Page 3 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
“You told Joe Teague you’re looking for Seamus O’Rourke.”
He stopped and faced her. “That’s right. He’s here, then?”
“Come, have some coffee, and we’ll talk.”
“Has he left town? Do you know where he’s gone?” Hansen pressed.
“No, he hasn’t left.” She led him down a short hallway to a warm kitchen filled with a cookstove, a table and six chairs, and two boys doing the dishes while a toddler played with wooden blocks in a little fenced-in corner by the door.
“Ma! We’re almost done!” The younger dishwasher held up a tin cup and a flour-sacking towel as proof.
“Good timing.” She took the cup from him and ruffled his hair. “I promised Mr. Hansen some coffee.”
“Oh, that’s all right, ma’am.” Hansen shifted uneasily, doubly aware of his own bigness in the crowded room. “It’s getting late, and you’ve got things to do. If you could tell me where I can find O’Rourke, I’ll be going.” Much as he admired the way she spoke, and as refreshing as her lack of staring at him had been, he still wasn’t through being annoyed with O’Rourke. The sooner he found him, the sooner he could tell his friend just what he thought of his cryptic letter and all this trouble, and the sooner he could be free of this too-quiet town.
“Nonsense. I made this coffee in case Pop was in a condition for it when he got back here. Someone ought to drink it. Wouldn’t do to let it go to waste.” Julia Masterson gestured at the table. “Sit down, won’t you?”
There didn’t seem to be any polite way to decline. “Thank you, then.” Hansen edged around the table and took the chair in the corner. To his relief, it was solid and didn’t so much as creak when he settled onto it.
“Have you eaten?” She set the coffee cup in front of him and filled it.
The smell of that fresh coffee would have made him hungry even if he’d had a full meal a few minutes earlier. “No, but that’s all right, ma’am. You’ve got no call to feed me. Coffee and whatever you can tell me about where O’Rourke is will be thanksenough.” Hansen resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the table in impatience.
“Bread and a little butter isn’t much, but that’s what we’ve got left from supper.” She looked over at the boys. “And I don’t suppose anyone would object to my opening a tin of peaches before bedtime.”
Both little dishwashers whirled about, their cheeks dimpling around matching grins.
Julia placed a plate with two thick slices of buttered bread in front of Hansen. She sat down across from him with coffee for herself and a tin of peaches, which she worked at opening with a clasp knife. Hansen had the feeling she was stalling. Why? He didn’t sense she hid any guilty secrets. It was more like she couldn’t make up her mind how to say something. He sipped his coffee and waited.
To his surprise, he found his irritation fading. In fact, he enjoyed the warmth of the kitchen and the sudden friendliness of the little family. He still worried about taking up more than his fair share of space, but sitting behind the table eased that somewhat. “You make good coffee, Mrs. Masterson.”
“Thank you.” She used a fork to pull halves of peaches from the can, giving one to each of her dishwashers, putting two on Hansen’s plate, and then scooping up the toddler from his pen so she could share the rest with him. Once the older boys had finished licking peach stickiness from their fingers, she told them, “Boys, go play out back until it gets dark.”
“What about his plate and your cups?” the oldest objected dutifully.
“I’ll wash those. Go on now.”
The two boys wasted no time running out through a room beyond and slamming a distant screen door behind them.
Julia kept her eyes on her littlest boy, feeding him a chunk of peach with her fingers. “You say you’re Saul Hansen. You lookhow I was told you would. But have you got any proof of who you are?”
“Well, I got a letter with my name on it. From O’Rourke.”
“Anyone can steal a letter.”
“Would just anyone match my description?”
She smiled. “Not many. But a few.”
“Look, Mrs. Masterson, I don’t know what this is about. Seamus O’Rourke sent me a letter saying I was to meet him in Carter’s Run, that he wanted to give something to me. That’s all I aim to do: meet him. If he’s playing some kind of game, trying to make me guess his whereabouts, well, you tell him I’ll be camped just inside the tree line. He won’t have trouble finding me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” A swirl of unease joined his lingering annoyance. “You said he’s still here. Where? And why? It’s not like him to stay in a town for long. Is he hurt?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hansen. It’s… he’s… you passed him on your way in. He’s dead.”
Once Julia Masterson had put her boys in their beds, she rejoined Hansen at the table. He’d eaten the bread and butter, not tasting it, only mechanically biting and chewing and swallowing. It was something to do, so he did it. He was numb and hollow. Thinking about much of anything, even the taste of food, was too hard for the moment.
