Forty-Eight
Thatcher was putting the frisky mare through her paces in the corral when he saw Laurel come around the corner of the stable. She stopped there.
The sight of her made his heart jump and everything below his waist go tight, which didn’t improve his dark mood this morning. He wanted to strangle her for being the damnedest woman he’d ever met. He wanted to make love to her for the same reason.
The mare was being her uncooperative self, but he stuck with the training for five more minutes, then, with a subtle motion of his right knee, directed her to the paddock gate where he dismounted. He led her out and over to the water trough near the stable.
He said to Laurel, “You’re out early.”
“I need to talk to you and figured I would find you here.”
Her hair was hanging down her back in a long braid beneath the straw hat he recognized, the one with the wide brim that cast a crisscrossing pattern of shadows over her cheeks, her pert nose, her plump lower lip.
To distract himself from thoughts of biting that lip, he ran his hand along the horse’s neck as she drank from the trough.
Laurel said, “What’s her name?”
“Serena.”
“Pretty.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t fit her personality. She’s high-stepping and willful, doesn’t pay attention to anybody.”
He could tell by Laurel’s peeved expression that she knew he wasn’t referring strictly to the mare. In a crisp voice, she said, “I wouldn’t have bothered you, except that I need to tell you something the sheriff ought to know.”
“Then why don’t you go see him?”
“Are you going to be civil and talk to me or not?”
“I’ll be civil and talk to you, but I can tell you right now that you won’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“And what is that?”
“Stay and find out.”
He made a nicking sound with his mouth and gave the reins a gentle tug. The mare fell into step behind him as he led her into the stable. Laurel trailed behind.
The shade was welcome, but the air inside the building was stuffy and hot and added to his overall grouchiness. Only after the mare was unsaddled, unbridled, and munching oats in her stall did he turn his attention to Laurel, who’d been standing in the center aisle, tapping her hat against her leg with annoyance for having been kept waiting.
“You don’t like horses?” he asked.
“I don’t mind them.”
“Do you ride?”
“Not with any skill. On the family farm, we had plow horses and one mule. I could sit astride and hold on. What is it you wanted to say that I don’t want to hear?”
“Have a seat.” He motioned to a bale of hay. She backed up to it and sat down. He took off his hat and hung it on a nail as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ve got a bucket of well water. Are you thirsty?”
“No thanks.”
He went over to the bucket, ladled himself a tin cup full, and drank it down. She set her hat on her lap. When he came back to her, he propped himself against a post between stalls. “Ladies first.”
“There’s something worth Sheriff Amos’s knowing, especially after what happened to Elray Johnson.”
“Why don’t you tell him directly?”
“Because you’re privy to certain things that he isn’t.”