And the gentleness he’d offered her son. The memory brought a surge of the tears she’d been forcing down. Even after that journey, Mr. Bowen went out of his way to check on her when he came to town. Never pressing her like some of the other men did, just offering friendly help. And never going without leaving some type of food or other gift, like the parcel of elk meat he’d left at their house the night before.
“I haven’t seen either of them.” His sharp gaze scanned the mercantile. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if that boy was in here.”
She bit back a sob. He was right. If Samuel wasn’t moving his body, he settled for working his mouth, talking until the adults around him clamped their hands over their ears in exasperation.
If she could just hear his sweet voice now, she’d never be exasperated again.
“Laura took Samuel to the swimming hole while I finished my work. But they’ve disappeared. I searched down the creek and back at my house. They’re not anywhere.” Her voice broke. “Something’s very wrong.”
Mr. Bowen stepped toward her. “Did you check both sides of the water? How far down did you go?”
She pressed both hands to her temples. “Not both sides. I went as far down the creek as I thought they would walk, and I yelled for them the entire time.” Had she not searched hard enough?
“Let’s go have another look. I know a back way we can check, too.”
Joanna nearly wilted from relief. Having someone help with the search—someone who knew more about the area than she did—removed a layer of strain from her shoulders.
As they traveled down the quiet street, Mr. Bowen’s long stride ate up the ground, but she was glad to run along beside him. Even though her body protested against another sprint, her nerves craved to move even faster.
Near the edge of town, he veered to the right before they reached the water, then led her down an overgrown path through the woods. Before long, they reached the swimming hole.
Her hungry eyes scanned the area, and she cupped her hands around her mouth to call them again. Once more, no response.
“Let’s go downstream to where the crossing is shallow. Did they leave any sign they’d been here?” Mr. Bowen was already moving.
She lengthened her stride to keep up while her chest struggled to inflate. “Laura’s sack is in the grass on the other side. I dropped mine somewhere, too.”
He slowed to help her across the rocky streambed, but she motioned him on. “Go. See what you can find.”
He hesitated but must have seen something in her eyes that convinced him, for he turned and leapt up the steep dirt bank in two long steps.
By the time she reached the open area where she’d left Laura’s bag, Mr. Bowen had ventured farther into the woods than she had during her own sweep of the area. He was crouched down low, examining something partially hidden in the grass behind a cluster of trees.
“What is it?” But as she neared, the lump of clothing took shape. Her feet slowed as her eyes struggled to make sense of what she was seeing.
A person lying in the grass? Her heart surged. Not Samuel. Lord, no!
Mr. Bowen looked up at her approach, his gaze turning wary. He stood and stepped toward her, his hand outstretched as though trying to stay her. His body blocked most of the figure lying prone on the ground. A numbness sank through her, taking over her mouth so she couldn’t force words out. Taking over her mind so she couldn’t think straight. Not my son. Surely God wouldn’t take the only person I have left.
“It’s the sheriff.” Mr. Bowen’s words buzzed in her ears. “He’s been shot.”
The word shot finally broke through the haze locking her mind, and she replayed his explanation to make sense of it. Not her son? She leaned around Mr. Bowen to see for sure, her body moving before her mind knew what she was doing.
A swollen face glared up at her, eyes rolled back in his head. The bruises disfigured him so much she could barely see the scars from pockmarks that usually glared a bright red, remnants of the smallpox outbreak that had surged through the community only months before.
Blood trickled from his lip, and more from one ear. She bit her lip and turned away, her stomach threatening to spill what little was left.
She’d seen plenty of gruesome images living in this mountain wilderness, including the mangled arm of her late husband. But just now, her nerves were in too much turmoil to be strong.
She took a step backward, dropping her gaze to the ground beside her. “What happened to him? Was it a hunting accident?” And did this have anything to do with why Samuel and Laura were missing? Maybe they’d found the dead man and hurried back to town to report the news. But wouldn’t they have gone to the mercantile? Everyone knew Mr. Lanton served as acting deputy whenever the sheriff wasn’t around.
And with this new turn of events, it looked like Mr. Lanton would have his hands full.
Mr. Bowen knelt again beside the body for several minutes, then stood and studied the ground around them. He walked several paces across the clearing, studying the grass with an intensity that seemed to mean he saw something of interest.
Keeping herself from asking what he saw was no easy feat, but he would tell her when he was ready. Men hated pushy women. At least Robert had.
At last, he looked up at her, his brow furrowed. “It wasn’t a hunting accident. The bullet went through his chest at an angle he couldn’t have accomplished himself. There are horse tracks, too. Were Miss Hannon and your son on horseback?”
She jerked back, trying to process the odd question. “We don’t own a horse. Are the prints recent?” She’d lived in the wilderness long enough to be able to read some signs, but probably nothing like the abilities of this sage mountain man.
He turned back to examine the ground, and Joanna neared to see what had captured his attention. Deep hoofprints marred the grass, much more than one horse could create, unless that horse rode back and forth through the area several times. Gooseflesh tickled her arms. “How many do you think were here? Indians, do you think? Why would they shoot Sheriff Zander?” And where was her son? Maybe she should go look for Laura and her boy while Mr. Bowen investigated the sheriff’s death. But what if the two events were connected?
“I don’t think these tracks are from Indian ponies. The horses were shod.” Mr. Bowen stood, then turned back toward the creek, his gaze still focused on the grass.
As relief sank through her from his words, she looked again at the ground, but nothing jumped out at her. The early summer grass was a mixture of green and brown, and still thick enough that it didn’t show human footprints. Only those deep tracks from horses.
Mr. Bowen straightened from examining the grass, then turned with a determined expression as he marched toward the road. “I need to see where these tracks are headed.”
The knot in her middle tightened at the sight of his squared shoulders. Joanna focused on clamping down her imagination as she waited for Mr. Bowen to return. And when he did finally turn and come back to her, the dark foreboding in his eyes was almost her undoing.
She met him partway. “What is it? Where are they?”
“Four sets of horse tracks, all shod. One looked like it was running loose, maybe the sheriff’s mount. Two men dismounted and moved toward the river, then four people walked back to the horses.” He paused and worked his jaw, as if tempering his words. “The two additional tracks were smaller, one narrow like a woman’s boots, and the other small like a child.”