The bright orange sun was fading behind the mountain, and the shadows of the coming night crept over the land. Jesse’s saddle groaned. The closer they got to town, the harder his chest pounded. A whippoorwill hidden above in an evergreen branch called out. Nathanial hummed a soft song. Slouched in the saddle, Sheriff Crosson whistled along in a low pitch. Everyone seemed relaxed except him.
Ahead of them—not far, maybe twenty feet—loomed the wooden bridge into Gray Rock. Jesse jerked up on the reins. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go farther, couldn’t spend the night in jail. Mr. Wallace had taught him to face his trouble; that’s what men did. He wasn’t a coward like Pa, but he sure did feel yellow.
“Ya ain’t goin’ to jail, son.” It seemed the sheriff had been able to read Jesse’s panicked face.
“Then why the hell did you drag me to town and waste my damn time? Don’t you think by now Mr. Wallace has a posse of his men out huntin’ for me? I should explain the reason for my absence to my boss before I’m thought to be dead or a deserter.”
Sheriff Crosson’s brow bunched into a deep scowl. He jumped off his horse, grabbed Jesse by the coat collar, and with one hard yank, he was ripped out of the saddle. Only, he didn’t hit the ground. He was held on boot tips by a fisted wad of clothing at his neck. Sheriff Crosson’s cold stare lifted the hair on the back of Jesse’s neck. A rough hand cupped his face, or he would’ve looked away. Nose to nose, Jesse shivered, waiting to get punched.
“Don’t ever speak to me with that kind of language again, especially in front of my son.” The sheriff had Jesse’s collar twisted so damn tight it nearly cut off his breath, just as the noose had choked him.
“Yes, sir.” Jesse stiffly nodded.
When the sheriff let loose, Jesse gasped for air. The half-pint didn’t seem a bit spooked, no wide eyes, and he hadn’t shrunk away from what could’ve been a fight. Jesse’s hands were still shaking. Perhaps the kid had witnessed such manhandling before. After all, he was the son of a lawman, but Jesse sensed it was more than that by the way the little boy sat in the saddle as relaxed as could be.
Jesse straightened his clothes, got on his horse, and two minutes later, they were riding three wide down the center of Gray Rock. Cheery piano music came from Pete’s saloon. Jesse sure could use a cold mug of beer, though one might not be enough to settle his raw nerves.
Half a dozen horses stood lazily along the hitch rail, and just as many people spotted the length of the street. Mr. Henderson, a man who Jesse knew only as the owner of the general store, swept the boardwalk in front of the display windows where an open sign, painted with red letters, hung. He glanced, then straightened and stared. So did a nicely dressed couple as they strolled the boardwalk arm in arm, no longer secretly laughing with one another. Of course, a noisy mutt barked somewhere, reminding Jesse that he wasn’t wanted there. That he didn’t belong, wasn’t one of these decent folks who would never accept him. He’d tried for years without luck.
A bull-size hombre with a shock of yellow hair strolled out of the gunsmith’s shop. With clubs like that on the ends of his arms, who needed a gun? He waved at Sheriff Crosson as he stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.
“You two go on. I’ll catch up.” The sheriff trotted his horse over.
“Who’s that your pa’s talkin’ to?” Although Jesse had grown up in the area, he didn’t know everyone. The town had doubled, maybe tripled in size since he was a kid. Lots of new ranches on the outskirts too.
“That’s Big John Filson. He’s my friend Johnny’s pa.”
Surely that conversation didn’t have anything to do with Jesse or stolen cows? No one in town would’ve heard about the hanging, not this soon. “What do you think they’re talkin’ about?”
The kid shrugged.
Jesse was still sweating his fate. Why? He didn’t exactly feel like a prisoner, though he wasn’t being turned loose to hightail it back to the Seven-C. What reason would the sheriff have for keeping Jesse with him? Didn’t make any sense. Maybe once they got wherever they were going, he would get some answers.
