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 table, Mason turned back toward the wagon and the duties still awaiting him.
Life wasn’t going to allow him such an easy out, for Holly Sanders caught up with him just as he was about to swing up into the seat. “You should eat.” Her tone of voice was...what? Complicated was the only word that came to mind—half request, half scolding, and weighted with the combined gains and losses of the day.
He held up the pair of rolls as his answer, unsure of what words to use given the set of her eyes.
“More than that.” Her hands parked on her hips while her voice wove a combination of lecture and teasing. Did she realize what that half-playful tone did to him, or was that just a cruel trick of circumstance?
“Too much yet to do.” He shrugged. “I’ve got...things...to attend to that can’t wait for supper.” He saw her shoulders sag and knew he hadn’t hidden the weight of his tasks behind an innocent word like “things.” She’d tried to re-pin her hair during the ride, but wayward strands of her chestnut-colored locks still eluded that tight bun she always wore. The lace on one of her sleeves had torn, and he realized the brown smear on the hem of her pretty skirt was blood.
It bothered him that her gaze followed his, that she knew what his eyes registered. She worried her hands together, delicate fingers rubbing each other as if it would erase the taint of the day. “Where is...he?” He knew she was speaking of Arlington’s body, but her eyes looked up from her skirt to fix on Liam. The boy sat quietly on a bench running his fingers around the rim of a glass of lemonade. All the children were a heartbreaking mix of fidgety, tired and afraid.
“He’s at Doc Simpson’s, I suppose. He’s got no kin here to lay him out.”
Her sigh pressed against the hollow spot opening in his chest. “He has a wife...had a wife. And a daughter, according to Miss Sterling. We should wire—”
“No point until the morning, really. It’s kinder that way, anyhow.” Mason tried not to think of the story she should never know, the story of his own worst night. He’d barely survived the endless, excruciating hours after coming home to the body of his wife. To the loss of the child who in two months’ time would have come into the world as his firstborn. No, he thought, bad news is best saved for daylight.
She straightened her shoulders—almost by sheer will this time, not hiding her wince. It was the worst kind of torture that she’d shown a new side of herself to him today. He hadn’t counted on Holly Sanders’s gumption, thinking she had smarts enough but no strength. Her bravery at the rail line had shown that a lie. A man with his history could recognize a glossed-over wound a mile off. “Miss Sanders, you all right?” The words tumbled out of him, odd and over-fussy.
“Why yes, of course I am,” she replied too quickly, her voice pitched too high for calm.
“Surely that can’t have been the first time you’ve seen a man dead?” It was a fool thing to ask. Evans Grove had lost so many in the flood, nearly everyone had kin or friends now gone, and this was the last kind of conversation he should be having with Holly Sanders.
“No.” She looked him in the eye, her expression fierce and kind and hurt all at once with a dozen other things besides. “But it is the first time a man’s been killed right in front of me.” Her hands fisted against that pretty skirt. “And I hate the way it feels. When I think of what it must feel like for Rebecca or any of those sweet children, I...” She bit off the end of her thought, jaw working to hold her composure steady. “I’d better go tend to the beds. We’d best get those exhausted children washed and trundled off right after supper.”
How well Mason knew that impulse, that “stay busy or it’ll swamp up over me” drive. It had been his constant companion in the months after Phoebe’s death. Phoebe’s murder.
“You should eat.” Without thinking, he offered one of his rolls with her own earlier command. It was a pointless gesture—the woman was perfectly capable of fixing herself a plate—but he found himself unwilling to go so far as to voice the “take care of yourself, too” he was thinking.
The message got through, anyway, for she managed to open her hand and take the roll. With a half a smile, she took a reluctantly obedient bite, straightened her shoulders one last time, and turned toward the schoolhouse.
Mason was still pondering the image of that half smile when he fell asleep at his desk in the sheriff’s office three hours later.
Chapter Four
It took longer than Holly guessed for her and Charlotte Miller to get things in order. The simple task of gathering up bedding and getting the nine pallets laid out on the schoolroom floor felt endless. Still, she reminded herself all of Evans Grove was pitching in to help. Pauline Evans and Beatrice Ward had consented to partner up to get Mr. Brooks settled at the Creekside Hotel, although Holly wasn’t sure Mr. Brooks would survive that team. His importance surely ensured a warm welcome and attentive hosting, but none of that would change the wounds of the day. Even friendly, attentive strangers were still strangers.
“Goodness, I think that’s the last of them,” said Charlotte as she folded the facecloth of the last washed child. “Why don’t you take Miss Sterling across the yard to your house to wash up,” Charlotte suggested, making Holly think she and Rebecca now looked as bedraggled as she felt. “I’ll mind the little ones until you get back.” A few years older than Holly but with just as much energy, Charlotte rubbed her neck but smiled at the row of clean faces peeking out from under blankets and afghans. “The ones who aren’t asleep already won’t stay awake for long.”
When Rebecca hesitated, Holly took her by the arm. “I’m sure Charlotte will send for us if any of the children need you. You need rest, and tomorrow’s tasks will come soon enough.” She was sorry to have mentioned tomorrow’s sad tasks, for she saw Rebecca’s eyes well up. The poor woman had been holding back tears all day. Holly felt like crying herself, still feeling the pull of nerves wound tight.
Rebecca looked back at the schoolhouse twice during the walk across the yard, but allowed Holly to bring her into the tidy frame teacherage that sat across the school yard from the classroom. Home had never felt more wonderful. Holly loved her home, took comfort in the familiarity of her things. She’d always felt the house’s contents gave her a measure of strength and stability after venturing out into the prairie to help meet the need for frontier teachers. The teapot and the pretty china cups that had been her grandmother’s, the rows of precious books, all these things seemed to offer a welcome embrace as she pulled the door shut. The house was warm and cozy, for she had remembered to duck in and start the stove—not to mention start some water warming—just after supper on the square. “I think some tea and a wash up will do wonders, don’t you?”
Rebecca gave a silent nod. She clutched a handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist, rosy lips set thin and tight. Hanging on by the thinnest of threads, she was. Holly couldn’t blame her one bit—out here in the middle of nowhere, alone to face such a daunting task. Holly’s big trip to Newfield had felt so large and important yesterday; now it felt small