Maureen McKade (10 page)

“He ‘taught’ me.”

Dylan frowned. “That’s what I said.”

Fondly, Libby smiled at the boy, imagining Matt painstakingly showing Dylan each number and explaining what the zeroes meant. “What would you do with a thousand dollars?”

“I’d get me a dog and a horse and a gun.”

“What would you do with a gun?”

“I’d practice with it until I could draw as fast as the
sheriff, then I’d leave this old town and never come back.”

“Wouldn’t the sheriff be lonely without you? I know I’d miss you.”

Dylan scrunched up his face and thought for a moment. “You and the sheriff can come with me.”

Libby clasped his chapped hand and squeezed gently. “That’s very generous of you, Dylan, but you won’t solve any problem by running away from it.”

The impulsive words were spoken before she could stop herself.
Who am I to be giving advice I can’t even follow?

Dylan shrugged and looked at the next paper. “He looks mean.”

Libby read the crimes he’d allegedly committed. “He should. He killed three men.”

Dylan’s dark eyes saucered. “I bet we’d get a lot of money if we caught him.”

“Ten thousand dollars.”
What price is on my head?

They continued leafing through the papers, studying each outlaw’s picture and the heinous crimes associated with each man. With every new sheet, Libby held her breath, wondering if her likeness would be next. The pile trickled down until only a few remained.

“I figured you’d be here.”

Libby glanced up to see a blond woman with a heavy layer of powder on her face, and eyelashes spiked with black coloring. Frigid blue eyes studied her and a scowl curled the woman’s red lips.

“I’m afraid the sheriff isn’t here,” Libby said.

“I wasn’t looking for the sheriff. I was looking for my son and looks like I found him.” The woman’s throaty voice grated like fingernails on a chalkboard, and Libby clenched her teeth.

She rose from behind the battered desk and stepped around Dylan. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Rivers.”

She ignored Libby’s outstretched hand and sniffed
contemptuously. “It’s miss, not missus. You must be the new schoolteacher.”

Libby withdrew her hand and intertwined her fingers to cover their trembling. She fought the urge to scratch out the callous eyes. “That’s right. Libby O’Hanlon. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Sadie stepped forward on surprisingly tiny black high-heeled boots and grabbed Dylan’s arm. “There ain’t nothing we need to talk about. He’s got chores to do at home.”

Libby’s fingers curled around Sadie’s spangled wrist. “Let go of him.”

A flinty gaze clashed with Libby’s eyes and moved downward to her unflinching hold. “Take your uppity hands off me! He’s my son and you have no right telling me what I can and can’t do to him.”

Dylan remained Sadie’s prisoner, his muscles tense, but he didn’t attempt to escape.

“You don’t have the right to be working him to death or beating him. A child isn’t a possession to do with what you please, but a responsibility to see that he is loved and knows right from wrong,” Libby exclaimed.

“I said take your lily white hands off me.”

Orneriness kept Libby’s grasp about the thin wrist a moment longer. She released it reluctantly. They battered stares like two mountain goats fighting over a piece of a cliff.

“You and the sheriff had best learn you got no business interfering with my son. I won’t stop him from coming to school, but you remember this, he isn’t going to be nothing but a bastard. No amount of learning can change that.”

“He can be whatever he wants to be, Miss Rivers.” Libby noticed Dylan’s pasty complexion. “I’d like to talk to him for a minute, then I’ll bring him home.”

“You’ve talked to him all day. I need him now.”

Libby bit her tongue. “Please.”

A triumphant sneer thinned Sadie’s lips. “Well, since you put it so nice and polite-like.” She released Dylan. “I want you home in five minutes.”

Dylan nodded, fear clouding his expression.

Sadie glanced about the cluttered office and a cruel smile lit her ruby lips. “I see Sheriff Brandon isn’t back yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s frozen under ten feet of snow. Who says Fate doesn’t have a sense of humor?”

Her chilling laughter echoed off the sturdy walls long after the door slammed behind her.

Moisture pooled in Dylan’s luminescent eyes. “Is he really dead?”

Libby knelt in front of the boy and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He jerked back, away from the comforting gesture. Startled, Libby studied the abject fear written in his features. His mother had already left an indelible mark of terror in Dylan, but a thread of trust still twined through the wariness. It wasn’t too late. Yet.

