Page 111 of The Formation of Us
Duke left Adam with Boyd, then sent a telegram to Steven Cuvier, hoping the man knew something about Stone or Faith’s mother that would help them. But when Duke reached his office, his brisk manner deserted him. Despair settled in his gut, slowly hardening into a solid, unbreakable resolve.
He climbed the steps of the Academy building, aching to the bone from eight days of traveling. All he’d wanted was to get home, but now he wished he’d taken more time to thank each of his deputies for their service. They were good men, and he was honored to work with them.
But his life as sheriff was over.
He crossed the hall, unlocked his door, and entered his office. Everything was painfully familiar—the heavy oak desk, the rickety chair, the old metal safe—but no longer his. Another man would soon rest his elbows on the scarred desktop. Another man would carry the keys to the safe. Another man would wear the badge that Duke had worn with pride for eight years.
He’d known the day would come when he stepped down of his own accord, or when the vote supported another man. At each election he was prepared to pass the position to a man who could do the job. But he’d never imagined giving up his badge because he wasn’t fit to wear it.
It was only a piece of metal, but when he unpinned the silver star from his leather vest, it felt like he tore out his heart. He closed his fingers around the medallion, missing the weight of it on his chest. He’d worn the badge so long, it had left an impression in the leather, a painful reminder of a position he could no longer live up to. Because he was going to cross the line. He was going to break the law.
The outside door squeaked open and footsteps echoed in the hall. “Glad you’re back,” his deputy called.
“You alone, Sam?”
“I will be in a minute.”
Duke sat at his beat up old desk to write a short note of resignation. He heard keys jangle in the hallway, then the cell door opened and closed, then more jangling as Sam locked it.
“Sleep it off, Morton.” Sam’s boot heels clunked across the wood floor, then he appeared at the door, his auburn beard looking like it needed a good trim. “Did you get your telegram, Sheriff?”
“Yeah.” Duke knelt by the safe to open it. This was the last time anyone would call him Sheriff. When he walked out of his office, it would be as a private citizen.
And a father.
The law said Cora belonged to Stone, but she belonged to Duke. Maybe Faith was correct, that right and wrong didn’t exist. But without those boundaries, how did one maintain a true course? Without knowing right or wrong, how could a man judge himself?
“I’m turning in my badge, Sam.”
Sam’s eyebrows pinched above his craggy nose. “I got water in my ears yesterday and I still can’t hear right. What’d you say?”
“I have a shoulder that won’t heal, so I’m withdrawing from the election.”
“But you can’t . . . you’re sure to win.”
Duke’s hands shook as he put his badge inside the safe. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Didn’t matter. He unbuckled his gun belt and laid it beside the gleaming badge, then stood and handed the keys to Sam. “You and the under-sheriff can manage for a week until our new sheriff is elected. I suspect Phelps will be the man. Maybe Taylor will surprise us with a win, but I’m confident that Archer is out of the running.”
Sam gawked at the keys. “You’re serious!”
Duke wished he wasn’t, that he could confide in his friend, but his decision was made. “I’ve got a train to catch. Will you get this to theCensorfor me so they can print my resignation in tomorrow’s paper?”
Sam stared at the note. “Damn, Sheriff, is your shoulder that bad?”
His shoulder was improving each day and would probably heal completely, but his conscience was festering like a deadly wound.
“I’m not the sheriff anymore,” he said.
Just Duke Grayson.
And who the hell was that?
Chapter 35
The rocking motion of the train would have soothed Faith, but she was too brokenhearted and scared to be comforted by anything. Cora must be terrified. Duke hadn’t spoken a word other than to ask questions about the judge that she couldn’t answer. So he sat in grim silence, studying her mother’s guestbook with scowling intensity.
“Did you really quit?” she asked, afraid to disturb him, but needing to know the truth.
“Yes.” He didn’t look up from the book.
