above an ear. âHeâs got a lot of anger inside him, Mattie.â
She crossed her arms as a chill went through her. âTell me something I donât know.â
âHeâs not a killer.â
Mattie hadnât been ready for that one. âHow can you be so certain?â
âTrust me.â
She studied his face and reluctantly recognized his sincerity. She had known Walt Atwater for a long timeâheâd taken over as sheriff after Jason had been killed. He was tough, but compassionate and fair. But she had a son to think aboutâ¦.
âWhat about Andyâis Beaudry a threat to him?â
âDepends on what you mean by threat.â He shrugged. âBeaudry wonât harm him, but Andyâs hungry for a manâs attention, and Beaudryâs someone a boyâs gonna look up to.â
Mattie understood only too well. âIâm going to have to keep Andy away from him.â
Walt laid a weathered hand on her arm. âDonât. I got a feelinâ they can help each other.â He donned his hat. âIâll be stoppinâ by from time to time to check on how things are goinâ. âBye, Mattie.â
âGood-bye, Walt.â
She listened to his footsteps on the porch and the faint sound of him talking to Andy. Despite the sheriffâs reassuring words, Mattie wasnât going to accept Beaudryâs innocence so readily. Maybe he wasnât a murderer, but his Colt told her he was a man who lived by the gun.
And a man who lived by the gun, died by the gun.
Clint shifted on the too-familiar mattress and stifled a groan of impatience. Since heâd regained consciousness, all heâd done was lie around and sleep. At first that had been fine. Heâd been overwhelmingly weak and his body hungered for rest. But now it was more than a week since heâd been shot, and all he wanted to do was get the hell out of these four walls before he suffocated.
Mrs. St. Clair brought his meals and changed his bandages, but otherwise she steered clear of him. Hell, it was probably a good thing she did. Though Clint could have eaten his meals by himself now, he allowed her to believe he was still too weak, so she continued to feed him. His fascination with her was fast becoming an obsession. Heâd never met a woman more closemouthed or cantankerous than Mattie St. Clair. Nor one so unaware ofâor indifferent toâher own beauty. Since she was a widow, he was surprised she hadnât guessed his uncomfortable reaction to her closeness. A man could only take so much of lush curves, even a man in his condition.
Her secrecy about her past gnawed at him, too. When heâd asked her about herself, sheâd given him a frigid look that could have frozen a brass monkeyâs balls. The only information heâd gotten from her was that she had a son named Andy.
He moved and swore under his breath. Nature had a way of calling at the worst possible time. He knew he should holler for Mrs. St. Clair, but even after eight days of her nursing, he felt a keen sense of embarrassment when she helped him with the personal task. Maybe he could handle things on his own this time.
He spotted a boy with hair the color of Mrs. St. Clairâs peeking into his room. The kid had to be her son. âCâmon in, Andy.â
The boy appeared startled, shot a glance down the stairs, then entered the room furtively.
âHowâd you know my name?â the kid asked in a low voice.
âYour mother told me,â Clint replied. âWhat were you doing out there?â
Andy slid his hands deep in his trouser pockets. âI just wanted to see if you were a bad man.â
A smile tugged at Clintâs lips, but he restrained the impulse. âAnd?â
âYou donât look so bad. Not like the fella Sheriff Atwater arrested for peeinâ in the street the other day.â
This time Clint didnât stop his grin. âPretty bad
Learning to Kill: Stories