“NO, SHE SAID HARDLY a word to me,” Camellia repeated, in answer (for the second time) to Ben’s interrogation.
“Wonder if Gabe will be able to get more out of her,” said Paul glumly.
After the sheriff had retrieved Ben from his work in the stockroom, the two men had paused in their return to the house long enough to haul Dr. Havers away from the mess Letitia had made with supplies stored in his own impressive pharmacy. He was all prepared to snort and snarl about another interruption until he heard the news about Molly. Then, grabbing his bag, he had hastened along in tandem, spitting out questions that had no answers.
He was upstairs now, closeted with his patient, while everyone else remained huddled in the kitchen for a family confab. Ben and Paul were at the table, sipping coffee, though neither had any appetite for the plate of oatmeal cookies Camellia had put out.
“I want a gun,” she said abruptly, over her shoulder, from the stove.
“A gun? You?” Ben couldn’t have been more astonished if a kitten had suddenly transformed itself into the worst kind of hissing timber snake.
“Yes.” Camellia turned, wooden spoon in hand, wearing an expression that showed she would prefer to be holding a Winchester. Her eyes were blazing with a fierce blue light, augering ill for anyone who might decide to cross her wishes. “I want a gun. That monster Quinn Hennessey is responsible for this. You, Paul, will arrest him. And, when you do, I intend to shoot him dead.”
“Darlin’, I didn’t realize you were so bloodthirsty.”
“Oh, when it comes to my family, I can be more vengeful than any homicidal maniac. Oh, Ben.”
Alarmed by the anguish of her tone, he looked up. “What is it, Cam?”
Suddenly the fierce gaze dimmed with tears. Laying aside the spoon, she dropped onto his available lap—a lap seeming ready-made for her bottom to nestle into—and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“I was so relieved—no, I was glad!—when you killed those vile men who attacked me, more than a month ago,” she confessed in a muffled voice. “I know it isn’t a Christian feeling, but part of me—part of me wanted to rejoice that they are no longer around. They can’t harm me any more!”
Over her head, buried in the hollow of his shoulder, Ben exchanged a helpless glance with their guest. “Seems to me that’s pretty understandable, Cam. Most folks would prob’ly have the same reaction.”
“Natural or not, I want to see Quinn Hennessey hurt, too, as he’s hurt my sister. I want to see him face-down in the street, bleeding his life away!”
“Uh, beggin’ your pardon, Miz Forrester,” interrupted the sheriff in his usual quiet, grave manner, “but I am an officer of the court. I can’t hear you make any threats to anyone, no matter what he’s done. Like everybody else, he’s got the right to a trial, either by judge or by jury. Now, if I should happen to find Mr. Hennessey layin’ shot dead somewheres—”
“You can’t blame her, Paul. I’m ready to shoot the son of an antelope myself.”
With a groan, Paul sank back in his chair in surrender. “No more. Don’t say anything else incriminatin’. God knows I don’t wanna be stickin’ the two of you behind bars.”
“Where is he?” Camellia demanded, straightening with a glare.
“Dunno, sweetheart. I was about to come hot-footin’ home, but Paul convinced me to have a quick look around town, first. No sign of him in his usual haunts. And he turned in the rig to Abel Norton, though why I can’t quite figure. If he was plannin’ to go back out to the cabin...”
“He mentioned buyin’ a couplea horses. And he was s’posed to be stoppin’ first at Mrs. McKnight’s, and then here. But we ain’t seen hide nor hair of the man.”
“So you’ll stop looking?”
“No, ma’am.” Paul’s mild response took some of the starch from Camellia’s words. “Me and my deputies will be scoutin’ up street and down street. But I wanted to wait to see what word there might be from Gabriel about Miz Hennessey’s—uh—condition.”
“And she didn’t say nothin’ about what happened?” Ben asked again, for the third time.
“I told you, no!” Camellia flounced away and back to the stove, where she took up the spoon to begin stirring something in a pan with incredible vigor.
The mood in the room was weighted with tension, and all three of them were feeling its effects. One of their own had been harmed; how badly was yet to be determined. Retribution must come.
“Did she say anything to you, Paul?” If nothing else, Ben was persistent.
“Said she couldn’t leave. She had to stay.”
“Oh, Paul!” Camellia cried, approaching to lay a grateful hand on his arm, resting with easy grace upon the table top. His arm, and his wrist, sprinkled over with black hair, bared by the blue homespun cuff; and his hand, long-fingered and elegant, made more for pen than pistol. “Thank God you didn’t listen to her. Thank God you brought her home!”
“Careful, there, Miz Forrester.” The sheriff offered one of his infrequent smiles; its warmth lightened the gloom and spread inspiration and encouragement. “I’m liable to take you up on that promise you made, to go a-strollin’ in the moonlight.”
“Huh,” said Ben, unimpressed. “You must be in rare form, darin’ to tease my wife like that.”