“Thank you.” Mother hurried onward.
Addie edged between Mother and the injured woman. “I’ll help her. You go on ahead and see where she’ll go.” She didn’t care for the idea of her mother holding her up when she was so weak herself. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Mrs. Hammel. My daughter is Mary.” The woman leaned closer to whisper in Addie’s ear. “She’s only six and very frightened.”
“I’ll do my best to help her.”
Mother waited at the door. “There’s a cot in one room. I don’t know if it’s intended for you?—”
“Let’s get Mrs. Hammel there.”
The woman settled on the narrow cot. Mother glanced from Mary to Addie.
Addie bent before the child. “Mary, why don’t you come with me while your mama is fixed up?”
Mrs. Hammel nodded. “You go with her. I’ll be right here.”
Addie held out a hand. When the girl shrank back, Addie lowered her arm. “Let’s have a look around. I’ve never been here before.”
Silently, Mary followed her as they explored. There were three small bedrooms. One held Father’s things and would soon hold Mother’s. That left the far one for Addie.
She stared at the cot, the dresser, the ladder-back chair in front of a tiny table that could serve as a writing desk, and the wardrobe. A window overlooked a patch of grass and one waving tree. She’d be living here now.
Mary watched her, shifting her weight back and forth from one foot to the other.
They continued onward to the cozy living room with four armchairs, three bulging bookcases, and a fireplace. The kitchen held a square wooden table, six chairs, a gleaming stove, and cupboards. Beyond were the pantry and back entry. The kitchen beckoned, offeringsomething for Addie to do. Keeping busy had always been the best way to put aside her troubles.
“I’ll make tea for your mama and see if the preacher has cookies on hand.”
Mary sat at the table, her hands under her thighs, her gaze darting from Addie toward the room where her mother lay.
“Mrs. Stone is very good at taking care of people.” She’d taken care of Addie through the turmoil of her emotions. Addie stiffened against the pain that grabbed her insides like a cruel vise. If what the crowd said was correct, this child had lost her father. Thankfully, not her mother. But that wasn’t what hurt the most. Nash had defended the murderer. Stilling a moan that rushed to her mouth, she explored the cupboards. Found the tea and a canister of cookies.
She gave two cookies to Mary, who murmured thanks but stared at them like they were foreign to her.
Mother called for warm water, and Addie took her a basin.
“Is Mary—?” the worried mother asked.
“She’s fine. Anxious to see for herself that you are too.”
“I don’t want her to see this.” She indicated the bleeding wound on her side. Her wide dark eyes filled with tears that she blinked back. “I don’t know if she realizes her papa is dead.” She choked and couldn’t continue.
“She’s safe. That’s what matters.” It wasn’t all that mattered, but for now, Mrs. Hammel needed to focus on that one thing. And her own healing. The wound in her side would heal more quickly than the wound of her loss.
Just as Addie must keep her thoughts on dealing with little Mary. She returned to the kitchen.
A knock came on the front door.
Mary gave a little cry.
“You stay here. I’ll see who it is.” Addie opened the door to two men with their luggage on a trolley. Her lungs emptied in a gust. She directed them to put everything inside by the door to be dealt with later. Then she returned to Mary. “It’s just our luggage.” They both needed a diversion, so she talked about the trip over the mountains. “The stagecoach had to stop often to change horses. The trail is rough. And we had to deal with a landslide and a washout.” They’d spent three days at Shorty’s. Three days in which she’d enjoyed getting to know Nash. Except she hadn’t known the real man—son of a murderer.
Or innocent victim?
She sat across from Mary. They both had cups of tea—Mary’s diluted. This child was even younger than Addie had been when her parents were killed. But she had her mother.
Mother emerged from the bedroom, carrying the basin of water and the blood-soiled dress. “Mary, your mother would like to see you.”
