“Molly?” Her husband laughed, the sort of scornful we’re-all-brothers-here laugh that denigrated women everywhere and deepened Paul’s riff. “No, Molly stayed back at the cabin. She’s up to her elbows in cleaning and didn’t want to quit. But I do have a list of what she wants me to pick up from Mrs. McKnight’s. Oh, and a note for Camellia, so I’ll stop over at the house later.”
“Ahuh.” For a moment, considering, Paul assessed the man across the table. “Just outa curiosity, how d’ you plan on gettin’ all this stuff back home?”
“How courteous of you to take such an interest in our humble affairs, Sheriff. At the moment,” Quinn said, with an offhand air, “I’m renting the horse and surrey. Living so far out of town, however, I’m sure Molly and I will need transport. That’s a problem I’ll have to resolve.”
“Ahuh,” said Paul again. “Well, good luck to you in that.” Pushing back his chair, he rose with his usual easy grace. “Reckon I’d better get back to doin’ what I do. Maybe I’ll see you later, Mr. Hennessey. You have yourself a good afternoon, now.”
Half an hour later, the sheriff was trotting out of town mounted on his big blue-black gelding, Diablo. A misnomer, actually; the horse had been blessed with the temperament of a pussycat, and was inclined to run away from, not toward, suspected danger. At any rate, Paul was making an unplanned—and what would be a momentous—visit.
His first errand, having left the garrulous newcomer to the rest of his dinner, was another stop back at Forrester’s, where he collared Ben in the stockroom checking items being unloaded and stacked from the most recent order delivered.
“He’s over at the hotel,” Paul said without preamble.
“Ah.” Thoughtfully, Ben put down his list and the pencil with which he had been writing notes. “And is Molly with him?”
“No. Says she’s workin’, cleanin’ the house, and so on.”
“Interestin’. Hard to clean a house if you’ve got no supplies to do it with. He plannin’ to pick up the stuff she wanted?”
“Yup. And to borrow—or outright take—tools from you he says he needs.”
“Is he, now?” As usual, Ben’s stoic features kept him from showing any emotion, whether for upset, or outrage, or disgust. (He could occasionally be goaded into it, of course, as witnessed by the Putnam brothers. And his wife, the only person he had allowed to see beneath the stoicism.)
Since this was Sunday, the sheriff had chosen to attire his lean frame in clothing slightly nattier than the usual weekday wear. He had replaced the worn brown Stetson with one of smooth gray felt, set off by a diamond concho hatband; a band-collar shirt of blue homespun and black wool trousers, tricked up with pewter suspender buttons and watch pocket, completed the look. The accouterments of his trade—weighty silver badge and gun belt loaded down by weapon and ammunition—were on prominent display. Just in case.
However, not many residents, even those foolhardy ones, would consider accosting the sheriff in all his glory.
“Need you to take care of somethin’ for me, Ben.”
“Name it.”
“Keep an eye out for Hennessey, keep track of when he leaves the hotel. Then haul him over to your house and delay him.”
“Delay him?”
“Yeah. Get him talkin’—the man does love to hear the sound of his own voice—and stuff him fulla food. I got a funny feelin’ about this whole affair. Wanna take a ride on out to the house, see what’s afoot.”
Paul’s second stop was the law office, where his second-in-command, Deputy Austin Blakely, was holding down the fort.
“Gonna be gone a while,” he said, glancing around to ensure that everything was in ship-shape condition.
“Okay,” assented the amiable Austin. “Got somethin’ special in mind?”
“Figured to see whether a twister might be headin’ our way, and five miles out gives me the best view. No, Aus, I’m plannin’ to check in at the old Rutledge place.”
The front two legs of Blakely’s chair, lifted some two inches in the air by his backward tilt against the wall, came down onto the floor with a soft thud. “Ain’t that where—”
“Yup.”
With one brow raised, the deputy eyed his boss askance. “Goin’ with your gut, huh?”
“Yup. Hennessey is over at the Drinkwater, and I put Ben in the know. Just stay awake, and don’t let nothin’ untoward happen. I wanna see my town standin’ all in one piece when I get back.”
It could have been a pleasant (if quite warm) afternoon ride out through the country, along a quiet, shady dirt road, but for the little nagging worry that had lodged itself into the pit of Paul’s belly and refused to be disbursed. That spark of intuition had served him well in the past, most notably the memorable shootout between Earl and Eli Putnam, barely a month ago. He relied on what the feeling might portend, and he had learned to listen and obey.
Diablo seemed happy to be out and about, curving his neck for the occasional pat, curvetting and cavorting like a colt in pasture, instead of being the responsible eight-year-old he was. The animal didn’t get taken anywhere for a good gallop often enough, that was the problem. One corner of Paul’s mind made note of the fact, with a promise to do better. The rest of his mind centered upon what he would find at the Rutledge now Hennessey house.
At first glance, nothing. Absolutely nothing.