Zoe stayed busy at the warehouse. Yet the number of families in need of food and clothing had gradually dwindled off. There was an independent streak about the townspeople, some vestige of the pioneer spirit that had brought them west. Nearly two weeks had passed since the tornado, and most thought that too long to accept charity. They got back to fending for themselves.
Evenings were for Zoe the best time. Tilghman joined her for supper at the hotel dining room, which had returned to full operation. Then they strolled around the square, filled with pride and amazement as the new town rapidly took shape. By now, they were a common sight on their nightly walks, and people greeted them with a mixture of warmth and respect. Everyone in town knew of their selfless efforts in the aftermath of the storm.
Tonight, they paused to admire construction on the bank. The first floor was almost completed, the smell of fresh mortar strong in the still air. After a moment, arm in arm, they strolled on toward the corner. Tilghman was unusally quiet, and Zoe sensed that his thoughts were elsewhere. For the last three days, since his return from Guthrie, she’d known he was wrestling with some inner quandary. To her, his moods were by now an open book.
“Something wrong?” she asked, aware that he might never speak unless prompted. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
Tilghman nodded vaguely. “Just thoughtful, that’s all.”
“Are you concerned about the rest of the Wild Bunch?”
“No more so than usual. We’ll turn up a lead sooner or later.”
“Well, something is bothering you.” She gave him a long look of appraisal. “You haven’t been yourself since you met with—what’s his name?—Nagle.”
“Not that,” Tilghman said. “Nagle’s the least of my worries. He won’t be any problem.”
“So what is it, then? You might as well tell me. I eventually worm it out of you anyway.”
“Some things are hard to put into words. Guess it’s got to do with the town, and the people. What they lost.”
“Their homes and businesses, all that?”
Tilghman shook his head. “I was thinking more of their personal loss. Folks like Jane Wallace.”
She glanced at him. “Are you talking about the loss of her husband?”
“Yeah, I am.”
Zoe had heard the story from women at the warehouse. She shuddered inwardly, remembering their description of the cafe owner trapped beneath fiery timbers. She recalled as well the awe in their voices, their admiration, when they spoke of Tilghman. Everyone respected him for his attempt to save a man from being burned alive, even though he had never fired the shot. They thought such an act of mercy required a special brand of courage.
Tilghman had never spoken to her of the incident. She knew, after listening to the women, that he’d been dragooned into it by Judge Dale. But only after first refusing, and then with great reluctance, agreeing after it became apparent that the trapped man was doomed. She considered the courage part of his character, the willingness to act when others flinched from the task. Still, reflecting on it now, she wondered what the personal toll had been for him. Perhaps he was trying to tell her something.
“Bill?” she said at length. “Do you blame yourself for the way he died? For not shooting sooner?”
Tilghman was silent as they crossed the street to the opposite corner. Finally, not looking at her, he shrugged. “Maybe I was too concerned with a clean shot. But the walls collapsed and the chance was gone. I don’t fault myself for that.”
“So it wasn’t him so much as his wife. You’re talking about her loss.”
“The last couple of days it put me to thinking that it doesn’t matter how a woman loses her husband. She grieves the same no matter how it happens.”
“I don’t understand,” she said in a bemused tone. “Are you talking about Jane Wallace, or someone else?”
“Someone else.” Tilghman hesitated, then went on. “I’ve been wondering about Doolin’s wife.”
“What about her?”
“Doolin’s sure to hang. She’ll likely suffer more than he does. Lots longer, too.”
Zoe looked at him in surprise. “You’re worrying about Edith Doolin, aren’t you?”
“Not worrying,” Tilghman said uncomfortably. “Just that she’ll be a young widow with a boy to raise. That’s a heavy load.”
“I see,” she said with sudden dawning. “So you plan to help her in some way. Is that it?”
“Figured I might,” Tilghman admitted. “Thought I’d give her part of the reward money. Half of it was hers, anyway.”
“How could it be?”
“Doolin was wearin’ a money belt when I captured him. Had a little better than twenty-five hundred in cash. I turned it over to the office.”
“Yes, but that was stolen money, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose most folks would say so.”
Zoe smiled. “You just want to help her, don’t you?”
“That’s the problem,” Tilghman said, frowning. “I’ve been studying on a way to pull it off.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some way she won’t know it came from me. She might look on it as blood money … from the reward.”
Zoe felt a lump in her throat. She thought it was so like him to take a practical approach to a compassionate act. He wanted no credit, no recognition, no thanks. He was concerned instead with Edith Doolin.
“Why do I get the feeling,” she said lightly, “that you’re asking for volunteers?”
Tilghman avoided her eyes. “Well, you’re due a break from the warehouse. Thought you might be willin’ to lend me a hand.”
“In other words, you want me to give her the money.”
“Figured you could just tell her it came from a friend.”
“How do I find her?”
“I’ll take you.” Tilghman hesitated, cleared his throat. “’Course, it’ll take a couple of days by buckboard. Your pa’s liable not to be too happy with that.”
“Let me handle him,” she said brightly. “We are betrothed, and you have no designs on my virtue …
