be what Daniel gets.”
With an angry swish of her skirts, she was gone.
In her wake, Doc Martin could only scratch his head. “Well, I’ll be,” he whispered aloud.
“Doc?” Rand Weston entered the room from the front of the house. His face wore an expression of disbelief. “I just passed Miss Thornton,” he began.
“Yes, you did.” Doc replied. “Madder than a wet hen, I suspect.”
The sheriff nodded as he crossed the room. Both men stood and stared out the kitchen windows, watching a lone figure cram a wide-brimmed Stetson on his head before he stalked off.
“That the marshal?”
“Yep,” Rand murmured.
“Hm,” Doc Martin mused. “Perhaps we might need a word with Mr. Malone.”
“The undertaker?”
Doc nodded. “Could be we need to have him measured for his own pine box.”
Sheriff Rand Weston looked at the empty doorway, then back to the window. The corner of his lips turned up in a knowing smile. “Could be, Doc, could be.”
****
Mary Rose lingered in the shadows of the hallway to watch the people meandering around in small groups, their voices low as if afraid to awaken the dead. She needed to get a hold of her emotions and put them into concealment until this was done. Closing her eyes, she mentally counted to ten, yet it did little to quell the rush of feelings that five minutes alone with that insufferable U.S. Marshal stirred to a maelstrom.
“Oh, there you are, dear.” The Widow Hatfield smiled. “Did you and that nice young man have a good talk?”
Mary Rose’s eyes grew cold. “Aye, we talked.”
“Oh, good,” the widow replied, missing the angry tone. “Now, you get some food before you pass slam out.”
Before she could protest, Mary Rose found a luncheon plate shoved into her hand, holding a dollop of potato salad and a chicken leg.
“There now, go on and find a place to sit.” The widow pushed her along and turned to the next person in line. “Land sakes, Earl, is that your youngest?”
A sigh escaped Mary Rose’s lips as she wandered across the room toward an empty chair near the fireplace. Once seated, she had to admit it felt good to be off her feet. Picking up the chicken leg, she took a dainty bite, only to find it tasted like sawdust. Without a napkin to spit the mouthful into, she was forced to chew and swallow, which nearly gagged her.
“Would some tea help?” a male voice questioned.
She cut her eyes toward the speaker and relaxed. Caleb Gentry held out a delicate china cup.
“The Widow Hatfield is in her element,” he observed.
“Yes,” Mary Rose agreed. Accepting the tea, she took a sip, washing the chicken down. “She enjoys having something to do.”
“Or someone to fuss over.”
Caleb’s remark made her chuckle.
“May I?” he asked, shifting his gaze to the stool beside her.
“Be my guest,” she replied, and he took the seat.
How awkward he looks. With his knees drawn to his chin because of the height of the stool and the length of his legs, he reminded her of a frog ready to leap. “Surely, you can’t be comfortable.”
Gentry looked at her, a genuine expression of happiness on his face. “Don’t mind me,” he told her. “As a child, the corner and I were good company.”
She smirked. “It must be a male trait, for Daniel often did the same.” A beat of her heart went by and the image of her brother as a child fluttered across her mind. She could almost see his mischievous grin and the way his sun-kissed hair was always drooping over one eye. Oh, how she missed him. “I-I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Caleb murmured. “It’s going to be a big change, Miss Thornton. I’ll do everything I can to help things run smoothly.”
“I’m sure you will, Mr. Gentry. Thank you.”
“I told Sheriff Weston and the marshal yesterday I’d have the invoices together and sent over. I just had to find them all first. You know Daniel sometimes didn’t get all his papers filed.”
The sympathetic grin on her face froze. “Invoices?”
Caleb nodded. “Why, yes, ma’am. The two of them came to me yesterday morning asking what was in the wagons.”
Yesterday. A wave of apprehension coursed through her. She’d questioned Daniel about the crates stuffed beneath the seats when she discovered them. Her brow furrowed. What was it he’d said? “Leave the crates alone, Mary Rose. Don’t go poking your nose in where it don’t belong.” Now she suspected she should have done more.
“Miss Thornton?”
Giving her mind a mental shake, she looked over at