Chapter 6: Last check
The icy water still held Diana suspended, washing away the grit and sour scent of the coop, the stubborn ink stains, the bone-deep weariness. She floated, eyes closed, the moon a cool coin through the aspen leaves. Peanut’s low whine was a distant counterpoint to the water’s murmur. Then, cutting through the night’s stillness, came a new sound: the distinct, rhythmic thud of approaching hooves on hard-packed earth, growing steadily louder.
Diana froze. Every muscle, just beginning to unknot, seized tight again. The sound was coming from the ranch track, heading directly towards the cabin. Who? The question screamed in her mind. Too late for casual visitors, too purposeful for drifters. Rustlers? The grim thought Old Man Greenwald had muttered about last week, when he gave her Marta’s chest, echoed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, loud as the hooves.
Peanut erupted from the brush near the spring, fur bristling, a deep, guttural growl rumbling in his chest. He planted himself between the path and the water, body rigid, hackles raised like spikes. Diana didn’t blame him. Naked, vulnerable, in her hidden sanctuary – panic was a cold stone in her gut.
She moved with desperate silence, water sluicing off her skin. She scrambled out of the pool, the night air shocking her wet body anew. Ignoring the rough towel, she yanked the damp, stained chemise over her head, its clinging chill worse than the air. Her dress followed, snagging on wet skin. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons.
The hoofbeats stopped abruptly near the cabin. A horse snorted. Silence, thick and heavy, pressed down. Then, boots crunched on gravel. Headed towards the back? Towards her?
Peanut’s growl intensified, a raw, threatening vibration. Diana snatched the heavy wooden bucket she’d used for the coop’s whitewash mix, left near the spring’s edge. It was half full of stale, scummy water. Not much, but weight. A weapon. She crouched behind the thick trunk of a gnarled aspen, peering through the silvered leaves towards the cabin yard.
A figure emerged from the shadows near the barn, leading a tall, dark horse. Moonlight glinted off a silver star pinned to a worn leather vest. Jarvis.
Relief flooded her, so intense it made her knees wobble, instantly followed by a wave of scalding embarrassment. Sheriff. Not rustlers. But finding her like this? Dripping wet, hair plastered to her neck, wearing yesterday’s work dress streaked with lime and ink, clutching a filthy bucket?
He hadn’t seen her yet. He was scanning the yard, his posture alert but not aggressive. His gaze swept over the cabin, the line where her yellow curtains and the ivory tablecloth hung limply in the still night air, then paused on the chicken coop. Peanut, recognizing authority but still on guard duty, held his ground, the growl softening to a wary rumble.
Sheriff Solomon Jarvis took a step closer to the coop, his head tilting. Diana knew what he was seeing: the stark whitewash, bright in the moonlight, and the stark black forget-me-nots she’d painted near the door. He stood there for a long moment, studying them. She could almost feel the question forming.
Then, his head turned. Slowly, deliberately, towards the stand of aspens. Towards the spring. Towards her hiding place. He couldn’t possibly see her, not clearly, but he knew. He’d followed the path worn in the grass, heard Peanut’s warning, sensed the presence.
"Miss Kerr Still playing the piano?" His voice cut through the quiet, calm but carrying. It wasn't a shout, but it brooked no denial. "Diana? That you back there?"
Peanut gave a single, sharp bark. Traitor. Diana’s cheeks burned. Hiding was pointless now, childish. She dropped the bucket with a dull thud that sent the scummy water sloshing over her boots. Taking a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to calm her pounding heart, she stepped out from behind the aspen, forcing herself to walk towards the edge of the trees, into the open moonlight of the yard. She kept her chin up, trying to project a composure she didn't feel.
"Sheriff." Her voice sounded raspy, unused. She cleared her throat, crossing her arms self-consciously over her damp, stained dress. "Out late. Something wrong?"
Solomon Jarvis turned fully to face her, his expression unreadable in the shadows cast by his hat brim. His hand rested lightly on the butt of his holstered revolver, a habit, not a threat. His gaze travelled over her – the dripping hair, the damp dress clinging, the smudges on her face, down to the muddy boots. It wasn't leering, but it was thorough, assessing. She saw the flicker of surprise, quickly masked, then something else – concern? Amusement? It was hard to tell in the silvery light.