“Do you know what tomorrow is, Dylan?” Libby asked softly.

He shrugged.

Libby’s heart twisted at the boy’s apathy. “It’s Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Potts said she’s going to cook a huge turkey. There’ll be so much food we’re going to need help eating it all. We’d really appreciate it if you’d come over and eat with us.”

A spark of interest flared in Dylan’s dull face. “I don’t know if I can get away from my ma.”

“I’ll come over and get you at noon, and you can spend the rest of the day with Mrs. Potts and me. After we eat, we can play checkers or read or whatever you’d like to do.”

Animation brightened his grave countenance. “Ma usually don’t wake up until late, so she won’t know.”

Libby got to her feet. “All right. You be ready to go when I come to get you.” She held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Dylan grasped it. Nearly overcome by the simple gesture of trust, Libby blinked to dam the threatening tears.

After a silent trek across the street and down the alley, they arrived at the huge white house. The imposing structure didn’t impress Libby, for she’d lived in a far larger home. However, the method by which the house had been paid for disgusted her. Leaving Dylan in such a place, no matter how ostentatious, brought an internal rebellion. At that moment she didn’t know who she hated more: Sadie Rivers for raising Dylan in such a place, or herself for abandoning him.

She gazed down into vulnerable blue pools. “I’ll be here tomorrow to get you, Dylan. I promise.”

He nodded but didn’t release her hand. His fathomless stare brought an ache to Libby’s chest. She stepped away first.

“Goodbye, Miss O’Hanlon.” The tone of his voice reminded Libby of a death knell.

“Good night, Dylan,” she managed to choke out.

He entered the back door and Libby turned away. Her breath froze in the air, creating a haze of white that dissipated before the next cloud formed. She blinked back the moisture banking her eyes. How could Dylan’s mother treat him like a beast of burden and call him such spiteful names?

She’d been in Deer Creek less than two weeks, and was already entangled in the lives of a mistreated boy and an enigmatic lawman. What was wrong with her? She had her own problems, her own horrible secrets to keep hidden. But no matter how much she wanted to forget Dylan and Matt, she could do so no more easily than she could make her soft heart stop beating.

Libby brushed aside a lone tear. She had forfeited
her chance to be a mother when she’d killed Harrison. She suppressed a sob and pressed her fists into her stomach. She’d sacrificed everything to save her sanity. Had the price been too high?

By nightfall Matt had not yet returned, and Libby’s nerves were strung tighter than a piano wire. She’d eaten supper at the unusually quiet table, and as soon as she’d forced down a few mouthfuls, she readied herself for bed. Removing the somber clothing that had become her uniform, she replaced it with a petal-soft, snow white nightgown. Brushing her full auburn hair, she counted the strokes but found her concentration lacking. At what she thought was one hundred whisks through the riotous tendrils, Libby braided the mass into a thick plait extending nearly to her waist.

She added a log to the fireplace and crawled into bed. Her stiff body refused to relax, and the confrontation with Dylan’s mother played across her mind. How could a woman treat her own son so deplorably? Matt had no family connections to the boy, yet he cared for him as if Dylan were his own. Libby blinked.
Could he be Matt’s child?
Perhaps he and Sadie had known each other during the war, and Dylan had been the result of that “friendship.” The possibility seemed slight, especially since Matt had fought for the Confederacy and Dylan’s mother had no trace of a southern accent. No, if he were Dylan’s father, Matt would do anything short of murder to get the boy away from the heartless woman.

Libby reached for a book on the bed stand. She studied the frayed cover of her favorite dime novel,
Ambush at Chimney Rock.
Perhaps escaping into an imaginary adventure would banish her dismal thoughts for a little while. Libby scanned the first page, but visions of Matt snowbound in the night intruded. Where was he? Had he found a place to
escape the brutal wind and heavy snowfall? Or had he fallen into a deep crevice in the side of a mountain, and lay buried alive? She envisioned him trying to dig out of the wintry grave, his strong hands bloody from ice and desperation. Libby attempted to dispel the tormented images, but tendrils of fear wrapped themselves about her chest and squeezed tightly.

