her. Then he sent another one to Doc in Vernal, being careful not to mention names. He wrote:
Wire me if you know of our lady’s whereabouts. I need to find her before anyone else does. Remember our parting conversation? God finally has my attention. The past is behind me. I’m in Houston for a few more weeks, then will move on to see my mother near Kahlerville.
A week later, Morgan received a telegram from Doc.
Not heard from our lady. Rumors aren’t good. Please find her.
*****
Late one July morning, amid dripping sweat that soaked the back of her shirt and flooded her mind with discouragement, Casey met a boy riding a mule near the outskirts of a rural town. He greeted her with a wide grin and a face dotted with peach-colored freckles. Hair the color of straw fell across his forehead and around huge ears. Bare feet emerged like wings from the sides of the swaybacked animal.
“Fine mule you have there.” She forced a smile.
“Thank you, sir.” He raked back the hair from his face and patted the animal’s neck. “Your horse is real fine.”
Her smile proved genuine. “His name is Stampede. Likes to run.”
“My pa would like him. He loves good horseflesh.”
“Can you tell me the name of the town up ahead?”
“Kahlerville.”
“Does your town have a preacher?”
“We sure do.” He sat taller on the mule.
“Does he live there, or is he the traveling kind?” A spurt of something livened her spirit. Maybe it was the innocence of the boy.
“Oh, Reverend Rainer and his wife live right beside the church. In a parsonage. That’s what ya call the house where a preacher lives.”
“You don’t say. I didn’t know that. Does he preach a good sermon?”
With a tug to his outstretched ear, the boy contemplated her question. “Well, I don’t always listen real good like I should, but my pa says Reverend Rainer is better than most. A lot of folks come on Sundays and Wednesday night prayer meetings, if that helps.”
“Is your sheriff law abiding?”
The boy nodded. “We don’t have any outlaws, and if we did, my pa says we’d string ’em up.”
Casey smiled. “Sounds like a fine town.”
“My pa calls it sleepy ’cause nothing ever happens, but that suits my ma.”
“Thank you. I may pay your town a visit.”
The boy disappeared, and Casey wondered if Kahlerville could be her town. But a tough sheriff might recognize her. Or would he? If his reputation scared away those who broke the law, then the likelihood of an outlaw settling in Kahlerville seemed small, making it a potentially safe place to live.
She was so tired of running and being called “sir.” Life seemed no easier than riding with Jenkins, except this way she had a chance to live better. She followed the same road lined with huge oaks into town and rode down through the center of activity. One side of the street held a barber-undertaker, a boardinghouse, and a general store that had the sign POST OFFICE. A bit of melancholy met her at the thought of Hank and Maude. A small building clearly marked LAW OFFICE caught her attention. The opposite side of the street marked the sheriff’s office and a two-story bank building. She laughed. Clever banker.
She shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and spotted a newspaper and telegraph office, the newest of the buildings. Several feet outside of town, beyond a cluster of pine trees, stood a two-story saloon. She’d never had a liking for whiskey. She’d tried it twice, and both times, she’d gotten sick. Two ladies sunned themselves from a second-story window and waved as she rode by. The red and purple trimmed building obviously housed entertainment for citizens of the sleepy town.
Casey looked beyond the edge of town and viewed a livery and blacksmith. A growing town, not too large. For a moment she wondered if Morgan’s hometown looked anything like this, but he’d indicated that he lived west from where she roamed.
She rode on past the business establishments to where the road wound to the right and then curved sharply back to the left. Off to the left in a grove of pine trees nestled a small church and a neatly kept two-story frame home. Both appeared to have received a recent coat of whitewash. Everything in this part of Texas looked green and pretty. Between the house and the church, a tall man labored over a picket fence. The pounding of his hammer echoed through the morning air like a woodpecker bent