Free When Henry Came Home by Josephine Bhaer Page A

suddenly. "Henry," she whispered, "It's ours."
                  He smelled her hair. "We're only renting," he said quietly into her perfect seashell ear.
                  "Oh, I—I know, but ours, together. Kiss me, Hen."
                  There was silence for a long moment.
                  When at last they parted, Henry was reticent, contemplative.
                  "Well—sit down and look at your books. I'll start lunch."
                  Henry did so, mulling them over absently while Mary hummed her way about. At length, he spoke. "The county supervisor—has he been by here?"
                  Mary half-turned. "Who? Oh—Rogers, you mean?" She shook her head. "No. Why?"
                  "Barber and the grocer said he was lookin' for me."
                  Mary turned around, looking stern. "Now Henry—you haven't been sneaking out nights to rob banks, have you?"
                  Henry looked startled and then grinned.
                  "I just couldn't abide a husband with criminal passions."
                  "You oughta know where I am, nights." He paled at his own immodesty.
                  Mary let her smile take over the forced frown. "I reckon I do, at that," she said.
                  There was a rap on the front door.
                  "I'll go answer it," said Mary. She went to the door, and he could hear her when she answered. "Why, good afternoon," she said brightly. "Sit down here a minute and I'll go get my husband. Would you like a glass of water?"
                  "No—no thank you, Ma'am, I'm right fine."
                  Mary's footsteps sounded in the small hallway, and then she appeared in the kitchen. She bent down next to him, straightening his collar, and kissed him. "It's Mr. McGovern," she whispered in his ear, excited. "Your third client comin' here."
                  "He's come for his papers."
                  Mary pulled him up and gave him his cane. "Go on, then," she said, still in hushed tones, so as not to be overheard. "I ain't never felt so—so grown up, I guess."
                  Henry half-smiled. "I reckon I've felt grown up all my life."
                  Mary put a hand over her mouth to quiet her giggle. "It's fun." Henry gave her another odd look and she waved him forward. "Go on. It ain't good business to keep him waiting—is that how it goes?"
                  Henry smiled fully for a second before turning to go through the doorway. "I reckon," he said.
                  Mr. McGovern, like the majority of the ranchers in the area, was a harsh man, though smaller than the norm of his robust species. And, like most, his harshness was purely in appearance, in his squinting eyes and in his skin, which was burnt to a generally pervading ochre. Rather than accepting his inferiority in size, he had exploited it, capitalized upon it whenever possible. He was wiry and tough, and often called upon when size was a factor—perhaps wedging under a downed wagon in the mud to secure straps, and even once rescuing a child who had fallen into a well. As he sat there in the small office, in the rather large leather chair, he looked as wound as a tin toy, as if at any moment that lithe energy might spring unbound from within, prompting him to pounce across the room like a wild cat. Such pent-up strength gave him a nervous quality, although he did not feel it and would have told you that he was perfectly at ease.
                  "'Aft’noon," he greeted Henry, his voice quick, though heavy with drawl.
                  "Good afternoon, Mr. McGovern," he returned, crossing the room slowly to open the top drawer of his file cabinet. "I've got your sums right here." He pulled out a file and retraced his steps, sitting down on