Free A Tree of Bones by Gemma Files Page B

wide enough to spit, whenever he chanced to find himself in the man’s company.
    “She’s quite the fearsome virago, our Missus Love,” Ludlow murmured, admiringly. “A true Madonna-in-armour, equally suited for battle and worship alike. And pleasingly buxom, too; that boy of hers is a fortunate young man, indeed.”
    “Sheriff Love sure wouldn’t’ve approved of you saying so, at least within his earshot.”
    “Oh, no doubt. How lucky for me, then, that my arrival in this town chanced to fall
after
that inestimable gentleman had already been dispatched to his reward!” Ludlow turned, hand still scratching away unchecked at his note-tablet. “But I’d almost forgotten: you were there that day, weren’t you, Mister Morrow? Quite close by, as I recall — though the mysterious Missus Kloves, naturally, was closer. Perhaps you might see your way clear to relating the story of that adventure to me, one of these days, in detail. . . .”
    “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I really am trying to listen.”
    Sophy had already returned her attention to Trasker, who seemed increasingly spooked, while the dignitaries sharing podium space with her — Mayor Alonzo Langobard, his bulk more fat than muscle, white shirt already sweat-stained in the stuffy hall; Captain Washford, looking somewhat embarrassed to be so elevated; young Reverend Oren Catlin, not half the Nazarene Sheriff Love had been, who’d nevertheless taken up the town’s vacant ministry under the apparent conviction that an easy smile and clean-cut good looks were all a new pastor needed in order to thrive — stirred in a milder form of discomfort.
    “We will miss you, of course,” Sophy told the man, “you, and all you take with you. But I will have no compelled soldiers in my husband’s army.”
    Here Mayor Langobard cleared his throat and sat forward, perhaps hoping to regain control by sheer force of bodily mass alone. “Widow Love . . . much as I hate to be indelicate, your
husband
has nothing to do with this.”
    “He was Sheriff here, sir. He founded this town, along with its militia — swore in each and every man-at-arms who defended this place against iniquity in its infant stages, long before Mister Pinkerton or Captain Washford made their appearance, on this very Bible.” She tapped the tome, drably bound in practical oilskin, which even now rested close by her right hand, where her gurgling son could play with its well-worn edges. “My
husband
is the reason Bewelcome exists.”
    “For which we all thank him, and kindly. But in case you hadn’t yet noticed — he’s dead.”
    Reaction to this ran through the crowd like a ripple, and Morrow watched face after face turn Sophy’s way, studying her steel façade for any sign of a crack. None came: the woman was immaculate, grief-hardened like stoneware. Even with her youth, bereavement and stern beauty sentimentally leavened by the baby balanced on one knee, Mesach Love’s former bride might as well have been a corpse herself, her coarse black weeds and implacable regard erasing any hint of allure.
    “Are we so quick to forget our Gideons, then, when we have so much need of them, if only as examples?” the Widow asked. “The Sword of the Lord may be wielded by anyone, Mayor, so long as the fight — and the warrior — be righteous. It says so here, in
Judges
.”
    At this, Catlin raised hand and voice together, in all-too-polite objection. “Now, Sister Sophy, I’m not
entirely
sure that’s the correct interpretation to place on — ”
    “Sure does,” someone behind Morrow confirmed; “sure does. She’s right about that.”
    Sophy knew her audience. The ripple grew, became a general agreeing murmur.
    “Sheriff taught her himself, and there wasn’t no one better’n him for Scripture.”
    “Or bravery. ’Member when he stood toe-to-toe ’gainst Reverend Rook, with nothin’ but the Lord for backup? Devil won that round, but only halfway; even Satan himself couldn’t keep