“Some women, they think they want a lawman and
then when they get him, they don’t want the law
part.”
“That happen with you and Marnie?”
“Naw, but Marnie was special.”
“So’s Deborah.”
“All I’m saying is let me know if I need to start look-
ing me another chief deputy.”
“And all
anytime soon.”
When they pulled onto the shoulder of Jernigan
Road near the little bridge that crossed Apple Creek
and stepped out of the truck, a bitter wind whipped
72
HARD ROW
through the trees and dead vines that overhung the
water. It stung their eyes and cut at their bare faces.
Richards walked up from the creekbank to meet them, a
wad of tissues in her gloved hand. She had been fighting
a drippy cold all week and the tip of her nose was raw
from blowing. Tendrils of cinnamon brown hair worked
their way loose from her cap and blew across her freck-
led face until she tucked them back in.
“Nothing yet, sir,” she reported. “It’s up this way.”
Thin crusts of ice edged the creek, which was only
about eight feet wide and slow-moving. At this point it
was less than eighteen inches deep.
The two men followed as Richards led the way down
a narrow rough footpath that paralleled the south bank.
Nearly impassable here at the end of winter, one would
almost need a bushaxe to get through it in summer.
Dried briars tore at their pantlegs and tangled vines
caught at their feet. All three of them carried slender
metal rods and they used them as staffs to keep their
balance and brush back limbs.
Dwight was pleased to see that Mayleen was a savvy
enough woodsman to hold back the small tree branches
she pushed aside till Bo could grab them in turn and
hold them for Dwight, rather like holding open a set of
swinging doors to keep them from hitting the person
behind in the face. It was a reminder that Mayleen grew
up in this area and that Bo knew her people, which is
how she talked him into giving her a job.
“Who’d you say found it?” asked Bo, who kept hav-
ing to duck low-hanging branches to keep from losing
his trademark porkpie hat—a dapper black felt in win-
ter, black straw in the summer.
73
MARGARET MARON
