Teddy was a clever man. At the moment, he had no idea how he’d get Lynch alone outside the walls of Fury, but he was convinced that he’d think of something. He always did.
There was one thing he hadn’t taken into consideration, though, and that was Rafe Lynch.
Jason finished up over at the saloon and thanked the barkeep, who told him that Sampson Davis had finally given up on Lynch at about two a.m., and gone on home. He was staying at the boardinghouse, which Jason was relieved to hear, and the men at the saloon hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since last night.
After a quick stop over at the office, where he told Rafe that it was safe to go on across the street, Jason told him to stick to his room as much as he could. Sampson seemed to have figured out where he was staying, and he was bound to be back.
Next, he took it upon himself to see how Solomon was doing—and find out how he had got rid of Sampson Davis. He assumed it had been without bloodshed, but then, you could never be too careful.
When he arrived at the mercantile, the youngest Cohen boy was sitting out front, back in the shadow of the building, huddled on a bench with his knees drawn up and his head buried in his arms.
“Jacob?” he asked. He didn’t know if he’d gotten the name right—the boys ran together in his mind—but the kid looked up at him with tear-stained eyes. Concerned, Jason asked, “What’s the trouble, son?”
“The doctor was here this mornin’. They thought I was asleep, but I heard ’em talking, and he says my baby sister’s gonna probably die.” The boy broke into a new round of sobs, and Jason sat down next to him, pulling him close. The boy immediately threw his arms around Jason and hugged him for dear life, leaving Jason uncertain about what to do next.
But after a moment, he asked, “Jacob? The doctor didn’t say for sure, did he?” He knew Morelli didn’t pull his punches.
The boy pulled in tighter and said, “No, but he said she might.” This seemed reason enough to set him off, once again. Jason felt the boy’s hot tears soaking through his shirt.
He dipped his head to the boy’s ear and said, “You know, I think that Dr. Morelli said that just in case. He told me that in a lot of cases, just the passing of time can heal a body. You know, like, you remember the time I got shot?”
Against his side, the boy nodded.
“Well, I didn’t die, did I? After enough time passed, I was up and around, and feeling a lot better!” And stuck being the marshal of this place, he added silently. He gave the boy a little hug, then extricated himself and stood up. “I’m gonna go in to see your father now. He around?”
The boy mumbled, “He’s here. Marshal? Please don’t tell him I was listening?”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Jason said, smiling. He put a hand on the boy’s head—he still wasn’t sure which one he was—and ruffled his hair before he went inside.
The bell jingled when he closed the door, and he stood there a few minutes, waiting for someone to respond. Now wasn’t exactly the time to holler for help. But a few seconds before he turned to go back outside, he heard someone coming down the stairs. A few moments later, Solomon poked his head around the staircase corner.
“What can I do for—” And then he looked up and a weary smile broke out on his tear-stained face. “Ah, Jason,” he said. “How kind of you to stop by.”
His voice told Jason that Sol was about to burst into a fresh onslaught of weeping, so he quickly said, “Solomon, I just stopped by to ask you how the devil you managed to get rid of Sampson Davis.”
He’d thought it was a safe question to ask, but he was obviously wrong. Uncontrollably, Solomon began to openly weep. When Jason took a step toward him, he held out his hands, as it warding Jason off, and stepped behind a counter, putting it between them. Then he turned his back and wept a bit more, got himself under control, and sheepishly turned back to face Jason.
“Good Lord, Sol,” Jason said softly, and reached across the counter to touch Solomon’s arm. Remembering the child’s plea to keep Solomon from learning what he’d overheard, he said, “Is it that bad?”
Ambiguous, but comforting, he thought.
“It’s little Sarah,” Solomon said hoarsely. “She’s dying.”
“Surely not!” said Jason. If she’d been born with half her parents’ strength and tenacity, it was an impossibility. This, he truly believed.
But slowly, Solomon repeated what Morelli had told them this morning. Jason had to admit that it didn’t sound good at all. But he said, “Solomon, I believe that your baby’s going to be fine. I believe that she’s going to be better than fine. Any child who had the nerve to be born during—and live through—that storm is strong right down to her heart and soul. I believe that with all my heart.”
There was a pause before Solomon said, “Thank you, my friend.” He sniffed several times. “Thank you for listening, and for being a kind ear to talk to. Thank you for being my friend.” And then he broke down again.
Jason stayed in the mercantile for a long time, and—after he pushed Sol into the storeroom—even waited on a man who came in looking for nails and chicken wire.
Hours later, Jason stood outside on the boardwalk, staring down the street toward the boardinghouse. It was past noon. He knew that much, because the sun threw his shadow in front of him as he began to walk east, down Main Street. All this time to prepare, and he still didn’t know where to start with Sampson Davis.
But he knew he was going to have to start with him, at least. Solomon had told him enough about the man, in teary little dribs and drabs, that he felt he sort of had a handle on his character. Enough to open up a conversation, at any rate.
Cordelia Kendall was serving lunch when he entered, and a quick glance at the diners didn’t show him Sampson.
“Ma’am?” he said, instead of clearing his throat. He thought it was more polite, her being a lady and all.
She turned toward him. “Why, Jason!” she exclaimed, setting down the gravy and moving toward him. “How nice to see you! And to what do I owe this honor?”
Jason grinned. He liked Salmon’s wife. They’d been together on the wagon train coming out to Fury, and had since settled in admirably. He said (after he remembered to take off his hat), “No honor, ma’am, unless it’s mine. I was lookin’ for Sampson Davis.”
“Mr. Davis is still sleeping. I understand he got in quite late last night.” She lifted a brow, as if to ask a question.
“Don’t disturb him, then,” Jason said, partly relieved and partly annoyed. “I can talk to him later.”
“Well, then,” she said, as if he’d satisfied her curiosity. “You’re most welcome to stay to luncheon, you know.”
She was a famous cook, and he was tempted, but he said, “My sister packed me up a lunch, and if I don’t rave about it in detail, she’ll have my hide. Another time?”
She laughed and said, “Of course! Any time at all. Shall I send Sammy over to your office when Mr. Davis rises?” Salmon, Junior, was nearly old enough to take a wife, but she still insisted on calling him Sammy—as did his father.
He put his hat back on. “I’d be right pleased, ma’am.”
She shook her finger at him. “You know, you’re getting so you talk like a Texas field hand! We’re going to have to usher you back East to college, one of these days!”
He silently wished she’d hurry it up and end his misery, but he said, “Yes’m,” and “Thank you, ma’am,” and took his leave. He crossed the street and entered his office. It was quiet, and it was empty—at first glance, anyway.
Rafe Lynch rolled over at the sound of the closing door, and sat up on his cot, yawning and stretching.
“Thought you’d be long gone by now,” Jason said. He began rooting through his desk drawers for his lunch, which Jenny would have dropped off sometime during the early morning, on her way to school.