Chapter 7: The Deputy's Warrant

He didn't answer my question until the sun was up.

I woke with his arm across my waist and gray light on the wall.

He was awake, staring at the ceiling.

"Sorry for what?" I asked again.

"For taking you to bed with two cracked ribs in a thunderstorm," Rafe said. "Mabel will skin me."

It wasn't what he meant.

I knew it.

But his hand slid up my back, slow and warm, and I let him change the subject.

"Who is the date on your chest?" I asked.

His fingers stopped.

"My brother," he said. "The day he died."

"I'm sorry."

"Later," he said, and kissed my shoulder, and that was all.

We came downstairs at nine.

The kitchen went silent.

Mabel stood at the stove with her back to us, humming.

"Morning," she said, without turning. "I made too many eggs."

Nobody laughed, and somebody coughed into his coffee.

Rafe pulled a chair out for me.

I sat.

The bartender slid a plate toward me and wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Nice weather," he said.

"It rained all night," said the prospect.

"Did it?" said Mabel. "I hardly noticed."

I put my face in my hands and shook.

When I looked up, Rafe was grinning at his plate, a wide, helpless grin I had not seen on him yet.

And Otis, at the end of the table, was looking at me with a small, grudging nod.

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