Cassandra Austin (3 page)

In a few minutes they returned and loaded the body into the cart. If the stranger spoke to Cally or even tipped his hat, she didn’t notice. The sheet had slipped to reveal one worn boot hanging over the end of the cart. Cally stared at it, swallowing hard.

The undertaker delivered a parting shot. “I daresay you’ll regret this, Miss DuBois.”

It brought Cally back to her senses. Without responding, she swung onto Jewel’s back, turned the mule in a wide circle and headed out of town.

Andrew watched her go, fighting the urge to follow. The girl intended to take her father’s body home for burial. She intended to dig the grave herself, wrap the body, toss dirt on her own father’s chest. He couldn’t picture it. In fact, he couldn’t allow it.

He had other responsibilities, however, and couldn’t simply leave town. First, he would have to let his deputy know where he was going. Sick wife or not, the man could relay a message if someone needed to find him. And he would leave a note on his office door as well.

In less than half an hour, Andrew was on his way to the DuBois farm. He wanted to kick his horse into a run. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew. He needed to arrive in time to help her, but there was no need to beat her home. As slow as that mule was, he could almost do that anyway.

But he hated to think of Cally making the trip alone, even though it was scarcely two miles. His
concern for the girl perplexed him. She had been riding into town every day for weeks, and he had never once worried about her safety. What had caused the change?

Will you look out for my Cally, Sheriff?

He heard the words as if they were spoken by a ghost. Was that really all it took to make him feel so protective, or had something about the girl touched him? He felt a twinge in his upper arm and muttered to himself, “Yeah, the tip of her knife is what touched me.”

In a manner of speaking, as sheriff he looked out for everyone in the county, but he had never been anyone’s guardian. He didn’t know where to begin. Exactly what were his responsibilities to Miss Cally DuBois? It would surely take some time to decide, but for now he knew he couldn’t let her bury her father by herself.

Cally rode the mule to a little rise near her house. A weathered wooden cross barely marked her mother’s grave. All the way home, she had tried to remember what had happened when her mother died. Had neighbors come? Had Pa sent for a preacher? Had he bought a coffin? Or had he made one? It was all a little hazy.

She decided it didn’t matter. She had no choice but to do this herself. When she had unhitched the cart in the shade of the apple tree and led Jewel to grass nearby, she decided it didn’t seem right to leave Pa alone while she went for the spade. “Royal, stay with Pa,” she said.

As she walked the short distance to the barn, she decided nothing seemed right. Her whole world was
upside-down, and she was supposed to make decisions she had never before thought about.

Was it wrong to bury Pa wrapped only in a sheet? Should she try to make a coffin from his cot? She had said it only to shut up the undertaker, but now she wished she could really do it.

She was at the barn door when Royal’s warning bark brought her quickly around. Anger helped her forget all her questions. Sheriff Andrew Haywood was riding toward her.

He drew up a short distance away and dismounted. Why hadn’t Royal warned her? As she turned toward her dog, her eyes widened in horror. As this most hated of men walked slowly toward her, Royal, her trusted friend and protector, left his post on the hill and went wagging to meet him.

She stared as Haywood and the dog greeted each other like long-lost friends. How had this happened? Then she remembered leading the snarling Royal toward the sheriff and laying her hand on the dog’s head for reassurance as they stopped in front of Haywood. She groaned, closing her eyes in disbelief. Royal had misunderstood.

Well, there was little chance of explaining to the dog now. She decided her best reaction was to ignore him—them! She wouldn’t so much as nod to the sheriff. She certainly wasn’t going to call her dog! She spun around and went into the barn, grabbed her garden spade and walked back to the little cemetery without another glance in Haywood’s direction.

Haywood had the nerve to mutter something to Royal as they followed her up the hill. She picked the spot and pushed the spade into the dry earth. Her tiny feet inside her father’s old work shoes could
barely press the spade into the ground. This would be harder than she’d thought, especially with Haywood watching.

“Do you have another shovel?”

She turned to discover that Haywood had removed his coat and was rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. She lifted another puny spadeful of dirt. “It won’t work any better than this.”

“Go get it.” His voice was soft, but she heard it as a command. She thought she would enjoy telling him where
he
could go when his hand came down on hers, warm and gentle. It reminded her of her father’s loving touch and tears blurred her vision. She let go of the spade and escaped to the barn.