"Checking fences, Miss Kerr," he said, his tone neutral. "Heard a rumor of rustlers working the north pastures again. Greenwald's place first, then yours." He gestured vaguely towards the dark expanse beyond her barn. "All quiet so far. Just a raccoon making off with some chicken feed back at the Henderson spread." He paused, his gaze drifting back towards the coop, then to her face. "Saw the light move near your trees. Wanted to make sure it wasn't... unwelcome visitors." He emphasized the last two words slightly.
Diana resisted the urge to shrink. "Just... finishing my bath," she said, the words sounding absurdly prim. "The spring's cold, but it does the job." She gestured weakly towards the aspens. Peanut, reassured, trotted over and leaned against her leg, still eyeing the Sheriff and his horse.
Jarvis nodded slowly. "Understandable." He shifted his weight, the leather of his saddle creaking as his horse, a dark bay gelding, stamped a hoof impatiently. "Thing is," he continued, his voice taking on a hint of the awkwardness Diana felt, "my horse, Samson here. Pushed him hard covering the ground tonight. Your spring... it's the closest good water between here and town. Reckoned I could water him, if it ain't no trouble?" He looked from her to the horse, then back, waiting. It was a request, but from the Sheriff, it carried the weight of necessity.
Diana stared at him. The man who made her heart trip over itself on Sunday mornings, smelling of leather and soap, was standing in her moonlit yard asking to water his horse while she dripped onto the dirt in a filthy dress. The sheer, exhausting absurdity of it threatened to bubble up as hysterical laughter. She clamped it down. Survival, Diana. One thing at a time.
"Spring's back there," she said, her voice flat. She pointed towards the aspens. "Bucket's by the pool. Help yourself." She turned abruptly, needing escape more than courtesy. "I'll... be inside." Without waiting for a response, she walked stiffly towards the cabin porch, Peanut at her heels, the damp fabric of her dress chafing with every step, painfully aware of the Sheriff’s gaze on her retreating back. The wind chime on the porch tinkled softly, mockingly, as she reached for the door. He was here. Watering his horse. And she was a mess. Tuesday loomed, impossibly close.
The cabin door slammed shut behind Diana with more force than intended, the echo bouncing off the pine walls. Peanut whined, nosing her damp skirt. Tuesday. The damned bank meeting felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest, heavier than the wet dress sticking to her skin. She practically tore the ruined calico off, the thin fabric snagging one last time before yielding, stained irrevocably with the lime wash and spring silt.
It landed on the rag rug with a sodden slap. Without a second thought, Diana snatched it up, strode to the cold iron stove, and yanked the lid off. She shoved the dress deep into the grey ashes, then grabbed kindling and a precious match. The flame caught, licking hungrily at the dry wood, then flared as it found the damp calico, sending up a hiss of steam and the acrid smell of burning lime. Good riddance.
She moved fast, pulling on a clean, sturdy brown work dress, her fingers clumsy. Her hair, still dripping cold trails down her neck, was ruthlessly twisted and pinned back. The coffee pot, half-full from this morning, went back onto the stove’s hottest spot. While it hissed and began to steam, she grabbed her thick wool shawl from its hook, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders like armor.
The coffee began to bubble. Diana poured the scalding liquid into her own chipped enamel mug, then hesitated. Her gaze flickered to the porcelain cup she’d washed so carefully yesterday, sitting primly on the shelf. The good china. For the Sheriff? Absolutely not. She snatched another enamel mug, chipped rim and all, and filled it too. It wasn't an invitation. The night air outside was biting, sharpening the scent of woodsmoke from her stove. That was the only reason.
Mugs steaming in her hands, she took a steadying breath and pushed back out onto the porch. The cold air hit her face, a shock after the stove's warmth. Jarvis was just leading Samson away from the spring, the horse’s head drooping contentedly, water dripping from its muzzle. He secured the reins to the porch railing, his movements economical in the moonlight. He turned as she approached, his expression unreadable in the shadows beneath his hat.
