“Why do you think it’s someone local?”
“I have to start somewhere.”
“All right.” She dipped the brush in the bucket of water and applied it to Penelope’s hindquarters. “There weren’t all that many, but you’ll also want to ask Dillon and Hank. Their father served. So did their older brother.”
“Mr. Booker? Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Talks about everything except the war. Digger Leary was gone for a while. I know he’s not from Falls Hollow, but you’re already aware he was an accomplice in the robbery.”
“Right. Who else?”
“Magnus Clutterbuck. He’s a frequent overnight guest of the jail because he starts paintin’ his nose at Sweeny’s in the afternoon. His drinking got a lot worse after he got back. His fiancée married someone else while he was gone.”
“Lots of stories like that,” said Call.
She nodded. “Oh, and there’s Jelly’s father. He wasn’t always the preacher here. Folks say he found God during the fighting.”
“Lots of men did that, too. What did he do before?”
“Barbering.”
“Huh.”
“Jeremy Dodd. He’s one of the ones that left and came back. He’s married with children and works the familyfarm, but he used to yank my braids in the schoolyard. He wasn’t mean.”
“He probably liked you.”
“That’s what my father said. I don’t see him for something like this.”
Neither did Call. “Anyone else?”
“There’s the sheriff and Bobber Jordan. Bobber serves as Carter’s deputy from time to time. I think Theo Beckley might have gone off, but it couldn’t have been for long. There was a rumor back then that he was a deserter. I don’t know how the gossip started because no one gave it much credence.”
“That’s interesting. He was standing around when we were discussing the minié ball and he never mentioned his experience. Then again, maybe he wasn’t in the army long enough to be issued a Springfield. It’d be worth asking him about.”
Laurel straightened, dropped the brush in the water, and stretched her back. “I can’t think of anyone else offhand. As I said, you’ll want to ask the boys about their recollections.”
“Maybe Mrs. Booker would be better. Mrs. Lancaster, too.”
“Of course.” She ran her fingers through Penelope’s mane. “It’s going to take me a while to comb out her mane and tail. There’s no reason for you to stay when supper’ll be ready soon.”
“I’m good here.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Laurel felt his eyes on her as she worked and wondered if the bees were circling her blossoms. It made her smile. Later, when she worked up the nerve to look his way and catch him out, she saw not only that he had closed his eyes but also that he was sleeping. Served her right, she decided, for getting a little too full of herself. She kept the laughter bubbling inside to herself and went on working.
When Call woke, he required a minute to orient himself and take inventory of his aches. He was alone exceptfor the horses, and when he looked at the open barn door, he saw that full dark was almost upon him. His neck and back were stiff. He sat up and stretched, massaged his nape, and plowed his fingers through his hair. No hat. He felt along the bench, found it, but didn’t put it on.
Standing, he stretched again. The horses stirred and nickered as he made his way out of the barn. He stopped long enough to stroke Penelope’s nose before he stepped out. His intention was to go to the bunkhouse and collapse, but the light coming from the kitchen beckoned him and he remembered that Mrs. Lancaster had been making soup. He went to the pump and washed his face, neck, and hands, and feeling more awake if not exactly alert, he went off in the direction of the kitchen.
Mrs. Lancaster turned from blacking the stove when the door opened. “And there you are,” she said. “Come. Come. Sit. Soup’s still hot and the bread’s warm. I’ll get it for you right now.”
Laurel had also looked up when Call entered. Her spoon hovered in the air halfway between her bowl and her mouth. She slid a forearm protectively around her bowl and bread as if she expected he might snatch them from her. “I just got here myself,” she said. “And I did try to wake you.”
“Hmm. Evidently not hard enough.” He hung his hat on a hook by the door before he took a chair at a right angle to Laurel and sat. Mrs. Lancaster set a bowl of chicken and dumpling soup in front of him and he thanked her. His nostrils flared as he breathed deeply of the aroma, and when she added a heel of warm bread, his mouth watered.
“I didn’t shake you, if that’s what you mean, but I said your name several times.”
At the stove, Mrs. Lancaster chuckled. “Maybe a kiss would have served,” she said. “Like Sleeping Beauty.”
