“Your secret’s safe with me,” Jason said, smiling. He put a hand on the boy’s head—he still wasn’t sure which one he was—and ruffled his hair before he went inside.
The bell jingled when he closed the door, and he stood there a few minutes, waiting for someone to respond. Now wasn’t exactly the time to holler for help. But a few seconds before he turned to go back outside, he heard someone coming down the stairs. A few moments later, Solomon poked his head around the staircase corner.
“What can I do for—” And then he looked up and a weary smile broke out on his tear-stained face. “Ah, Jason,” he said. “How kind of you to stop by.”
His voice told Jason that Sol was about to burst into a fresh onslaught of weeping, so he quickly said, “Solomon, I just stopped by to ask you how the devil you managed to get rid of Sampson Davis.”
He’d thought it was a safe question to ask, but he was obviously wrong. Uncontrollably, Solomon began to openly weep. When Jason took a step toward him, he held out his hands, as it warding Jason off, and stepped behind a counter, putting it between them. Then he turned his back and wept a bit more, got himself under control, and sheepishly turned back to face Jason.
“Good Lord, Sol,” Jason said softly, and reached across the counter to touch Solomon’s arm. Remembering the child’s plea to keep Solomon from learning what he’d overheard, he said, “Is it that bad?”
“It’s little Sarah,” Solomon said hoarsely. “She’s dying.”
“Surely not!” said Jason. If she’d been born with half her parents’ strength and tenacity, it was an impossibility. This, he truly believed.
But slowly, Solomon repeated what Morelli had told them this morning. Jason had to admit that it didn’t sound good at all. But he said, “Solomon, I believe that your baby’s going to be fine. I believe that she’s going to be better than fine. Any child who had the nerve to be born during—and live through—that storm is strong right down to her heart and soul. I believe that with all my heart.”
There was a pause before Solomon said, “Thank you, my friend.” He sniffed several times. “Thank you for listening, and for being a kind ear to talk to. Thank you for being my friend.” And then he broke down again.
Jason stayed in the mercantile for a long time, and—after he pushed Sol into the storeroom—even waited on a man who came in looking for nails and chicken wire.
Hours later, Jason stood outside on the boardwalk, staring down the street toward the boardinghouse. It was past noon. He knew that much, because the sun threw his shadow in front of him as he began to walk east, down Main Street. All this time to prepare, and he still didn’t know where to start with Sampson Davis.
But he knew he was going to have to start with him, at least. Solomon had told him enough about the man, in teary little dribs and drabs, that he felt he sort of had a handle on his character. Enough to open up a conversation, at any rate.
Cordelia Kendall was serving lunch when he entered, and a quick glance at the diners didn’t show him Sampson.
“Ma’am?” he said, instead of clearing his throat. He thought it was more polite, her being a lady and all.
She turned toward him. “Why, Jason!” she exclaimed, setting down the gravy and moving toward him. “How nice to see you! And to what do I owe this honor?”
Jason grinned. He liked Salmon’s wife. They’d been together on the wagon train coming out to Fury, and had since settled in admirably. He said (after he remembered to take off his hat), “No honor, ma’am, unless it’s mine. I was lookin’ for Sampson Davis.”
“Mr. Davis is still sleeping. I understand he got in quite late last night.” She lifted a brow, as if to ask a question.
“Don’t disturb him, then,” Jason said, partly relieved and partly annoyed. “I can talk to him later.”
“Well, then,” she said, as if he’d satisfied her curiosity. “You’re most welcome to stay to luncheon, you know.”
She was a famous cook, and he was tempted, but he said, “My sister packed me up a lunch, and if I don’t rave about it in detail, she’ll have my hide. Another time?”
She laughed and said, “Of course! Any time at all. Shall I send Sammy over to your office when Mr. Davis rises?” Salmon, Junior, was nearly old enough to take a wife, but she still insisted on calling him Sammy—as did his father.
He put his hat back on. “I’d be right pleased, ma’am.”
She shook her finger at him. “You know, you’re getting so you talk like a Texas field hand! We’re going to have to usher you back East to college, one of these days!”
He silently wished she’d hurry it up and end his misery, but he said, “Yes’m,” and “Thank you, ma’am,” and took his leave. He crossed the street and entered his office. It was quiet, and it was empty—at first glance, anyway.
Rafe Lynch rolled over at the sound of the closing door, and sat up on his cot, yawning and stretching.
“Thought you’d be long gone by now,” Jason said. He began rooting through his desk drawers for his lunch, which Jenny would have dropped off sometime during the early morning, on her way to school.
“Too tired,” Rafe answered. “Went back to bed. Is that lunch?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
Jason had finally found the sack in the bottom drawer on the left, and hoisted it up on the desk. It was heavy! “Yeah,” he said, his mouth watering. “Mine.”
He peeked inside and saw . . . two of everything: two thick chicken-and-tomato sandwiches, two servings of potato salad, and on and on. He looked back at Rafe, now standing in the doorway of his cell and putting his hat on. Jason sighed. “Take your hat back off. Jenny put in two, apparently, of everything in the whole blasted kitchen.”
Rafe hurried over, dragging a spare chair behind him and tossing his hat on the rack. “What a gal!” he said as