Diana thrust the second mug towards him, not meeting his eyes. Steam curled into the cold air between them. "Coffee's hot," she said, her voice clipped. She retreated a step, leaning her hip against a porch post, cradling her own mug. The heat seeped through the enamel into her chilled fingers.
Jarvis looked down at the offered mug, then back at her face. He pulled off his leather gloves, stuffing them into his belt, before taking it. His fingers brushed hers, a brief, startling warmth against the cold. "Appreciate it, Miss kerr." His voice was low, gravelly. He took a careful sip, his gaze sweeping over her again, lingering on the clean dress, the tightly pinned hair, the shawl pulled close. "Feeling more... settled?"
"Fine." Diana kept her eyes fixed on the dark outline of her newly whitewashed coop. The moonlight bleached the paint ghostly white, making the black forget-me-nots near the door look stark, almost like bullet holes. Her peace offering sat awkwardly in her hands. "Water your horse often in the middle of the night, Sheriff?"
A soft grunt escaped him, maybe amusement, maybe just exhaustion. "Only when chasing shadows and coons, ma'am." He took another long pull of the coffee. "And checking on folks living alone way out here. Heard about the rustlers. Saw the fresh whitewash. Looked like... effort." He nodded towards the coop. "Saw the flowers too."
Diana stiffened. Effort. Her hands tightened on the warm mug. "Just fixing what was broken. Making it... mine." Her voice was tight, defensive. She wouldn't apologize for paint. "Doesn't mean I need night watchmen."
"Didn't say you did." His tone was mild, but his eyes, when she finally risked a glance, were sharp, assessing. He took another slow sip, watching her over the rim of the mug. The silence stretched, filled only by Samson's soft snort and the rustle of Peanut settling at Diana’s feet. The moon cast long, hard shadows across the yard, painting the ranch in stark contrasts of silver and deep, impenetrable black.
Solomon lowered the mug, his gaze drifting past her, towards the dark rectangle of the cabin door. "Place looks different already. Inside and out." He paused, the silence thickening.
Solomon’s gaze lingered on the cabin door, then drifted past Diana’s shoulder into the dim interior. "Place looks different already," he repeated, quieter this time. "Inside and out." He shifted his weight, the worn leather of his boots scraping faintly on the porch boards. The silence wasn't just thick now; it felt heavy, charged with the damp night air and everything unsaid – the whitewashed coop, her frantic scramble from the spring, the bank debt looming like a storm cloud.
He cleared his throat, a rough sound in the stillness. "Before I head out..." He hesitated, his eyes meeting hers directly for the first time since she’d handed him the coffee. There was a flicker of something hesitant, almost shy, beneath the sheriff’s usual weariness. "Still have that piano? Martha’s?"
Diana
Diana’s breath hitched. The question hung between them, sharp as the night air biting her cheeks. Martha’s piano, beautiful Charleston upright, felt suddenly present, a silent witness. She stared into her cooling coffee, the steam ghosting upward.
"Yeah," she managed, the word rough. "It’s there." Memories flickered: Solomon’s large hands surprisingly deft on the keys him playing a waltz while she played, the cascade of Beethoven His unexpected grace. Her own startled laugh.
The porcelain cup she’d washed yesterday gleamed on the shelf just inside the door, visible in the sliver of lamplight. An impulse seized her, reckless and raw. "Smiled the last time I played," she blurted, meeting his shadowed gaze. "Was the Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata. With you." She swallowed. "Then you surprised me with that waltz." Peanut shifted against her leg, sensing the tremor in her voice. "Would you like to play, Solomon? I’ll listen. Just too tired to do it tonight." She forced a tight smile. "But I’d enjoy having you play. Might even find you a cup of sherry."
Silence stretched. Samson stamped a hoof. Solomon’s expression remained unreadable beneath his hat brim, his knuckles white where he gripped the enamel mug. The scent of burnt lime still clung faintly to the air from her ruined dress in the stove. He took a final, slow sip of coffee, the sound loud in the stillness.
He set the mug down hard on the porch railing. The clunk echoed. "Sherry sounds damn fine, Diana," he rasped. Without another word, he pulled off his hat, revealing tired eyes and sweat-damp hair plastered to his forehead. He stepped past her, his shoulder brushing the doorframe as he pushed into the cabin’s warm, dim interior, heading straight for the parlor where the piano waited. The worn leather of his vest creaked.