When she had herself under control again, she took the shovel to the rise, surprised at how much sod Haywood had broken in her absence. The shovel, though not as sharp as the spade, was wider, and she tried to use it to scoop up the dirt as Haywood loosened it. She only succeeded in bumping her shovel against the spade.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said gently.

Cally glared at him a moment. She hated to have any decision taken out of her hands, especially by Haywood, but it would be stupid to turn down his offer. She shrugged as if it made no difference.

After a moment of glaring at his back, she stalked to the barn, glancing over her shoulder once to see Royal lie down in the shade of the cart. Her dog’s defection rankled as much as the sheriffs interference. Muttering to herself, she found a hammer and knocked two short boards off a stall divider that she never used. With the old nails, she fashioned the
boards into a cross. It wasn’t much, but it went with the cross at her mother’s grave.

By the time she returned, Haywood had made considerable progress. It would have taken her forever to dig the grave. She would bite her tongue off before she admitted it to Haywood, though. She leaned the cross against the cart and sat down under the apple tree near Royal. Haywood didn’t seem to notice that she had returned.

It was impossible to watch him work and not see the play of muscles across his back and shoulders as he broke dirt loose with the spade and tossed it aside with the shovel. A strong back like that could have the barn roof mended in no time, she thought. If the man felt guilty about Pa, maybe she shouldn’t discourage him. All manner of odd jobs came to mind, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning.

With Pa gone, the farm was all she had. Somehow, she would keep what was left of it and survive with it alone. The weather was warm for September, but she knew there wouldn’t be many more days before frost. She couldn’t help feeling regret and resentment for the days she had wasted while she dreamed of rescuing Pa.

She tried to shake such thoughts away by concentrating on her future. She had yet to dig the potatoes, and, after the first frost, she would have to carry all the pumpkins and squash into her cellar. The hayloft would be a better place to store some of these things but the roof leaked. She watched Haywood’s muscles flex as he shoved the spade into the dark earth, and imagined the roof repaired.

Besides harvesting her garden produce, she would have to chop enough wood to last through the winter.
She watched Haywood send another shovelful of dirt onto the pile. It was easy to picture him replenishing her woodpile.

Somehow, watching him too closely made her stomach nervous and her cheeks warm. Deliberately, she pulled her thoughts back to her plans.

She needed to put up as many jars of tomatoes from her neglected patch as she could. The money she made selling her pies and bread paid for flour, sugar and a few other supplies, but mostly she had to live through the winter on what she saved from the garden.

Cally was used to hard work and deciding upon a plan felt better than the persistent hopelessness of the weeks since Pa’s arrest. In a way, she knew life would be easier. Pa, bless him, wasn’t really much help. Cally scolded herself for the disloyal thought. Poor Pa was right beside her!

Haywood’s shirt had become soaked with sweat, defining those useful muscles even more. Yes, her best bet was to humor the sheriff and play on his guilt as long as it lasted. With that in mind, she scrambled to her feet. She walked to the well and brought back a tin cup full of water. She didn’t speak but stood in front of Haywood until he looked up.

He eyed her speculatively.

“It ain’t poisoned,” she said, thrusting the cup toward him.

“Thanks,” he murmured. He tried to hide a grin as he brought the cup to his lips.

That grin made Cally furious. Her one act of kindness was suspect! Well, sure, it was more an act of encouragement than kindness, but he wasn’t supposed
to see it that way. Shoot! It was hard to be nice to this man! Maybe the barn roof wasn’t worth it.

He handed the empty cup to her, and she snatched it out of his hand. She couldn’t stay here and watch him anymore. Waiting for him to dig the grave was worse than digging it herself. She stomped back to the well and hung up the cup. At the house she took her bucket from its hook on the side of the house and went to the garden.

With a sigh she surveyed the tomatoes. Lately she had been picking only what she wanted to eat. “There are more rotten ones than good ones,” she said to Royal before she remembered that Royal hadn’t followed her. She looked toward the little hill where Royal lay in the shade of the cart, guarding Haywood while he worked. There was another mark against that interfering sheriff.