When the sheriff had caught up, they’d ridden close to two miles. The sky was crimson and the air colder.
“Where are you taking me?” Jesse had no sooner asked than a well-kept ranch yard and house came into sight. There was a glow of light gleaming through the downstairs windows. A white picket fence lined the yard around the house. Jesse didn’t know who lived there. Maybe the sheriff had made some kind of mistake.
“Store your tack in the barn and put your horse in the corral.” The sheriff unsaddled the bay.
Jesse stepped down and stood quiet for a minute as the sheriff then stripped the small saddle off the buckskin. With one in each hand and the half-pint on his heels, Sheriff Crosson carried both leather pieces into the barn, leaving Jesse standing there scratching his head.
This looked to be a nice place, but where the hell was he and why had he been brought there? He pulled the saddle off his horse while looking every direction for some clue but saw nothing familiar.
When he pushed the door open and paused, taking it all in, the sheriff pointed to where Jesse could set his gear. The place was in order—saddles lined up, hay straightened and stacked. Even sacks of grain were neatly put away. It was the cleanest-looking outfit he’d ever seen.
Somehow he could sense that Sheriff Crosson was more relaxed standing in that barn than he’d been since the day before, but Jesse wasn’t.
“I ain’t the sheriff when I’m at home. Call me Nolan.” He glanced away and playfully dropped his hat over the kid’s head, making him giggle.
What? Jesse was dumbstruck, stumbling back a big step. Sheriff Nolan Crosson wasn’t just some ordinary lawman. Jesse had heard stories all along the cow trails from Wyoming to Texas about that man’s famed reputation. He’d been described in many a newsprint as the best tracker who ever lived. He’d learned his skills from Bill Hickok, and he’d led a posse with Dave Mather. Those were some big names and tough men. Jesse would have loved to have been in the sheriff’s pocket back then.
Why would a man such as that have any interest in a dead cattle thief’s son? Sheriff Crosson had done his duty when he spared an innocent man’s life. Why hadn’t he just left it at that? Jesse hadn’t expected any of what had happened so far, but especially not this. Around town, the sheriff wasn’t known to be the friendliest fella—not unfriendly, but rather serious-minded and not exactly overly social. Why had he bought him there? This all had to be a dream, but Jesse wasn’t about to pinch himself.
An excitement to find out sprang up in him. He was nobody worthy. Obviously, the sheriff had seen something he liked in Jesse’s character. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be standing in that barn. One man didn’t just bring another into his home without there being some sort of trust, and the sheriff hardly knew Jesse at all. He must have been following a strong instinct.
The half-pint hung piggyback on the sheriff’s shoulders as the three of them walked out of the barn. Nathanial merrily chattered away in his pa’s ear. This was not the same stern-faced man Jesse had watched hang Pa and his brothers.
Jesse lagged behind them by a few steps. Nathanial now sat on his pa’s shoulders for the short distance from the barn to the house, and the two of them together had to duck through the door. The little boy got flipped down in fun and planted on his feet.
“Run along and wash for supper.” The sheriff playfully swatted at his son’s backside, and the boy tore off through the house.
When the sheriff hung his hat on a peg, Jesse quickly removed his, fiddling with the brim. The sweet smell of fresh-baked apple pie made his mouth water. Maybe he’d be invited for supper. Why else would the sheriff have him come inside? Jesse’s stomach rumbled.
He took a good, hard gander in hopes of forgetting his hunger pains. The house wasn’t fancy but nice and gave a sense of welcome and comfort. A small fire, enough to warm the room, burned in the fireplace, and family photographs lined the mantel. A rocking chair padded with pillows and a stuffed red lounging settee faced the dancing flames. Store-bought rugs covered sections of the wood floor, adding to the friendly warmth of the room.
Everywhere, the walls were either papered or painted. That wasn’t something Jesse had seen in every home. Checkered curtains hung the length of the windows. This was the kind of place Ma would have liked. The cabin he would be going back to was bare log boards. This for sure was a place he could call home.
