Reagan leaned away to get a better look at her face. But then he resumed walking with a contemplative expression. “I know she needs the work. She even came by the jailhouse offering to scrub the floors for me the other day, which I let her do, but I can’t afford to pay her to do it every week.” He massaged one hand over the lower half of his face. “Is Dixie looking to hire someone?”
Charlotte nodded. “Rose won’t be on her feet again for quite some time, and Dixie can’t cover all of the boardinghouse’s needs on her own.”
“Well”—Reagan directed their steps into the alleyway between the jail and McGinty’s, and Charlotte felt the instant relief from the biting wind—“I’m not sure how Dixie would feel about employing a woman of Liora’s former profession, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Charlotte gave a little bounce as they hurried up onto his mother’s porch. “My feelings exactly, Sheriff. And thank you for walking me home.”
Reagan only nodded. He swallowed and his gaze drifted over her features for a moment before he took a swift step back, tipped his hat, and then hurried off into the night.
Charlotte felt like a little part of her heart had just been torn from her chest. She sighed and pushed into the house.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After taking Rose a tray of the chowder, Dixie stood quietly looking down at her husband, who was lying, pale and still, on the bed closest to this room’s window. Evening had fallen, so the only light in the room came from the dim glow of the turned down-lamp on the dresser.
Steven’s breaths were low and shallow and every once in a while, he moaned, shifted, or winced in his sleep. Flynn had assured that he hadn’t felt pain during the surgery, but that he would be in a lot of discomfort once he awoke from the effects of the chloroform. Laudanum would need to be administered so he could rest and recover.
Flynn said the bullet had gone through Steven’s liver and then lodged too near his spine to be removed. Only time would tell if Steven retained the use of his legs, or if he recovered at all—he’d said the chances of Steven living through this were about one in ten. Flynn had left the wound open so that infection could drain out of it if it set in.
Dixie’s guilt mounted as she looked down at him. She should want him to live. She should at least feel sorrow, maybe worry, or concern. But she felt only numbness. The familiar numbness that she’d learned to surround herself with whenever Steven was around. It was better not to feel or think; that way she wasn’t likely to voice an opinion he might disagree with.
Both Don Brass and the parson had come around now, but Flynn had refused to let them leave their beds—he’d forced Don into a bed as soon as he’d finished his surgery on Steven, giving Don no leeway to dodge the order. When Don had said he was too dirty for the linen sheets, Flynn had said sheets were made for washing. When Don had declared that he needed to go take care of his horses, Flynn had told him that Joe had already taken care of them. And when Don had insisted that he was feeling just fine, Flynn had told him that he’d once known a man who hit his head, declared he was feeling just fine, and had been dead by the next day. Don’s face had gone a little pale, but he’d climbed into the bed after that. Flynn had instructed both Don and the parson that they were under watch for at least one night and the parson for likely two. He’d elaborated again that injuries to the head could often turn dangerous without a moment’s notice.
Now, both men chatted quietly with each other from where they lay in their beds, though to Dixie’s estimation, Old Don was doing most of the talking. Wyldhaven’s new minister seemed to be a quiet man of very few words.
Flynn had just stepped down to the kitchen to get a bowl of chowder and some bread, since he hadn’t had a chance to eat with the others.
Dixie gave herself a shake. Don and the minister were probably hungry too. She pivoted toward the door. She could worry about what she was going to do about Steven another time. Right now she had things to attend to.
Charlotte had apparently gone home, for she was no longer in the now tidy kitchen. Flynn, however, was sitting quietly at the table, looking weary as he spread butter on a piece of bread. He stilled when she entered, his gaze scrutinizing her slowly. “How are you doing?”
She waved away his concern and pasted on a smile. “Fine. Fine. I’m just getting Don and the minister some soup.” She set to gathering a tray and bowls, plates for some bread, spoons, two tumblers of fresh water. Flynn just watched her solemnly all the way until she ladled the chowder into the bowls and put two warm rolls on each plate. She hefted the tray.