She picked overripe tomatoes and dropped them into her bucket, muttering to herself. She almost called Queen over so she would have an excuse to grumble aloud. She had tossed the second bucketful of spoiled tomatoes to the chickens when she saw Haywood approaching.

He had unbuttoned the damp shirt halfway to his waist revealing glimpses of his hairy, muscular chest. Dirt smudged his face and once-white shirt. His hair was in complete disarray. This, Cally decided, was the way she would remember Sheriff Andrew Haywood next time the always-perfect sheriff tried to tell her what to do!

“T
he grave’s dug, Miss Dubois.”

It took Cally a moment to realize that Haywood had spoken.

He eyed her curiously as he went on in that soft voice, “I thought you’d want to say a few words over the body.” He paused, waiting, but she didn’t know what to do. “Do you have a Bible?”

Cally fought down a moment of panic. Nodding, she hurried to the well to wash. Inside the soddy, she found her mother’s Bible and, hugging it to her breast, walked to the grave. Haywood had rebuttoned his shirt and was shrugging into his coat. He looked oddly formal for as dirty as he was.

He had laid Pa’s body out on the ground and wrapped him more neatly in the sheet. She couldn’t help staring at it.

“Do you want one last look?” he offered.

Cally shook her head. Haywood jumped easily into the hole, lifted the body gently, and laid it in the grave. He pulled himself back out and stood beside
Cally, his hands clasped in front of him. And waited. “Go ahead,” he urged gently, indicating the Bible.

Cally swallowed. “I…can’t.” She sniffed. “Would you?”

Haywood nodded and took the Bible. Cally watched his hands as he turned the Bible over then leafed through it. In a moment, he found what he was looking for. His soft, warm voice read some verses that sounded faintly familiar to Cally. When he was done, he closed the Bible gently. “Did you want to say anything else?”

Cally shook her head, unwilling to look at him.

After what seemed like a long pause, he said, “It’s sometimes customary for a family member to—”

Cally looked up as his voice trailed off. He held the small shovel toward her. The look on his face was more upsetting than the thought of throwing dirt on Pa’s body. Compassion. Sympathy. She straightened her shoulders. If that was the custom, she didn’t want to disappoint him. And she didn’t want him thinking she was about to fall apart!

As calmly as she could, she took the shovel and slid it into the pile of dirt—dirt the color of his eyes, she reminded herself. Using all her irritation at Sheriff Haywood to give her strength, she lifted as large a load as she could handle.

As she let it fall into the grave, Haywood spoke gently, “Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. We commit this body back to the earth from whence it sprang. Amen.”

Cally watched him for a long moment before his eyes met hers again. “Are you a preacher?” she asked.

“No,” was all he said. He took the shovel from her hands, handing her the Bible, and nodded toward the cart. “Why don’t you hitch the mule to the cart and take it back to the barn? I’ll finish up here.” He was already removing the coat.

There he was, telling her what to do again! He turned his back on her as if he expected her to do just what she was told. Well, maybe
she
wanted to finish up here.

She watched those fascinating muscles flex as scoop after scoop of dirt fell on the corpse. Maybe she was being ridiculous. She hurried to Jewel, brought her to the cart and hitched her up. She called to Royal, and this time the dog followed her to the barn.

When the cart was put away and Jewel was staked once again, this time on grass as far from the grave as was practical, Cally walked slowly toward the house. She knew she should return to her garden. The tomatoes needed to be picked before they all rotted. Instead, she sat down on her rocker.

“He’s truly gone,” she whispered to herself. Royal whimpered in response to her sorrow and settled down beside her, his head resting on his paws, watching her with sad eyes. “I should have saved him.”

Her eyes turned to the hill where Haywood worked steadily. Soon he would be done, and she would be alone again. He was the reason Pa was dead! When he left, things would be closer to normal. She would be glad when he was off her farm and out of her sight!

That didn’t explain the stab of panic when she watched him drive her crude little cross into the fresh earth and, retrieving his hat and coat as well as the
shovels, start toward the house. She didn’t think he so much as glanced in her direction but left the tools beside the barn and walked slowly to the well. He splashed water over his face and neck, revealing his fatigue as he leaned against the low rock wall.

Cally’s own stomach rumbled, and she glanced at the sun, now directly overhead. He could ride that horse into town and have a fancy meal at a restaurant, she told herself.
And I can eat alone.

