She stood up, went to the sink, and gazed out the window. J.T. knew she was looking for Quinn. “You promise you’ll keep him safe?” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.”
“I promise,” J.T. replied quietly.
She didn’t turn around, and the silence lengthened before she spoke again. “I was pregnant last year,” she said. “We lost the baby.”
“I’m sorry,” he told her. She sniffled, wiped at her face with the back of one wrist, nodded. “Thanks,” she murmured. It seemed that there was nothing much left to say after that; they’d said it all, a long time ago, in another life.
10
Purvis figured the ranchers were about to string him from a tree branch—or call in the feds because he hadn’t turned up any evidence yet, which would be worse than being lynched, in his estimation. The sheriff wasn’t inclined to be helpful—he had problems of his own, over Maple Creek way, what with the election coming up in November—and the county’s forensics people hadn’t been able to tell Purvis, J.T., or the cattlemen anything they hadn’t figured out on their own using plain old horse sense. Pete Doubletree’s cattle had been poisoned with strychnine. It was a malicious act, quite apart from simple thieving, an indication that somebody out there really had a hair crosswise about something.
Then there was Clive Jenson’s death. Jenson hadn’t slit his own throat and jumped from the catwalk on the old water tower; he’d been carved up and then thrown. Purvis sighed to himself, left with the question of motive. Plenty of people had disliked Clive Jenson, especially after he abandoned poor Janeen, to face her last illness on her own, but that didn’t mean they’d murder him. Did it?
Somebody had sure as hell done him in.
Then there was J.T.’s barn and the little trailer house. Purvis shuddered just to imagine what would have happened if young Billy Raynor and his bride hadn’t gotten out before the thing blew.
Reflecting on these things, and more, the marshal of Springwater strode into the town library with his head slightly lowered. He’d taken to wearing a uniform lately, instead of his regular clothes, and he’d even gotten his hair cut, causing a real stir down at the Hair House. He wasn’t sure whether the local crime wave had inspired these changes, or Nelly.
She was hard at work, checking out a stack of books for old Mrs. Meyers, and she favored him with a brief, tilted smile as he came in, chased by the first drops of summer rainstorm. The last thing he wanted to do was to bring Nelly to any kind of grief by taking up her time when she was on the clock, so he nodded a greeting to both women and headed for the shelves.
He felt Mrs. Meyers’s gaze on him as he walked away and reckoned she’d guessed he wasn’t there to do any reading. She’d been his eighth grade teacher, way back when, and knew his limitations in that area and a few others. She was a good-natured gossip, and by now she would have picked up on his attraction to Nelly and started threading her way toward the truth. Maybe he ought to deputize Mildred Meyers, he thought, with a rueful smile, and let her unravel all these mysteries.
“I trust you’ve met Purvis,” he heard Mrs. Meyers say to Nelly, as he hurried away.
Nelly said something about email, and Purvis dodged behind a shelf of reference books.
There were a few other people in the library—a couple of giggling teenage girls there to chase boys, Purvis suspected, should any happen to show up. They were working real hard not to seem as if they were on the lookout, and that made him smile. There were one or two older folks, too, poring over magazines, and Sylvia Anderson slipped in by the front way, fresh from the beauty parlor herself, he reckoned from the stiff curls in her blue hair, anxious to get out of the rain.
Mrs. Meyers immediately beckoned to Sylvia and, once again, Purvis caught the word “email.” He rolled his eyes and took a book down from the shelf, choosing one with a red cover, partly because that was what came to hand and partly because he’d always liked that color. He perused the title pensively, as though considering it as a choice—in truth, he didn’t even have a library card—and felt heat pricking the back of his neck. The book was called How to Drive a Woman Mad With Passion and Purvis shoved it back into place with such haste and force that he nearly snapped the spine in two.
