“You woulda been proud of me,” said Pete in a quiet voice. “Least I hope you woulda. The dogs impressed that old man real good.” He swallowed and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Paul. I’m just so sorry. I wish you coulda been there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He imagined the sound of Paul’s voice. “Quit your sorryin’,” he would’ve said to Pete with a stiff slap on the back.

Pete felt arms around him. He could only see a figure in the darkness. She wore a nightgown, and her hair was down. For a few minutes they held each other.

“You’re home,” she said.

“I can’t live without you,” he said.

Seventy-Seven
The Big House

Marigold awoke on a cot. Her knees were drawn into her chest and her back hurt. When she opened her eyes, she was surrounded by brick walls and iron bars.

She was not alone in her cell. Beside her was the young man she’d met earlier. He sat with his back against the wall. Beneath her cot slept the old man she had touched. He was snoring.

The county courthouse had two cells in the building, which were actually one large cell divided by iron bars. Marigold focused her lazy eyes on the adjoining cell. The big man was in it, sleeping in his cot, one large leg hanging off his bed. His suit was torn, covered in dirt and blood.

She tried to remember what had happened, but she couldn’t get past her tiredness. She was depleted. Her head hurt, her neck stiff from sleeping on an unforgiving cot that was hard enough to qualify as a medieval torture device.

The deputy in the jailhouse was listening to a small radio on a desk. He leaned backward in his chair with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The sound of singing was coming through the small speaker. “Savior, like a shepherd lead us, much we need thy tender care . . .”

Marigold got lost in the music. And so, it seemed, did the young man in her cell. The sound of the tinny voice was so honest it sounded like a child singing.

The young man was seated at the foot of her cot, listening with his eyes closed. When he felt her stir, he looked at her. The young man’s face was bruised, and his lip was bloody. His two brilliant eyes seemed to grin at her before his face did.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

“You were out like a light.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“A long time. I was starting to worry.”

She glanced at the sleeping old man beneath her cot. The man was in a fetal position wearing a half grin. “Your friend doesn’t look too worried.”

“Joseph,” said the young man. “His name is Joseph. And no, ma’am, Joseph don’t worry about much except food.”

“But you worry?”