Jeeter Frost did not know what to say to that. It sounded to him as if she was saying she liked him, liked him a lot, but that was ridiculous. He was a killer; she was a schoolmarm. He was the dregs of the earth; she was the salt. He was an outcast, shunned by decent folk everywhere; she was all that was pure and virtuous in the world. Finally, when he could not take the strained silence any longer, he forced out, “That was sweet of you to say, ma’am, but you don’t need to pretend on my account.”
“That is the first unkind thing you have said to me,” Ernestine quietly responded.
At that Jeeter felt his skin grow warm, as his skin was wont to do in her company. “I would never, ever be unkind to you, ma’am. You are the kindest gal I have ever met. There is no one I hold in higher regard.”
“I trust you will not consider it too bold of me if I say I hold you in high regard as well.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible, ma’am. I shoot people, remember?”
“Please call me Ernestine. Yes, you have been quick on the trigger, but in every instance you were provoked or acting in self-defense.”
Jeeter tried to wrap his mind around the incredible wonder of what she was implying. “Are you saying—surely not—that you condone the deeds I’ve done, ma’am?”
“My name is Ernestine. No, I do not entirely approve, but neither do I condemn you. The Good Book says to judge not, lest we be judged.”
“Well,” Jeeter said, at a loss as to what else to reply.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“I am a mite confused, ma’am,” Jeeter said. “Does this mean you think of me as a friend, sort of?”
Ernestine hesitated. Now that she had broached the subject of her feelings, she was deathly afraid of revealing more than she should. “I hold you in high regard, Mr. Frost. And again, call me Ernestine.”
“This beats all.” Jeeter smiled warmly. “A lady like you, saying all these nice things about me.”
“You are too hard on yourself, Mr. Frost.”
“No harder than everyone else is,” Jeeter observed. “Most folks treat me like I have some disease, like one of those, what do you call them, lepers?”
“Society does not always heed the Good Book,” Ernestine said. She realized her palms had grown sweaty and was so astounded, she lost her trail of thought.
“Ain’t that the truth?” Jeeter said. “When I was little I never could savvy why everyone couldn’t be nice and get along. Now I’m a lot older and I can’t say I savvy it any better.”
“You have a gentle soul, Mr. Frost,” Ernestine remarked.
“Me, ma’am? Gentle?” Jeeter started to laugh but stopped. It would be rude, he decided. “If you say so. But I doubt there’s another person anywhere in Kansas who would agree.”
“Perhaps that is because they do not know you as well as I do. You have not bared your soul to them as you have to me.”
Her mention of “bare” made Jeeter fidget. He suddenly felt awkward and foolish crammed into that desk, and shoving to his feet, he moved toward the window.
“Is something wrong?” Ernestine asked.
“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Hell, ma’am, I am so confused, I am not sure whether I am awake or dreaming.” Jeeter pressed his forehead to the pane and closed his eyes. He felt queasy, as if he was going to be sick, and strangely light-headed. Under his breath he said, “What is happening to me?”
Ernestine came up behind him. She knew full well she should not do what she was about to do, but she did it anyway. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Would you care for a glass of water? I have a pitcher.”
Jeeter could not focus for the life of him. He felt her hand, and that was all. Her hand. On him. “Water would be wonderful, ma’am,” he said, his throat as dry as a desert. He was almost glad when she removed her hand and stepped back to her desk. Almost. He waited, afraid to say anything. Her next question compounded his confusion.
“How old are you, Mr. Frost?” Ernestine asked as she poured.
“Thirty-one, ma’am. I am no spring chicken.”
“I am thirty. We are almost the same age. I find that quite interesting. Don’t you find it interesting?”
“If you say it is, then it must be,” Jeeter said, uncertain how that was a factor in anything.
Ernestine brought the glass to him. “Here you go.”
Their fingers touched, and Jeeter’s heart skipped a couple of beats. He gratefully gulped the water and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Thank you, ma’am.” He hoped they would go back to his lessons so he could feel comfortable again, but it was not to be.
Gazing past him out the window at the dark prairie, Ernestine said softly, “Do you know what they call a single woman my age? A spinster. A woman who will never marry. A woman with no prospects.”
“That’s not true, ma’am,” Jeeter said, coming to her defense. “You are as pretty as can be. There ain’t a man anywhere who wouldn’t be honored to come courting.”
“Isn’t a man anywhere,” Ernestine corrected. “You flatter me, but the truth is, I am too plain and prim. In my more honest moments, I can admit my flaws and foresee the consequences.”
“Flaws, ma’am?” Jeeter said. “I don’t see any.”
“Would you like to know the truth, Mr. Frost? I do not like being a spinster. I do not want to end my days alone.”
“Ma’am?” Jeeter was ready to bolt. They were treading on territory where he would rather not tread.
“Do you really find me pretty?”
Jeeter saw where she was leading and a thunderclap filled his ears and seared his body.
“You are shocked, aren’t you?” Ernestine said. “I have overstepped the boundaries. I have shamed myself and you think less of me as a woman. But you see, that is what I am, a woman. I have a woman’s feelings and a woman’s yearnings. Everyone else places me on a pedestal, but I tread the same earth they do.”
To shut her up Jeeter did the only thing he could think of, the thing he most wanted to do. His blood roaring in his veins, he enfolded the schoolmarm in his arms and kissed her.
Chapter 12
Sheriff Hinkle had his feet propped on his desk and was reading the National Police Gazette when Seamus Glickman walked into the sheriff’s office and over to his own desk. Without looking up Hinkle asked, “What did you find out?”
“It has been two weeks now and there has not been a lick of trouble in Coffin Varnish,” Seamus reported. “The Times sent one of their reporters up there yesterday, and that piglet of a mayor, Chester Luce, was crying in his cups about how no curly wolves have come calling.”
“I told you not to worry,” Hinkle said. “I told you nothing would come of it.”
“I’m still not persuaded,” Seamus said. “It takes time for word to spread. We might still have a batch of murders on our hands.”
“You need to learn to relax. You are too tense and high-strung.” Hinkle placed the Gazette on his desk and leaned back with his fingers laced behind his head. “A few more weeks and everyone will have forgotten about it. Life will go on as usual.”
“Damn it, George,” Seamus said. “You don’t take things seriously enough.”
“Why get all bothered over things you can’t control?” Hinkle rubbed his chin and then his stomach. “What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“That’s all? I’m famished. I didn’t eat enough breakfast.”
Seamus plopped into his chair and picked up a copy of the publication he liked best, the Illustrated Police News. He preferred it over the Gazette because the Police News ran more stories dealing with crimes that had to do with the ravishing of women, and he was hugely fond of ravishing women. “I hope you don’t have much for me to do today. I’d like to stick around the office and take it easy.”