“Nothing, thank you. I’m going up to my room.”

“I understand. But you’ll let me know if you need anything?”

“I will.”

“The hurt will never leave you, but you learn to tuck it away,” he said, tapping his heart, “and get on.”

She gave him a wan smile. But as she climbed the stairs, she doubted that she would survive the night. She would surely die of grief.

* * *

At first, Thatcher had been too aggrieved over Mr. Hobson’s demise to give much thought to how it would affect his future. But soon he had to face the reality of his situation and figure out a way to make money. Even living frugally, he’d gone through his poker winnings from the men on the freight train and at the boardinghouse. He couldn’t live for long on a dollar fifty a day.

One afternoon, Thatcher approached Fred Barker. “I’m making progress with the stallion. But I’ve got to scare up more business for myself.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“You’ve got five empty stalls that aren’t earning you a cent. If I can get some horses to work with, how much will you charge me to stable them here and use your paddock?”

They struck a deal that Thatcher thought favored him. But it wouldn’t matter how good the terms were if he couldn’t fill the stalls.

He put in another few evenings of poker at the boardinghouse, won the largest pot each night, and invested his winnings in having handbills printed. He spent the next Saturday afternoon going around town nailing them to utility poles.

That’s when he spotted Laurel Plummer on the other side of Main Street. Her hair was in a long braid hanging down her back out from under a wide-brimmed straw hat. She was dressed in a dark skirt, a white blouse, and a pair of black gloves. She was trying to secure something on top of the trunk of her Model T with a leather strap. Looked to Thatcher like the strap wasn’t cooperating.

He hit the head of the nail he’d been hammering one final time, then, taking the sack of nails, hammer, and handbills with him, he crossed the street. “Need a hand?”

She let go of the strap and whipped around. As before, her features were taut, her expression guarded. They relaxed only slightly when she recognized him. “Oh. Mr. Hutton.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Seems you’re always wrestling with something.” He gestured toward the strap. He saw now that she’d been trying to get the ends to meet so she could buckle it.

She looked him up and down, taking in his cowboy hat, faded shirt, and dusty boots, then turned away and resumed pulling on the strap. “My father-in-law told me they had released you from jail.”

“They had no reason to hold me in the first place.”

“Mrs. Driscoll is still missing.”

She yanked hard on the strap as she glanced over her shoulder at him. If she had meant that as an implied accusation, he wasn’t going to honor it with a denial. “I heard you moved into town.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you like your new house?”

“It’s a far cry from new, but it’s better than where we were. How’s your hand?”

He held it up, palm out. “Healed. How’s your little girl?”

She gave the strap another yank. “She died.”

The ground seemed to give way underneath him. Her blunt statement had left him dumbfounded, and she must have sensed it. She stopped grappling with the strap and faced him.

“Please don’t feel like you have to say anything, Mr. Hutton. Actually, I would rather you didn’t.”

“All right.”

“It’s just that it’s difficult for me to talk about.”

He nodded. “I can see where it would be.”

She wet her lips, then pulled the lower one through her teeth.

He squinted up at the sun and readjusted the brim of his hat to shade his eyes.

After several awkward moments, he set the sack of nails, hammer, and handful of flyers on the hood of the car, then stepped around her and easily buckled the strap over several bundles of what looked like household goods. He gave it a test tug. “That ought to hold.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He looked down at her. The straw brim of her hat cast a patterned shadow over her face that intrigued him. Or, he just liked looking at her. Her eyes were green. And skittish. They looked everywhere except back at him.

A strand of hair had escaped both the braid and her hat. She pushed at it with the back of her wrist, the small knob of which barely cleared the curled edge of her worn leather glove. He didn’t remember ever seeing a wrist that delicate or a gesture that feminine.

But if he weren’t mistaken, the collarless shirt she wore was a man’s garment. It was way too large for her. The sleeves were rolled back, forming bulky cuffs against her thin forearms. The top button had been left open, exposing the triangular hollow at the base of her throat and making it about the most tempting patch of skin on the planet.

Her darting eyes eventually landed on the handbills. She tilted her head in order to read the bold printing upside down. “You break and train horses for a living?”

“Trying to.”

“That explains the cowboy clothes.” She glanced down at the ground. “The boots make you taller.”

Pleased to know that she’d noticed anything about him, he lifted his foot and looked at the scuffed riding heel. “I reckon so. I never thought about the height thing because I’ve always worn them. Only recently have I been without. These didn’t catch up to me until a few days ago, and it was like meeting up with old friends.”

He explained about the trunk. “It had been up there waiting on me, but turns out I won’t be going back to the Panhandle, after all.”

“No?”

“No. Circumstances up there changed while I was gone. Anyhow, these britches are more suited to my occupation.” He grinned. “The seat of my suit pants ripped the first time I got thrown.”

“Thrown? You mean bucked off?”

“That’s what I mean. The horse I’m working with now—his name’s Ulysses—is spirited, to say the least.”

“Were you hurt?”

“A knock or two. Nothing to speak of.”

“He could do it to you again.”