She scooted over, creating a spot for Thatcher to sit. He clasped hands with her and looked her over. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“A little bit everywhere. Bumps and bruises, mostly.”

“Your head?” He wasn’t sure she was aware of the large bruise on her temple.

“The nurse already gave me aspirin powder. What happened there?” Tenderly she touched the cut beneath his eye made by the wood splinter.

“Nothing.”

She kissed her fingertip and barely touched it to the scrape. “I have some good news. Mike O’Connor is in a room down the hall. He’s holding his own, Dr. Perkins said. He predicts a full recovery. But he also told me that, in a lucid moment, Mike vowed on his Saint Christopher medal to get revenge for Davy.”

“Maybe he’ll have a change of heart.”

“I doubt it,” she said wistfully.

So did Thatcher, actually.

To get her off that subject, he said, “You and Corrine will have to give your statements about what happened with Gert. It’ll be a formality.”

“Of course.”

“But I have one question. Why did Corrine have your pistol?”

“When all the trouble started happening in the hills, I was afraid for her safety. Even though Ernie—”

“Who’s Ernie?”

She smiled. “I’ll tell you about him sometime.”

He fingered a strand of her hair. “I think we both have a lot to tell each other.”

“Give me a hint.”

He softly kissed her lips.

As he eased away from her, she whispered, “I can’t wait to hear the rest.”

From the other side of the door, Dr. Perkins cleared his throat. “Mr. Hutton, they need your help with Sheriff Amos downstairs.”

“Be right there.” He stood and bent over Laurel. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yes. However late it is.”

As he backed toward the door, they stretched out their arms, keeping their fingers touching for as long as possible before they fell away.

* * *

Thatcher exited through a door in the rear of the building, where Irv’s truck was parked. As he approached it, he overheard Corrine saying to Irv, “Miss Laurel said you’d have a hissy fit if you knew she’d given me her little gun. But good thing she did. I can’t wait to tell Ernie about Gert. He’ll be so proud o’ me.”

Deputies were grouped around the tailgate, talking quietly among themselves. Thatcher felt a kick of apprehension. “What’s the matter?”

“He won’t come out,” Scotty said.

“What do you mean? He can’t walk. Lift him out and carry him.”

“We tried. He threatened to fire all of us. He said he wouldn’t go under the knife till he had talked to you.”

“Thatcher,” Bill called. “Get in here.”

The others shuffled aside as Thatcher made his way to the raised tailgate and looked over it into the bed of the truck. Bill was lying on his back, sweating profusely and in obvious pain.

“What the hell, Bill? Doc’s got everything ready for you upstairs.”

“I need to talk to you. Get in. You others,” he said, raising his voice, “make yourselves scarce.”

Thatcher lowered the tailgate and stepped up onto it, saying over his shoulder, “Give us a few minutes.”

“Uh, Thatcher?”

He paused and looked back. Harold was threading the brim of his hat through his fingers. It seemed he’d been appointed the spokesperson. “We, uh. You did okay out there today. I mean, damn good.” The others nodded. “We’d all take you out for a beer, except, well, you know. This danged Prohibition.”

The awkward invitation was their way of apologizing for the slights. Thatcher bobbed his chin. “A beer would go down real good. Some other time.”

They all breathed a collective sigh. Scotty said, “We’ll wait over here.” They moved away as a group, giving Bill the privacy he’d asked for.

Thatcher hunkered down beside him. “What’s this bullshit about?”

“Leg’s hurting like a bastard.”

“Then let us get you in there so the doc can fix you up.”

“I’m scared of ether.”

“You’ll sleep it off.”

“I sent one of the men to tell Daisy. Hated to. Alice Cantor sent back word that she’s doing a lot better. Got some scrambled eggs down her. She’ll bring her to see me tomorrow.”

“That’s good news. Let’s go.”

Bill caught Thatcher by the sleeve.

“Something else.” He settled his head on the floor of the truck and stared at the tarpaulin stretched overhead. “Soon as I’m able, I’ll be turning myself in. I took Bernie’s bribes. Let Hiram…others…get away with murder. Like killing that boy Elray. He’ll be on my conscience for a long time.”

Thatcher wanted to say Mine, too, but Bill didn’t give him a chance.

“Being lax kept things peaceful. But I’m a crook, same as the rest. Past time I owned up to it.” He blinked sweat from his eyes and grimaced with pain.

“This confession can wait, Bill.”

“No, it can’t.” He returned his gaze to Thatcher. “If I were to die on that table, you’d never know unless I tell you now. And that would be a tragedy.”

“You’re not in your right head, Bill. You’re talking nonsense.”

He clutched Thatcher’s sleeve tighter.

“From the start, I saw in you…” He made a dismissive gesture. “I already told you why I wanted you to work with me. Tim. All that. I wanted it bad enough, I lied to keep you here.”

His face contorted, and it wasn’t sweat in his eyes, Thatcher now realized. It was tears.

He choked on his next words. “I told you that your Mr. Hobson had died.”

Sixty-One

The house was two-story, with a white clapboard exterior trimmed in sky blue. Thatcher was relieved to see that it was as nice a house as the growing city of Amarillo afforded.

He went through the gate of the iron picket fence and up to the front door. His knock was answered by a gray-haired gentleman with a benign smile and gentle brown eyes behind wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Thatcher had been told that he was a prosperous accountant.