Jenny just stood there with her arms folded, practically the definition, Jason thought, of the word “resolute.”
“It’s why I told him to take the back way to the saloon.”
Jenny still didn’t speak. He glanced at Megan, who was fiddling with her coffee cup (just to keep out of it, he figured) and didn’t look up.
Jason shoved back his chair and stood up. “I’ll take my leave of you ladies, then. Good night.” He turned on his heel and without another word, headed for his bedroom.
Solomon came up the stairs, having closed the store and locked the doors for the night. “Did you hear what Jason did, Rachael?” he asked when his head came level with the second floor. “Oy, this is rich!”
He heard her quietly say, “Hush, Solomon. You’ll wake the children.” His two oldest boys were still awake, noses buried in the dime novels he’d gotten for them yesterday. But the youngest boy and, of course, baby Sarah were sleeping soundly. And so, it seemed, was Sampson Davis. He half-sat, half-lay on Solomon’s favorite chair, his head on his barrel chest, black hair hanging in his eyes, roweled spurs digging angled holes into Solomon’s ottoman.
“This, I will not have!” Solomon said under his breath, and continued his climb up the staircase. But by the time he reached the landing, his hospitable sense was taking over. Perhaps this was how they behaved in Sampson’s family. Maybe they all went to sleep in chairs and put their boots up on the furniture, with their spurs on, no less!
He greeted Rachael and the boys before he did anything else. He dutifully admired Abraham’s school project—a catapult—and helped David with a mathematics problem. And then he turned toward Sampson.
And discovered that Sampson was not only awake, but on his feet and standing in the kitchen.
Solomon started. “My goodness, Sampson! You scared me to death!”
The faintest hint of a smile showed briefly on Sampson’s face, then vanished. “What’s the time?” he asked, although he was standing right next to the clock.
Solomon scowled, then said, “Eight-thirty. Why?”
The big man said, “I have an errand to run. Can I get a key to the store so’s I can let myself back in?”
The scowl was still on Solomon’s face. Who had errands to run at eight-thirty of an evening? And give him a key to the store? There were so many things wrong with that idea that Solomon couldn’t even begin to list them! But, despite a sidelong glance from Rachael, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the key. He handed it over, saying, “Be certain the door is locked after you go through it.” He forced a smile.
Sampson tossed the key into the air, then grabbed it again, sticking it into his breast pocket. “Will do,” he said.
And then, without further ado, he started down the same stairs that Solomon had just climbed up.
Solomon and Rachael just stood there, watching him disappear down the staircase. And when they finally heard the click of the door unlocking, the jingling of the bells, and then the thud and click again as the door was closed and relocked, “Get him out!” Rachael hissed. “Solomon, I am your wife! Does that mean nothing to you?”
“What? You’re not making sense!”
“When you are not here, he orders me around like I am his wife, or his maid. It’s always, ‘Make me a sandwich,’ or ‘Don’t you have any knishes?’ or ‘Give me the beef brisket.’ Do I look like a short-order cook to you, my husband? And when he is not eating, he is asking all sorts of funny questions about the town and the people. I am telling you, Solomon, this man has none of my trust!”
But Solomon was stuck back on her previous sentence. “What sort of questions?”
“I don’t know. Just odd questions. He asked where people in town rent rooms, and that one, I was glad to hear because I thought he was thinking about moving out. But then he asked about the saloons and where they were, and if I’d ever heard of somebody or other . . . Rafe something. I can’t remember. And then he wanted knishes and I said we didn’t have any right now, and he says, ‘What kind of household is this, anyway?’ and I said the kind that doesn’t make knishes at the drop of a hat. And he cleans his guns all the time. Around the children! This afternoon I caught him about to hand a loaded pistol to David!”
“Stop already,” Solomon said, holding up his hands. “I get the picture.” He did, too. He thought this was something he should talk to Jason about, and as soon as possible.
He glanced at the clock. Almost nine. Salmon Kendall had dropped by earlier and told him about Jason riding out to the MacDonald ranch. With somebody called Rafe Lynch. He had agreed with Salmon that there probably weren’t any Apache (other than those in Matthew’s mind), but when he’d asked who Rafe Lynch was—thinking Salmon would say he was just someone from the wagon train—Salmon surprised him. He said he was sworn to secrecy, and couldn’t say any more, but that Solomon could ask the marshal for himself.
And then he paid for his purchases and left. Rather hurriedly, as Solomon recalled.
He wondered if Jason was back yet. And then he wondered if it was too late to go knocking on the marshal’s door.
“Solomon?” Rachael was staring at him curiously, but with concern, too.
“Don’t worry, Rachael,” he soothed. “I need to go out, too, to go to Jason’s house. If Sampson gets back before me, do not tell him where I’ve gone, all right?”
She nodded.
“And I promise you, he’ll be gone very soon, our houseguest.”
He kissed her lips, and then trotted down the stairs to fetch his extra key from the cash register.
Jason had just blown out his lamp and was in the process of getting his pillow just right, when the knock came on the front door. He decided he’d made it up and punched his pillow again when a second knock sounded. Followed by, “Jason! Jason, are you still up? It’s important!”
He knew the voice right away and went to his window, which overlooked the front yard. “Sol? Solomon, that you?”
“Yes, it’s me, already, and I have something important to tell you!” There came the sound of feet scuffling through dusty grit and gravel, and then Solomon’s shape appeared. He didn’t waste any time. He came right to the window Jason was leaning out of and rapidly told Jason of his conversation with Rachael.
“I’m worried,” he said. “What sort of man have I given shelter in my home?”
“The worst kind,” Jason replied, mentally kicking himself for not having earlier asked the name of the Cohens’ houseguest. “You’d best get him out of there, first thing tomorrow. Send him down to the boardinghouse or somethin’.”
“But how—”
“Make up some excuse or other. Tell him Rachael or one of the kids is sick.”
“But—”
“And don’t give me any of that crud about lying being a sin. God’ll forgive you on this one, trust me. Did you say he went out tonight?”
“Yes, and he has a key to the store!”
“That’s the least of your troubles. Now go on home and act like everything’s normal, just fine. Okay? And for God’s sake, don’t mention the name ‘Rafe Lynch’ around him. He’s here to kill him.”
Solomon put his hands to his throat. “Mein Gött!”
“Yeah, what you just said. Now get going. I gotta put some clothes back on and get up to the office!”
Solomon backed away into the darkness and Jason plopped back onto the bed and rolled over until he was next to the lamp. He felt for—and found—a match, lit the lamp, then stood up and scrambled into some clothes.