She’d told him her husband had come back from the war, and that must’ve been the truth if her baby was that young. He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How long since her husband passed?”

“Two months? Three? The story…” She paused as though reluctant to gossip. Thatcher didn’t encourage her to continue, but he hoped she would. He was itching to know why the elder Mr. Plummer was so trigger-happy. Maybe he was just overprotective of the recent widow and his sick granddaughter. Fair to say, too, that a stranger who showed up out of nowhere could be cause for concern to people who lived in such a remote spot.

Mrs. Driscoll overcame her reticence. “The story is that her husband took her and the baby to his old papa out dere, then shot himself the same night.”

Jesus. No wonder she’d looked gaunt and wound up.

“Such a shame for her,” Mrs. Driscoll said.

“Yes, ma’am, it is.” They were quiet for a moment, then he said, “I’d best see if they have any vacancies in that boardinghouse. Thanks again for the shortbread.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck to you, Mr. Hutton.”

He doffed his hat to her, and then, when he reached the street, he tipped it to the busybody who was still observing them from behind the lacy curtain.

Seven

The large house near the railroad tracks was indeed yellow. In its day, it might have been considered grand, but Thatcher figured the loud color was an attempt to draw attention away from the overall seediness of the place.

If he planned to stay longer, he would have passed on it. But, reminding himself that the quarters would be temporary and probably affordable, he pulled on the bell at the front door.

Through the screen, he saw a woman walking toward him down the length of a long central hallway. He’d seen scarecrows that were more comely. As she neared, she slung a damp cup towel over her shoulder and peered at him through the mesh. “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buyin’.”

Friendlier scarecrows, too. “I’m not a salesman.” He stated his purpose and asked if she had a vacancy.

She shifted a toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other. “You railroad?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Most of my boarders are railroad men. They rotate in and out.”

“I don’t plan on being here long term, either.”

She pushed open the door, and motioned him inside. “Name’s Arleta May. May’s the last name. I got one vacant room. Rents by the week. No refund if you cut out early. Three meals a day, but supper is cold, and you serve yourself off the sideboard.”

She passed him a piece of paper on which was a badly typewritten list of house rules. He was allowed barely ten seconds to scan it before she took it back. “Basically, no women, no liquor, no cussing, no fighting, no smoking in bed. I’ve got beans about to boil dry. You taking it or not?”

He took it. She went over to a cabinet, sorted through a drawer full of keys, and exchanged one of them for his first week’s rent money. “Third floor, number two. You can find your own way.” She shuffled off down the hall from which she’d come.

Thatcher climbed two sets of stairs to the third floor. Room number two met his expectations. The mattress on the rusty iron bedstead sagged in the middle. Water stains spotted the ceiling. The single window was cloudy with grime. He raised it to let in some fresh air.

A set of sheets and a folded towel had been left on the bed. He took the towel with him into the bathroom midway down the hall, used the toilet, washed his face and hands, and returned to his room only long enough to hang the towel on the footboard to dry and to retrieve his hat.

He descended the stairs and followed the aroma of cooking beans to the kitchen. “Uh, Miz May?” She turned to him, scowling. “Sorry to bother you. Is there a public stable in town?”

“Old man Barker’s. North side of town, across the bridge.”

* * *

An advertisement for Goodyear tires was painted on one exterior side of Barker and Son Automobile Parts & Repair. In front were two gasoline pumps, and, even as Thatcher crossed the bridge, he could smell motor oil. Several vehicles were parked both inside and out of the open garage. One was being worked on by a young man in dirty overalls, no shirt.

“Mr. Barker?”

“He’s out back.” Without even glancing at Thatcher, he hitched his thumb over his shoulder.

Thatcher walked around the building and found an older man lying on his back beneath a milk delivery truck. He was banging metal against metal and cussing a blue streak.

“Mr. Barker?”

The man slid from beneath the truck and shaded his eyes against the sun. “Yeah?”

“Thatcher Hutton.” He walked over, bent down, and extended his right hand.

“Never mind that. My hands are greasy.” As Barker came to his feet, he pulled a red shop rag from the pocket of his overalls and wiped his hands. “What can I do for you?”

“You stable horses?”

Barker tipped his head toward a large barn about thirty yards distant. “Stable, shoe, groom. Whatever you need.”

“I need a job.”

The older man scoffed and looked him over. “Doing what?”

“Whatever needs doing.”

“You ever seen the inside of a stable, young man?”

“Spent most of my life in one. Before being drafted, cowboying was all I ever did. I mustered out of the army a month ago in Norfolk, Virginia. I’ve been working my way back up to the Panhandle. The Hobson ranch?”

He posed it as a question to which Barker shook his head. “Don’t know it.”

“South of Amarillo, along the Palo Duro. I started working for Mr. Hobson when I was eleven years old. I’m handy with horses.”

“That may be,” Barker said, still looking unconvinced. “But I ain’t hiring.”

Thatcher glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the garage before coming back around. “Looks to me like you’ve got more than you can handle on the automotive side of your business. For the next few weeks, I could relieve you of stable chores, free up you and your son to do the other work.”

“That nitwit ain’t my son. I’m the son. My daddy had a smithy and stables at this location for forty years. Henry Ford changed that. I had to adapt or starve.”