Before the Larkspur Blooms Page 0,2

new shirt his mother had made, ruined.

The sheriff ran a hand through his hair, then returned to his seat. “That’s right. I got a letter a few months back from the warden saying you’d be getting out soon.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in his desk. He found the letter and skimmed down the sheet. “What’re your plans?” he finally asked.

“The mick sure ain’t staying in Logan Meadows,” Dwight said. “This town is for law-abiding citizens. Not rustlers and thieves.”

The sheriff sighed loudly. “Am I going to have to embarrass you in front of this gentleman, Deputy? Go take a walk so Mr. Donovan and I can have a civil conversation.”

Dwight’s face flamed crimson.

“Go on. And don’t be running your mouth off to anyone who’ll listen. You understand?” Preston waited until Dwight left, then gestured to a row of vacant chairs. “Pull one up.”

Uncomfortably, Thom did. He seated himself and waited to be spoken to, a lesson he had learned well up in Deer Creek. The sheriff seemed fair-minded. He had a good face, kind eyes. Surprising for a man in his line of work. Thom was used to the harsh treatment of guards who were just plain mean. This sheriff seemed different. He was only in his late twenties, a handful of years older than Thom himself, if he were to guess.

“Well? What’re your plans? Do you have any?”

“I’m going out to the farm. My family isn’t aware I’m coming home—that is, unless you’ve told them.” A pained expression on Sheriff Preston’s face made Thom swallow. “There’s always work to be done. Pa’s getting on in—”

“Mr. Donovan—”

“Please, call me Thom.”

“Thom, your pa passed on three years ago. I’m sorry. I should have made sure that you were informed. Your mother about two months ago, right before I got the letter from the warden about your release.”

A knifelike pain sliced through his core. Ma! Pa! Both…dead? Thom winced and turned away. He struggled to control his composure, blinking away the moisture gathering in his eyes. It can’t be.

He stood abruptly and moved to the window, gazing out but not seeing anything. His last memory of his father was the ugly shouting match they’d had the day Thom had left home.

He felt the sheriff’s gaze on his back and realized he had not responded. “What about the rest of them?” His vocal cords were strangling steel fingers as he struggled to get the words out. “Roland and Anne Marie?”

“Your sister married and went north somewhere. Can’t give you a name or a place. Your brother died several months back, before your mother—shot in the saloon. Some sort of dispute. You’ll find his grave in the cemetery next to your parents’.”

Thom leaned his forehead against the cool glass, not wanting to think. Just like that—the Donovan family all but wiped out. “Eight years is a long time,” he said. “But I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’m sure you weren’t. Do you have any money?”

Thom shook his head, turned to face the sheriff. “I did plenty of carpentry work while I was locked up but never got paid for any of it.”

“I didn’t think so. That may present a problem.”

“What about the farm? Used to be we weren’t rich, but the place prospered, at least a little.”

“We’ve had a couple of droughts. Your pa seemed to lose his will for farming. When he died, there wasn’t anyone to make the payment. After your mother passed, the title went back to the bank. If a young couple hadn’t just bought it, I’m sure the bank manager, Frank Lloyd, would have tried to work something out with you. The land’s in bad shape.”

So much for starting fresh.

“You’re going to need a way to support yourself.”

Thom glanced at the vacant cells so close by. The doors gaped open like the smile on some ghoulish clown face…mocking, dingy, damp.

“My brother owns the livery and forge and is in the process of expanding. Just yesterday he mentioned something about needing help. I’ll see if he’s willing to hire you. If not, there are other opportunities in town with the possibility of the railroad coming through.”

“I’m much obliged,” Thom said. The ticking of a clock on the wall felt like hammer blows to his heart. “Why are you so willing to help, Sheriff? Me, an ex-convict.”

Albert Preston cocked his head. “Maybe it’s what the warden said, you being so young when your problems started. And I respected your parents. They were good people. Every man