The sheriff said Francis was pleading with her father to get the papers signed, that she was not eating she was so upset. He couldnât bear for her to be upset. Heâd bruised his fist by hitting the wall of that cell after heâd finally shoved the signed papers through the bars to the sheriff.
âYou were begging me to sign them.â
Francis shook her head. âNo.â
Sometimes the world tips on its axis. Sometimes it rolls completely over. Flintâs world rolled over so many times he didnât know which side was up. âI donât understand. Are you saying that you never signed those papers?â
âI never even knew they existed,â Francis said softly. âI suppose my father meant to give them to me. But I left before long andâno, I never saw the papers.â
âBut thenââ
Francis nodded. âWeâre still married.â
Somehow the music had stopped again, and everyone was listening.
âWell,â Mrs. Hargrove finally said softly. âWell, if that donât beat all.â
At the edge of the crowdâ¦
The old man slipped into the barn unnoticed. He knew he shouldnât be here. Knew one of those knuckleheads the boss had hired to do the job tonight might recognize his voice or the angle of his chin. The disguise heâd worn when the boss talked to them out at the deserted Redfern place might not hold.
But heâd tired of watching the horse, waiting for that FBI agent to return. The old man had spotted the agent snooping around Dry Creek several days ago, but he hadnât wanted to risk making himself known by trying to get rid of the man.
He hadnât even told the boss about the agent. He was scared of the boss and was afraid the boss would want him to do something to the agent. Something dangerous. When the boss had come to town a year or so ago, heâd been friendly. The boss had seemed to understand that the town of Dry Creek owed him. But now the old man wasnât so sure. The boss wasnât friendly anymore when he called. He kept asking the old man for more and more information.
And it was dangerous.
The old man hadnât figured on the FBI getting involved. The FBI made him nervous. The old man had always figured that the only lawman heâd have to outsmart was Sheriff Wall.
But this agent was a lot brighter than Sheriff Wall. The old man was afraid the agent already suspected something.
The old man couldnât afford to be caught. Couldnât afford to go to jail or have a trial. He didnât think he could bear to speak in front of that many strangers. Why, they put a dozen people on a jury. He didnât talk to a dozen people in a year. And he never gave anything like a speech. No one would ever understand that the town of Dry Creek owed him. No, he couldnât risk getting caught.
The old man knew he couldnât stay in this town. But he didnât know how to leave, either. He didnât drive his old pickup anymore. The tires had long since flattened into pancakes, and he just let them sit. Sometimes, when the mood took him, heâd sit in the battered pickup and listen to the news on the radio. But he didnât drive.
Mrs. Hargrove did his weekly grocery shopping for him, and sheâd always been willing to do an extra errand or two for him. But he could hardly ask her to drive him to Mexico.
Chapter Five
F lint sat on the edge of the steps going into the barn. The moon was still high in the night sky. A slight wind was blowing. Heâd give odds that a blizzard would roll off the Big Sheep Mountains before dawn. He could hear the sounds of the townspeople inside cleaning up after the party. Heâd just sent the three would-be kidnappers off with the sheriff. He wished he had a cigarette, even though he hadnât smoked in ten years.
The door opened, and Mrs. Hargrove stepped out. âThereâs a cup of coffee left.â She had a jacket draped over her