Before the Larkspur Blooms Page 0,1

ground with a well-worn boot and glanced in the direction of the mercantile, probably hoping to avoid Mrs. Miller’s broom.

Thom ruffled the kid’s thick mass of blond hair. “Sure I’m sure. Us men have got to stick together, right?” He winked. “Now, wait here, and I’ll be right back.”

Pushing through the swinging doors, Thom let his eyes adjust. The saloon was dark in contrast to the sunny day. Music and carefree laughter careened around the room. Waitresses served drinks to the occupied tables and flirted with the men at the bar. Remembering the reason he was there, he bent and picked up the can. As he turned to leave, he froze. A cowboy with a large bowed nose threw down his poker hand and hooted, collecting the pile of dollar bills and coins from the middle of the table.

Anger flooded Thom’s body, and a buzzing hummed in his ears. That nose could belong to only one man: Rome Littleton. A hundred times Thom had dreamed of wrapping his hands around the cur’s throat and slowly squeezing the life out of him. What was Rome doing in Logan Meadows? Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good.

He took a step toward the poker table and stopped. As much as he hated to admit it—he had to leave it go. Reining in his temper, he walked out, handed the can to the boy waiting in the street, and headed toward the sheriff’s office next door.

The medium-size jailhouse looked as if it had suffered a fire at one time. Thom yanked open the thick oak door and stepped through. Two men looked up.

The loose-fitting pants, a parting gift from the penitentiary up in Deer Creek, suddenly felt awkward. Thom ran his left palm around the inside of his waistband, making sure his ragged shirt was properly tucked in.

Sheriff Albert Preston, presumably the current sheriff because of the silver star pinned to his vest and the name on the wall, sat at the desk. Across the room in one of the open cells, another fellow was stretched out on a cot, his fingers laced behind his head and his boots propped up on the metal end post.

The sheriff took in Thom’s ragged appearance, and his eyes narrowed a bit. His hand stilled from whatever he was writing.

Thinks I’m a beggar looking for a handout.

“May I help you?”

“I was told to check in with you when I got to town.”

The sheriff stood. The other fellow sat up and then came out of the cell. Dwight Hoskins—Thom immediately recognized him. The sorry excuse of a human being had gone from shifty-eyed youth to full-grown man. He had a silver star, too. Damn. Bad luck running into him first thing.

“You have something to say or not, tramp?” Dwight asked.

“Be quiet.” The sheriff shot his deputy a reproving look. He came around his desk and waited.

“My name is Thom—”

“Donovan!” Dwight blurted. He rocked back on his heels. “I knew you looked familiar. Wait a minute, your twelve years for rustling aren’t up yet. Why, it’s only been—” He held his hand out and started counting his fingers under his breath.

“Eight,” Thom supplied, after Dwight had started over twice. “Got time off.” It galled him to tell Dwight anything, but soon the whole town would know, so what difference did it make?

Dwight gawked. “Look at you!” He reached out to touch Thom’s tattered shirt, but Thom knocked his hand away.

Dwight’s eyes went wide as nervous tension exploded across Thom’s back. You better be scared. I’m no longer the same Irish lad you enjoyed pushing around every chance you got. Countless times during their youth, Dwight, a year older and many pounds heavier, had knocked Thom into the dirt, laughing and calling him names. He’d stolen food from his lunch pail. Messed up his schoolwork. Worse yet, he’d made up lies about the Donovan family, claiming they were broke and living off loans, and he’d even spread unclean talk about Anne Marie, Thom’s baby sister.

Their gazes locked.

A sneer appeared on Dwight’s face. “I could lock you up right now, Donovan. For threatening a deputy.” He gestured to the vacant cell a few feet away. “Want to head back to the clink?” He laughed, but Thom noticed he’d stepped back, giving him space.

“Dwight, be quiet!” the sheriff barked. He took a deep breath, then turned back to Thom. “You’re Loughlan Donovan’s youngest boy?”

“Yes, sir.” Thom stood straight. The encounter with Dwight had his blood pumping hot. Dwight. A bottle of ink. The