Diana followed, her pulse thrumming in her throat. Peanut stayed on the porch, whining softly. Inside, the air was thick with woodsmoke and the faint, sweet dustiness of old paper. Solomon stood before the piano, a dark silhouette against the faded wallpaper. He ran calloused fingers lightly, almost reverently, along the polished lid, tracing the grain. He didn’t look at her.
She moved to the small cupboard, fumbling for the dusty bottle of cheap sherry I kept for "medicinal purposes." Her hands shook slightly pouring it into the porcelain cup – the good one, clean and ready. The liquid glowed amber in the lamplight. She set it silently on the piano’s edge, the cup trembling faintly against the wood.
Solomon lowered himself onto the solid good wooden stool, . He flexed his fingers, staring at the keys like they were a landscape he hadn’t traversed in years since that one time with Diana a week agoThe silence deepened, pressing in. Diana leaned against the doorframe, arms wrapped tight around herself, the shawl rough against her skin. She watched the tension coil in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked. The rustlers, the bank, the cold spring, the whitewashed coop – everything receded, narrowed to this moment, this man, and the silent instrument.
He took a slow breath. Then, his right hand descended. A single, pure note rang out, clear and resonant as ice cracking on the spring, filling the small room. It hung in the air, vibrating through the floorboards, through Diana’s bones. He plyed the moonlight waltz in A
The single note shimmered, pure and clean, slicing through the cabin’s heavy silence. Solomon’s fingers found the waltz's familiar pattern, hesitant at first, then gaining confidence. The melody swirled, reminiscent of that sun-dappled church parlor afternoon a lifetime ago. Each chord vibrated in the old piano's bones, warmer now in the lamplit room than it ever sounded beneath harsh fluorescents.
Diana watched his hands – those wide, capable sheriff’s hands – moving with unexpected grace over the ivory and ebony. The tension in his shoulders eased fractionally. The amber sherry in the porcelain cup caught the light, casting dancing reflections on the polished wood. She pushed off the doorframe, the rough wool of her shawl whispering against the wood paneling.
The stool was big enough for two She hesitated only a breath before sliding onto the very edge beside him. Her hip pressed against the solid warmth of his thigh through their layers of clothing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pause in the flowing triple-time rhythm. "Left hand’s lagging, Sheriff," she murmured, her voice rough from disuse and the night’s chill.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Always did." He shifted slightly, making more room without breaking the melody. Diana inhaled the scents – woodsmoke, leather, the faint tang of the lime she’d burned, and the sweet sherry. Her own hands lifted, hovering for a suspended moment above the lower keys. Then, her fingers glided down, adding a rich, grounding bass line to his lilting waltz.
Just like before. The harmony bloomed instantly, fuller, richer, their rhythms instinctively syncing. Solomon’s melody brightened, almost playful. "Thought you were too tired," he said softly, his fingers dancing through a complex run.
"Changed my mind." Diana concentrated on the deep chords, feeling the vibration travel up her arms. "Beats thinking about tomorrow." She added a playful counterpoint flourish. "Still stealing my thunder, Solomon."
He chuckled, a low rumble she felt more than heard. "Just filling the gaps, Kerr." Their hands moved in tandem now, not quite touching but acutely aware of each other’s proximity. The music swelled, filling every corner of the small room, pushing back the night’s fears – the rustlers, the bank, the relentless struggle. For these few minutes, there was only the dance of their fingers and the shared creation of sound.
The final chords echoed, a satisfying resolution hanging in the warm air. Silence rushed back in, softer now, companionable. Their hands stilled on the keys. Solomon turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers in the low light. The weariness was still there, but overlaid with something else – a shared spark of understanding, perhaps. Diana’s breath caught. The sherry cup sat untouched between them.
The sherry cup sat untouched between them. Its amber liquid caught the lamplight, a tiny pool of warmth in the dim room. The resonance of the last piano chord faded slowly, leaving a thick, charged silence in its wake.
