there was no way to prove it. People’s memories faded. And maybe Lincoln was just grasping at straws. Maybe the bone Boomer found wasn’t even Sam’s. The forensic report had come back inclusive. With no witnesses or conclusive evidence that Sam had been murdered, there was no reason for Lincoln to stay in Simple. He ignored the pang in his chest and did what needed to be done.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he said. “I’m heading out in the morning and wanted to get as much done as I could before I leave.”
Chester and Lucas exchanged a look before Chester spoke. “That’s a shame. We’ve sure enjoying having you here and I know the other boys have too. But we understand that you have your job to do.” He spit out some tobacco and shook his head. “It’s just a shame that Simple will be losing two good law officers.”
Lincoln stared at him. “Two? I hope you’re not lumping me with Sheriff Willaby.”
Chester snorted. “That man’s not a good lawman, he’s a horse’s ass. I was referring to Deputy Meriwether.”
Lincoln’s hands tightened on the rake handle. “Dixie is leaving?”
Lucas nodded. “Talked to Gertrude this morning and she said she got it straight from the deputy’s daddy’s mouth. He and his wife stayed at the boardinghouse last night, but I guess they’re headed out today . . . along with their daughter.”
“Dammit!” Lincoln threw down the rake.
Chester squinted at him. “You seem a mite upset, boy. Almost as if the deputy leaving is your fault.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “It is my fault. All my fault.”
“I guess you were doing more than working on Sam’s case when you stayed in town these past few nights.” Lucas said. “You ready to tell us what’s been going on between you and the deputy?”
Lincoln didn’t want to bring the two old cowboys in on his drama, but for some reason the words just spilled out—more words than he had ever spoken in his life. He told them the entire story of being asked to watch out for Dixie and talk her out of being a deputy. And how he’d planned to do just that, but then realized she was a damned good deputy. And not just a good deputy, but a good person. When he was finished, he felt completely drained.
“I lied to her,” he said. “Now she thinks everything we had together was a lie. And that’s not true. What we had was real.” He paused as the truth hit him. “Dixie is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Then why are you here?” Chester asked. “If she’s the best thing that ever happened to you, why aren’t you in town telling that to the deputy and making her stay?”
“Because if I tell her, she’s going to think we have a chance together. And we don’t.”
“Why not?” Lucas asked.
Lincoln sighed and took off his cowboy hat to run a hand through his hair. “Because I’m screwed up.”
“That’s bullshit,” Lucas said. “You’re no more screwed up than all the rest of us. I know you’ve had some tough breaks, Lincoln. But lots of people have tough breaks. Just look at the rest of the boys. Their lives were far from perfect, but they found love.”
“They deserve it.”
Chester stared at him. “And you think you don’t, boy?”
The answer to the question came immediately. He didn’t think he deserved love. Good people deserve love. And he wasn’t nearly good enough. And never had been. Which was probably why he had spent most of his life trying to prove he was a good man—trying to prove he was worthy of love. But if he was truly worthy, his mama wouldn’t have killed herself. His wife wouldn’t have left him. And Dixie would have . . . fought for him.
People fought for people worth loving.
He pulled on his hat and picked up the rake. “I should get to that shed roof.” He hoped Chester and Lucas would let him go in peace. He should’ve known better. As soon as he stepped out of the paddock, Chester and Lucas cornered him.
“You’re wrong, boy,” Chester said. “You deserve to be loved, and you are loved. You’re loved by me and by Lucas. And by every single Double Diamond boy. I didn’t get to meet your mama or your daddy, but I got to talk to your grandmother on the phone. And that woman loved you too.”
“You talked with my grandmother?”
“You don’t think we’d let a sixteen-year-old kid come to