didn’t get more than three feet inside the jail’s front door before Witt had shoved the plate and towel, into his hands and was pointing him back in the other direction.
“You take that plate right back to your mother and tell her I’m grateful. Never had a better bite of pie in my life, and that’s a fact.”
“I can take it when I’m done here,” Dickie protested, puzzled.
“Take it now.” Witt swung the door open wide.
“But—”
“Now,” said Witt, and shoved him out onto the boardwalk.
He waited until the boy passed by the window, then sagged against the door frame, limp with relief at having cleared his conscience so easily. Now maybe he could start forgetting Mrs. Calhan and start thinking about his job.
He turned back to the paperwork littering his desk, and wondered if she was wearing lace at her throat this morning.
It was just her imagination that she could feel the warmth where DeWitt Gavin’s hands had touched, Molly told herself, clutching the plate and towel her son had just returned.
A dozen times over the past two days she’d thought about fetching the things herself, but each time she’d managed to talk herself out of it. She didn’t need the plate or the towel. He’d remember eventually. It would be rude to ask and he might wonder if she were pursuing him if she did. Besides, she had too many other things to do to worry about one little plate and an old tea towel right now.
The longer she’d waited, however, the weaker the arguments had sounded until she’d just about worked up the courage to get them herself when Dickie had waltzed in the door and her best excuse to visit DeWitt Gavin had flown out the door he’d left open behind him.
Now that she had the plate, however, an irritation as unreasonable as it was intense grabbed hold of her. He couldn’t be bothered to bring the things himself? The man eats her dinner and her pie, then doesn’t even bother to drop by afterward to say thank you or how’s the weather? She hoped he didn’t expect her to feed him again, because his first dinner at her house was definitely his last!
Yet even as she fumed, she couldn’t help thinking that he’d probably like her fried chicken even more than her roast beef. And everybody said she made the best cakes in town. She could do a devil’s food, maybe. One with lots of buttery frosting and—
She set the plate down on the counter and forced a smile for her son’s benefit.
“You tell Sheriff Gavin I’m glad he enjoyed the pie, and he’s welcome to more any time he wants. And here!” she added on impulse, snatching a fat little paper-wrapped packet of candies out of a basket heaped with similar packets. “Take him this bag of sour balls. They’ll be a nice change from those peppermint drops he bought before.”
Dickie shrugged and pocketed the candies.
As she watched him walk past the front windows, she wondered if she should have sent chocolates, instead.
“Well, that’s mighty nice of your mama, but she’s been way too generous already” said Witt, dismayed. At this rate, there wouldn’t be anything left that didn’t remind him of her, and then what would he do?
He pulled a coin out of his pocket. “Here. Why don’t you just take her this dime and say I’m much obliged?”
Dickie eyed the coin doubtfully. “She didn’t say nuthin’ about payin’ her.”
“That’s all right. I don’t want to trespass on her generosity. You just take the money.”
“I can do it soon as I finish swee—”
“Now,” said Witt, and shoved him back out the door.
“I didn’t ask to be paid,” Molly said, frowning at the coin her son had plunked down on the counter.
“I told him that,” Dickie explained, “but he said he didn’t want your generosity and—”
Her nostrils flared. “Oh he did, did he?”
Dickie eyed her warily.
“Well, if this is the way he repays it, I wonder anybody bothers to be kind to the man. You just take that coin right back and tell him I don’t want it. If my kindness isn’t enough…!”
“She doesn’t want your money,” said Dickie, holding out the dime.
“No?” said Witt. He was starting to get a bad feeling about this.
“Said it wasn’t enough.” Dickie tossed the coin down, then edged away. “I’ll just start sweeping now and—”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Witt grabbed his sleeve before he could escape. “You just go right back to your ma and—”
“Do I gotta?”
“Yes, you gotta.” No way he was going to confront her! The expression on the boy’s face told him all he wanted to know about Molly Calhan’s mood.
He dug in his pocket and pulled out another coin. “You give her this two-bit piece and tell her I’d be much obliged if she’d just take whatever it is I owe her out of it. You can keep the change for your trouble.”
Dickie just stared at the coin. “What if she won’t take it?”
“That bag of sour balls doesn’t cost two bits,” Witt said grimly. “She’ll take it.”
Maybe.
Next time somebody sent him home with pie, he was by God getting up at dawn to get the damned plate back to them!
“He sent more money?”
Molly glared at the coin her son had tossed on the counter. She was tempted to throw it out the door. Didn’t want her generosity, huh? Thought a few coins were enough to settle matters without one word of thanks for her kindness?