He glanced back in Nelly’s direction, through a gap in the stacks, and was ruefully relieved to note that she was busy chatting with Sylvia and Mrs. Meyers. Thank the Lord, the teenagers were paying him no mind at all, and the magazine crowd was intent on its own pursuits. He eased around into another aisle, but all he found there were instruction books on knitting and fancy sewing and making snow villages out of something called plastic canvas, things of that sort. He wished Nelly would finish for the day so they could drive over to Maple Creek to the Walmart store. His mother’s birthday was just a few days off, and Nelly had offered to help him find a present. After that, they were going to have supper at Flo’s Diner.
He supposed the outing could be called a date.
He grinned, pleased at the prospect of an evening with his cowgirl, and thinking how surprised his mom would be when he didn’t give her a bathrobe again this year. Ever since he got home from ’Nam, he’d given Tillie the same gifts on every occasion, a robe for her birthday, eau de perfume on Mother’s Day, and slippers every Christmas. She always acted like she was thrilled, ripping open her package and gasping, “Oh, Purvis, bump chenille!” as if that was the same as mink. Well, this time, she wouldn’t have to pretend. She really would be surprised.
He sighed. Next year, though, he’d probably be out of work, due to the rise of crime in Springwater County and his apparent inability to get to the bottom of things, and thus unable to afford to give her a present at all. Why, if the Cattleman’s Association had its way, he’d already be history jobwise, reduced to sleeping in his mother’s sewing room and flipping burgers down at McDonald’s to cover his portion of the grocery bill. He meant to make this gift count.
A few minutes later, Nelly joined him in the aisle. Mildred Meyers and Sylvia Anderson went out together, sharing an umbrella and, no doubt, an opinion or two.
“Hello, Purvis,” Nelly said quietly.
“Hello, Nelly,” he answered. He was a smooth talker, that was for sure. A silver-tongued devil. Yes, sir, there was always a snappy comeback waiting on the tip of Purvis Digg’s tongue.
She chuckled, and it was a warm, friendly sound, with a faint crackle to it, like a fire on a rainy day. “You didn’t forget that we’re going to Walmart, did you?” she asked, taking in his uniform.
He shook his head, and she glanced at the book he was holding in both hands. Her brows rose. “The Pastas of Tuscany?” she asked, her eyes smiling.
He looked down at it glumly. “I’ve always thought there must be something to reading, the way folks seem to take to it. I reckon I just don’t know where to start.”
Her eyes lit up. “Let me help you, then. It’s what I do, after all.”
“I think I’m past that point,” he said with regret. “Where I can be helped, I mean.”
She laughed. “Nonsense,” she said, walking purposefully to the back wall, assessing the lineup on the shelves, and taking down a thin book that looked as though it had been bound in saddle leather. On closer inspection, it turned out to be plastic. “Try this one.”
He glanced down at the volume. Louis L’Amour. A Frenchman. “This isn’t about decorating and gluing seashells on things and the like, is it?”
Her mouth made that funny little crooking motion again, the one that made him want to kiss her. “No,” she said, with a shake of her head. “Mr. L’Amour wrote westerns, and he was a master storyteller.”
“‘Was’? You mean, he’s dead?” Purvis was a little jumpy, due to frustration and lack of sleep. He had a lot on his mind these days, after all, and the planned outing to Walmart and Flo’s was the first free time he’d had in a couple of days. He glanced down at the book as though it might bite him before realizing he was acting like a fool.
Nelly made an easy gesture with one hand, taking in all the hundreds and hundreds of books on the shelves rising all around them. They might have been in a little city, Purvis thought fancifully, a place where all the buildings were made of multicolored bricks set on end instead of horizontally. It was a nice place, he decided, and nobody lived there but him and Nelly. “A lot of these books were written by people who are dead,” she said reasonably.
“That’s downright depressing,” Purvis said.
She smiled. “Not really,” she answered. “In a way, they’re still with us, because they left stories behind.” She nodded toward the book in his hand. “Try that one. If you don’t like it, you won’t have lost anything but a little time.”
