Chapter Twenty-eight

Lawrence, Kansas, late April 1856

 

 

 

Mrs. Presgrove?” An old lady’s voice, high and shaking. Carrie wheels around. The street is empty except for a man who is standing beside his horse inspecting the cinch on his saddle. As she walks toward him, he straightens up and turns toward her. He has red cheeks, curly white-blond hair, and blue eyes that seem slightly glassy.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says, “did you hear someone call out a name?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You didn’t hear an old woman?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am.” He tips his hat. “Pleased to have been of service.”

Carrie walks on, wondering if she imagined it. Behind her, Henry Clark finishes tightening the cinch on his saddle. “Mrs. Presgrove?” he whispers in a trembling, old-lady voice. He laughs and slaps his horse on the rump. Found her! he thinks.