A doorway on his left and near the bottom of the staircase opened into what appeared to be the sheriff’s office. Hand-drawn maps of the territory were framed and hung on the walls behind a mahogany desk where a cigar box sat on the corner. Hardback books lined a shelf. Jesse couldn’t read the titles from that many paces, but maybe the sheriff would let him borrow one to take back to the cabin with him. Nights there would be awful lonely and his days too full of cows.
Something else caught his eyes. A polished Henry rifle stood upright, stationed in a wall rack. That was a fine piece of weaponry.
A pan clanked, and Jesse looked through a well-lit dining room. The kitchen was on the far side, and the sheriff was in there talking to someone Jesse couldn’t see, probably explaining why he was there. He wished he knew that answer.
A pretty strawberry-haired woman with her arm weaved around the crook of the sheriff’s walked toward him from the kitchen. She had a lovely, welcoming smile and kept it as her focus dipped for a few seconds, staring at the burn on his neck. A slight flush rose in Jesse’s face.
“This is my wife, Kate, and our daughter, Elizabeth.” The sheriff held a squirming baby girl with fair, ringed hair in one arm. That wide grin of Sheriff Crosson’s couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than pride. He bounced the baby and played peek-a-boo using the bib tied around her neck. It became clear that family was very important here.
Jesse tipped his head. “Jesse Adams, ma’am.”
“When can we eat? I’m starving!” the little boy hollered from the dining room. That caterwaul reminded Jesse of his own hunger.
“Excuse me.” Mrs. Crosson took the baby in her arms and marched into the dining room. “Nathanial James, I don’t know where you left your manners, but you best find them and start using them.”
Jesse couldn’t help but overhear. Mrs. Crosson glowered at Nathanial as she put the baby girl in a high-seated chair and pushed her in tight against the table.
There was an ornery twinkle in the boy’s eyes. He had the gall to smirk. “I left them at school with my books.”
Mrs. Crosson’s fierce frown didn’t keep her from being pretty. Clearly though, she was madder than a wet hen and didn’t seem to find her disrespectful son too damn funny. Jesse wasn’t chuckling either. If the kid was showing off, he wasn’t impressed.
Mrs. Crosson’s hands fisted on her hips in such a way that made Jesse recall a few tongue-lashings he’d gotten as a boy. Anytime Ma had used two or, worse, all three of his names run together, he had usually been given a spanking. Mrs. Crosson’s lips were pursed tight. She seemed to be thinking about taking hold of the boy. Jesse almost felt bad for the half-pint.
“Nathanial, settle yourself.” Sheriff Crosson’s words cracked off his tongue like a whip.
The boy immediately sat up straight in his chair and bit his lip. Jesse reckoned the half-pint did own some good sense.
“Hang your hat.” The sheriff nodded toward the pegged shelf next to the door. Jesse placed his on an empty hook, then followed the sheriff and took a seat at the table.
Jesse bowed his head while Mrs. Crosson said grace. His ma had always liked to thank the Lord before they ate. It had been a long time since he’d heard a nice lady bless the food. He didn’t know what he was doing in this house, but he didn’t have any complaints at the moment.
He sat quiet while the sheriff spooned a heap of potatoes onto a plate and the missus served both children. While everyone helped themselves, Jesse got up the nerve and reached for the fried chicken. He was so damn hungry that he didn’t even bother with anything else. He took a big bite of meat. It was the best he ever tasted, and his ma had been a fine cook. It made him contemplate how he had survived so long on bunkhouse grub.
Mrs. Crosson finished serving both the children, then picked up Jesse’s plate before serving herself. He wasn’t done but didn’t feel comfortable saying so. His mouth watered for another taste of crispy chicken.
“Don’t be modest. I made plenty. Eat up. You look to have a good, healthy appetite.” Mrs. Crosson was right. She heaped potatoes, greens, and three more pieces of chicken on his plate.
