Mother chose to sit on one of the chairs, so Addie rolled up the fur and took it to the storeroom. If something prevented them from leaving, she’d bring it out again.
Shorty held the door for her and helped her stow it away. She spied a bucket he must surely use for cleaning purposes and brought it out.
When Shorty understood her intention, he held up a hand. “No need to do that.”
“Shorty, your leg is still mending. Besides, I need something to pass the time while we wait.”
He nodded. “Very well.”
She scraped and swept up most of the mud. Then shefilled the bucket with warm water and, on her hands and knees, scrubbed the floor.
The men moved aside as she washed under the table.
Satisfied with the job she’d done, she dumped out the dirty water and returned the bucket to the storeroom.
“It looks good,” Shorty said. “And it reminds me of other times.” He didn’t say anything more, and she didn’t like to prod.
But her concern for the man drew her to his side. She sat beside him. “Shorty, do you have someone to go back to? Someone who might be waiting for you?”
The bench creaked as he rocked back and forth. “I doubt I would be welcome.” His voice quavered. “I did something awful.”
“There’s nothing unforgivable.”
“I would like to believe that is so. But even if it is true, maybe I can never forgive myself.”
“Oh, Shorty.” She pressed her fingers to the back of his hand. “If God can forgive even those who crucified Jesus, I know He can forgive us. And if God forgives, shouldn’t we?”
“I had a son.” The words exploded from him. “He died because I was too engrossed in my reading to watch him.” He bent over his knees and moaned, a sound so full of agony the room echoed with it.
Addie waited and prayed, wanting to say the right thing. “Have you punished yourself long enough? What about your wife? Have you punished her long enough?”
He rocked back and forth. Then, with a groan, he got to his feet and staggered out the door.
Mother heard it all. “We need to pray for that man’s heart.”
Apart from that very important thing, Addie could do little else. She stared out the window. Well beyond it,Shorty leaned on the corral fence. The horses trotted up to him. Then he slipped into the barn.
She turned from the window. Beans had baked all night. They’d be ready for the noon meal. It might be their last meal here. Why not celebrate with another cake? Though she felt more like mourning than celebrating. She measured raisins into the pot and set them to boil. When they’d cooled, she added the other ingredients and put the cake in the oven to bake.
A glance at the clock told her noon time was an hour away.
The coats and shawls hung in a jumble by the door. She’d tidy that up.
Shorty’s slicker hung on the hook by itself. She straightened it so it hung neatly.
Jackets—some still damp—crowded together. She hung the damp ones by the stove to dry. She took her shawl and Mother’s and folded them on their bags.
Saddlebags hung crookedly from another hook. Did she recall Nash had them slung over his shoulder as he carried Mother here? Yes, she pictured him dropping them hurriedly, his concern about getting Mother settled.
The leather lay twisted. It needed to be straightened. She lifted the affair and lay it on the floor to smooth it out. A smudge on the underside caught her attention. She bent closer. Letters had been burned into the back. By squinting, she made out the first two.
ST.
The next few letters had been scratched or burned so they were hard to read. She angled the piece toward the window.
U.
Was the next letterR?