If it hadn’t involved confronting the arrogant so-and-so, she’d march over to that jail right now, store or no store, and give him a piece of her mind. A large, sharp-edged piece of her mind.
Fortunately, she was a lady and above that sort of behavior.
She picked up the coin between the tips of her thumb and forefinger and handed it back to her son.
“You take this back there and you tell that man I don’t want any of his filthy lucre, ever, and I’d be much obliged if he never darkened my doorway again. Understand?”
Dickie nodded miserably.
At the sight of Dickie Calhan reluctantly dragging through his doorway, Wi
tt’s heart sank.
“Your ma’s a bit peeved at me, is she?”
Dickie nodded and held out the coin. His eyes looked haunted.
Witt grimaced. The proper thing to do would be to apologize in person, but he’d rather face a dozen Crazy Mikes, roaring drunk, than one strong-minded lady on her high horse.
Next time he wouldn’t take a plate, regardless. To hell with returning it promptly.
“What’d she say?”
Dickie ducked his head and muttered something incomprehensible.
“What? Come on, tell me straight out like a man. What’d your mama say?”
“She said your money was filthy.”
“What?” Witt shot out of his chair. “She said my money’s filthy?”
The boy nodded miserably.
Well, hell! He didn’t get mad very often, but this, by God, was beginning to get his dander up.
This time when he dug into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of coins, stirred through them for a minute, then selected the shiniest one.
“Here. You take this back to your mama and you tell her I’d gladly polish it for her if that’s what she wants except I’m a tad short on polish. Got that?”
He’d seen men going to their own hanging who looked happier than Dickie.
Halfway between the jail and the store, Dickie rebelled.
Grown-ups! he thought, disgusted. At their best, they were usually unreasonable. Times like this, they were just plain impossible. Worse than impossible—they were downright stupid. And here he was, a kid caught in the middle of it.
Deadwood Dick wouldn’t have put up with it for a minute. Even Frank Meriwell, who was so good that he got a tad annoying at times, wouldn’t have put up with it. And if Dick and Frank wouldn’t put up with it, then he didn’t see any reason why he should, either.
Muttering words his mother would have washed his mouth out for using, he plopped down at the edge of the boardwalk and glared at the bald-faced roan tied to the hitching post. The roan blinked lazily back.
It didn’t make any sense. His mama was mad at the sheriff for no good reason he could see, and the sheriff was mad right back at her, and here he was, smack in the middle with both of them shouting at him and telling him what to do. And all for nothing but a silly plate.
Or maybe, Dickie thought, frowning, maybe it wasn’t the plate at all. Maybe it was something he’d done that had gotten them sniping at each other. But what? He hadn’t done anything he wasn’t supposed to lately. Not since he’d swept out Drury’s on Monday, anyway, and he’d done that only because he’d wanted the dime and there hadn’t seemed to be much difference between sweeping out the jail and sweeping out a saloon. Or sweeping out his mama’s kitchen, for that matter.
Any other time, he’d ask Bonnie about it, but she was still mad about him getting the job when she didn’t so she wouldn’t explain anything, even if she knew. Tom Seiffert would have figured it out—Tom knew practically everything there was to know about anything—but Jackson’s had been declared off-limits along with Drury’s and a whole list of other places, so that wouldn’t work. Which left…what?
Frustrated, he glared at the roan, which sighed, shut its eyes, and went to sleep.
Ah, to heck with it. If he kept his mouth shut, the sheriff’d probably think he’d delivered the money. His mother would never know, one way or the other.
Dickie squeezed the quarter in his hand. The sheriff had said he could keep the change, but if he never—
His head came up, his attention caught by two men who were sauntering down the other side of the street. He almost stopped breathing.
It was them. He was sure of it.
He watched as they paused at the end of the block where they’d have a good view of the bank. For a minute they just stood there, casually looking around as if taking in the sights, then one—a tall, scrawny guy with a walrus mustache—gave a little jerk of his head in the direction of the alley that led behind the bank. The second fellow, shorter and more solidly built than his companion, nodded and stepped off the walk. A moment later the two had slunk out of sight down the alley.
Eyes popping with excitement, Dickie shot to his feet, startling the roan into snorting, head-tossing alertness. Once the sheriff saw those guys, he’d know he’d been telling the truth about bank robbers.
Already he could see himself, perched on those boxes at the back of Dincler’s Barbershop, regaling the gathered crowd with the tale of how, single-handedly, he’d helped the sheriff bring down two terrible desperadoes.
He hoped they had guns. It’d be a whole lot better tale if there was a shoot-out in it.
Chapter Nine
Dickie Calhan burst into the jail like a tornado on the rampage.