Most days, Jesse owned a big hunger. Only, he hadn’t wanted to make a pig of himself. Maybe the sheriff thought he looked a bit thin, and that’s why he’d brought Jesse to his home. He was absolutely okay with that. From what he’d tasted, this meal would be better than Christmas dinner.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Jesse shoveled his mouth full of food. The boy had his face down in his plate, and the sheriff and the missus talked between bites. In no way had Jesse been made uncomfortable. He helped himself to more. He glanced up, and the lady was watching him with a grin on her face. He wasn’t embarrassed, but he was used to chowing down with twenty or so crusty, trail-hardened men.
“If my bunkhouse manners have offended, I do apologize, ma’am. I forgot myself for a minute. When I lived at home, Ma wasn’t a happy woman if ever I left the table an’ my pants button wasn’t ready to bust. You do remind me of her.” Why he had spoken of Ma, he didn’t know. It had just sort of slipped out.
“I’d like to meet her sometime. As far as your manners, well, you fit right in with my other chowhound.” Mrs. Crosson patted the sheriff’s hand. The man chuckled and took another big bite, which wasn’t a denial.
What Mrs. Crosson had said about Jesse’s gluttony and his ma had been kind. He was sure that she and Ma would have gotten along real fine. Their dispositions toward hospitality seemed to be much alike. That was a true gift that not everyone had. It couldn’t be easy to make a stranger feel welcome, and Mrs. Crosson had done just that.
Maybe it was her soft ways, but something made him want to tell her about Ma. He could have just let the comment about them meeting pass, but he believed Mrs. Crosson had been sincere.
“Sorry to say, ma’am, but Ma passed on a year or so back. I hadn’t seen her in some time before that.”
“My condolences.” Mrs. Crosson rubbed Jesse’s arm softly.
“It’s fine, ma’am.” He picked up his fork and stirred the food on his plate. Too often in the past days, his mind had rushed back to that ranch where he’d been a boy. Troubled memories that were best left forgotten kept turning up in his head.
“If you would like to talk about your ma, I’ll listen.” Mrs. Crosson’s words were spoken so sweetly that Jesse felt as if she’d just given him a big hug.
“There ain’t much to tell, ma’am.” Jesse scooped up a bite of potatoes and thought of the first day he’d ridden home from the Seven-C to visit with Ma.
It had been over a year since he’d seen her. He’d expected her to be at the line, hanging out wash or tending to her garden. Instead, he’d found the house a dirty mess, Ma flat on her back in bed. She hadn’t known who he was at first. He’d grown into a working man on the Seven-C, even had whiskers. Tears had welled up in her sunken eyes when she realized who crouched next to her. She had barely gotten his name out when she put a cloth to her mouth and took a coughing fit that must have lasted ten minutes. All the blood that came up had scared him. Ma couldn’t have too many days left on this earth. She’d fallen asleep after that, and Jesse had made a silent promise that he would visit real soon.
“Would you care for some coffee?” Mrs. Crosson’s sweet voice pulled Jesse out of his memory, and there seemed to be heartfelt concern in her eyes. Likely, his aching heart was showing all over him. He never did have a good poker face.
Jesse slowly grinned, figuring the coffee was Mrs. Crosson’s bandage to patch him up. He’d been turned in so many directions in such a short time that he wasn’t sure he could walk straight. Cowboy to cattle thief, and—after watching Pa and his brothers get their justice—Jesse had become a ranch owner. Then seeing the cabin today had brought to life memories of a dear, sweet woman.
“Coffee?” Mrs. Crosson asked again while holding out the pot.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Jesse lifted his cup.
She filled it to the rim, then poured a cup for the sheriff. Jesse took a sip. Besides being a big-hearted woman, Mrs. Crosson made good coffee. On the way by, she softly patted Jesse’s shoulder as though she knew all his troubled thoughts. They’d just met, so it was strange, but somehow she made him feel better.