“I’ll be on my way, Miss DuBois.”

She had watched him walk toward her so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized he watched her, too. She simply nodded, letting the chair rock gently.

He took a deep breath. “Miss, I hate to leave you out here alone. Won’t you come into town with me? I could help you find someplace….”

“No!” She cut him off. “I have a place. Right here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stood quietly for a long moment as they watched each other.

He started to turn away.

“Do you—?” Cally stopped herself too late. She had caught his attention. She swallowed. “Do you want something to eat?” There. She had said it. Now what was she going to do?

“I need to get back into town. But thanks just the same.”

He strode toward his horse, placing his hat on his head as he went. He tied the coat behind the saddle and sprang aboard. In a moment he was out of the yard.

How could he dare turn down her offer of a meal!
Who did he think he was? Too good to eat with her? She was the best cook in the county. Everybody said so. Didn’t folks always snap up her pies and breads when she brought them to town?

“He better not ever show his face around here again,” she told Royal. Feeling indignant was much more comfortable than feeling grateful. With renewed energy, she got up to fix herself some lunch.

Andrew rode into the barnyard of his rented house feeling nearly overwhelmed with pity for little Calloway DuBois. He had tortured himself all the way home wondering if perhaps he should have accepted her invitation to dinner. God knew he was hungry enough, but at the time he had thought he was saving the poor girl the trouble of cooking for someone after the ordeal of the funeral.

For nearly anyone else, the neighbors would have come with food enough to fill her larder for days. But few neighbors knew Cally or her father, and most that did weren’t fond of them, especially since the trial. And, of course, this wasn’t a publicized funeral.

So he had turned her down. Now he wondered if eating with her wouldn’t have given him an opportunity to convince her to come with him to town. Clearly she couldn’t stay on the farm by herself.

He led his horse to the barn and rubbed her down before turning her into the corral. He flexed his sore shoulders as he walked to the house. After some food and a hot bath, he would make inquiries about a position for Miss Cally DuBois. There must be employment for her somewhere, but if not, he would see to her needs while he continued looking for a job.

Or a husband. That, he admitted, would be the most thorough solution. By the time he had cleaned up and dressed in a fresh white shirt and twill trousers, he had virtually dismissed the idea. Considering the girl’s disposition, finding a husband might prove impossible, even though men far outnumbered women in the community. For a moment he considered the man who would welcome the little hellion as a bride, and shuddered. She would need considerable training if she were to snare a man this side of a barbarian.

And training, of course, was another matter. How far, exactly, did his guardianship responsibilities go? Should he use some of his inheritance to send her to a school somewhere? The idea of Cally DuBois in a finishing school stretched the imagination.

By the time he left the house, he had a mental list of people to visit, but his first stop was Bill’s house. The deputy answered his knock, looking somewhat haggard. “I wanted to let you know I was back in town,” Andrew said, eyeing his deputy critically. “You aren’t coming down with something now, are you?”

Bill sighed, running his hand through his already rumpled blond hair. “No, and I think she’s a little better than she was this morning.”

Andrew couldn’t suppress a grin. “You look awful, friend.”

Bill stepped out onto the porch, letting the door close behind him. “Just between you and me, looking after a sick wife is hell. I could chase a bandit clean to Mexico and not be so worn out. She keeps thinking of housework that needs to be done or she says it’ll keep her awake.”

“You made your…”

“Don’t say it! Look, Andrew, three more days, tops. If she isn’t better I’ll see if some of her women friends can’t take turns sitting with her. I’ve got to get out of this house.”

Andrew gave his deputy a reassuring thump on the shoulder before he stepped off the porch. It was hard to build up much sympathy for the man. But then, he reminded himself, he wasn’t really in a position to understand.

He tore his note from the nail beside his office door and started toward Dr. Briggs’s house. A few steps down the boardwalk, he heard someone hail him and turned to see an elderly gent hurrying toward him.

“Mr. Sweeney,” Andrew said as the man huffed up to him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Sweeney said, reaching out to Andrew to steady himself while he struggled for breath. “I just…wanted to…catch you.”

Andrew supported the old man as best he could and looked around for a place for him to sit. “Are you all right?”

