the ride back to her place stirred a powerful bout of anger inside Tom. One he hadn’t felt since chasing down the outlaw who’d killed Julia.
He’d never expected to feel that way again, and knew he shouldn’t in this instance, but couldn’t stop it. Had no control over it.
Mrs. Ryan had told him something else, that she’d once asked Clara why she stayed out here all by herself and that Clara’s only response had been to say, “And go where?”
If he’d ever considered not going back to her place today, Tom had completely changed his mind. Clara was afraid to leave because Hugh would find her wherever she went. She hadn’t said that, nor had Mrs. Ryan, but his gut said that was the main reason Clara stayed put. She was afraid for herself and afraid for her son. Afraid for what Hugh would do when he discovered they were gone and found them. His gut told him something else. Hugh had done something to make her that afraid. That goaded him like nothing had before. That a man could treat his wife in such a way. Then again, Hugh Wilson wasn’t much of a man. Anyone who robbed, thieved, killed, was a beast, not a man. People like that deserved to be caged up, sent to prison, where they couldn’t hurt anyone else, ever again.
Especially not a woman as gentle and kind as Clara.
The more he thought about that, the more he wanted to know.
Both Clara and Billy were in the front yard when he rode up. He’d watched Billy run from the barn to the house and then saw Clara rush out the door while he was still riding down the hill into the valley where the house sat. He tried to ignore what the sight of that did to him, how it lit up his insides, but in the end, gave in and let the smile that tugged on his lips form as he rode in the yard.
“We thought you’d left,” she said.
There was a hint of accusation in her voice, and though it shouldn’t, for he’d said he’d planned on leaving, it bothered him. He didn’t want to cause her any unjust pain. She was good at pretending. He’d seen how she’d favored the leg, but acted as if it was already healed. She was good at keeping things hidden. A lot of things. So was he.
“I did.” He patted one of the burlap quarters hanging off the saddle. “I went to get that smoked pig you talked about this morning.”
“I hadn’t meant for you to go get one,” she said.
The utter surprise on her face made his smile grow. “I know. But it’ll be a while before that leg’s good enough for you to walk that far.” He stopped Bullet and swung out of the saddle to walk the horse the rest of the way to the house.
She shook her head while fighting to hide a smile that kept creeping forward on her lips. “Well, you left before lunch and it’s nearly supper time. You must be starved.”
“I had two helpings of your amazing biscuits and gravy to tide me over.”
“Two helpings weren’t enough for all day.”
“Want me to help you carry that pig down into the cellar?” Billy asked.
“Can’t do it without you,” Tom replied.
“Can I unsaddle Bullet for you afterward, and feed him, too?” Billy asked.
“He’d like that,” Tom said, watching how Clara’s face shone at her son’s offers.
Catching him watching her, she patted her hair, as if checking that the coil was still pinned to the side of her head. Then, as if embarrassed by her actions, she spun around. “I’ll have supper ready by the time you two are done, so wash up afterward and come inside.”
“Don’t have to tell us twice,” Tom said, rubbing Billy’s patch of wayward hair and watching her step onto the porch. “Does she?”
“No, sir,” Billy replied while making a fist and pumping one arm.
A short time later, when walking into the house, Tom was still grinning at the boy’s antics, and hers, or maybe it was just that he was happy. It had been a long time since someone had been there to greet him upon arrival. Someone happy to see him, anyway. Most folks weren’t smiling when a sheriff rode into their yard.
It was more than that, though. Sitting down at the table, sharing a meal with Clara and Billy, carrying on conversations with them, all of those were things he was looking forward to. He’d shared many meals with families back in Oak Grove, and enjoyed them, but this was different. This was something he wanted. There was something else he wanted, too.
“I hope you like fried chicken, Mr. Baniff. I had a hen that was pecking at the others.”
“I do like fried chicken, but I’m wondering if you’d mind calling me Tom.” He shouldn’t be so forward, but if he was going to convince her to leave, he needed her to consider him a friend. Someone she could trust.
“Boy, it smells good in here, doesn’t it, Tom?” Billy said.
The boy’s timing or comment couldn’t have been more perfect. Tom didn’t say a word, merely lifted a brow that he hoped she read as saying that if Billy could use his first name there was no reason she couldn’t.
Her cheeks turned pink as she bowed her head slightly before turning to the stove. “Sit down, both of you.”
Other than the platter she was piling pieces of fried chicken on, the table was set, so he waited until she’d forked the last piece out of the pan before he lifted the platter, signaling he’d carry it to the table.
She didn’t protest as she wiped her hands on her apron while walking to the table. He appreciated that. A woman should expect a man to assist her in all aspects of life, and a man should want to.
As they ate, Billy talked about all the kindling he’d chopped that afternoon, and about helping Clara pluck the chicken clean, stating it had been a long time since they’d had fried chicken. It had been a long time since Tom had eaten fried chicken, too, and doubted he’d ever had any this tasty.
“That was the best chicken I’ve ever eaten, Clara, thank you,” he said when he couldn’t take another bite. Food, no matter what it was, tasted better when shared with others, but that chicken had been exceptional.
“Me, too, Ma,” Billy said.
“I’m glad you like it,” she answered. “Both of you.”
“We liked it so much, we’re going to do the dishes for you,” Tom said.
“We are?” Billy asked.
“Yes.”
“No.”
He and Clara had spoken at the same time. Him nodding while she shook her head.
“You’ve been on that leg long enough today,” Tom said. “It can’t heal completely without rest, so you just sit there and tell us if we’re doing something wrong.”
“How can you do dishes wrong?” Billy asked.
“I couldn’t just sit here, Mr.—Tom. I’d feel guilty.”
“Then go lie down, or go sit on the porch,” he said before turning to Billy.