Mrs. Crosson returned from the kitchen, carrying a steaming cup, and took her seat. “I started to cut pieces for a new quilt. The pattern name is Wild Goose Chase. Mrs. Henderson let me borrow it. Oh, and Elizabeth has a tooth pushing through on the bottom.” With one finger, Mrs. Crosson gently pushed down on the baby girl’s lip. What she’d said had been meant for the child’s father, but Jesse took a peek.
Ouch, that red bump looked sore.
Mrs. Crosson gently went on talking about her day to the sheriff, and it helped Jesse find his appetite after those sad thoughts of Ma. He was no sooner done, having eaten every crumb on his plate, when Mrs. Crosson served them all a slice of pie.
Jesse forked a big, sweet bite into his mouth. It had been forever since he had such a treat.
“What are your plans for the ranch?” Sheriff Crosson wiped his mouth, then set aside his napkin.
Jesse shrugged. Driving cattle along the Goodnight-Loving Trail or the Western Trail to market didn’t put any fire in his blood. No, sir, he thought to himself. Ranching wasn’t the livelihood he wanted. The problem was he didn’t have his mind settled on any other way of living.
“Maybe I’ll sell the ranch an’ knock around the countryside for a while. I always wanted to see the ocean.” Jesse threw out the answer foolishly quick and could tell by the sheriff’s wrinkled brow that he was irritated.
The half-pint perked up with interest. What boy didn’t dream of far-off places? Jesse grinned.
Sheriff Crosson tapped the table. Something pressing must have been on the man’s mind. “I talked to Shorty. He asked your pa more than once to sell out to him. Shorty wants those acres of grass to keep his herd growing. He’s willin’ to buy both your land and cattle at a fair market price.”
Why hadn’t the cattleman approached Jesse himself? Why had the sheriff spoken on Jesse’s behalf? It wasn’t as though that was part of his job as a lawman. Did the sheriff see Jesse as a dimwit who couldn’t settle his own finances? Was he there because of pity? Jesse scratched his head. His mind worked just fine. He wouldn’t be afraid to speak up if he thought Shorty was trying to cheat him. Though he’d never heard a single rumor claiming that Mr. Short was a dishonest businessman.
“You know … I ain’t dumb.”
Sheriff Crosson chuckled and couldn’t seem to stop. A rush of heat flooded Jesse’s face. When he’d talked fondly of Ma, it had been plain on Mrs. Crosson’s face that she was able to see his aching pain. He now suspected the sheriff had seen through him as well and wisely sensed that Jesse was no lover of punching cows. His brains weren’t the issue. And there had to be a stronger reason for Sheriff Crosson to have gotten involved.
The sheriff rubbed his chin. “Apparently you ain’t as smart as I thought if that’s the meaning you read into my words.”
A deeper flush stained Jesse’s cheeks, and he fiddled with his fork.
“Son, get your chin out of that plate and look at me.”
Jesse lifted his head.
“If you don’t understand something I say, then ask, but don’t put words into my mouth. I think you’re far from stupid. The choice to leave home when you were fourteen, a boy, couldn’t have been easy. What your pa had been doing was wrong, and you stood on your own two feet behind your conviction and returned them cattle. I’m impressed, and that don’t happen too often.”
At fourteen, Jesse had thought he’d just been running away from home. He hadn’t ever looked at leaving in the same way Sheriff Crosson explained it—as standing up for what was right. Jesse had viewed it as escaping what he’d known was wrong.
He picked up his coffee and took a swallow while rolling around in his head all the sheriff had said.
“I also asked Shorty to send a few men to watch over your herd.” The sheriff relaxed back in his chair.
What was Sheriff Crosson’s stake in all this? His easy, lounging manner raised no concern that he might be trying to coerce Jesse in some way. His talking to Shorty about the purchase of the ranch and seeing that Jesse’s assets were guarded was right friendly, almost fatherly and beyond the duty of being a lawman. No one had ever looked out for him like that.
