Mr. Stiles told Nate, who’d taken over responsibilities as sheriff. Noah and Levi wrapped up poor Mr. Thomas’s body in a grey sheet tied off with rope over several locations on his body and lifted him atop the undertaker’s canvas stretcher that had been laid out on the floor in front of the couch. Kate had seen too much death—enough to last anyone a lifetime—and she was disheartened at the thought of anyone dying alone, without someone to mourn their passing. She was saddened that she didn’t know whether or not Clifford Thomas had any kin or friends to grieve his loss. “What did you know about this Mr. Thomas?” Nate asked, his broad shoulders pulled back as he stood at his full height. His dark hair, sprinkled with grey flecks, had been cut short, and a toothpick protruded from his mouth. He tilted his head with a crack, then began pacing in front of her and Dell, one eye half shut as he looked at them. “Only that he’s from Abilene,” Kate volunteered from her seat in the rocking chair next to the cool hearth, “but he’d been working as a drover on a cattle drive through Colorado.”
