“What’s up there?”

He explained his long-time connection to the Hobson Ranch. “I was making my way home, back to the ranch and my job.”

The sheriff took it all in, then said, “If you’ve got a job waiting for you in the Panhandle, why’d you jump off the freight train way down here?”

He came clean about the poker game and the ill will it had created with those sharing the boxcar. “They were sore losers.”

“Did you cheat?” Sheriff Amos asked.

“No. I have a knack.”

“For winning at cards?”

“For reading people.”

The sheriff glanced over at the others as though to verify that he’d heard correctly. Thatcher could tell that they were all skeptical of his boast, as well as of his story, so he didn’t volunteer anything else.

When the sheriff came back to him, he said, “What happened when you got to the Driscolls’ house?”

“I took one look and knew it was out of my reach.” He told them about Mrs. Driscoll’s coming out onto the porch and catching him as he was about to leave, and saying she wanted to thank him for coming by. “She called me up to the porch and brought out some fresh shortbread.”

The doctor said in a strained voice, “At least that much is the truth. Mila baked it this morning. We ate some after supper.”

“She gave me a second piece to take with me,” Thatcher said. “I wrapped it in my handkerchief. It left a butter stain. You can check it. Right pocket.”

He raised his cuffed hands, inviting the sheriff to withdraw his handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket. When he shook out the folded cloth, a few crumbs fell to the floor. The greasy spot was clearly visible.

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t go back later and do her harm,” the mayor said.

The sheriff frowned. “Doesn’t mean he did, either.”

Recalling Mrs. Driscoll’s friendly smile and hospitality, it bothered Thatcher to think that she was in a direful situation of any kind. “Mrs. Driscoll was as nice a lady as I ever met. We chatted there on the porch while I ate the shortbread. When I took my leave, she suggested I try to find a room at the boardinghouse. I thanked her and left. If something bad has happened to her, you’re wasting your time talking to me. You ought to be out beating the bushes, looking for her.”

Driscoll surged to his feet. “Or maybe we’ll beat the truth out of you.” Hands fisted, he made a lunge for Thatcher and took a wild swing.

Sheriff Amos shot out of his chair. “Dammit, Gabe. Sit down, or it’ll be you I’m locking up.”

The mayor took hold of the doctor’s arm and dragged him back to his seat. “Can’t say as I blame you, Gabe,” he said, casting a glare in Thatcher’s direction. “It’s clear he’s lying.”

Thatcher didn’t give a damn about that blowhard’s opinion. The distraught husband was another matter entirely. “I’m telling you the truth, Dr. Driscoll. What call would I have had to repay Mrs. Driscoll’s kindness by hurting her?”

The mayor answered for him. “I think you took advantage of her kindness and got her to open the door of her house to you tonight.”

“I didn’t,” Thatcher said, but he addressed the denial to the sheriff, not to the mayor.

Harold came stalking across the room. When Thatcher saw what he was bringing with him, his stomach sank. It was a set of postcards that he had brought home from France. Harold had removed the string that bound them.

Smirking at Thatcher, he passed the cards to Sheriff Amos. “Found these in the bottom of his bag.”

Each of the cards featured a photograph of a half-naked woman in a provocative pose. The sheriff fanned through them without comment or reaction, then formed a neat stack of them and set it facedown on the nearby desk.

Thatcher didn’t offer any apology or explanation for them. Was there a man in the room who wouldn’t enjoy taking a peek?

The sheriff leaned back in his chair and tugged at the corner of his mustache while he studied Thatcher. Thatcher wished he knew what was going through the lawman’s mind. Apparently, so did the mayor. Above the loud ticking of the wall clock’s brass pendulum, he prompted him. “Bill?”

Seeming to be in no hurry to respond, the sheriff waited another fifteen seconds, then indicated the torn shoulder seam on Thatcher’s coat. “How’d that happen?”

“One of the men on the train made a grab for me.”

“You really believe he jumped off a freight train, Bill?”

That from the mayor, whom the sheriff again ignored. He said, “You could’ve broken your fool neck. Why didn’t you stay on the train and fight it out?”

Thatcher glanced around. All of them were poised, waiting for an answer. He addressed the sheriff. “I did.”

“Did what?”

“Fought it out.”

“Three against one?”

“Wasn’t my choice.”

The sheriff reached for his hand and turned it palm up. “How’d you get that cut?”

“One of the men came at me with a knife. I was defending myself.”

“Against Mrs. Driscoll,” the mayor said.

The sheriff didn’t acknowledge the remark. “Back there in your room, you came at us like a vandal.”

“I told you. I woke up with a shotgun to my head. I reacted.”

“Violently,” the mayor said.

The sheriff kept his attention on Thatcher. “Three against one. Five against one. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“A bunkhouse.”

“He’s obviously a dangerous individual, Bill.”

“I’m not a danger to a woman,” Thatcher fired back at the mayor. “Sure as hell not one in the family way.”

The doctor choked back a sob and held his fist against his mouth to contain others.

Thatcher looked directly at the sheriff. “Look, hopping the freight? Guilty. I was just trying to get home, and the army didn’t pay me enough to get there. I wasn’t looking to fight the men on the train, but they would have killed me if I hadn’t fought back. Fought y’all because I’ve been to war and temporarily mistook you for the enemy.

“The last time I saw Mrs. Driscoll was midafternoon as she was bidding me goodbye. That’s the God’s truth. I would never raise a hand to a woman or harm one in any way if I could help it.”