in a blatant bid for sympathy, “that when they’re stitching up a facial wound, they can’t deaden it because they might damage one of the nerves?”
Butch sighed. “I’m sorry,” he relented. “I’ll bet those stitches hurt like hell.”
He took her in his arms then, and all the while he held her, Joanna felt more than a little guilty. It was bad enough that Butch had fallen for his wife’s unconscionable womanly wiles. What was worse, Joanna Brady liked it. She doubted D. H. Lathrop would have been very proud of her just then, but somehow Joanna knew that Eleanor Lathrop Winfield would have been.
“By the way,” Butch said. “You had a phone call a few minutes ago. Deputy Galloway”
Joanna’s green eyes darkened. Considering everything that had happened since morning, her conversation with Ken Galloway could have been days ago rather than hours. “What did he want?” she asked.
“He asked me to give you a message,” Butch replied. “He said, ‘Its handled,’ whatever that means. It was almost like he was talking in code and didn’t want to give me too information.”
“It was code,” Joanna said with a laugh. “I strong-armed him this morning into doing something nice. He’s still pissed about it, but he did it. Good. That’s all that counts.”
“Did what?”
“Remember Yolanda Canedo?”
“The jail matron with cancer, the one in the hospital in Tucson?”
Joanna nodded. “Right,” she said. “Ted Chapman, the chaplain with the jail ministry, got all the inmates to join together and do something for Yolanda and her family. It seemed to me that the deputies ought to shape up and do as much, if not more. Ken Galloway wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the prospect, but it looks as though he’s come through.”
“But his nose is still slightly out of joint,” Butch said with a laugh.
“Too bad,” Joanna replied.
That evening it was as though someone had posted an OPEN HOUSE sign at the end of the road that led to High Lonesome Ranch. Half a dozen cars showed up for a celebratory but impromptu potluck. As the kitchen and dining room filled up with guests and while Butch, Jeff Daniels, and Eva Lou Brady organized the food, Joanna and Marianne Maculyea sat in a quiet corner of the living room while Marianne nursed little Jeffy.
“I embarrassed myself in the emergency room this afternoon,” Joanna admitted. That quiet confession, made to her best friend, was something she had yet to mention to her husband.
“What happened?” Marianne asked.
“I burst into tears.”
“So what?” Marianne returned. “From the looks of those stitches, I would have done the same thing. That cut must hurt.”
Joanna shook her head. “It’s not that bad,” she said. “And the cut isn’t what made me cry. I was sitting there in the ER lobby, bleeding and waiting to see the doctor, when the full force of it finally hit me. That woman was after Dora. Poor Dora Matthews was the only target; Jenny wasn’t. She wasn’t in danger and never was. That’s when I burst into tears. One of the nurses stopped by to see what was wrong; what I needed. She thought I was in pain. There were other people in the room who were in a lot worse physical shape than I was, Mari. I couldn’t very well tell her it was just the opposite—that I was so relieved I could barely contain myself.”
Marianne hefted little Jeffy to her shoulder and patted his back until he let loose with a satisfied burp.
“I know,” Marianne said thoughtfully. “I felt the same way—that incredibly giddy sense of relief—right after Esther had her heart transplant. And then, when we lost her anyway . . .” Marianne paused, shook her head, and didn’t continue.
Just then Jenny bounded into the living room with Marianne’s daughter Ruth hot on her heels. Sensing the prospect of a possible game, both dogs trotted behind the girls. As Joanna looked at the two children, her heart swelled once more with love and pride and another spasm of enormous relief.
“Time to eat!” Jenny announced, standing with both hands on her hips.
