Clay snickered. “I bet you thought there were regular saloon fights and shoot-outs.”
“Not regular. I know it’s not the Wild West.”
“Uh-huh.”
Roen clapped the boy gently on the back of his head the way he’d seen Ellie do to Ben. Clay grinned up at him, so he knew no harm was done. “All right. We’re finished here.” He started to roll the last map, but Clay put out his hands to take it, and Roen let him.
Clay tied off the twine and held the roll loosely under his arm. “Can I ask you something?”
Roen did not know what was coming, but Clay’s attempt to sound casual about it meant it was probably important. “Go ahead.”
“You treated Lizzie and Ma to fizzy drinks this afternoon.”
It wasn’t a question. Roen nodded anyway.
“Lizzie was real fond of her cherry fizzy, but the root beer didn’t settle so good with my ma. You had root beer, too, and you looked fine when you came to the door.”
“That’s because I was fine. What do you mean, it didn’t settle so well with your mother?”
Clay hesitated, rubbed his ear. “I ought not to be telling you, but it’s pertinent to what I’m going to say later.”
“You can’t get to later if you don’t get to now.”
“Ma was stomach sick when she got home, and she was still not feeling good when me and Hannah and Ham came in from school. She was lying on the sofa with a wet cloth on her forehead, so it was easy to figure that she was ailing.”
“You said Hannah was making dinner. That’s why, isn’t it?”
“Hmm.”
“And now we’re to the later part,” said Roen. “What is it you want to say?”
“Don’t really want to say it, but I got to. Hannah and I don’t think it was the fizzy that disagreed with Ma. We think it was you. Now Ma didn’t say that. She never would. Fact is, she said you were a gentleman, which we figure is probably true. It’s just that it doesn’t make much difference to how Ma feels about you, so we’re thinking you should probably stay away. Church is fine; it can’t be helped unless you was to become a Methodist and worship there.”
“That is not going to happen.”
“Didn’t think so.” He shrugged. “You could sleep in on Sunday mornings. There’s plenty who do.”
“Clay. Are you saying your mother was ill because she spent part of an afternoon in my company?”
“Um, yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Sure, but besides blaming the fizzy, she said it was because she hadn’t been out of the house much and not for so long a time. Probably seems peculiar to you, but she’s not exactly lying about it.”
“But it’s not the whole truth either, is that it?”
“That’s it. She doesn’t get twitchy like Miss Fletcher does. Ma gets...” He paused, searching for the right word.
Roen supplied it. “Skittish?”
“Yep. Skittish.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I guess I should. I been with her all my life.”
There was no refuting that. He wondered if Lily had an inkling of how her children looked after her. “Is it just me who makes her skittish?”
