In The Sheriff's Protection

Tom figured he’d come upon the homestead by pure luck. And right now, staring at the ceiling and listening to Bullet snort and stomp at a fly every now and again, he had to wonder if it was good or bad luck that had brought him to Clara’s side.

She’d needed help, that was a given, but the fact he’d been the one to provide it was eating at his insides. He wasn’t here as some general all-around nice guy who fixed up broken barn doors and repaired leaky roofs. He was a lawman set upon finding her husband and taking him back to Kansas to stand trial for his crimes. When that happened, she’d hate him. Billy would, too, and that was gnawing away at his conscience like a coyote on a fresh kill.

In Tom’s eyes, Hugh wasn’t much of a husband or father, but there had to be a reason Clara stayed here, waiting for him to return. It was called love. The very thing that could tear a person apart like no other. He’d seen it numerous times. And he’d seen people who by rights were completely unlovable, yet there always seemed to be someone else who’d give their life for that same person, all because they loved them.

His hand slid inside his pocket, where it fiddled with the badge he’d taken off before riding into the homestead. His other hand was on his vest, right where the badge had left two tiny and permanent holes. He’d seen Clara’s face today, more than once, gazing fixedly at that spot. She’d never said anything, but the way she wouldn’t look him in the eye after staring at his vest had him believing she’d figured it out. Knew why he was here.

Up until tonight, she hadn’t mentioned her husband, and he hadn’t asked. Billy had said more than enough for him to know he had the right homestead. For some reason, one he couldn’t quite explain, he’d refrained from calling her Mrs. Wilson. Actually, he only called her ma’am. In the full scheme of things, that didn’t mean much, but from the time he’d entered the house and saved her from hitting the floor, he’d felt a draw to her. An uncanny one that just couldn’t be explained. He felt sorry for her, that was a given, but this went beyond sorrow.

His reputation of being a straight-shooting lawman who stuck to the law and didn’t let anything get in the way of that was the reason why the folks of Oak Grove had singled him out and asked him to move to their small town when their acting sheriff was killed during the Indian Wars. He’d been proud of his reputation, proud to serve the town, and hadn’t let a single resident down.

Oak Grove’s mayor, Josiah Melbourne, who, for Tom to keep on the straight and narrow, was probably the most trying man in town, had known about how Julia had been killed during a stagecoach robbery years ago and how, as a newly sworn-in deputy, Tom had brought her murderer in and seen justice was served. That was what Melbourne, and the entire town of Oak Grove, wanted again, and that was what he had to do.

Whether Hugh had a family or not shouldn’t matter. In most cases it wouldn’t, because in most cases he wouldn’t have met them.

Maybe that was what he should do something about. Hendersonville was a two-day ride. He could travel there and get the local sheriff to gather up a posse to stake out the place and arrest Hugh.

No, he had no way of knowing if Hugh would show up here or not. He had to get back out there, find Hugh’s trail. When he found him and arrested him, Clara wouldn’t know it had been him.

But she would eventually find out. And where would that leave her and Billy? She had no income, no way of surviving without the money Hugh dropped off at intervals. That was what it appeared happened. Billy said his father came home every once in a while with lots of presents and money for Clara to give to the neighbors to buy supplies for them whenever they traveled to Hendersonville.

The boy said he’d never been to Hendersonville. Not once. And that Clara hadn’t, either.

In all aspects, if anyone was to ask him, he’d say Hugh Wilson, outlawing aside, should rot in jail for the way he treated his wife and son.

* * *

Although his thoughts had kept him up most of the night, that didn’t prevent Tom from rising early. He’d barely finished his morning routine that included a quick shave before he heard Billy at the well, collecting a pail of water.

“Morning,” he shouted from the open barn door.

“Morning, Tom!” Billy called back. “Ma said if I see ya to say breakfast will be ready shortly! It’s biscuits and gravy! My favorite!”

“Sounds good! I’ll be right there.” Tom turned about to finish packing his gear in his saddlebags. During his sleepless night, he’d determined what he had to do. Leave. He’d told Clara that the work would be done this afternoon, and it would be. In fact, if he got right down to it, it would be done before noon, giving him a good start on getting back to tracking Hugh.

Mind set and gear stored, he headed toward the house, only to stop dead in his tracks at the doorway when he saw Clara.

* * *

The aching in her leg had awoken her early, only because it had been stiff from being used yesterday after lying around for so long. She’d known what would help, and it had. Long before the sun rose, she’d heated water and filled the washtub she used to bathe herself and Billy, and to wash clothes. It wasn’t large enough for her to completely sit in, but it was deep enough for her to soak her leg. Afterward, she’d given herself a thorough scrubbing, and before the water had completely cooled, washed her hair.