Solomon’s hands remained resting lightly on the keys, knuckles pale. Diana felt the solid warmth of his thigh pressed against hers on the stool’s edge. The scent of woodsmoke, old paper, and the faint, stubborn tang of burnt lime clung to the air. Peanut whined softly from the porch, a reminder of the world outside this fragile bubble of shared music.
Solomon cleared his throat, the sound rough. He shifted, his shoulder brushing hers as he finally lifted his hands from the piano. He stared at the untouched sherry cup. "Shouldn’t have played," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. "Forgot how loud it gets in here late."
"It’s fine," Diana said quickly, too quickly. Her own voice felt thin. "Better than…" She trailed off, unable to voice the alternatives: the bank’s looming shadow, the rustlers Solomon hunted, the sheer exhaustion. The shared music had momentarily pushed it all back. Now it rushed in. She pulled her shawl tighter, the rough wool scratching her neck. "Kept Peanut quiet."
A ghost of a smile touched Solomon’s lips. "That dog’s got opinions." He finally picked up the porcelain cup, swirling the sherry once before taking a small sip. His gaze drifted past her, towards the dark window reflecting the lamplight. "Damned Tuesday," he stated flatly.
Diana flinched. Hearing him name it made it terrifyingly real. "Yeah." She stared at her own hands, clenched in her lap. Calloused, stained faintly with whitewash despite the scrubbing. Hands that rebuilt coops, hauled water, fought weeds. Hands that felt utterly inadequate against ledgers and loan sharks. The piano keys gleamed, smooth and cool. A different kind of work.
She took a breath, the air catching slightly. The memory surfaced, sharp and clear: Solomon mentioning his mother’s thwarted ambitions years ago, back when he’d first surprised her with his playing. "Solomon," she began, her voice tentative. She turned slightly on the stool to face his profile. He looked tired, etched deep in the lamplight. "I know… I remember you saying once. Your mother. She wanted her kids to learn an instrument."
He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting hers. They were shadowed, unreadable. He gave a single, curt nod. "Piano. For my sister. Guitar for me." He took another sip of sherry. "Didn’t stick."
Diana’s pulse thrummed against her ribs. The offer felt reckless, a fragile bridge thrown across a chasm of debt and desperation. "I could," she said, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess them. "Teach you. More. On the piano. If… if you’d like me to." She gestured vaguely towards the keys. "You’ve got the hands for it. And…" She swallowed. "It’s quieter than a guitar."
Silence descended again, heavier than before. Solomon stared at her. His expression didn’t change, but she saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened fractionally around the delicate porcelain cup. The lamplight flickered, casting shifting patterns on the worn wallpaper behind him. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window.
He set the sherry cup down on the piano lid with deliberate care. The soft clink was startlingly loud. He stood up abruptly, the stool scraping harshly on the wooden floorboards. Diana instinctively leaned back, the sudden movement breaking the fragile closeness.
"Teaching," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. He pulled his leather gloves from his belt, tugging them on with sharp, efficient movements. "Right." He adjusted his vest, the silver star catching the light. He didn’t look at her. "Appreciate the coffee. And the water for Samson."
He strode towards the door, his boots heavy on the planks. Diana scrambled off the stool, a confusing mix of relief and sharp disappointment knotting her stomach. "Solomon—"
He paused, hand on the door latch, but didn’t turn. "Got miles to cover before sunup, Diana." His tone was clipped, final. "Rustlers don’t sleep. Neither does the bank, I reckon." He yanked the door open. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. Peanut whined again.
He stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him with a firm click. Diana stood frozen in the sudden silence, the lingering warmth of the shared piano stool already leaching away. Through the window, she watched his dark shape untie Samson, swing up into the saddle with practiced ease. He didn’t glance back towards the cabin.
The hoofbeats started slow, then quickly gained rhythm, fading into the vast darkness beyond her yard. Diana wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering despite the stove’s fading heat. The untouched sherry in her cup had gone cold. The porcelain cup he’d used sat alone on the piano lid, a stark reminder of the offer hanging unanswered in the charged air. Dawn felt impossibly far away, and Tuesday hurtled closer with every beat of her anxious heart. The faint, ghostly echo of their waltz seemed to mock her from the silent piano.