“Hooey? Whatddya mean, hooey?”
“I mean that no one can get past the incredibly thick skin of a wart hog to find his feelings.” Her arrow had been shot and spent; it stuck, invisible but quivering nonetheless, straight through the good doctor’s breast. Unheeding, she picked up her skirts and started to move on.
Swallowing hard against the unexpected sting of her attack, Gabe followed after, hurrying to catch up. Hannah could march briskly with the best soldier, when she put her mind to it, and when she had worked herself up enough into high dudgeon. Must be because of all that physical labor she did with planting and such. Well, maybe. Maybe not.
“Well?” Hannah, surprised by his lack of response, looked up questioningly when he reached her side once again. “No retort?”
He merely looked down at her in a way that left her feeling vaguely ashamed. “Nope. Mark the calendar, Miss Hannah. Got nothin’ to say.”
“Hmmph. Imagine that.”
They continued to plod from dusty street to boardwalk to dusty street to boardwalk, listening to the soft hum of conversation emanating from both couples ahead. As they passed by, one of Abel Norton’s livery pups set up a lively bark, joined by his colleagues, until a whole chorus of canine greetings rumbled together. Finally they were shushed by Abel himself, who lived in a small cottage to the rear and side of his corral.
“I agree that it was happy news about the baby and the wedding,” Hannah conceded out of the blue.
Gabe’s hat almost fell off his head in astonishment. “Bless my soul, are you apologizin’ for your outrageous behavior?”
“I’m not apologizing, because there’s nothing to apologize for,” she snapped. “Grow a spine, Gabriel Havers. You don’t determine my moral code.”
“Well, somebody needs to, since you can’t seem to do it on your own. Lordamighty, Hannah, do you ever hear yourself talk? Do you ever listen to that voice in your head? You sound like the worst shriveled-up spinster that ever lived.”
Suddenly she ground to a halt, turning to confront him with both pugnacious hands on hips. “And if I am, so what? If I’m the laughingstock of the town, so what? If I’m some eccentric shunned by any reasonable citizen, so what? Why should you care? It’s no one’s business but mine!”
Furious, she set off at a racer’s pace and stormed away. Since they were within a few steps of Mrs. McKnight’s, anyway, he let her go. He was still standing at the corner, completely kerflummoxed, when the others, having courteously seen their charges to the front door and inside, returned.
“You and Hannah havin’ it out again, son?” asked Ben, with a whimsical curl to his lip.
“Man, we can’t take you anywhere,” Paul added, just as whimsically. “I thoug
ht you two might be comin’ to fisticuffs.”
Gabe rubbed his bewhiskered chin as if he were actually recovering from the blow of Hannah’s swift right hand. “That woman can brew up a storm of temper outa nowhere,” he complained, with reason. “It does beat all how quick she flies off the handle.”
“Well, I reckon we’re all a little hair-trigger right now,” the sheriff did his best to soothe. “Prob’ly we all need to get away from each other for a bit and sleep on what’s been goin’ on.”
“Sleep,” agreed Gabe, yawning. “Yup. Good advice. I’m headin’ back to the office and sack out in my single cot. What about you, Paul?”
“Oh, thought I’d stop over and see what’s goin’ on at the jail. Slow times right now, but I wanna check in with Austin.”
“Me, I’m gonna go spend what’s left of the night in my own bed, with my wife. Five o’clock rolls around mighty early.” Ben paused, looking from one to the other. “I thank you for bein’ part of all this,” he gravely told them. “I appreciate both of you pitchin’ in to help out when I need it, and I appreciate—oh, shoot. I’m just mighty lucky you’re my friends.”
A smile and a firm handshake from Paul; a nod and a slap on the shoulder from Gabe.
Friendship indeed.
Chapter Fourteen
Interlude: Sleepless in Turnabout
BOARDING HOUSE, BED One: Sleep. How is anyone supposed to sleep, with all that’s happened? I’m delighted about Cam bringing a baby into the world, of course; and I’m delighted that Molly has finally been courted enough to set a wedding date. And it took her long enough, at that. But I suppose I can’t really blame her.
And what about me? In spite of Ben’s encouragement over whatever is happening with Reese, I can’t help feeling I’ll never be happy again. I feel I’m doomed to lose the only man I’ll ever love, lose him to some terrible retribution I know nothing about. How can anyone ever make that right?
Oh, I can’t keep switching from side to side and front to back like this, with my head about to explode—I’ll keep the others awake. Why can’t I just stop thinking? Why can’t I force myself to relax, and close my eyes, and rest? I will need to be alert tomorrow, to keep my wits about me.
What was Reese mixed up in? How terrible was his crime, that his poor scarred face must be displayed on a wanted poster somewhere? And, is it “Wanted, Dead or Alive”? Dear God, how can we straighten this out before he is hunted down and shot full of bullets?
Please let me go to sleep. Please. I am feeling so worried.