CHAPTER 2

From across the street, Milzie Peart watched two women enter the Paragon Emporium. She would make that her last stop before heading home. Libby Adams always let her warm up by the stove, and sometimes she let Milzie have a broken packing crate. Once the store owner had even given her a cracked egg.

She turned away, wishing she had enough money to buy something to eat. Her scant supplies at the cabin always ran low this time of year, but this spring had turned out worse than other years. Bitsy Shepard, who owned the Spur & Saddle Saloon, had given her a biscuit earlier and shooed her off, but it wasn’t enough to fill her belly.

As Milzie pulled her woolen coat closer around her thin frame, a button popped off—the last of the metal, army-issue buttons. In the dusk, she saw it roll across the packed earth and under the weathered boardwalk that led to the Fergus jail. She went to her knees, heedless of the dirt grinding into her already filthy skirt, and stuck her hand beneath the edge of the walk. “Now where are you hidin’?”

A door opened, and she jerked her head up to see who was leaving the sheriff’s office. A man hurried down the steps ten yards away, leaving the door wide open. Not Sheriff Thalen. Milzie couldn’t make out his face in the dusk, but this man moved quicker than Bert Thalen. Not so broad through the shoulders either.

She expected him to come down the walkway, but instead he glanced her way, then slipped around the side of the building. She couldn’t say she recognized him. He wore a dark coat and felt hat, like all the men hereabouts.

She shivered. Her joints creaked as she hauled herself to her feet. She would have to improvise a way to keep her late husband’s old army coat closed—unless she could get the sheriff to lift the planks and retrieve that button for her.

She looked toward his office. The door still stood open to the chilly May evening. Bert ought to shut it. For the last fifteen years, Thalen had presided over the town’s only jail cell. His office also held a desk and a woodstove. Smoke poured out the chimney. Milzie wasn’t sure she wanted to ask his help, but she wouldn’t mind warming her hands at his stove. Though the snow had been gone several weeks, the nights still dipped to near-freezing temperatures.

She shuffled to the jailhouse and winced as she slowly mounted the two steps. A whiff of cooking food tickled her nose. Baked beans. She peered inside. No one stood on ceremony with the sheriff of Fergus. You wanted something, you just walked in. Still, she hesitated, squinting into the dim interior. The outer room appeared to be empty, but she heard the fire sputtering in the box stove. Its heat felt good, and she eased inside, leaving the door open so she could see by the fading light that entered with her.

No one was in the cell—the barred door stood open. The sheriff must be in the back room. Or maybe he’d gone out and his visitor had missed him.

The tiny back room was smaller than the cell, with a bunk in it. The sheriff slept there if he had a prisoner, Milzie knew. He’d stayed there when he had her husband, Franklin, locked up for disorderly conduct years ago.

She edged closer to the stove. The warmth of the fire lured her, step by step.

“There now.” She held out her chilled hands. Her knuckles ached as the delicious heat spread through her.

At the back of the stove, a pan of beans simmered. The smell nigh made her ribs rub together. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the wooden spoon that rested against the edge of the pan and raised it to her lips. The sweet, hearty flavor filled her mouth and nostrils. Beans cooked with onions and salt pork, mustard and molasses.

She looked over her shoulder. Bert Thalen could walk in at any moment. Reluctantly, she set the spoon back in the pan and limped toward the doorway to the back room. If he was here, maybe he’d find her button and give her a plate of those savory beans.

A stick of split firewood lay on the floor near the doorway. She grabbed the doorjamb to brace against and stooped to pick it up. Her hip ached, and she straightened, panting. She caught her breath, trudged slowly to the wood box, and dropped the stick in. Sheriff ought to take better care of things.

Again, she limped to the doorway. If he was in there, he was sure being quiet.

Golden light from a small window in the west wall of the building illuminated the room. The sun had just hit the horizon, and its last fiery rays streamed in, showing the empty bunk and a small stand with a bowl and pitcher.

Bert Thalen lay sprawled on the floor beside the bunk, staring up at the ceiling. His face was a horrible purple red. Or maybe it was just the reflection of the sunset.

Milzie took two steps into the room and stared down at the sheriff for a long minute. He didn’t blink. A dark ooze stained the floorboards under his head. A large, shiny safety pin held his suspenders together on the near side. Milzie stooped and unclasped it. Her aching fingers resisted, but she managed to pin the front of her coat together where the last button had been.

She walked slowly out to the stove again and scooped the wooden spoon into the beans. The sheriff wouldn’t be needing those.