The aging but still tough Wayman Polk had treated Cara like a member of his family since the day she’d arrived in Henry Adams, and she was very fond of him. She smiled. “Morning, Sheriff.” The pumping finished, she straightened and wiped her brow. “Morning, Cara.” Polk walked over to her. “Cleaning the school today, I see. Here, let me help you with those buckets. We can talk inside.” He hefted the buckets and preceded her through the rear door of the schoolhouse. “Thanks. It will take that old stove at least half the day to heat this water, and I don’t want to still be here mopping after the sun goes down. What brings you here?” Cara asked as he placed the buckets on the stove. She moved around him to stoke the feeble flames of the fire. Wood was a luxury on the plains, and the corn and sunflower stalks they used instead for fuel made poor fires. “Heard you had a visitor this morning.” She jerked her head up and looked directly into the sheriff’s eyes. “Yes, I did.”