Purvis looked both ways, like a little kid about to cross a busy street. “I don’t have a card,” he confessed, in a whisper.
Nelly’s eyes glowed with warmth as she leaned toward him and whispered back, “Then I guess I’ll have to issue you one.”
He liked the idea of having his own library card. There was nothing in his wallet now but a driver’s license, one Visa card with a puny five-hundred-dollar limit, and his official police ID. This seemed more personal-like, almost as good as carrying around a picture of a pretty woman or some little kids. “Okay,” he said, and had to clear his throat.
When he got to the front desk, where Nelly made out his card and laminated it with one of those slick little machines, the other patrons had all gone, and the two of them had the library to themselves.
While Nelly closed the place down for the night Purvis admired his new library card and waited patiently. Soon, he and Nelly were in the borrowed Escort, rolling along toward Maple Creek. The rain had let up a little, but the highway was still slick, and Purvis drove carefully.
“I heard J. T. Wainwright is going to run for sheriff, come election time,” Nelly said, out of the blue. Sooner or later, Purvis reckoned, she’d hear just about everything, working in a place most of the town frequented on a pretty regular basis. Only the Brimstone Saloon enjoyed more foot traffic.
“I reckon Sheriff Robertson will put up a fight,” Purvis said, feeling a little stung because J.T. hadn’t mentioned the plan to him. Wearing the sheriff’s badge was one of his secret dreams, right up there with meeting Johnny Cash in person and owning a Hummer, and just about as likely to happen.
“I think you ought to run,” Nelly said.
Purvis stared at her, not sure he’d heard right. The mere suggestion that she thought so highly of his chances made him feel almost euphoric. “You’re kidding,” he accused.
She turned slightly in the car seat in order to face him. She didn’t look like she was kidding. “I’m perfectly serious,” she said.
He sighed. “Well, thank you,” he managed, concentrating extra hard on the road ahead, “but right now, I don’t think I could get elected to shovel horsesh— manure.”
She smiled. “You’re much too modest, Purvis,” she said. “You’ve been marshal here for a long time, and you’ve done a good job. You ought to blow your own horn once in a while.”
Tell that to the ranchers screaming for my badge, Purvis thought.
“You have done a good job,” Nelly insisted, as if she’d been looking right into his brain. It was real nice to have somebody cheering for his team besides his mother, although Purvis figured he’d have as many doubts about his competency as a peace officer as the cattlemen did if he’d been in their place.
It seemed like a good time to change the subject, especially since there was a stubborn slant to Nelly’s jaw just then. Damned if she wasn’t all ready to argue his case to all comers, he thought, in despairing jubilation. “You ever played miniature golf?” he asked, because that was the first thing that came to mind.
Turned out she loved the game. One more reason to be crazy about her.
They reached the Walmart store twenty minutes later and, as always, the parking lot was jammed with cars from all over the county. Purvis parked the Escort, got out, and walked around to open Nelly’s door with a flourish.
Annie left for Missoula just after breakfast the next morning, taking a long time to say good-bye to Quinn before she got into the rental car and drove away, and the boy stood watching until she was out of sight.
J.T. ached for the kid. He knew what it was like, being torn between two parents, and he’d always sworn he’d never do that to a child of his. Famous last words.
When Quinn turned and looked up at J.T., there were tears on his face. He sniffled bravely, squared his little shoulders, and wiped his eyes with one already grubby forearm. “Venezuela is really, re-ally far, isn’t it?” he asked.
J.T. swallowed once. Nodded. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “It’s pretty far.”
Quinn gnawed at his lower lip, watching the space where his mother and her compact car had vanished around a bend. “She promised to write me letters and email and call on the phone,” he said staunchly.
“She’ll keep her word,” J.T. offered.
“And she’ll be back before I know it.”
“Most definitely,” J.T. replied, approaching his son and laying a hand on one small shoulder. “Your mom loves you, Q. Nothing could keep her away for very long.”