“Dixie.” The word was soft and low.
She stilled but didn’t look at him. She couldn’t handle his gentle concern right now. “I’m fine, Dr. Griffin, truly.” She inserted the formality to remind herself of the need for distance and left quickly, before he could see how her hands trembled against the handles of the tray.
When she reached the room and pushed the door open with her back, she stilled. Reagan and the marshal both stood by the far bed with Zeb between them.
The marshal was speaking. “His identification says his name is”—he consulted the papers in his hand—“Orin Wells. Are you sure he said his name was Pottinger?”
Zeb leaned over Steven’s bed, and thrust a finger at him. “I’m telling you this man told me plain as day that his name was Pottinger and he was Dixie’s husband and Rose’s son.”
The marshal tapped his hat against one leg and looked over at her.
She swallowed and nodded. If Steven never came around, or refused to identify himself, would they believe her? Would charges be dropped? Or would they still be in trouble for shooting him back in Birch Run even though he’d lived?
Ewan, standing in the shadows of one corner, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “He did seem to know Dixie when we carried him past her downstairs. Cussed her, even.”
Relieved to see from the marshal’s expression that his suspicions about the story she’d told him earlier seemed to have been allayed, Dixie stepped the rest of the way into the room and set the tray on the table between Don and the new minister. “I thought you gentlemen might be hungry. I can bring up coffee or tea, along with some cake once you’ve finished with this, if you like.”
Appreciation shone in the minister’s eyes, and he dipped a nod of thanks.
Don touched his forehead and squirmed uncomfortably in the bed. “Much obliged, Miss Pottinger.”
The word ‘miss’ sent a shard of guilt through Dixie. These were all such good people, and she’d deceived them for long enough. “Actually it’s ‘Mrs.’” She tipped a nod toward Steven’s bed. “That man there is my husband who was coming to look for me.”
Don’s eyes widened, but he had the grace not to comment further. Instead, he tasted his chowder and gave a definitive nod. “Best soup I’ve had in quite some time. Thank you kindly.”
The minister studied her with eyes that seemed to see more than he let on. She wished she could remember the name Zeb had introduced him by, but she’d been in such shock over Steven that it hadn’t stayed with her. His focus bounced between her and Steven lying so still on the bed across the room. For a moment she thought he might speak, but then he turned his attention to the soup in his bowl and set about eating it with slow methodical scoops of the spoon.
Kin sank onto the edge of the thin cot in the jail cell and buried his face in his palms. A feeling of despair settled like an eagle swooping in with plans to perch and stay for a while. He’d gotten a man shot and that was the truth of it, whether he’d pulled the trigger, or not. And now he was in jail when he should be home making dinner for Pa and making sure he didn’t fall asleep with the door or window open, or with the fire blazing too hot, or even outside in the cold barn, as he had last week.
Worry pinched his stomach.
Unable to sit still a moment longer, he stood and paced the room. It was three paces to the bars of the cell next to his, five paces along the bars to the outer wall of the jai
l, three paces back to the far end of the cot, and five paces along the length of the cot back to where he started from. And repeat.
It seemed like forever until Sheriff Callahan and Deputy Rodante returned to the jailhouse.
When Deputy Joe slid the tray laden with fragrant chowder and bread beneath the bars of the door, Kin’s stomach growled appreciatively. But guilt niggled when he took the first bite. This was made from the fish he’d caught this morning. He should be home right now frying the brace he’d kept for Pa and himself. He swallowed and looked up at the two men who were still watching him. He had no right to ask, but he should at least try. “Do you think one of you would be able to ride out and check on my pa? Sometimes he falls asleep with the lantern on or…” He let the thought trail away with a shrug. Truth was, he never knew what Pa might do.
The two lawmen exchanged a look. Then Sheriff Callahan strode to the stove and poured a cup of coffee from the pot. He returned to the cell and slid the cup beneath the bars.
Kin gave him a nod of thanks, even though he would have preferred plain water. Coffee never had been much to his liking.
