MARGARET MARON
“Okay,” he said, visibly relieved.
Inside the house, he hurried down to the utility room
to let Bandit out for a short run in the early evening
twilight and I let out the breath I’d been metaphorically
holding.
“
“
By the time Dwight got home, smothered pork chops
and sweet potatoes were baking in the oven, string beans
awaited a quick steaming in a saucepan, the rolls were
ready to brown and I was checking over Cal’s math
homework while he finished studying for tomorrow’s
spelling test.
I was dying to hear about the latest developments,
but I kept my curiosity in hand until after supper when
Cal went to take his shower and get into his pajamas
before the Hurricanes game came on. Tonight was an
away game and Cal didn’t want to miss a single minute
before his nine o’clock bedtime.
“The thing is,” Dwight said as he got up to pour us a
second cup of coffee, “are you likely to be the judge for
a half-million civil lawsuit?”
“Probably not,” I said, my curiosity really piqued
now. “Something that big usually goes to superior
court. Unless both parties agree to it, most of our judg-
ments are capped at ten thousand.”
“Okay then,” he said and settled back to tell me how
Bo Poole started thinking about his teenage years when
he used to run a trapline along the creeks in the south-
ern part of the county, especially Black Creek.
82
HARD ROW
“He wasn’t the only one and it dawned on him that
Fred Mitchiner used to trap animals and sell the pelts,
too.”
“Who’s Fred Mitchiner?”
“That eighty-year-old with Alzheimer’s who wan-
dered away from the nursing home right before
Christmas, remember?”
I shook my head. “That whole week was a haze.
Except for our wedding and Christmas itself, about
all I remember is that you took two weeks off and Bo
wouldn’t let you come into work.”
Dwight cut his eyes at me. “That’s all you remember?”
I couldn’t repress my own smile as his big hand cov-
ered mine and his thumb gently stroked the inside of
my wrist.
“Don’t change the subject,” I said, with a glance
