Did she regret the kiss? Or did she regret leaving? Or, even more confusingly, did she regret both or neither?
It was all enough to make a man think he was headed toward the asylum.
He sighed as he reached the barn. He ought to get back to repairing that hinge on the barn door, but he couldn’t concentrate. What he needed was a nice long ride alone. And so, excusing himself to town on the pretense of checking to see if they had mail, he took off on General and headed north into Last Chance.
The little town was busy, with people moving all around on foot, on horseback, and in wagons. Arlen rode around the stagecoach, which had just rumbled into town. Seeing the passengers cramped inside made him thankful he’d simply relied upon General as his transportation from Wyoming Territory. He made his way up the Stage Coach Road, past the sheriff’s office and the jail, and past several offices until he came to the turn onto Main Street where the buildings backed up to the river.
From what he could see from where the road sloped down to the ferry crossing, the North Platte was low and slow today, much like it had been when they’d come to town for church a few days ago. He tried to imagine it swollen up to its banks and running fast, as it would be in spring—or as it likely was after the blizzards last year.
Andthatmade him remember his conversation with Josie yesterday before she’d kissed him. And then, of course, the brief moment they’d shared before she ran off.
Arlen shook his head. He wondered if he’d be able to keep his thoughts pointed in a useful direction ever again. This was the sort of distraction that would have gotten him shot a fourth time in his old line of work.
“Thomas!” a man called from somewhere nearby.
Arlen turned on his horse, searching until he spotted Mr. Landry just out front of the post and telegraph office. Another man, tall and dark-haired, stood at his side. Arlen rode toward them.
Landry introduced him to the other man, who turned out to be Jack Wendler, his brother-in-law. “We were just about to go to Dawson’s Diner for a quick noon meal. Would you care to join us?”
As if in response, Arlen’s stomach grumbled. “I’d be happy to. Just let me bring my horse to the livery, and I’ll meet you there.”
After doing just that, Arlen joined the other men at a table in the diner. A friendly woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Jarrod, greeted them and fetched them coffee and fried chicken. It tasted just as good as it smelled, and Arlen ate his as if he were a starving man.
“Does Mrs. Gresham not feed you well?” Wendler asked with a slight grin as he speared the remaining green beans from his plate.
“On the contrary,” Arlen replied. “She’s an excellent cook.” Well,excellentmight be an exaggeration, but Josie was hardly lacking in the kitchen. Her meals were always warm and filling, and certainly welcome after a day of hard work. He much preferred her cooking to the evenings when her brother made dinner.
“I’m impressed that you’ve avoided our pastor,” Landry said. “I thought for certain he would have cornered you after services.”
“Oh, he did.” Arlen grinned at the memory.
“And yet you aren’t married,” Wendler said. “That’s impressive.”
Arlen only smiled, not yet willing to share those moments spent in conspiracy with Josie against the pastor with anyone else.
“Pardon me,” a voice said from behind him. “Are you Arlen Thomas?”
Arlen turned to see a man he didn’t recognize standing behind him. The fellow was on the shorter side, nicely dressed, and he held his hat clasped in his hands. Arlen stood and extended a hand. “I am.”
“Tim Finnegan.” The man shook his hand. “I’m wondering if you might have a moment to discuss business.”
“Business?” Had the man confused him with someone else? “I’m afraid I’m newly arrived in town. I don’t keep a business here.”
“Oh, but you do.” The man’s blue eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement. “Could you spare a few moments?”
“I suppose,” Arlen said, looking back at Wendler and Landry.
“Go on,” Landry said. “I’ll take care of the check.”
“I’ll return the favor soon,” Arlen said, gathering up his hat. He bid the men goodbye and followed Mr. Finnegan from the diner.
“I’ve a room at the boardinghouse,” Finnegan said as they emerged onto the street. “Unless you’d prefer to converse outside?”
So many years of hunting for outlaws had left Arlen with a well-honed sense of wariness. “Outside is just fine.”
“All right.” Finnegan paused to offer Arlen a cigar, which he declined. “Smart man. My mother always said smoking was a vile habit, and yet it’s one I like to indulge in from time to time.” The man lit his own cigar and they walked in silence for a moment.
“Are you going to enlighten me as the nature of your visit?” Arlen finally asked after they’d walked the length of Main Street. “I must admit I’m curious.”
