“Oh, you can count on it.”

“You’re not scared?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m not that easy to scare off. He’s a bit touchy, but he’ll learn to trust me.”

He could tell by the way she dropped her gaze that she’d caught his underlying meaning. “I have to go,” she said. “Good luck with Ulysses.”

“There’s no give in that strap.”

“What?”

He tipped his head toward the bundle on top of the trunk. “You’re gonna have trouble unbuckling it without some help. If your father-in-law isn’t around, I’ll be glad to lend you a hand.”

“I can manage.”

“I don’t doubt that, but why turn down my offer to help?”

“Because—” She broke off whatever it was she had been about to say and turned her head aside.

“Oh. I get it.” He took a step back. “Mrs. Driscoll is still missing.”

She came back around and said quickly, “No, no. That’s not the reason. Not at all.” She clasped her hands together, then, as though realizing she was still wearing the gloves, took them off, and tapped the pair of them against her palm. “I don’t want to be beholden to you, Mr. Hutton.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“I don’t want to be beholden to anybody.”

She looked like she meant it, and he didn’t want to provoke her by trying to change her mind. He supposed a young widow would be sensitive to becoming indebted to a single man. Though knowing that didn’t make him any less sorry that he couldn’t get near her without her bristling.

He motioned toward the driver’s door. “At least let me crank the motor for you. Climb in.” He extended his hand to help her onto the running board.

She hesitated only briefly before setting her hand in his. It was the one with the cut across his palm. She looked into his eyes, swiftly, then reclaimed her hand and stepped into the car.

He went around to the front of it. After she’d adjusted the spark and throttle levers on the steering column, he turned the crank twice. She switched on the battery, and the engine sputtered to life.

He collected his things from the hood, came back to the driver’s side, and passed her one of the handbills. “In case you come across anyone with a horse that needs to be taught some manners.”

She took the sheet from him and gave him a small smile. “I’ll pass it along.”

“I’d sure appreciate it. Thank you.”

He looked at her for maybe a couple of seconds longer than was easy on either of them. Long before he wanted to, he brushed the brim of his hat. “Take care, Mrs. Plummer.” He started back across the street.

“It was pneumonia.”

Her blurted statement brought him to a halt. He turned around.

She was off by five degrees of looking him directly in the eye. “Pearl came early. Her lungs probably weren’t finished developing, Dr. Perkins said. They were too weak to fight off the infection.”

He let his breath out slowly. “You asked me not to say anything. Just as well. I don’t have the words.”

She did look straight at him then, her expression stark with pain.

Then she bobbed her head, put the car in gear, and drove away.

Nineteen

Bernie stood at one of the four windows in his office. It was on the second floor of City Hall, affording him a bird’s-eye view of Main Street. From this advantageous point, he could monitor who was doing what, sometimes to his amusement, sometimes to his consternation.

Presently he was watching Thatcher Hutton make his way along the thoroughfare, going from utility pole to utility pole, nailing a notice to each one.

“What does it say?” Bernie asked and held out his hand.

Hennessy passed him one of the flyers. Bernie scanned it, then said to his bodyguard, “Thanks. That’s all for now.”

Hennessy left the office and closed the door.

“Does he ever speak?” Bernie’s associate asked.

“He doesn’t need to.”

“No, I guess the scowl does speak for itself. What about Mr. Hutton? What does his handbill say?”

Bernie turned away from the window and sat down at his mayoral desk. “It’s an advertisement for his services. Read for yourself.” He pushed the printed sheet across his desk toward the man sitting facing it. “This indicates to me that he’s sticking around.”

“He paid our charming landlady another week’s rent.”

“What do you make of it?”

Frowning in thought, Chester Landry needlessly straightened his perfectly tied bow tie. “I would suspect, as you do, that he’s a spy for the Anti-Saloon League in conjunction with a law enforcement agency. May they all roast in hell. Although, if they get their way, that’s where we’re destined.”

“Bill Amos swears up and down that Hutton appears to be exactly what he claims. A cowpoke without a herd. A straggler of a dying breed.”

“Well, the sheriff may be right.” Chester told Bernie about the arrival of Hutton’s trunk. “He dragged it up two flights of stairs, declining assistance from several who offered, myself included. The following morning, he came down for breakfast wearing common cowboy getup.” He dusted an imaginary speck of lint from the knee of his trousers, a lazy gesture Bernie privately regarded with scorn.

Chester Landry fancied himself a dandy. His hair was slicked down with enough pomade to pave the highway from here to El Paso. The side part looked like it had been carved into his scalp. He was always dressed to the nines, favoring patterned vests and brightly colored bow ties that Bernie wouldn’t have been caught dead in. The man also had a gold upper molar that glinted whenever he flashed his wolfish smile.

He was Bernie’s partner in business. He was also a pain in Bernie’s ass. Bernie couldn’t get moonshine out of the county and into the speakeasies in Fort Worth and Dallas without it going through Chester Landry’s manicured hands. Nor could he get bootlegged liquor smuggled into the county without Landry. He brokered the deals on both ends, and the percentage he demanded for each transaction was downright usurious.

But without him and his “powers of persuasion,” Bernie’s business wouldn’t run as smoothly. Or as covertly. Which brought him to a matter of importance. “Is that loudmouth still at the boardinghouse?”