McCleave studied her delicate, pretty face, the eyes that sometimes looked gray and sometimes looked blue, the honey-blond hair that he liked to picture hanging loose around her bare shoulders. She had to be so lonely, he thought. He missed his own dead wife, had often thought what a pleasant wife the widow Hayes would make. The late afternoon had grown much warmer, and Miranda wasn’t wearing her cape. His eyes moved over the pale blue flowered calico dress she wore, a dress that fit her nicely rounded figure temptingly, flattering her slender waist and a bosom surprisingly generous for her small frame.
The man sighed, wishing he could have sparked enough interest to make her stay around; but Miranda Hayes was a woman who had her mind set on something else, a woman who stuck to her decisions. He nodded resignedly. “Well, I hope you do come back. You just be sure to wire us at Kansas City and let all your friends know you’re all right once you reach Nevada.”
“I’ll do that.” Miranda walked back outside with him. “I can finish up here, Sheriff. You’d better get back to your duties.”
“You sure?” The man looked around, his eyes resting on the burned-out barn for a moment, then to the boarded-up window of the cabin. “Mrs. Hayes, it’s awful dangerous out here for you.”
“Those raiders have taken what they came for. They hit most of the farms around here, and they know there’s nothing left to take. Stop worrying, Sheriff. I really would like to be alone now. It’s been a long day, and I just want to go inside and rest.”
“You should have stayed the night at Mrs. Kent’s, like she offered.”
“I don’t like to put people out. In fact, you didn’t need to follow me out here. It really wasn’t necessary.”
“Well, I just thought I’d make sure there weren’t any problems.” The sheriff tipped his hat to her. “You take care now. Keep your door bolted once you’re inside, and you get packed up and back to town as soon as you can.”
“I will. I promise. And you take care of yourself.”
The man smiled and walked to his horse, mounting up. “See you in a few days then.”
“Yes. And keep those reporters and other nosy people away from here,” she told him, shading her eyes as she looked at him against a setting sun. “I don’t like being a celebrity because I shot a man. I don’t want to talk any more about it.”
The man tipped his hat. “I understand, but I don’t think you understand the significance of what you did, Mrs. Hayes. Jake Harkner is known for his expertise with those revolvers he wears. He’s got quite a reputation—rode with Bill Kennedy and his bunch for a while. Rumor has it he started out by killing his own pa down in Texas. Don’t know if that’s true, but I’ve never heard anything good about the man. Don’t you be feeling sorry for what you did. If that man is dead, you did society a favor.”
He winked and rode off, and Miranda turned back to get a gunnysack full of more supplies from the wagon. She carried them inside, her stomach still in knots. She still could not quite settle her own feelings over what she had done. But—killed his own father! Was it true? What kind of man would do a thing like that? She had loved her own father so dearly, still mourned his loss. How could a man live with himself after doing such a thing? Maybe the sheriff was right. Maybe if Jake Harkner were dead from her gunshot, it was best for all. Maybe the Lord had directed her to fire that pistol.
She walked back outside and sat down on the steps for a moment, watching the sun sink behind a hill to the west. After a day of answering constant questions, telling her story again and again, she felt spent. Dangerous or not, it felt good to be here alone, to have nothing but quiet. She studied the horizon. Where was Jake Harkner? She almost hoped he was dead. She could rest easier knowing that than to think he was lying alone somewhere, bleeding, in pain, dying slowly with no help. Did a man like him deserve to die that way? Probably. He had lived by the gun and should die by the gun, the way his innocent victims had died, especially his poor father.
She sat thinking and enjoying the quiet for several minutes before deciding she had better put up the horses before it got too dark. She rose and took hold of the harness to one of the draft horses, leading the animals toward the shed and thinking how easily either horse could crush her small bones if he got the notion to be ornery. But the two gelded animals were as gentle as kittens, obedient and always willing. They had been easy to sell. Next week she would deliver them to the owner of a hardware store, and they would be used to pull delivery wagons for the business. She would miss them.