Free The Widows of Wichita County by Jodi Thomas Page B

moved from retired soldier to town hero and several wondered why they had never recognized him as such. There was talk of putting up a memorial.
    And Davis Montano, Carlo would tell Anna over andover, was like a son to them all. Fifth generation in the town. And that is as deep as roots go in Clifton Creek. Not just four men died in that fire, Carlo would say, but a part of the town’s heart burned that day, as well.
    Anna rode the fringes of the ranch in the sunny mornings that followed, but the memory of steel-toed shoes and cowboy boots washed over with mud remained in her thoughts. She found it odd that she could not remember a single man’s face.
    In the afternoons Anna escaped, as always, to her tiny studio that had once been a sunroom. There, amid neglected plants, she painted. She caught herself still hiding her work as if expecting Davis to stop by and criticize her at any moment. He hated the dark mood of her paintings. Now the mood seeped off the canvas and into her life.
    Shelby Howard’s son, Trent, was among those who came to see the ruins of the rig. He stopped at the house to tell her how sorry he was about Davis. Carlo insisted she talk to the man. After all, Trent was Shelby’s only son and the two families were forever connected by the tragedy.
    Trent opened the conversation by informing her that the explosion and fire were not related to anything Howard Drilling had done. He implied the sheriff suspected no foul play, but when she questioned him about the reasons for the fire, he did not seem to have enough information or knowledge to say more.
    Trent reminded Anna of a buzzard with his thin frame and long nose. She played a game she had found helpful around most American men. Anna acted as though she did not understand the language, so he had to spend most of his time talking to her brother. In truth, except for a slight stutter, Anna had spoken four languages fluently by the time she was eighteen, but by then she had discovered that most men were not worth talking to.
    The few men her father had allowed her to date while she was home on school vacations were usually the sons of old friends. They talked of horses and little else.
    Only two people called before Davis’s funeral. Randi Howard, to say she would be leaving town sooner than expected. She planned to stay until all the husbands were buried, but she’d heard of a job offer in Memphis and did not want it to slip away.
    â€œEveryone knows Memphis is as good a place as Nashville to become a star.” She laughed a little too loud. “I’ll sing my way across the state.”
    Anna agreed with her just to be kind.
    Randi had Jimmy cremated the morning after the accident. He wanted no service, and since he always talked of traveling someday, she put his ashes in the glove compartment of her Jeep and figured she would take him to Memphis with her.
    Anna promised to keep in touch, but she had a feeling she would never see Randi again. Randi was a cowgirl who had probably never ridden a horse, and Anna was a horsewoman who had never danced the two-step. A stranger might think them alike, but here in ranch country they were polar opposites.
    Helena Whitworth was another story. She called every morning. Anna attended J.D.’s graveside service at dawn two days after the accident. The ceremony carried full military honors. Half the town surrounded the tent staked over a grave where the dirt and the grass were the same color. Many cried, but Helena sat so still and silent she could have been one of the statues in the cemetery. Not a white hair out of place. Not the hint of a tear on her cheek.
    The next day, Helena returned the kindness by sitting behind Anna at Davis’s funeral.
    It amazed Anna how many people came to Davis’s service. In the five years she had been here, she had met very few who called him friend, yet the townspeople missed work to pay their respects.
    Flowers lined the small Catholic church,