“They’re here! They’re here! You gotta come see!” Panting and wide-eyed with excitement, the boy grabbed Witt’s sleeve and tried to pull him out of his chair.
Startled, Witt tugged free, then clamped his hands on the boy’s shoulders, pinning him in place. “Who’s here? What do you want me to see?”
“The bank robbers!”
“There are no bank robbers. I checked, remember? No one’s seen any would-be bank robbers except you.”
“Yeah, but I seen ’em!” Dickie insisted, squirming to get free. “They’re walkin’ up the alley behind the bank right now. Come on! You can catch ’em if you hurry!”
Witt shut his eyes in a silent prayer. First the mother, now the son. All it needed was for Miss Bonnie to whirl in here for his day to be ruined completely.
His grip on the boy’s shoulders tightened. “Son, there are no bank robbers,” he said, clearly enunciating each word so there’d be no mistake. “Just because a man looks like he could be a bank robber doesn’t mean he is one. And until he actually robs a bank, he isn’t. Understand?”
Dickie’s jaw set hard and obstinate. “So? If they’re gonna rob the bank, don’t you gotta keep an eye on ’em an’ make sure they don’t?”
“All I’ve got to go on is your suspicions. That’s not near good enough.”
“You wouldn’t say that if I was a grown-up!” Dickie retorted hotly. “It’s because I’m a kid that you think I don’t know anything, but I do! Those guys are gonna rob the bank for sure, and when they do, you’re gonna be sorry you didn’t listen to me, but then it’ll be too late!”
Witt sighed, let his hands drop. “All right. Show me which men you mean.”
For the next half hour, Dickie dragged him up one side of Main Street and down the other, then through half the alleys in town, but without success. The boy’s would-be bank robbers had vanished.
For the third time that morning, Molly tried toting up the costs for this new expansion she was planning, and for the third time, they refused to come out right. The numbers were being particularly perverse today. It had nothing to do with DeWitt Gavin because she refused even to think about him, and she did not care that he did not want her generosity, and she was not going to apologize or even talk to him again, ever!
She was just nervous about this next big step she was planning, Molly assured herself, scanning the lists and scribbled notes spread across the counter. If she could rent the back half of Doc Smither’s office next door, she could knock out a door in the wall the two buildings shared and make that her storeroom. Then she’d knock down the wall that divided her store from the present storeroom and use all that space to expand into.
Doc was all for the idea. He was getting old and didn’t see as many patients as he used to. The extra income from renting out the space he didn’t use would come in handy for him, and she’d have the room she needed to grow. Someday she hoped to buy the rest of his shop, too, but that was for the future. This was for now.
She’d been thinking about it for some time, about how she’d like to divide up the displays a bit better so that the tools and hardware and whatnot had their own area, and the dry goods and household things had theirs. Nobody else she knew arranged their merchandise that way except
for the really big stores in Denver, but she was convinced an expansion would pay for itself in no time, even in a town the size of Elk City. After all, men liked to linger over hardware, but they tended to run away if somebody right at their elbow was shopping for women’s drawers and petticoats. And women would be a lot more willing to spend their money if they didn’t have to deal with their menfolk pacing and fretting while they shopped.
She was convinced the plan would work, but the list of merchandise she wanted to add kept growing, which meant the costs kept mounting until her head swam just thinking of it. And then there was the loan to arrange, a process that had become considerably more unpleasant since Gordon Hancock had taken the reins of Elk City State.
Courage! she told herself firmly, and bent again to her task.
By the time Dickie finally trailed through the door half an hour later, however, she hadn’t made much progress and her head was starting to ache.
At the sight of him, she put down her pencil and forced a smile. “All done?”
He nodded warily and kept his distance. “Uh-huh.”
Guilt smote her. “I’m sorry if I was curt with you earlier. I was annoyed about something else. It had nothing to do with you.”
“Hmm,” said Dickie, and poked at her carefully arranged display of scented soaps, throwing it out of whack.
“Please don’t do that.”
He hunched his shoulder resentfully, tried to straighten it, and made things worse.
Molly winced. He was still angry, and she couldn’t blame him. She had been unreasonable. Worse, she’d taken her irritation with the sheriff out on him.
Abandoning her accounts, she came around the counter and gave him a hug. “I love you, Dickie Calhan.”
He almost hugged her back, then remembered that he was eight and a big boy, and squirmed away. She laughed and tousled his hair before he could duck out of reach. He giggled and looked up at her, eyes sparkling.
Her laughter died. Something in his expression, in the way he tilted his head, plucked at her heart.
His smile faded. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”