28

Still no Asher on Mrs. Snowden’s back porch when Mitchell went down for breakfast the next day. He wasn’t surprised the dog wasn’t there, but he did look. His mother used to tell him that if a person prayed for rain, they ought to go outside expecting to get wet. But she also said sometimes it took the clouds awhile to gather.

Mitchell wanted to search for the dog. He wanted to have him in hand before he went back to the Shaker village and saw Carlyn again. But he didn’t ride out to Carlyn’s house. First, he had to hunt down Curt Whitlow. Men took precedence over dogs. Even a man like Curt Whitlow.

That Mrs. Whitlow had asked him to look for Curt meant something unusual was going on. Town gossip had it she didn’t much care whether Curt ever came home, but gossip was ofttimes wrong. Either way, it was Mitchell’s job to keep the people in his county safe. That included Curt Whitlow. What he thought of the man made no difference.

Whitlow wasn’t at any of his usual haunts. Janie at the hotel dining room said she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days.

“I’ve been wondering where he’s got to.” She looked up from wiping off a table. “He’s generally here about every other day. Says that wife of his hasn’t ever learned how he likes his eggs.” She straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “I figure she’d just as soon he found his eggs somewhere besides her kitchen. So I guess it’s no surprise he’s here a lot. A man don’t find what he needs at home, he goes looking for it.”

“He didn’t happen to tell you anywhere he might go looking,” Mitchell said.

“Money can make for plenty of places to look.” She started cleaning the table again. “But he never had any reason to share none of those places with the likes of me. I’m lucky to get a nickel tip if the cook happens to get his eggs scrambled just so.”

Billy Hogan was no help either. He looked up from cutting Harold Thompson’s hair and shook his head. “Haven’t seen Curt for a spell. Not since before he got dog bit. Figured he was laying low, taking it easy. They say he can’t even use that arm.”

Harold raised his head to add his two bits. “Doc said he had to put so many stitches in it that he lost count and Curt bellowed with every last one.” Harold’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh.

“Best sit still if you don’t want me to take a chunk out of your ear, Harold.” Billy pushed Harold’s head down to trim the hair on the man’s neck. He peered over at Mitchell. “You tracking down Curt for any special reason, Mitch?”

“Just need a little information he might have,” Mitchell said.

“Don’t have nothing to do with that fire out at the Shaker town, does it?” Billy looked back down at Harold’s head and worked his comb and scissors.

“What makes you think that?” Mitchell had found that sometimes the best way to avoid answering a question was to ask one of his own.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Billy kept clipping Harold’s hair. “Seems like I heard Curt was fussing about them people out there, but then Curt fusses about everybody. So it probably didn’t mean nothing. Can’t imagine him setting property on fire. He’d rather figure out a way to buy it for little of nothing and sell it for plenty more.”

“I doubt if the Shakers would sell any property like that,” Mitchell said. “They’re pretty shrewd with their business dealings.”

“Everybody can make a bad deal now and again. And those Shakers do like buying up land or taking it over when they get somebody to join up with them. I hear they’re trying to sell that Widow Kearney’s house now. That they paid off her debt on it.” Billy brushed off Harold’s neck with a shaving brush. “Don’t imagine Curt was too happy about that. He thought he had that house in his pocket.”

“Did he?” Mitchell pretended ignorance.

“So I heard.” Billy looked up at him. “Heard you knew all about that.”

“You can hear a lot around town. Some true. Some not.” Mitchell would let Billy guess on how much was true of what he’d heard.

“I reckon you’re right about that. Can’t believe everything you hear, can you, Harold?”

“No, indeed.” Harold looked at Mitchell in the mirror. “Not around this place anyway.” His shoulders did some more shaking as he laughed again.

“What do you hear about the Shakers and their deals?” Mitchell asked Billy.

“That they make plenty of them, but don’t guess I ever heard anybody say they tried to cheat nobody out of nothing.”

“Not much like Whitlow then.” Harold spoke up from the barber’s chair again. “Pity the poor Shaker what tried to deal with him.”

“Why’s that?” Mitchell asked.

“He’d do his best to cheat them.” Harold twisted around in the chair to look at the barber. “Wouldn’t he, Billy?”

Billy untied the cape from around Harold’s neck and shook the hair off it onto the floor. “Could be, Harold. Personally I ain’t got much use for Curt or them Shakers either. They make good brooms and the little woman likes their garden seeds, but it ain’t natural the way they live. The good Lord intended folks to get married and have children. Says so right in his Word. Go forth and be fruitful. I don’t think he meant growing apple trees.”

Harold stood up and pulled a coin out of his pocket for Billy. “Me and the missus, we raised ten young’uns, so it’s worked for us.” He sneaked a look over at Mitchell. “But the sheriff here, he’s still a bachelor. Maybe he’s got Shaker leanings.”

Billy laughed. “I think there’s some in town trying to change that.” He sat down in the barber chair Harold had vacated. “You find Widow Kearney’s dog yet?”

“Not yet.” Mitchell backed toward the door.

Harold’s face perked up. “That widow woman is some looker.”

“She is for a fact,” Billy said. “A pure waste out there, in with those Shakers. A pure waste. I think you ought to do something about that, Sheriff.”

“Don’t think matchmaking is part of a sheriff’s duties.” Mitchell smiled as he opened the door. “Besides, she’s not sure about being a widow woman. She never got any word from the government about her husband.”

“That could be a problem,” Billy said.

“But isn’t that the kind of thing a sheriff is supposed to figure out?” Harold spoke up. “Whether somebody’s dead or alive. Like that Shaker man in that fire out there. I’ve been wondering how anybody could be all that sure it was that Shaker man. Somebody was saying he was burned up pretty bad.”