“Pardon me, gentlemen.” Mrs. Crosson wiped the baby’s face, then lifted her out of the highchair. She then tried to shoo the little boy upstairs to bed, which turned out to be quite a chore. He spunked and stomped, clung to his pa’s sleeve, and whined until the sheriff gave him a warning look.
Jesse liked watching this family. There was a happiness there that he was unfamiliar with. These weren’t the same types of things he’d seen the past few years in the bunkhouse.
He should keep his mind on what needed to get done.
“I’d like to ride out to Shorty’s tomorrow an’ listen to his offer.” It would be nice if Jesse were able to unload the ranch and cows fairly quick and be done with it.
The sheriff nodded. “I’ll ride along with ya.”
Why would he offer his time? Jesse didn’t need looking after.
“I know a wooden nickel when I see one.” He highly doubted Mr. Short would try to swindle him. Was Shorty’s offer the reason Jesse was there? He sensed not.
“Reckon ya do.” Sheriff Crosson picked up his coffee cup.
They sat quiet for a few minutes, drinking coffee. Then Mrs. Crosson walked into the room and stood next to her man. The deep wrinkle across her brow was a dead giveaway that something up there hadn’t gone well.
She deeply inhaled before letting out her frustration. “Elizabeth closed her eyes and fell right to sleep, but our little handful is sassing me about not wanting to go to bed. He’s not tired.”
The sheriff briefly glanced at Jesse. “Excuse us for a minute.”
The couple walked arm in arm up the stairs and stole a quick kiss. Jesse politely turned his head. He couldn’t recall ever seeing such endearment between his folks. This definitely was not where he thought his day would end. He’d pictured himself jawing on his own thoughts in a silent cabin.
With his coffee mug in hand, he stood and went into the sitting room to look at the pictures on the mantel. Nathanial was in what appeared to be Nolan and Kate’s wedding picture. Huh … that was strange. Was the boy born out of wedlock? Not that Jesse was judging. That just would have been rare for the times. Most were married before having children. In the photo, Nathanial didn’t look much younger than now. It would be odd to wait years after having a child to get hitched.
Murmured voices drifted from upstairs. It sounded like the ornery little cuss wasn’t settling down too well. Jesse chuckled to himself. Maybe someday he’d have a few heathens of his own running wild.
The time for that was a long way off, and it was getting late outside. Jesse didn’t know how he’d find his way home to his pa’s ranch from there or even back to the Seven-C without traipsing all the way back into town. Surely Sheriff Crosson wasn’t thinking of letting him stay there, but maybe for the night, he could bed down in the barn. After that full meal, Jesse was ready for sleep.
When boots sounded on the stairs, he turned. The sheriff motioned, and Jesse followed into the study. He sat in a comfortable stuffed chair and sank deep into the velvety cushions. It wouldn’t take much for him to doze off.
The sheriff tipped back slightly and reached for a whiskey bottle in a glass-front standing cabinet. He pulled the cork. Jesse could already feel the satisfying burn in his throat after the day he’d had. He gulped down the last of his coffee, then quickly held the cup under Sheriff Crosson’s nose. He poured Jesse a good, full shot.
Aw yeah, that whiskey tasted mighty good. Jesse nearly moaned, his muscles completely relaxing.
“Pa,” the half-pint hollered from the top of the staircase.
The sheriff got to his feet. Jesse’s gaze followed to where he was looking up the stairs.
“I can’t sleep.” The kid’s whiny voice sounded put on.
When Jesse was a boy, he’d suckered mostly his ma into letting him stay up past bedtime on quite a few nights, and he could picture a big fake pout on Nathanial’s face.
“You ain’t been in bed but two minutes. Try again.” Sheriff Crosson wasn’t falling for it.
“Will ya light the lamp for me? Please? Reading might help me fall asleep.” Nathanial’s sweet little voice had a thick, sugary coating.
The sheriff grinned. “All right, but only for a short time.”
