D orothy’s mind spun all the way home. From concern over her father, to astonishment over being a murder suspect, to recalling her conversation with Artie before the stranger came shouting his way to them.
The only distraction from her thoughts happened when she felt certain that someone followed her. She looked around intently on more than one occasion but saw no one. When the sounds grew unmistakable and she felt absolutely certain that someone must be hiding behind one of the many cacti or mesquite trees, Dorothy gave up trying to spot them and ran.
When she entered the shack, she nearly jumped out of her skin to see her father seated at the table. He gave her the barest glance of surprise as he chipped away the block in his hands.
Dorothy stood still in the doorway, her heart pounding from both her run and her fright.
“Been up in the mountains, Dorothy? I didn’t see you on the way down.”
Dorothy stepped wholly inside, closing the door behind her. “No, sir. Not in the mountains. I-I’ve been to Apache Junction.”
“Meeting Sinclair again?”
“No, his son.” She watched him as she pulled her canteen off her shoulder, but he showed no sign of real interest. She sighed. “Did you find anything in the mountains?” She always asked; ever since he stopped taking her on his trips nine years ago. She always heard the same reply.
“Nope.” He turned his block of wood around. “Got lost in a box canyon for a day or so but found my way out. Didn’t find anything else of interest.”
“D-did you see anyone, Father?”
Sheriff Wright placed the knife in a bag he carried over his arm and pushed up his glasses. “You carried it on your person?”
The man huffed. “Not a soul.”
Dorothy hung the canteen on the wall wearily. “They’re sending a posse into the Superstition Mountains.”
He cut off a larger chunk of wood. “Are they? That happens frequently enough, I reckon.”
Dorothy moved to a chair by the table. “They-they think that Charles Sinclair might be dead, Father.”
She watched for a reaction of some kind, but he continued on as ever. “Mountains can be treacherous.”
“They think that he may have been murdered, Father.” She bent forward. “They-they consider me a suspect.”
Despite the words, the father didn’t pause or look up. “Makes sense if he’s been murdered, I reckon. They have to do their job.”
Dorothy felt her eyes smart. She reached across, resting her hand on the table beside the woodcarver’s arm. “Did you hear me, Father? They suspect me of killing a man.” Her voice sounded calm and strange, even to herself. She didn’t feel calm.
“I heard you.” He kept at his carving. “My ears still work, Dorothy.”
The daughter waited for something else, but it never came. She took a deep breath. “Do you have a knife that I can have, Father? The last one you gave me is gone.”
She knew that her father had three or four knives, which she assumed he took with him to the mountains.
He nodded with a grunt. “I reckon you can have one. Just don’t take the one off the table.”
She stood. “Thank you, Father.”
As she searched through his tools, she bit back the tears that threatened.
Dear Jesus, why does he not show any concern? I am his daughter. Why does my father show no concern over his own daughter? Why does it have to cause such pain?