slits in his face, or just because they looked as if they might shoot out bullets more easily than goodwill.
She wouldn’t cower in the street because the man had been conversing with Gray Derby Bart when her purchase had taken to the wind.
She plastered her most fetching smile on her lips and ignored Bart’s I’d-like-to-drown-a-puppy glare at her. With the other man present she was likely to be safe from the scoundrel.
“Thank you for rescuing my property.” She plucked the fabric from his narrow fingers, then took a step back. “I’m sorry it caused you so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, ma’am.” His voice rumbled like black coal in his chest, but he shot her a crooked smile that met the eastward slant of his nose. The gesture looked like a half-moon shining on his face and he didn’t look so intimidating.
Bart, stretching up in his boots, whispered in the man’s ear.
“Well, good day,” she said. The three steps from the boardwalk to the street felt like twenty. The bald man didn’t seem so sinister now that he had smiled, but Bart looked as if he had drowned the pups and was now on the prowl for kittens.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Suede,” the deep voice said.
“I beg your pardon?” Emma turned. The wind raced about her head and the orange air prickled the hair on her arms. Her stomach felt as if that long-fingered hand had reached inside her and twisted it.
“You could beg, but it won’t do no good.” Bart’s rheumy eyes glistened and his tongue, coated white, darted out to lick his lips. “This here is Angus Hawker, come all the way from prison to shoot your man dead.”
“No harm meant to you, missus, but there’s a score to be evened.”
He tipped his hat; the half-moon smile sagged to a quarter before he walked back into the Long Branch.
“Whoo-eee!” Bart slapped his derby on his knee. “Don’t you worry any, sweet thing, old Bart will come courting before week’s end. Your bed won’t even have time to cool off.”
* * *
Ordinarily singing made a chore move along more smoothly. Nails were hammered into wood straighter and a heavy load felt lighter. But Matt didn’t sing while he swept out Pearl’s stall. He listened. In a quiet corner Lucy hummed to her little dogs. He couldn’t see her over the stall sides, but her voice rose through the dust twirling in the beam of light that slashed through the open barn doors. It pleased him to know that he had handed on the gift to her. It would help her through the sorry times.
The shifting of fresh hay through the pitchfork drowned out the rest of her tune, but Matt tucked the memory of it away in his heart, saving the sound for a time when the voice would be grown.
Would she always sing from her heart, like a pretty yellow lark fluttering over the land?
So far, life hadn’t given her sadness, just days full of laughing in the sunshine, playing with pups and being the darling of all.
Matt filled Pearl’s trough with hay. The horse would nuzzle his ribs when she returned from Dodge. She was an unusual animal, more of a pet than livestock. Her blindness was no handicap—it seemed only to make her more perceptive.
“Good old Pearl,” he muttered, hanging the pitchfork on a nail hammered into the barn wall.
Matt walked toward the trill of Lucy’s voice. He found her lying in the pile of straw outside Thunder’s stall.
“You look as sweet as sunshine singing to your pups, baby girl, but I’ve got to put this straw in Thunder’s stall.”
Lucy stood and stretched. “Papa, bend down. You have hay in your hair.”
Matt stooped low and let her take it out.
“When’s Mama Emma coming home?”
“I’m sure she’s on her way right now.”
“I’m glad.” Having plucked out the last bit of hay, Lucy fluffed his hair about his ears. “Will she make my new dress tonight?”
Probably, but he hoped not. As soon as it was sewn, he’d have no excuse to put off his departure.
Still, it was past time he had a talk with his daughter about going to California, but how did a man find the words to break a little girl’s heart?
“Come on, sunshine baby, let’s go to the kitchen and have some of those oatmeal cookies that Emma left for us. Maybe by the time we’ve finished, she’ll be home.”
“Carry me, Papa.”
“Those little legs of yours run out of steps already?”