“But—Hannah? Letty? What about them?”
“I got me two deputies with itchy trigger fingers, Miz Forrester. We’ll all three of us be takin’ turns guardin’ your house, and Mrs. McKnight’s boardin’ house, as well. If need be, I can call up a few extra men.”
“Oh, Ben.” She sniffed back a tear. “All of this is—it’s such a heart scald.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know. But we’ll get through it.”
They stood together at the front door, the two Forresters, each with an arm around the other, backlit by the soft glow of mellow kerosene lamps and the warmth of a loving household, when Paul departed a little later. If he felt a stab of wistfulness at the picture, even loneliness, he gave no indication. He merely turned, as he reached the gate, to lift one hand in a final farewell before disappearing into darkness.
“What would we do without him, Ben?”
“Dunno, Cam. He’s sure doin’ right by this town. And by us.”
As difficult as the time might be, at least she had a strong but tender husband to share it with her. To let her lean on him. “He’ll be our sheriff for a long while yet, won’t he?”
Chuckling, he moved her back inside to close and lock the door. A broad, ordinary door, painted a solid ordinary color, as sturdy as he was. “As long as he keeps on bein’ elected, I reckon. A marshal runs his town. A sheriff runs his county, b’sides, and the citizens vote to put him in office. He’s got a lot of power, does Paul Winslow, and I’d back him any day of the week.”
“He’s a good man, isn’t he, Ben?”
“The best.”
“I like him, a lot. He’s a wonderful friend to our family.”
“Ahuh.” He cast a glance down at the beautiful black-haired woman snuggled against his shoulder, with an inscrutable expression. “To our family.”
And now here she was, on a Monday morning which had greeted her aching eyes with threatening gray skies and an air of gloom and doom. A mood reinforced by her importunate visitor.
“Mrs. Blankenship. Please, come in, won’t you?” Her fingers childishly crossed behind her back, meanwhile, hoping that would drive the insufferable gossip away. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”
“Land sake, it’s like a broiler oven out there, and just about ready to rain. Give me something cool, girl. Lemonade would be nice. Here. I made you a shepherd’s pie.”
Startled, Camellia accepted the large covered dish that was being thrust into her hands. “Well—um—thank you. May I ask why?”
“Figured you’ve have enough to do, now that you’ve got your sister back with you. Heard she was all beaten up, almost to a pulp. You want me to sit here, in your parlor?”
“Oh—uh—yes, of course. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
Feeling overwhelmed and slightly dizzied, Camellia escaped to put her visitor’s offering on the table. Fetching glasses, pouring cool raspberry shrub, slicing cornbread to place on a plate gave her the few minutes she needed to regain control. So, the word was already out. No matter whose prying eyes had witnessed Molly’s return; no ma
tter whose flapping tongues had gladly passed rumor from one to another. The damage had been done. She could only try to contain it.
“What’re you doing out there?” Mrs. Blankenship demanded. Although, since the kitchen and parlor opened into one large L-shaped room, she could easily see every movement Camellia made. “I didn’t expect to be kept waiting this long.”
“I’m so sorry,” Camellia apologized smoothly, appearing with refreshments. “The delay was unpardonable.” Tongue in cheek, of course. Joining her unexpected guest, she took a seat in her favorite chair and waited.
Henrietta was certainly dressed to the teeth for such an early-morning call. Probably hoping to catch her hostess unaware and slatternly, thought Camellia, with a streak of malice. A broad-brimmed black hat, weighted down by some ghastly dead bird; a long-sleeved black-and-white striped gown, firmly buttoned to a high collar and decorous hem; sedate white fingerless mitts. The very picture of what she assumed was high society—that was, several years behind St. Louis fashion, and, no doubt, another five years behind that as compared to New York and London.
“Well, I must apologize myself for not stopping by earlier,” said the lady, taking one critical sip from the delicate porcelain cup, reserved just for company. “You and Ben being newlyweds, I figured it was best to leave you alone. Then I saw you were working—actually working!—in your husband’s store, and I had to recover from the shock of that discovery, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Whatever has possessed you to lower yourself in such a way?” she demanded. “Doesn’t your husband make a good enough living to provide for you?”
Camellia’s eyes flashed bright blue and her fingers curled into fists. All the warning signs, could her guest but realize, of temper beginning to rise. “I hardly think that’s any of your—”
“Now, do tell me, dear,” Henrietta barreled on, leaing forward with a confidential pat on Camellia’s knee, “just what in the world has happened to your sister? That poor girl, married but one day, supposedly on her way to a happy life—or so all of us assumed—and then coming back here almost immediately, in disgrace. I can’t imagine—”
“My sister is not in disgrace, Mrs. Blankenship.” The correction was made instantly, shortly, and coolly. “I have no idea what you’ve heard, but—”