It was a piss-poor promise, by J.T.’s standards; lots of things could go wrong, that was the reality. Nothing was truly simple; life was many-layered and often complex—like his relationship with Maggie—but Quinn was a child and he needed reassuring. He played along readily, though J.T. suspected the kid wasn’t fooled. “Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” J.T. confirmed.
“Can we go get a dog now?”
J.T. laughed, remembering yesterday’s conversation in the kitchen and his subsequent promise. “Yeah,” he said. “We can get a dog.”
“Where?”
“We could check out the pound, over in Maple Creek.”
Quinn could barely contain his excitement. “Let’s go!”
Ah, J.T. thought, the resilience of youth. “I’ve got a few things to do around here first,” he said.
“Can we invite Maggie McCaffrey to go with us?”
J.T. was caught off guard, to say the least. Quinn had met Maggie exactly once, and he hadn’t had time to form a lasting opinion. But then, kids depended on instinct where such things were concerned; they hadn’t learned not to trust themselves. “She’s probably busy,” he said.
Quinn’s expression was solemn. “She likes dogs,” he confided. “She has one, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, as an image of the ankle-licking beagle came into his mind. “But she’s got her hands full, what with all those people staying at the Station.”
“We could ask her, though, couldn’t we?”
J.T. didn’t have the heart to refuse—nor did he really want to— but he crouched so he could look directly into his son’s eyes. “We’ll ask,” he said, “but you have to be prepared for the fact that she might say no. I don’t want you getting your hopes up and then being disappointed, all right?”
Quinn sighed, as though he found adults incredibly obtuse at such times as this. “All right,” he answered. Then he beamed. “But she won’t say no. She likes me, and she likes you, too. Mom said so.”
Somewhat to J.T.’s amazement, given the recent strain between him and McCaffrey, it turned out that Quinn was right, at least in his prediction that Maggie would agree to the expedition. Daphne and Billy’s wife, Cindy, were at the Station helping out, and once they’d introduced J.T. to the new arrival, a little girl Social Services had put in Daphne and her husband’s care, they practically shoved Maggie out the front door.
She looked a little surprised to find herself in the front seat of J.T.’s truck, with Quinn buckled in between them, but there was a glow of excitement in her eyes, and her cheeks pulsed with healthy color. She was wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a block print of a fish skeleton on the front, and her short dark brown hair shimmered in the sunlight.
/> “Looks like you’re doing a brisk business these days,” J.T. commented, indicating the several extra cars parked nearby.
She gave a good-natured grimace. No doubt she’d been plied with questions about Purvis’s competence as a police officer, not to mention Clive’s death and the barn burning. “They’re mostly tabloid stringers,” she said. “The more lurid a story is, the better they like it.”
J.T. smiled and, at the same time, consciously resisted an urge to reach out and caress the nape of her neck with one hand, the way he used to do when they were kids going out on a date. He wanted very much to touch her, but he refrained, mostly because of Quinn, but for other reasons, too. McCaffrey might be speaking to him again, but he was surely still on thin ice with her. “I imagine they have expense accounts, however modest,” he observed, referring to the reporters.
She laughed. “Yes,” she allowed, and they pulled away onto Springwater’s newly crowded main street, headed toward Maple Creek and the county dog pound.
Quinn was peering over the dashboard, every cell and fiber on alert. The unspoken but classic question emanated from him: Are we there yet?
J.T. was struck by how good it felt, how right, just to be driving along with his two favorite people next to him.
“What kind of dog are we looking for?” Maggie asked, addressing the question to Quinn and giving it proper philosophical weight.
Quinn turned his head to look up at her, and though J.T. couldn’t see his son’s face, he saw his smile reflected on Maggie’s. “I’ll know him when I see him,” Quinn said.
“I’m sure you will,” Maggie agreed.
Springwater Wedding Page 18