Murphy’s right hand relaxed and slipped easily past the butt of his holstered gun. His shoulders slumped; he seemed unsteady on those cowboy bowed legs. His eyes were on the dusty earth.
“I did love that old man,” he said softly, nothing gruff at all about it. “And... and Willa, too. Loved ’em both.”
“I’m sure you did, Whit.”
Murphy’s grin was joyless. “Funny you should send me off sayin’ it was a family matter.”
“Yeah?”
“That old man and her, they was the only thing near a family as I ever had.”
York had seen sadder things than the look in Murphy’s eyes, but not many.
“Time for you to ride, Whit.”
The former foreman of the Bar-O did just that. Climbed up and onto his horse and headed out, not fast, not slow. Never looking back.
York sighed and went over to sit on the short flight of steps to the Grange Hall. He waited till the building began to empty out, then gently wove his way through the exiting crowd back into the building, with many citizens patting him on the back and thanking him for his generosity. Of course, his action hadn’t entirely been out of generosity — he and Parker would make a pretty penny off the Santa Fe for use of their depot.
He found Willa sitting on the stage, on one of the many hardwood chairs arranged there. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she looked very small, very young, in that feminine blue-and-white calico dress.
He sat beside her. “Big day.”
She nodded.
“Your father might not be happy,” he said.
She nodded.
York shrugged. “Might be ticked we didn’t do things his way. But you’re in charge now.”
She nodded.
“I do think you’re overdue, though,” he said.
She looked at him.
He brushed a blond tendril from her forehead. “For those tears?”
She thought about that.
Then fell into his arms and wept.
Patting her on the back like a baby, Caleb York could only hope that she would agree with him if she ever put things together about Whit Murphy’s sudden absence.
Agree that there were times when killing a man just wasn’t the way.