Jesse would have buckled under the weight of that plea too. He also enjoyed the written word. There was nothing he wouldn’t take to reading, including dry goods labels some cowboy had pasted up on the wall of a line shack to cover drafty buckshot holes. Jesse had been working that particular property line on the Wallace ranch for a couple of weeks while gathering strays. Nights had been lonely, and his boredom grew until he had each faded advertisement memorized.
A rustle of skirt woke Jesse from his thoughts.
Mrs. Crosson walked in. “You’ll be in the room next to Nathanial’s.”
She was being too kind. Jesse hardly believed the generous offer. Besides, he didn’t want to intrude. Being fussed over wasn’t something he was used to. The Crossons had done enough favorable things for him. He was still just happy to be breathing. “No need to bother, ma’am. I can sleep in the barn loft.”
“I don’t want to hear any such talk. The weather’s turning colder each day. You’ll catch your death.” She wagged a finger.
Mrs. Crosson was the sweet, mothering type of woman, just as Jesse’s ma had been. A soft bed would feel better on his tired bones than a cold, drafty hayloft, and he was too tired to argue.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Jesse figured the sheriff must be okay with him staying, or the missus wouldn’t have said anything.
“Excuse me then. I have dishes to do.” Mrs. Crosson left.
Jesse sat there somewhat dumbstruck. Not much of the day had made sense to him. This was all nice, and he certainly wasn’t about to bitch. It was just one more thought that he couldn’t seem to straighten out. His brain was tired, and at this late hour of the day, he probably couldn’t put his hat on straight.
The sheriff returned wearing a grin and took his seat behind the desk. Jesse guessed it had everything to do with the pup upstairs.
Jesse accepted another drink and slouched even deeper into the soft chair. He yawned more than once in the quietness of his present company. If he didn’t stop staring at the flickering glow of the lamp wick, he’d fall asleep right there. If he could sleep. Since he sat down, his mind had been stuck on Warren Short and their meeting tomorrow.
“I think I’ll turn in.” He pushed up with a groaning effort and left the sheriff sitting at his desk, reading through some papers.
The warm glow of a lamp flowed into the hall. Jesse stopped at Nathanial’s door, the kid with his nose deep in a book. Jesse grinned. “Whatcha readin’?”
A wide smile spread across the little face, and those bright, sparkling eyes turned up at the corners. “Pirates. I like the talking parrot.” The kid made a squawk noise. Jesse guessed that was supposed to be an impression of a parrot.
He read the title, remembering that particular book, and he smiled. “I recall the pirates were hunting treasure in a far-off land. The buccaneer captain was without fear as he led his crew of scurvy scalawags to fight many a hidden danger. That’s a good book. One of my favorites.”
Nathanial smirked while keeping his finger held on the page, and there was that twinkle in his eyes that Jesse had seen at the supper table before he’d gotten lippy with his ma. “Can you imagine a bird speaking words? What do ya think Ma’s fried chicken would’ve said right before she wrung its neck?”
“I can’t imagine.” Jesse chuckled. This boy had a good sense of humor. Jesse had best go before he got him all wound up after the sheriff just got him to bed. “Good night.” He turned and walked out.
Flopping down hard on the edge of the bed, Jesse took a deep breath. He was so doggone tired, which tempted him to sleep with his boots on. The pillows were fluffed, and a soft, wavy fire burned, giving both warmth and light to the room. He stared off into the flames and thought of Ma.
He’d been there holding her hand the day she died. Her grave was dug, and he’d been pounding away at building her a coffin when he’d spotted Pa and his rotten brothers off in the distance, pushing cattle toward the pond. Jesse hadn’t cared about stolen cows that day. Even now, he wondered how those three, but especially Pa, could have left Ma alone, being that she’d been so close to the end.
Pa hadn’t shed a tear while standing at the graveside of a fine woman who had borne him three sons. It shouldn’t have been that way. After twenty-five years of marriage, Pa should’ve been grieving as if he’d lost the better half of himself. Instead, he had stood silent, looking meaner than ever, while Jesse read the twenty-third Psalm from the good book. Jesse alone had fashioned a cross and packed it tight into place.