Joe cleared his throat as the sheriff straightened to his feet. “We were just coming to ask you if you thought your pa might be home.”
Kin snorted. “Unless he’s at McGinty’s or in a ditch somewhere between there and home.”
Deputy Joe shuffled his feet, gripped the back of his neck, and looked at his boss questioningly.
Kin stopped chewing and held his breath, not wanting to miss anything the sheriff might say.
Puffing out his cheeks, Sheriff Callahan tossed his hat down on his desk and sank into his chair. “Why don’t you go out and fetch Mr. Davis, while I have a chat with Kin here?”
Kin’s eyes fell closed. Fetch Mr. Davis. So he was going to end up in jail and get the beating he’d been expecting from Pa, to boot.
Deputy Joe nodded. “Sure, Boss.”
A bit of trepidation settled in Kin’s chest as he watched the deputy head out the door into the blustery snow that had begun to fall. The man had been firm, but not unkind to him. He hadn’t struck him, or cinched the cuffs around his hands too tight, or even forced him to run back to town behind his horse, like Kin knew some lawmen would have done.
When the door clicked shut, he transferred his wary gaze to the sheriff. What kind of man was Sheriff Callahan? Kin had gotten into his fair share of mischief, but he’d never run aground of the law before, and he couldn’t say that he liked this feeling all that much.
The sheriff slapped his hands against his knees, stood wearily, dragged his chair out from behind his desk, and set it carefully in front of Kin’s jail cell. He poured himself a cup of the coffee—apparently emptying the pot, because instead of returning it to the top of the pot belly, he set it on the floor. Taking a quiet sip, the sheriff sank into the chair and propped his booted feet atop one of the brace-bars that ran horizontally through the door of the cell. He tipped a nod to the tray of food that was still by Kin’s side on the cot. “Better eat your food whilst it’s hot. Would be a shame to waste food as good as Dixie’s.” There was a gentle light that conveyed kindness in the man’s blue eyes, though his face remained serious.
Kin swallowed, relieved to see that he likely wasn’t about to have the stuffing pummeled out of him. Still…he’d best do as he was told. “Yessir.” He picked up the bowl and dunked one of the rolls into the thick creamy juices. His stomach rumbled loudly. It had been a long time since he’d eaten food that tasted anywhere close to this good.
The sheriff sat quietly until Kin had finished eating and slid the tray back beneath the bars. Kin cupped his hands around the warmth of his coffee cup and waited for the sheriff to speak as he sank back onto the cot. That was one reason to like coffee, he supposed. On a cold night like this, the heat offered a good deal of comfort.
“Care to explain what happened today, son?” the sheriff finally pressed.
Kin rubbed at a patch of sticky pitch on the side of one thumb. He knew he needed to make one thing clear right out of the barrel. “I didn’t have a gun.”
The sheriff frowned. “So I’ve heard. Did you think you were going to be able to rob Old Don Brass without a weapon?”
Kin sighed and delayed his answer by taking a sip of the bitter black brew. No one was going to understand why he’d done this. Even he was feeling like he’d been an idiot. He didn’t meet the sheriff’s gaze. “I wasn’t trying to rob the stage.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
Kin resisted a roll of his eyes. “I only told Wash that I was going to rob it so that he’d for sure come tell you about it.”
“What was that?”
Kin realized that his words had been mumbled too low for the sheriff to hear, but instead of repeating himself all he said was, “Nothing.”
The legs of the sheriff’s chair thunked to the ground, a sure sign he was getting irritated. Despite the kindness he’d seen in the man’s eyes, Kin was actually kind of glad that a set of bars stood between them.
“So here’s what I know so far.” The sheriff leaned forward, braced elbows to knees, and pegged him with a stern look that made Kin swallow. “Screaming like a banshee from the grave, you rode down on the stage. Old Don thought you were coming for the strong box and tried to outrun you, which caused the carriage to tip over at the hairpin. Mr. Heath had pulled his gun to try and shoot you.” He hesitated. “And the parson too, for that matter. Did you know that?”