“The Shakers were sure it was him,” Mitchell said.

“But maybe they were just covering something up. Like maybe it was Whitlow in the fire and now they’re hiding out that Shaker brother.” Harold hitched up his britches, enjoying the mystery he was imagining.

Billy joined in. “Wouldn’t take much hiding. Not the way they all wear the same clothes and cut their hair the same. Hard to tell one from another.”

Mitchell stopped in the door, all trace of a smile gone from his face as he looked back at the two men. “It was the Shaker in the fire. It wouldn’t be good for a crazy story like that to get out. No need bringing unnecessary grief on Mrs. Whitlow.”

“You’re right there,” Billy agreed. “The woman has grief enough putting up with Curt. We wouldn’t start any rumors, would we, Harold?”

“Naw, Sheriff. We was just funning a little.” Harold twisted his hat in his hands. “Not that the poor feller being burned up in a fire was anything to fun about. And I hear they lost horses too. Guess as how we should go back to talking about the widow woman.”

“Yes sir.” Billy shot a grin over at Mitchell. “She is a looker. A pure shame her being out there with those Shakers.”

“A pure shame.” Harold echoed as he followed Mitchell out of the barbershop.

Words that echoed in Mitchell’s heart too as he headed toward the livery stable. A pure shame for sure. But there was nothing he could do about it. Except wait and hope that eventually she would know her husband’s fate. Eventually she would be ready to give love another try. His job was to keep her safe until then.

Something about the fire and now Curt Whitlow being missing had the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He’d learned to pay attention to that feeling while he was fighting in the war. It didn’t always mean something bad was about to happen, but then again, sometimes it did. Sometimes it gave him just enough warning to duck behind a tree or keep his head down. But this time the worry wasn’t so much for himself as for Carlyn.

He shook his head. He was as bad as Billy and Harold, letting his imagination run away with him. Thinking bad things without the first bit of evidence. The fire was arson. No doubt of that. But he had absolutely no proof that anybody intended Brother Henry to die in the fire. Or any evidence that Curt Whitlow had anything to do with it.

The man had been in the Shaker village. He’d had an argument with Brother Henry. Those were the facts. Bare as they were.

He didn’t have any facts about Carlyn either. None that he wanted to have. She was married to Ambrose Kearney. Whether he was alive or dead might never be discovered. Whether she would ever leave the Shakers and embrace a new life, a new love, was something he couldn’t know. Wanting it didn’t mean it would happen.

It was time to stop dreaming about what might be and think about what was. He was a sheriff charged with upholding the law. The law dealt in facts, not maybes. The facts were she had given him her dog, not her heart. And he hadn’t even been able to hang on to the dog, but maybe he could find him.

Another one of those maybes. They seemed to be haunting his thoughts lately. Maybe the Shaker fire covered up a murder. Maybe Curt Whitlow was away on business, whatever business that was. Maybe Carlyn’s husband had been killed in the war. Maybe the Shakers didn’t want him to ask questions just because he was of the world. Maybe he was foolishly in love with a woman who had given him absolutely no indication that she might welcome his feelings. Could be that last wasn’t a maybe, but a big mistake. Maybe he should just go dog hunting.

The house was deserted, sitting lonesome on its little bit of land. Leaves were drifted up on the porch against the door and a spiderweb draped down from the corner post. The dog was nowhere in sight. Mitchell got off his horse and walked around to the back, but if the dog had come here, he’d moved on when he didn’t find Carlyn.

Mitchell stood in the yard and listened. Nothing disturbed the day’s calm except the distant caw of a crow. A burst of wind rustled through the maple overhead and brought down a rush of yellow and red leaves. After the wind settled again, he whistled and called. It was a waste of breath.

The silence surrounded Mitchell again. The day was half over and so far he’d found out absolutely nothing. No trace of Curt Whitlow or of the dog. Could be he should go on back to town and wait for a lead to surface. It would eventually. Whitlow had to come home sometime. While Mitchell chased whispers in the wind that might or might not mean anything, his other duties were being neglected.

He mounted his horse and turned back toward town. The sound of the Shaker bell drifting across the fields stopped him. This close to their village, it would be a waste not to go see if the Shakers had discovered anything new that might help Mitchell figure out who had set the fire. Catching those who committed crimes was the most important part of his duties.

Besides, the dog might have tracked Carlyn down. If so, he needed to get the dog. If she would let him have Asher again. But what other choice would she have? The Shakers weren’t rule benders. If they had a rule against dogs when she first went to the village, they still would. Carlyn would need him to take the dog.

He liked the thought of her needing him, even if it was only for the dog. It was a connection. A reason to talk. A reason to look into her beautiful eyes. He didn’t know how he’d let himself be captivated so quickly by her when no other woman after Hilda had been able to penetrate his defenses. Carlyn hadn’t even tried. She’d simply stood in her doorway, holding a gun, and stolen his heart. He needed to get to know her better to see if the way he felt was real or simply a fantasy.

The Shaker elders might not let him talk to her again, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make sure their paths crossed in the village. He knew which house she was in. And the last time he was there, Elder Derron had sent a sister to the washhouse to summon her. He could watch for her there. Wait for a chance to talk to her without the old sister hovering around her.

Whether he got to talk to her or not, it would be good to see her, to ease his mind about her safety. He had no real reason to think she wasn’t safe there. The Shakers were a peace-loving people. They spoke against any kind of strife or conflict with their fellow man. Yet, a man had died in a fire intentionally set. Only hours after Carlyn had seen him arguing with Curt Whitlow, and now he couldn’t find Whitlow. Things didn’t add up and Mitchell had the uneasy feeling more trouble was brewing.

He urged his horse into a faster trot.