Soon the buildings towering around him weren’t so hopeful, nor so unravaged by the war. Soot marred them, paint peeled and chipped, mortar crumbled. The pedestrians wore threadbare garments, and some of the children were barefoot despite the fact that winter hadn’t completely let go of its hold yet.
Questions churned in Slade’s mind. “Say, Lane. Did they ever catch Lucien’s murderer?”
The old man turned on the bench. “No. You don’t think the same…?” He glanced ahead of them.
“No reason to think so. Just curious. How long did Devereaux search?”
Lane pursed his lips and looked to Walker. “Longer than the police cared to keep looking into another random mugging-gone-awry. A month, maybe.”
Walker turned his head enough to catch Slade’s gaze, to share his thoughts. “He loves Yetta a whole lot more than he loved his brother, though. He’s gonna be a dog with a bone over this.”
“He won’t have anything to go on unless Mari or I give him a description.” Amusement, of all things, lit the old man’s yellow-brown eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he hired you to find him, Oz.”
“Nah. He’ll want to do that himself.” Half his mouth tugged upward. “He hired me to protect her in the meantime.”
“Convenient. And stupid.” Lane chuckled as he shook his head. “He honestly doesn’t see it? He, who is usually so jealous of anyone who looks twice at her?”
Wariness whipped through him, made him struggle to find a more comfortable position against the rough-hewn wood. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Lane rolled his eyes. “Thunder and turf, man, what good does it do to lie to yourself about it? When I met my Gwyn, I knew within three weeks she would be my wife.”
Wife? When did they start talking about wives? He turned his gaze on Walker. Surely he, who had already given him a talking-to on the subject of Marietta, would pipe up and help him wiggle out of this conversation.
Walker remained mute.
Lane didn’t. “Don’t look to him for help. He’d only known Cora a week or two before they married. Sometimes you just know.”
Yeah, well. “I don’t.” He didn’t know much of anything, not when it came to Marietta.
“No?” Lane leaned over the bench’s back, eyes narrowed. “How did you feel when you learned she was attacked?”
That stab of powerlessness came back too fast, too strong. No matter what he did to try to stop a few evil men, more always came, eager to destroy what mattered most.
She could have been killed. He could have lost her, and he wouldn’t even have the right to grieve. He wouldn’t have anything but another hollow place to carry inside him.
“That’s what I thought.” Lane turned back around, but Slade had no trouble imagining the smug smile he would be wearing.
Walker sent a glower Slade’s way. “You’d better be careful. Real careful. If Hughes realizes his error in assigning you to her, he’ll make up for it with a bullet.”
This is why he preferred the company of men like Herschel, who knew the value of holding their tongues. “I’ll keep her safe. That’s all.”
“I know you will, otherwise I’d try to convince her again to go home to her mother.” Lane turned just enough to reveal the edges of that smile. “That will go a long way with her brothers, you know. Protecting her and eventually getting Dev away from her. And Jack will approve of you, I have no doubt. That will matter to Mari.”
Jack…as in, her father? Approve of him? Slade shook his head, but it did nothing to ward off the strange itch in his chest. “You’re crazy, old man.”
“You’re the one who just said you were in love with my granddaughter. I’m merely providing you some hope as to how well you’ll fit into the family.”
The wagon bed might as well have dropped out from under him. “I did not.”
“Not with words. But then…” Lane turned more toward him, revealing his full, frustrating grin. “Since when do you need them?”
Slade folded his arms and focused his eyes on the faded buildings rolling by. There was nothing to do but ignore him.
Twenty-Five
Not since Lucien’s death had so many people crowded into Marietta’s house. She had attended aid meetings aplenty the past seventeen months, with just as many fluttering females, but never had she wanted to snarl at them as she did today.
So she brightened her smile and made it a point not to touch the scrape on her cheek. It itched, but if she touched it, the bruise would throb. And everyone would look at her. Her mother and Barbara and Mother Hughes with concern—even that irritated her today—and her neighbors and so-called friends with an interest bordering on delight. In their eyes, it was merely exciting that she had been mugged. They reveled in the injuries and cajoled her to tell the story.
She nearly wept with relief when the gaggle made their exit.