He’d ridden away for good that day and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Pa or his brothers until two days ago when he’d watched them hang.
Jesse shucked his socks, then rested his head back on the pillow, ready to close his eyes and sleep away all those old memories.
The door flung wide open and banged off the wall, startling him. He sprang straight up. The half-pint carried the lamp in both hands, the pirate book tucked under his arm.
“What are you doing?” Jesse wasn’t in the mood for bedtime stories, not tonight. He was feeling a might testy. Why shouldn’t he? He’d dug the six-foot holes and laid in the ground every member of his family.
“What the hell does it look like I’m doin’?” Nathanial set the lamp on the night table next to the bed with a bump. The flame swayed. “I’m gonna read this book to ya. You said it was maybe your favorite.” The lippy little cuss hopped up on the quilt.
A thick cake of lye soap was what Jesse wished he had in his hands. That boy’s dirty mouth would get scrubbed out good. “Git back to bed.” He pointed at the door.
The brat ignored him. Jesse shouldn’t have been surprised. Earlier, Nathanial hadn’t listened to his folks. He opened the pages without regard to Jesse’s intolerant stare.
Jesse grabbed that book out of Nathanial’s hands and slammed the cover shut. “I heard the sheriff tell ya to go to bed.”
“Well, Pa ain’t the sheriff to me. An’ sometimes my ears just don’t feel like listenin’. Now give me my book.”
The brat took a swipe at the pages. Jesse was faster, holding the book high out of reach. Without pause, Nathanial grabbed wildly, which quickly led to the two of them whacking against the headboard.
“I said give me that damn book!” Nathanial pounced on Jesse and knocked the book sailing. The hard spine smacked the floor. They both glanced at each other. Who would get it first?
Jesse lunged. The boy took a flying leap off the bed and onto Jesse’s back. Jesse’s hip hit the night table, making the lamp wobble. He and the little heathen fell, creating a hell of a ruckus. They tussled across the floor, banging off every stick of furniture. Jesse didn’t even have his hand on the pages when the squealing little varmint scrambled over him. He got a few elbow jabs and a foot to the gut. The kid threw himself with an arm stretched, reaching his treasure before Jesse.
“Would you like to explain this?” The deep voice came from behind them in the doorway.
Jesse had kind of forgotten the late hour.
The sheriff stood there frowning, his arms tightly crossed.
Jesse jumped off the floor, letting Nathanial lie. It hadn’t been that many years ago when Jesse had been marched to the woodshed and had his ass whipped for being too rowdy. He wasn’t afraid of that happening, but the same heart-pounding sweat broke out on him now because he certainly didn’t have any excuse, let alone a good one. He desperately looked at the brat, who appeared not to be worried.
“We were reading,” Nathanial said with all the calm in the world, as if it wasn’t a big deal.
Jesse was ever so thankful the half-pint spoke up and saved him from sounding like more of a fool than he already looked to be.
The boy smiled sweetly at his pa. Jesse would bet the kid had pulled that ace on his mama a few times to get his hide out of trouble. Jesse’s own dimpled smile had won over his ma plenty when he was a youngster. It had never worked on Pa.
Sheriff Crosson walked over and picked the book up off the floor. “Readin’, huh?”
And just when Jesse thought that bad day was ending.
“I could hear your reading downstairs.” The sheriff handed the book to his son, then jerked his head toward the door.
Jesse was disappointed in himself for acting like a rowdy youngster and figured the sheriff was too. Sheriff Crosson picked up the lamp, said nothing to Jesse, and followed Nathanial into the hall and shut the door. The soft click was like a smack on the back of Jesse’s head. He knew how to behave. Instead, he let the kid get him all riled up.
He had spent the past two days admiring the sheriff. Jesse found himself desperately wanting to earn Nolan Crosson’s respect.