She tossed the book aside and threw back her covers. Pulling on her long flannel robe, Libby settled into the rocking chair. Shadows created by the flickering fire danced on the walls. A man’s voice from the street hollered an obscenity, and footsteps clomped on the boardwalk below. Faint snores from George Johnson’s room floated up through the floorboards. The normal, everyday sounds held no place in the whirling tumult of her mind: Matt was missing, Dylan was all alone, and she was a murderer.

Libby lifted four plates down from a cupboard and carried them into the dining room. A minute later she returned to the kitchen and sniffed appreciatively at the varied aromas, the dominant one being the turkey baking in the oven.

“I hadn’t realized Mr. Johnson had relatives living in town,” she commented to Lenore.

“He spends every holiday with his sister and her family but doesn’t see much of them otherwise. And Virgil, he heads to his brother’s place over near Juniper for Thanksgiving and Christmas, as long as there isn’t a blizzard brewing. Course, I recall him going there one year with a norther coming. I tried to talk him out of it but you know men. It was like talking to a post—just as dense, if you know what I mean.”

Libby grinned. “I know exactly what you mean. My father and brother were the same way.”

Lenore stirred the lumpy gravy vigorously, splashing some on top of the stove. “Where do they live?”

Libby’s amused smile fled. “Father died about seven years ago and Corey was killed in the war. I don’t have any other family.”

A plump hand patted Libby’s arm. “You got me. You remind me of my girl, Sara.” Lenore opened the stove. “Another hour or so and it’ll be ready.”

Libby’s expressive eyes widened at the succulent turkey. “How are four of us going to eat all that?”

Lenore’s jolly face creased in a grin. “You haven’t seen a seven-year-old boy put away food, have you?”

She shook her head.

Lenore closed the oven door and speared a potato in the boiling pot. “It’s a sight to behold. When my Daniel was seven, he couldn’t get enough to eat. I would make six pies and set them out to cool, and I swear Daniel would have one eaten and be working on the second before I could catch him. Boys start filling up in the toes and work up. By the time they’re full up to the top of their heads, their toes are empty again. Besides, Eli can do some damage to a good meal, too, and when Matt gets here, why, we’ll be lucky if we have enough.”

“You really think Matt’s going to make it back for dinner?” Libby asked hopefully.

“Not a doubt. He’s not going to miss out on my corn bread stuffing.”

Despite Lenore’s optimism, worry for Matt’s safety overshadowed the holiday mood. Libby prayed for his return, but didn’t expect the supplication to be answered. Too many entreaties had been ignored by God in the past few years. To distract her disheartening thoughts, she asked, “Where are all your children now?”

“Scattered to the four winds. Two died when they were just young’uns. Then I got a couple down in Missouri, another in Kentucky, one settled in Colorado, and one is back east in Philadelphia.”

“Do you get to see them at all?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like. Miss the grandchildren, too. Got eleven of them.” She handed Libby a jar. “Here, open this and put some of those pickles in a bowl.”

Libby wrapped a corner of her apron around the lid and twisted until the cover turned. Vinegar and pickling spices tickled her nose. Using a fork, she fished into the jar. “So why do you stay here? You could go down to Missouri and be closer to some of them.”

Lenore leaned a fleshy hip against a wood counter and shook her head. Gray curls dipped around her face. “I wouldn’t want to be a burden to them. Besides, I have a life here. Who would mend Eli’s clothes, or cook for you and the others? No, Deer Creek is where I plan to spend the rest of my days and, God willing, that will be a few more years.”

“You have everything you want, don’t you?” Libby asked softly.

Lenore turned back to the stove. “Nobody ever has everything they want, but some of us get real close. I always say it’s no use looking at a glass of milk and saying it’s half empty when it’s really half full. Now, you’d best go get Dylan before he thinks you forgot him.”

“It’s still a little early.”

“Better early than late, especially with a little shaver like him.”

Libby nodded and reached behind her to pull the bow loose at the back of her apron. She tugged it over her head and whisked out of the kitchen.

Five minutes later she arrived at the brothel and knocked softly. She glanced around uneasily and shifted her feet, wondering what Mrs. Beidler would say if she spied her. She held a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle the giggle as she imagined a purple face and throbbing veins on the woman’s horse face. The livid violet would match her cape and hat.