Kin swallowed. “I knew I needed to be fast. But I was expecting the shots to come from Old Don, not the passengers.”
“Yeah? Well, now a man’s been shot. How do you feel about that?”
Kin pushed at the pitch again with his thumb, nearly sloshing coffee over his hands. “Didn’t think there was any danger to anyone but me.”
The sheriff surged to his feet and snatched up the tray. “‘Didn’t think’ is about right!” He stomped to his desk and plunked the tray down, leaning onto his fists with his back to the cell. “And now I have to decide what to do with you.” He spun around and leveled the full force of his narrow-eyed scrutiny on Kin. “Why did you do it? That’s what I want to know.”
Kin set the coffee cup on the floor and picked at a splinter on one of the boards next to it. “You wouldn’t understand.”
The sheriff snorted. “You’re probably wrong about that. I used to be a lot like you, Kincaid Davis.” He nodded affirmatively. “A lot like you.”
Kin twisted his lips to the side. He doubted the sheriff knew anything about losing a ma and then having your pa turn to drink and essentially becoming a different man.
Silence hung heavy for a long minute before the sheriff said, “So… You done talking?”
Kin nodded.
The sheriff threw up one hand. “All right.” He picked up the tray, blew out the lantern, and left the jailhouse.
With the darkness, the chill wind that crept through the clapboard siding of the jail seemed to grow colder. Kin wished he had a warmer coat, but this one that he’d had since Wash handed it down to him when they turned twelve was the only one he owned. It was nearly worn through in places, and too tight through the shoulders, and the sleeves were too short, but it was better than nothing. He tugged the thin quilt from the cot around his shoulders and curled into a tight ball on his side, wishing there was a pillow.
Kin laid in the dark for a long time. He was too cold to sleep, but too tired to do any of the exercises that he sometimes did at home to warm himself enough so he could sleep. He wished the sheriff had banked the stove with a couple extra logs before he’d left the room. And he kept wondering why the deputy hadn’t returned with Pa yet. Had something happened to him?
He tossed and turned long into the night and finally got up and made himself run in place for a time. While he was running, he noticed the cot against the far wall in the other cell. It was dimly lit by the moonlight that slanted through the barred jailhouse window. Another thin quilt sat atop
it. Kin’s jogging sort of trailed off of its own volition as a thought struck him. He still had a fishing hook and some string in his coat pocket! He tugged it out and uncurled his line. He might have just enough. It took him another fifteen minutes of tossing the hook before he was finally able to snag the quilt deeply enough to drag it all the way across the cell to him, but after all that exercise and with the extra blanket, he was warm enough that he was able to get some fitful sleep.
Despite that, his mind was fuzzy with exhaustion the next morning when Deputy Joe stepped through the creaky front door. Joe told him to back up to the bars of the cell, where he cuffed his hands and then opened the door.
Joe took Kin’s arm and urged him across the room. “New minister has some things he’d like to say to the whole town. Figured it would likely be good for you to hear it.
Kin swallowed, only one thing pressing on his mind. “Did you talk to my pa?”
Giving the jailhouse door a push, Joe nudged him out onto the street. “He was more than a bit drunk when I got out there. I couldn’t wake him. But I made sure the fire was banked and all the doors and windows were shut tight against the cold. And I covered him with a blanket.”
Kin watched the road carefully so he wouldn’t misstep and lose his balance, and maybe to keep the deputy from seeing the depth of all he was feeling reflected in his eyes. “Thank you.”
He sensed more than saw the deputy nod. “I’ll go back out there today.”
A group of townsfolk had already started to gather in the field across from McGinty’s Alehouse. Kin’s stomach rumbled loudly as Joe helped him up the low embankment and into the field. Joe paused and unclasped Kin’s hands from behind his back and reclasped them in front of him. Then he tugged a cloth from the large pocket of his coat and handed it to him. Inside were two biscuits and a hardboiled egg.
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 14