“And you?”
She was startled he asked. Such surprise did little to dismiss the black knot of fear that hadn’t left her stomach since her first glimpse of the bandit’s eyes. Like peering right into evil, it was. “I’ll be fine.”
Sheriff Wright shook his head. “Your hands are still shaking.” Holly tucked her hands into the folds of her skirt. “See to yourself is all I’m saying.” His voice sounded uncomfortable with the words, as though letting them out by force rather than concern. He straightened his hat and shifted in his seat. “You’ve been through just as much as they have. Sleeping with a gaggle of fussy youngsters doesn’t sound too sensible to me.”
Sensible? There were days when Holly felt like hearing that word once more would drown her in dullness. Nothing about today—nothing about how she currently felt, or who was in the back of this wagon, or what body would be lying in the back of Doc Simpson’s office—felt sensible.
And as for sleep, Holly didn’t think sleep would visit her tonight. Not when the clamoring silence of Mr. Arlington’s lifeless body echoed every time she closed her eyes.
* * *
When the wagon pulled up on Second Street and the church steeple came into view, Mason finally let down his guard. He’d barely been able to speak after she’d said “Thank you” with all that frailty in her eyes, and the spot where she touched him fairly burned from the memory. The impulse to grab her up and pull her from harm’s way had been a primal reaction, one his body hadn’t yet released. Holly Sanders always made him jittery ten ways ’til Sunday, and today hadn’t helped.
“Oh, thank You, Jesus!” Her sigh echoed far too close to his shoulder. “I don’t know when I’ve ever been so glad to be home.” Mason was sure he could hear her big blue eyes flutter.
There were good reasons he sat far away from those eyes during church services—on the rare occasions he even darkened the church door. It wasn’t disinterest that kept Mason away from Holly Sanders’s endless classroom projects. He resisted the pull of that woman with every protective bone in his body, knowing her book-and-fairy-tale world had no room for someone with the dark tale his life told. He wasn’t blind to her admiration—he’d caught too many of her stares not to see she fancied him—but that was only because Holly Sanders didn’t know the full story. If he told her, it’d put an end to her admiration, surely. Only, some part of him liked that regard as much as the other part of him resisted it. Seeing her in danger today had jumbled up his insides too much to think clearly. “I’m glad to have everyone safe back in town,” he admitted, meaning far more than the words conveyed on their polite surface.
Evans Grove was a small town, laid out in a tidy little grid around the town square they were just passing. As the wagon rumbled past Victory Street where the church was, he saw Miss Sanders’s nose wrinkle up in thought. “Speaking of safe,” she asked, “what will you do with the safe? Doesn’t it belong to the railroad?”
“I’ve been thinking on that.” He had. That safe contained more gold than Evans Grove had seen in a good long while, and while he knew from Curtis Brooks that there weren’t other railroad passengers’ funds or valuables in there, others did not. “It’s not the kind of thing we can leave unprotected. As for the rail line, I filed a report with the conductor, but with that kind of damage, I doubt they’ll want it back. It’ll spend the night with me in the sheriff’s office and then we’ll get Charlie Miller to open it in the morning.” Mason felt sure the village smithy—husband of the same Charlotte Miss Sanders just spoke of recruiting to help with the children—would be able to work that damaged door off its hinges.
“And then what?”
He allowed himself the luxury of watching her face’s peculiar vitality when working out a problem. All scrunched up and amusing, it was. It must be what made her the type to be a good teacher. Not him. Mason would rather deal with bandits than herd youngsters any day. The whining from the back of the wagon this afternoon had just about done him in, even though it didn’t seem to faze her one bit.
“The ‘then what’ is best kept between just a few, if you don’t mind.” He did not care to venture into a detailed discussion about anything with her, and keeping that gold hidden and secure was his top priority. Far too much depended on it.
“I’m sure you and Mr. Brooks will work something out.” She turned, looking behind her down the street for the other wagon.
“They’ll be another hour, I expect.”
“Are you sure they’re safe?”
He’d already gone over the tactic twice with Curtis Brooks. “I wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. You just worry about—”
“Look at that!” came a small voice from behind them on the wagon as they drove past Gavin’s General Store, which happened to have an unfortunate display of hard candies out in the window. “I’m hungry!”
“Me, too,” came another, followed by two more. Mason’s own stomach grumbled in sympathy.
“Goodness.” Miss Sanders’s hand went to her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast. I do hope Beatrice got to the ladies’ society.”
“You know Beatrice,” Mason chuckled. “She gets to everybody.”
As the town square came into view, Mason pointed to the collection of tables now set in the grove of Hackberry trees that gave the town its name. A gaggle of women chattered and scurried around Beatrice Ward, dashing here and there under the spinster’s barked commands. Flowers, tablecloths and other frills made the last-minute meal seem as if it had been planned for weeks.
“What a welcome for those tired folk!” Miss Sanders placed her hands on her chest. “God bless Beatrice Ward and the ladies’ society.”
Now there’s a thought I’d never have, Mason pondered as he pulled the wagon onto Liberty Street and headed for the town hall.
It was a matter of minutes before the wagon was surrounded by the good people of Evans Grove, and Miss Ward was giving a long, too-formal welcome speech. Impromptu as it was, the cobbled-together spread and Miss Ward’s grandiose gestures could make a person think they had stumbled into the annual town picnic. Had Miss Sterling taken note of the many buildings that were still in bad shape? Would Mr. Brooks realize how many lives had been washed away a month ago? Hope was wearing mighty thin in Evans Grove, but at least it was still alive.
“Come, Rebecca, sit down and have a glass of water. I’ll tend to the children.” Mason watched Holly Sanders guide Miss Sterling to a seat. How did the teacher manage such a cheerful and upbeat tone like that? He felt as if he’d lived a month in the last five hours. She must feel as bad, if not worse. He got his answer when he saw her put her hand to her forehead and straighten up far too slowly from helping that tiniest of girls. He wasn’t the only one hiding wounds today in Evans Grove.
Mason told himself to look away, but when her gaze met his, he found he could not. A shadow crossed her pale blue eyes; he could see it even from this distance across the shady clearing. His mind pulled up the unwelcome memory of the desperate grip she’d given him over Mr. Arlington’s dead body. He recalled the hesitant touch she’d given him in the wagon. The day had done something to her, to be sure. Taken something from her, although he couldn’t say what just yet.
Then again he wasn’t sure just what the day had stripped from him, either. He only knew something under his ribs was out of place, and it wasn’t the sort of thing Doc Simpson could put right.
He needed to get out of here, away from the jumble her eyes made of his thoughts. He forced her touch out of his mind, tamping it down the way he tamped down all those sorts of things anymore. He had a foursome of criminals, a broken safe full of gold and a body to tend to. He had no time for picnics. Ignoring the look Beatrice Ward gave him when he snatched a pair of rolls from the buffet