It felt good to be clean and to no longer smell like a saloon from the whiskey dousing Tom had used to bring down her fever. She hadn’t taken a bath in a real bathtub since before moving out here, before Billy had been born. It was just one of many things she wanted to do again, but she also knew that most of those things were little more than pipe dreams. This was her life, like it or not.

Tom was the reason she’d even thought about some of those things. Watching him with Billy, talking with him last night, had made her wish harder than ever that there was a small iota of hope that someday things could be different for her and for Billy.

She had put on one of her nicest dresses. A yellow one that she never wore because it would show the dirt too easily, which was silly because there was no one but her and Billy to notice if she got it dirty or not.

Furthermore, she always wore an apron to prevent stains.

Turning, because she’d heard Tom’s footsteps on the porch but had yet to hear him enter the house, she frowned at how he stood in the doorway as if scared to enter.

For a split second she was afraid to have him enter. He must have just gotten done shaving. His face was glistening, as was his hair that still showed the comb marks smoothing it back off his forehead. Even if she hadn’t already witnessed what a good man he was inside, she’d have to admit he was handsome. Maybe that was what took her breath away, knowing he wasn’t just good on the outside, but on the inside where it mattered, yet a person couldn’t see. How different her life would be if she was married to a man like that. Good on the inside. Then she’d have something to be proud of.

Tossing her head slightly to catch her wits, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Baniff. Please sit down. Everything will be ready shortly.”

He stepped forward, twirling his hat with his hands. “It smells good.”

“It’s just biscuits and gravy and some fried potatoes. I’m sorry I don’t have any bacon or ham, but with my injury I haven’t made it over to the Ryan place to pick up a smoked pig lately. I usually do that every few months, and will need to go get one soon. Oh, let me get you a cup of coffee.”

“I can get it,” he said while hanging his hat on the hook by the door.

“No, I’ll get it. You sit down.” Her insides were splattering about like water tossed in hot grease. She was talking as much as Billy usually did, too. It was all because she wasn’t used to a man like Tom. One who didn’t expect to be waited on. One who didn’t bark orders or snarl like a rabid dog just waiting for the chance to bite.

She poured him a cup of coffee and set it on the table. “Sit down. I’ll have your plate ready in a second.”

“What can I do to help? How’s the leg this morning?”

“Nothing, and the leg is fine. You really know a lot about doctoring. I hardly know it had been injured.”

She quickly filled a plate for him and set it on the table, then filled one for Billy, and walked back to the stove. With the coffeepot in one hand, she returned to the table.

“My cup is still full.” Glancing at the table, he frowned at Billy already eating before asking, “Aren’t you going to join us?”

When it was just she and Billy, she did sit at the table, but when Hugh was home, he expected her to be at the stove, ready to bring him a second helping.

“Oh, I’ll wait until you’ve had your fill.”

“This will be more than enough,” he said. “And if I want more, I’m perfectly capable of getting it.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “Actually, you’ve been on that leg long enough already. Sit down while I fix you a plate.”

Taken aback, she found it was a moment before her heart slowed down enough for her brain to function. He was already at the stove, piling food onto a plate. Hurrying toward the stove, she said, “I can do that.”

“So can I,” he said, taking the coffeepot from her hand. “While you sit down.”

He set the pot on the stove and with an expectant look, said, “Go on. Sit down.”

She did so and smiled, though it felt wobbly, at Billy, who was grinning from ear to ear. When a plate was set before her, as well as a cup of coffee, she thanked him, and withheld the need to insist this wasn’t necessary. Although it truly wasn’t. She’d never been waited on and wasn’t sure how to react to it. Or him. Merely looking his way made her stomach fill with butterflies. Lots and lots of precious little butterflies. She’d never felt anything even close to that and had to press a hand against her stomach.

“Where do you usually get the smoked pig?”

Her heart sank. “You don’t like it.” Pushing away from the table, she stood. “I’ll make you something else.”

“No, sit down. This is good. Very good, actually. I was just wondering where you get the pig from.”

“The Ryans are our neighbors,” Billy said. “It’s a long walk, but they have two kids. They’re girls, but still fun to play with.”

“How far is it?”

Clara had sat back down, and noted he was eating the meal as if it tasted good. She sincerely hoped it wasn’t just for show. “They live about ten miles from here.”