A Western Christmas Homecoming. Lynna Banning
good ’uns that get stomped on?”
Rand had no answer for that. It was something he’d often asked himself over the years.
“Life sure never gets any easier,” Rooney said with a sidelong glance at Alice. “Fightin’ Indians is lots easier than watchin’ something like this.”
Sarah stood and helped Alice move toward the screen door. “You’ll stay to supper, Marshal Logan?”
He hesitated. He’d been in the saddle since mid-August, sleeping on the ground and eating canned beans and bacon. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in over a month.
Rooney laid a hand on his arm. “Look, Marshal, I used to scout for Wash Halliday, so I know what it’s like, bein’ a lawman. Every so often ya need to kick back and take a night off. ’Specially if there’s a fine-tastin’ supper involved. Besides, my Sarah would be highly insulted if you walked off her front porch without acceptin’ her hospitality.”
Rand thought about sharing a drink with Sheriff Rivera at the Golden Pheasant, then weighed it against explaining the rest of his mission to Alice. Alice won.
“Okay, Rooney, sounds good. Thanks.” He would tell Alice the rest after supper.
Alice came downstairs to supper feeling as if a freight train had smashed her flat. She had tried to sleep for an hour, but every time she closed her eyes Dottie’s face rose before her. She was so numb she couldn’t cry, but her entire body ached, and when she thought about her sister her heart pounded erratically. She felt like screaming.
On top of everything else, one of her blind headaches was coming on. If Sarah had not insisted, she would not be coming down for supper but crawling into bed with a cold cloth over her eyes.
Voices drifted from the dining room. She recognized Rooney’s low rumble and old Mrs. DuPont’s quavering soprano. Doc Graham never said much. Sarah’s grandson, Mark, rarely spoke during a meal, but tonight he was rapid-firing questions at someone. His nine-year-old voice broke when he got excited, and apparently the answers were exciting; one minute he was a soprano, the next he was a baritone.
When she reached the table, the marshal, Randell Logan, rose to his feet, followed by Rooney, Doc Graham and young Mark. Iris DuPont clucked at her sympathetically, and Alice gritted her teeth. If anyone said one single word about Dottie or how sorry they were she would lose control. Better to pretend it was a perfectly normal fall evening in Smoke River and nothing was wrong.
She took her seat and automatically unfolded the napkin lying beside the blue-flowered plate. The marshal rested his gaze on her for a long moment, and then resumed speaking to Mark. “Actually, Mark, a young man must be at least eighteen to become a United States Marshal.”
Mark groaned. “How old were you, Marshal Logan?”
He shot Alice a glance and quickly returned his gaze to Mark. “I was well over eighteen when I joined up. Actually, I was twenty-seven.”
“Golly, what took you so long?”
The marshal laughed. “Just living, mostly.”
Alice realized the marshal sensed how shaky she was feeling and was purposely carrying on this conversation with Mark to keep attention focused away from her.
Mark’s blue eyes snapped with interest. “Didja fight Injuns, like Rooney?”
“Yep.”
“With the army?”
“Yep.” Rand reached for the ceramic bowl of mashed potatoes.
Mark leaned toward him. “Didja have a girl?” he whispered.
Rand drew in a slow breath. “Yes, son, I did.”
“Didja marry her?”
Rooney’s wife, Sarah, saved him by plunking down a platter of fried chicken and nudging her grandson’s shoulder. “Mark, we don’t ask our guests such personal questions.”
“Sorry, Gran.” But the minute she returned to the kitchen, Mark hitched his chair closer to him. “Well, didja?” he whispered.
“Mark!” Sarah called. “Shut your mouth. Or maybe you fancy washing up the supper dishes tonight?”
“No, Gran.” The boy hung his head. “Sorry, Marshal,” he muttered.
Rand worked to hide a smile. He was relieved to see Alice’s plate was filling up with chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy. Then he realized it was Rooney who was spooning food onto it, not Alice.
She picked at the potatoes, but ate only a few bites. Her face looked white and set, and she kept her gaze focused on the tablecloth. Her sister’s death was hitting her pretty hard. He couldn’t blame her, but it would sure make the rest of his job more difficult. This was why an assignment like this one was so hard—the price innocent people had to pay.
The older woman, Mrs. DuPont, and the doctor ate their fried chicken and mashed potatoes in silence, though Doc Graham paid close attention to the talk about soldiering and scouting that bounced back and forth between Rooney and himself.
Young Mark listened avidly, while Alice compulsively pressed the fingers of one hand over the ruffles at the neck of her blue shirtwaist. She had elegant hands, Rand noted. Real lady hands. Well, she said she was a librarian.
He groaned inside. Librarian Alice Montgomery wouldn’t have the guts to help him.
“Mr. Logan,” his hostess inquired. “Would you care for seconds?” She urged more chicken on him, and then third helpings of everything, and finally she began clearing the dishes.
“Marshal, why don’t you take your dessert and coffee out on the front porch where it’s cooler? You, too, Alice,” she added.
“And me?” Mark piped.
His grandmother shook her head. “I need you in the kitchen, Mark.”
“Aw, Gran...”
That brought a half smile to Alice’s white face. She pushed back her chair and accepted a tray from Sarah with two thick slices of apple pie and two cups of coffee. Rand stood, lifted it out of her hands and ushered her through the screen door.
He prayed the coffee would make the next hour less difficult.
Alice sank onto the porch swing and lifted a cup of coffee from the tray the marshal set on the railing. “Cream?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Sugar?” Again she refused, then watched him load his cup with two heaping spoonfuls. Aha. The man had a sweet tooth!
He made short work of his apple pie, and when she offered her own piece, he downed that, too. Apparently he hadn’t eaten well recently. Was he married as Mark had asked? Probably not, if his appetite was any indication.
He settled onto the swing beside her, nudged it into motion and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Marshals wore jeans like everybody else, she noted. The only thing that told her he was a marshal was the funny-shaped badge pinned to his leather vest and the gun belt around his waist.
“Alice, is there anything else you want to know about your sister’s death?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “When did she die?”
“She died instantly, as I told you at the sheriff’s office.”
She set her cup onto the saucer with a sharp click. “No, I meant how long ago was it?”
He