Harold had covered his back last night during the raid, but the resentment persisted, it seemed. “The kind that won’t wait. Where does he live?”
The Amoses’ house wasn’t as picturesque as Dr. Driscoll’s, but the second story roofline sported gingerbread trim. It overhung a deep porch with two wicker rocking chairs. The yard was shaded by a massive pecan tree loaded with clusters of green shucks that promised a good harvest come fall. Thatcher secured the gelding to a fence post, made his way up the limestone walk, and knocked on the front door.
The upper half of it had an oval glass pane through which Thatcher and the sheriff made eye contact as he approached. He was in shirtsleeves and seemed a bit thrown to see Thatcher at his door. He greeted him by name with a question mark behind it.
“I stopped by your office first. Harold told me where you lived. Can I have a minute?”
The sheriff turned his head and glanced up the staircase attached to the right wall of the vestibule. He came back around, smoothing his mustache. “All right. Come in.”
Thatcher took off his hat and stepped inside. On the wall opposite the staircase was a gallery of framed photographs, but the foyer was dim, and Thatcher couldn’t make out who was in the pictures.
“How bad off is Irv Plummer?” Bill asked.
“He’ll live. The bullet entered the back of his arm, here.” Thatcher illustrated. “Came out through his armpit. Lost blood, but it wasn’t as nasty as it could have been. What about the other injured?”
“Bloody noses and scraped knuckles, one broken finger. Four were shot, including Irv. None of the wounds were fatal or permanently crippling. Thank God.”
“Who was the shooter?”
“Local boy. Preacher’s kid. Stupid and blind drunk. He panicked, overreacted. Broke down and cried when we told him that his wild shots had found flesh. More scared of his daddy’s punishment than jail time. We’ve got a dozen in the cell block sleeping it off until they can be arraigned later today. Lefty’s lawyer has already posted bail for him and Gert. Routine,” he said with a shrug. “How was Mrs. Plummer when you got Irv home?”
“Scared at first, seeing the blood. But once the shock wore off and she realized the wound wasn’t fatal, she was fine.”
“Third crisis in a row for that young lady.”
“Another would be having the old man sent to jail. Do you plan on arresting him?”
“Not this time. But he should learn his lesson from getting shot and stay out of Lefty’s.”
Thatcher didn’t comment on that. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and extended it to Bill by the barrel. “Wasn’t fired. Wasn’t needed after all.”
“Why don’t you keep it, Thatcher?”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve already got one. It was a gift. This one comes with strings.”
With a sigh of resignation, Bill took the Colt and set it on the lengthy table that ran along the wall under the picture gallery. “Look, I can tell that you’re upset about—”
“I’m not upset, Bill, I’m pissed off. You roped me into something I wanted no part of, and it’s not like I hadn’t told you flat out that I wanted no part of it.”
“Guilty. But last night you only proved that you—”
“Bill?”
The feminine voice came from above. Thatcher looked up the staircase where a woman hovered halfway down. She was of comparable age to Bill, maybe fifty. She was wearing a dressing gown and bedroom slippers. Her long, pale hair hung loose and tangled almost to her waist. She looked like a disheveled angel, a remarkably beautiful angel.
And she was regarding Thatcher with as much awe as he was regarding her.
With gentleness, Bill said, “Daisy, go on back upstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.”
She eased her grip on the bannister and continued her descent, but it was as plain as day to Thatcher that she was drunk or high on something. Her tread was so unsteady that if Bill hadn’t bounded up to assist her down the last few steps, she surely would have fallen.
When they reached the bottom, she shuffled toward Thatcher, bringing with her a waft of whiskey. She laid her frail hand against her chest as she gazed up at him with a yearning that made Thatcher uncomfortable. He looked over at Bill, who was watching his wife with sorrow, pity, and love. The raw and tragic kind.
“Daisy, this is Thatcher Hutton. Remember I told you about him?”