The Lawman's Oklahoma Sweetheart. Allie Pleiter
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realized the door wouldn’t open. The remembered feel of the door refusing to give way sent ice down her spine even now.
He saw her response. “Okay, then talk about it. Don’t swallow it. It won’t help.”
Katrine didn’t want to talk about it, but when he took a bandana out of his pocket, wiped down the latch and handed it to her, it was as if the words burst out. “There is an old Danish superstition that you must leave a window open when someone dies. To give the soul a chance to fly to Heaven. I know faith is stronger than such things, but I thought about it when I knew they had nailed the door shut. I thought, how will my soul fly to Heaven? We had no windows.” The tears, never far from the surface all day, brimmed her eyes again.
“No one died.”
“I keep telling myself that but it is not working.”
“Then keep repeating it. Out loud when you can, in your head when you can’t.” He nodded at her, cueing her words.
“No one is dead.” Her words were wobbly and insufficient.
“No one is dead,” he repeated for her. Katrine found herself stunned by the compassion in his eyes. There were wounds behind those eyes. She could see their shadows before he broke the gaze and turned away.
There was a moment of raw silence until he caught sight of something and walked toward it. “Try thinking of last night this way—you made your own window.”
She wiped her wet lashes to watch him turn over a log with his boot, the recognition hitting her as fierce as the wind: the corner log. He must have tossed it far enough from the cabin when he pulled it out of the wall, for it hadn’t fully burned. When he bent to another, she knew that both logs of her “drafty corner” had somehow survived the fire.
Sheriff Thornton squatted down and inspected the logs. “You should save these,” he said, turning to her as she walked closer. “Build them into your new home.”
Katrine recoiled at the thought. “Why?”
“Lije says the strongest people make peace with their scars. You were brave to fight your way out last night, and you’re being mighty brave to do this now. It’d be good to remember.”
Remember. Was it worth it to remember when all the ashen pieces of home were blowing away in the wind? A black flake of charred wood settled on her hand and she flinched as if it still burned. “I think I might rather forget. Or not. I just do not know.” The tears threatened again.
To her surprise, the sheriff rose and carefully settled the logs on one end, like an odd little row of order in all the destruction. He extended a hand. “Maybe you don’t have to know yet. Lars would want you to see what else can be saved. Maybe it’s more than you think.”
She let him pull her closer to the blackened pile, still smoking in some places. With a tenuous smile, he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and began picking through the debris. She watched him for a moment, then began walking around the collapsed house, trying to feel Lars’s encouragement but failing miserably. She spied half a blackened bowl and swallowed hard. The two new bowls brought by neighbors couldn’t really replace it. New wasn’t always better, was it?
“Well now, look here!” Katrine raised her gaze to see Sheriff Thornton holding Lars’s favorite tin coffee mug, the blue enamel still visible under spots of black soot and a considerable dent. He used his glove to wipe away some of the soot. “He’ll want this back, I reckon.”
He said it like a secret. He’d said over and over that this deception was necessary, that it was the best way to keep Lars safe, and Katrine wanted to believe him. Neither Lars nor the sheriff truly knew why this was so hard for her, but that had to stay a secret, as well. She lifted her chin to the sheriff. “I want to see him.”
Thornton came down off the pile and stood in front of her. “You know I can’t do that.”
Katrine felt the urge to stamp her foot in a childish fit. All the pain and loss was boiling up inside of her, and he’d told her not to swallow it, hadn’t he? “You could find a way. Do you know what it is like to sit in your brother’s house and hear people talk of Lars dead? They bring me food and clothes and they cry over my loss. It is awful. I want to run away, but...” She flung out her arms at the mound of ashes in front of her. “I have nowhere to go now, do I?”
“You could build a mansion out here and it’d be no good if men like McGraw are free to take it from you!”
She spun on him. “So it was McGraw!” The shouts from outside the cabin that horrible night clicked in her memory. Lars had hinted that he knew something about the men, but wouldn’t say outright, claiming she was safer not knowing. That hadn’t proved true, had it?
The sheriff kicked a fallen beam. “Hang it, I wasn’t supposed to say.” He pointed at her. “You forget you heard that. You’re in enough of a spot as it is.”
She had to agree with that. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
“Well, I don’t either,” he said quickly, then ran his hands down his face as if he hadn’t wanted to admit that. “It’s gonna be fine. I’ll get him. I’m already in with the load of ’em. We just need to get through this part until I have enough proof to put the Black Four away for good.”
“I need to see Lars.” She knew it was pointless, but she couldn’t help saying it. Without hearing Lars’s voice, without looking into the strength of his eyes, she wasn’t sure she could keep up this dangerous game. She waited for Thornton’s temper to rise at her childish insistence.
He sighed instead, walking over to hand her the battered mug. It wasn’t much of a peace offering, but he was trying, she could see that. “How about I take him a message? Write him a note, and I’ll bring you back his reply. Will that help?”
It wasn’t like seeing Lars, but it would have to do. “Yes. Yes, it would help very much.”
Chapter Four
An hour after returning Katrine to Lije’s house, Clint rode out of town toward the Cheyenne reservation. He wandered through the open prairie, following the hunting trails Lars used, deep into the wilderness where only those most familiar with the countryside would venture out. He watched the stones along the path until he began to see piles of three stones—carefully laid so that they looked natural and would not catch the eye of anyone not looking for such clues. When Clint saw three piles close together, he stopped his horse along the series of rocks Lars had marked and gave a long, low whistle. He waited, watching a hawk loop overhead, then gave the same whistle again.
A minute later, a long low whistle floated down from the rocks to his left. Lars was here, and Lars was safe. He’d known that, of course, but he was still relieved to see his friend’s face peering out. All the talk of death and mourning he’d left back in Brave Rock made it a double joy to pull the pack of supplies off his saddle and climb up to shake Lars’s outstretched hand.
“It is good to see you, Thornton!” The man looked strained and tired as he accepted the pack from Clint. “How does our plan go?”
Their original plan had been for Lars to “lie low,” to be out hunting for a while just to ensure McGraw and his men didn’t try anything rash. They hadn’t been sure McGraw knew Lars had witnessed them planning to go so far as to burn down a home.
Up until last night, there was still a chance Clint and Lars were wrong. That chance had burned with Lars’s home. Clint considered it a blessing Lars was far enough out of town not to see the flames or smoke. For all Lars knew, Brave Rock had spent a quiet night.
“Not well. Not well at all.” Clint took a swig from his own canteen he’d brought up with Lars’s supplies.
Lars froze, his hand stilled inside the pack. “What has happened?”
No sense beating around the bush—there was no good way to deliver the news he bore. “I’m in with