unshed tears. Trace’s hand came over hers. She turned and looked at him.
“If you are ready?”
She breathed deeply and gave a nod.
They moved to the graveyard in silence. A few people stepped from the covered walkways and joined behind them. The closer they came, the tighter her grip became on the marshal’s arm. He sensed her need and drew her fingers further down until his hand closed over hers. His body transferred his deep strength to her, and she clung to it as they passed the open wagon containing two coffins side by side.
“Stop, please,” she whispered.
Trace paused. Her grip on his arm eased, and she moved to the back of the wagon. She looked up at Mr. Malone. “Which one?”
“The one on the right.”
Her hand trembling, Mary Rose placed her palm upon the coffin and closed her eyes. As the last deep ring of the bell echoed, she whispered a prayer, “Mother Mary, blessed be your name. Accept unto heaven my brother, Daniel Michael Thornton, your faithful servant.” Then, leaning down, she pressed her lips against the wood.
Her knees grew weak as she drew back and reached out to steady herself. A hand found hers. Another pressed its warmth to her waist. Without looking, she knew both belonged to Trace. Following his lead, she made her way into the churchyard, where two fresh graves stood open.
Reverend Phelps opened his Bible. “The Lord says there is a time for all seasons; a time to be born and a time to die.”
Mary Rose stared at the dark yawning hole. The rest of the minister’s words of comfort were a blur. Someone picked up a handful of dirt and pressed it into her palm.
“Lord, we commend the spirit of Daniel Michael Thornton to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said Reverend Phelps as she stepped up to the hole.
Six men stood, ropes gripped tightly in their hands. She turned her hand over, releasing the clay. The dirt fell with a thump onto the top of the plain wooden pine box, and slowly they lowered Daniel the rest of the way into the ground.
It was done.
It was final.
Daniel was gone and she stood alone.
Chapter Eight
He stood against the wall of her parlor and watched as one by one she spoke to each person who walked through the door and extended their condolences. Mary Rose Thornton possessed a unique calmness almost to the point of regality, her shoulders squared, her face serene. It seemed to him this woman was comforting those who mourned with her instead of the other way around.
She must be exhausted, he mused, for she had waited until both graves were covered before allowing him to escort her home. By the time they reached the yellow wood-framed home, the ladies of the town had moved the furniture around to accommodate the crowd streaming in to pay their respects. Trace took a deep breath. The aroma of fried chicken filled his nostrils and made his stomach rumble. He cast a glance at the dining room table. Numerous pieces of the succulent meat heaped two huge platters. He smiled, wondering if any barnyard fowl was left within a five-mile radius.
“Eat something, Marshal. You’ve had a long day too.”
He glanced in the direction of Mary Rose. “So has she,” he replied.
The Widow Hatfield sighed. “Yes, but she won’t stop until each person is greeted.” She paused, and he looked over at her. Her lips were shadowed by the beginnings of a grin. “Perhaps you can pull her away for a while?”
He grunted with skepticism. “I doubt she will listen to anything I have to say.”
The widow’s mouth twitched again. “I think you need a bit more confidence in your abilities.”
His brow puckered, and she gave a wink before moving on. His glance moved from her to the young woman near the door. With a sigh, he crossed the room, weaving through groups of people talking quietly among themselves. As he moved to her, he watched Caleb Gentry enter and sweep his hat from his head.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gentry.” Mary Rose extended her hand, and the
“If you are ready?”
She breathed deeply and gave a nod.
They moved to the graveyard in silence. A few people stepped from the covered walkways and joined behind them. The closer they came, the tighter her grip became on the marshal’s arm. He sensed her need and drew her fingers further down until his hand closed over hers. His body transferred his deep strength to her, and she clung to it as they passed the open wagon containing two coffins side by side.
“Stop, please,” she whispered.
Trace paused. Her grip on his arm eased, and she moved to the back of the wagon. She looked up at Mr. Malone. “Which one?”
“The one on the right.”
Her hand trembling, Mary Rose placed her palm upon the coffin and closed her eyes. As the last deep ring of the bell echoed, she whispered a prayer, “Mother Mary, blessed be your name. Accept unto heaven my brother, Daniel Michael Thornton, your faithful servant.” Then, leaning down, she pressed her lips against the wood.
Her knees grew weak as she drew back and reached out to steady herself. A hand found hers. Another pressed its warmth to her waist. Without looking, she knew both belonged to Trace. Following his lead, she made her way into the churchyard, where two fresh graves stood open.
Reverend Phelps opened his Bible. “The Lord says there is a time for all seasons; a time to be born and a time to die.”
Mary Rose stared at the dark yawning hole. The rest of the minister’s words of comfort were a blur. Someone picked up a handful of dirt and pressed it into her palm.
“Lord, we commend the spirit of Daniel Michael Thornton to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said Reverend Phelps as she stepped up to the hole.
Six men stood, ropes gripped tightly in their hands. She turned her hand over, releasing the clay. The dirt fell with a thump onto the top of the plain wooden pine box, and slowly they lowered Daniel the rest of the way into the ground.
It was done.
It was final.
Daniel was gone and she stood alone.
Chapter Eight
He stood against the wall of her parlor and watched as one by one she spoke to each person who walked through the door and extended their condolences. Mary Rose Thornton possessed a unique calmness almost to the point of regality, her shoulders squared, her face serene. It seemed to him this woman was comforting those who mourned with her instead of the other way around.
She must be exhausted, he mused, for she had waited until both graves were covered before allowing him to escort her home. By the time they reached the yellow wood-framed home, the ladies of the town had moved the furniture around to accommodate the crowd streaming in to pay their respects. Trace took a deep breath. The aroma of fried chicken filled his nostrils and made his stomach rumble. He cast a glance at the dining room table. Numerous pieces of the succulent meat heaped two huge platters. He smiled, wondering if any barnyard fowl was left within a five-mile radius.
“Eat something, Marshal. You’ve had a long day too.”
He glanced in the direction of Mary Rose. “So has she,” he replied.
The Widow Hatfield sighed. “Yes, but she won’t stop until each person is greeted.” She paused, and he looked over at her. Her lips were shadowed by the beginnings of a grin. “Perhaps you can pull her away for a while?”
He grunted with skepticism. “I doubt she will listen to anything I have to say.”
The widow’s mouth twitched again. “I think you need a bit more confidence in your abilities.”
His brow puckered, and she gave a wink before moving on. His glance moved from her to the young woman near the door. With a sigh, he crossed the room, weaving through groups of people talking quietly among themselves. As he moved to her, he watched Caleb Gentry enter and sweep his hat from his head.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gentry.” Mary Rose extended her hand, and the
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