With one last deep breath, Sweeney straightened. “Fine, fine. Can we go inside?”

“Of course.” Andrew unlocked the door and motioned Sweeney in ahead of him. When the door was closed and the lamp on his desk lit, Andrew moved his chair near the one the old man had taken and sat. When he was sure Sweeney was recovered he asked, “What can I do for you?”

Sweeney smiled. “Why, I’m here about the deputy’s job, of course.”

Andrew hoped his jaw hadn’t actually hit his chest.
“Mr. Sweeney,” he began, searching for the most diplomatic words, “I was thinking of someone more…vigorous.”

“Vigorous?”

“Well, sir, a deputy’s job could get somewhat… strenuous.”

Sweeney scowled at Andrew. “You saying I’m old?”

“Ah, no, sir, but—”

“Well, see here, young man, don’t dismiss me because I’ve lived a few years. I could teach you a thing or two.”

“I’m sure you could, sir, but—”

“Well, that’s better. I was thinking I could start tomorrow. No sense wasting any time.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “Mr. Sweeney…” He hesitated. How should he put this? He tried to be gentle. “I don’t believe I can hire you as deputy.”

Mr. Sweeney seemed completely surprised. “Why ever not? You just admitted I know more than you do.”

“Yes, sir, but…you’re not…I mean…you’re—” Mr. Sweeney wasn’t taking the hint. “Old,” he finished.

Mr. Sweeney came to his feet. “I don’t think I’d care to work for someone who has no respect for his elders.”

Andrew rose and followed the old man out the door. “Sir, I don’t want you to take this personally.”

“No other way to take it, boy,” Sweeney said, stalking away.

Andrew pulled the office door closed. He stood for a moment looking after the would-be deputy. The old
man barely made it off the boardwalk without stumbling. Unfortunately, he had been one of the better applicants.

Andrew shook his head and turned in the other direction, toward Dr. Briggs’s house. His run for the doctor the night before was fresh in his mind. He had been hesitant for a second about leaving DuBois alone but knew he could do nothing for him. By the time he and the doctor had returned, the old man was nearly gone.

Dr. Briggs answered the knock. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

Andrew stepped inside and considered for a moment how best to approach the subject. He couldn’t very well demand that Briggs tell him exactly what he had said to Cally. “I have a few questions about Mr. DuBois’ death,” he said.

The doctor offered him a chair and once they were seated, Andrew continued. “You suggested last night that it was his heart. Is that still your assumption?”

The doctor nodded. “Maybe.” Dr. Briggs was a tall, thin, middle-aged man, friendly and usually straightforward.

“Maybe?” Andrew prompted.

“Well—” the doctor shifted in his seat “—the man was a drunkard. All that time since his arrest without a drink was giving him the shakes. The one drink he had that night might have been what stopped his heart.”

Andrew grew very still. “You mean the drink I gave him killed him?”

“It’s possible.”

Dr. Briggs did not seem to realize how horrifying
this news was to Andrew. “You didn’t mention this last night,” he said.

“Things got a little hectic last night.” The doctor seemed to finally notice Andrew’s expression. “Look, Sheriff, it’s just a theory. Even if it’s true, no one could think it was anything but an accident. Besides, the man was going to hang in a few days.”

Andrew nodded and rose to go. Sure, it was a minor detail. It wouldn’t matter to anyone—but him and Cally.

He thanked the doctor and headed back downtown, hoping his visit with the attorney would be more rewarding. He climbed the stairs to Mr. Cobb’s office and, after waiting a few minutes, was ushered into the inner office.

Cobb stood and shook his hand motioning him to a seat. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I need some advice,” Andrew said as he was seated.

Cobb smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“A dying man asked me to look after his daughter,” Andrew said. “What are my legal obligations?”

Cobb stared at him a moment, and Andrew wondered if this sounded foolish to the attorney. Finally Cob asked, “Were there witnesses?”

“No.” Andrew shifted forward in the seat. “I’m not trying to get out of this. I want to do right by her.”

A feral smile slowly formed on Cobb’s lips. “The DuBois girl, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s a little land involved, if my memory serves. As her legal guardian you would control that.”

Andrew was too surprised to object.

Cobb pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and began making notes. “Is there family likely to come forward and challenge your right of guardianship?”