“Thanks. You, too.” Thatcher stood.
Bill used his cane and pushed himself to his feet. They shook hands. Bill said, “I’m not proud of lying to you, Thatcher. But, God help me, I can’t regret that I did.”
Smiling at Bill from beneath the brim of his hat, Thatcher said, “Me neither.”
* * *
Laurel returned home after running errands to find Irv and Mike O’Connor in conversation beside Irv’s truck.
She had visited with him several times during his recovery. He was still paler and thinner than he’d been before he’d been shot. The twinkle in his eyes had dimmed, and it would probably be a while before they regained their full wattage, if they ever did.
But when she alighted from her car and walked toward them, the familiar dimple appeared in his cheek. “Ah, here’s the lovely Laurel. I’ve been waiting on you.”
Irv made his excuses and went into the house.
When they were alone, Mike said, “I understand that tomorrow’s the big day. I thought I ought to come say my goodbyes to you now in private, while your sullen cowboy wasn’t lurking about.”
“You and I have nothing to hide from Thatcher.”
“More’s the pity.” He slapped his hand over his heart like a wounded, rejected suitor, and she could have sworn he was Davy. “If that lucky bastard ever treats you bad, promise you’ll come find me. I’ll rub him out.”
She laughed lightly. “I promise.”
He reached into his pants pocket. “I have a going-away present for you.” He took her hand and dropped a Saint Christopher medal and chain into her palm.
“Mike.” Taken aback, she stared down at the gold necklace, then looked up at him, so touched her eyes turned misty. “Is it—?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t accept it. You should keep it.”
“I have a matching one, and Davy would love knowing it was dangling around your pretty neck. He and Saint Chris are now your guardian angels.” He lifted the necklace out of her hand and slipped it over her head. She pressed the medal against her chest.
They looked at each other, both unable to speak, so they hugged. When he released her, he said gruffly, “Be happy, Laurel.” He tipped his cap and walked away.
* * *
Everything they were taking was piled up in the empty living room. Thatcher’s saddle sat atop his trunk. Laurel had packed her clothing in the same suitcase she’d had with her the night she’d arrived at the shack with Derby. She was taking Pearl’s baby clothes and all the recipes in her mother’s handwriting. Most everything else she was leaving behind, because it would be needed. Corrine and Ernie had decided to move into the house.
“I love the idea,” Laurel said to Corrine. “You couldn’t stay out there during the winter months.”
“Ernie and me could live in the shack and be just fine.”
“But why would you when there’s a whole upstairs here that would be going to waste. Stop trying to talk yourself out of it. The decision has been made. Besides, I’ll feel better knowing that someone is here looking after Irv.”
Corrine watched as Thatcher and Ernie—who had finally been intr
oduced—began to load Laurel’s car. “It’s not going to be the same without you here, though,” the girl said wistfully.
“No. But you have the post office box key. I’ll be writing to you at least once a week, so don’t forget to check it.”
“If it weren’t for you, I couldn’t read them letters you’ll send.”
Laurel reached out and pulled the girl to her. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too, Miss Laurel.” Lowering her voice, she said, “I wouldn’t trust you to nobody but him,” she said, casting a glance at Thatcher as he swung his saddle onto his shoulder. “He’s quality.”
“Yes, he is.”