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wondered why the postmaster would bother to count how many letters anyone
in town received. But he tamped down the mild curiosity. He wasn't going to
discuss Henry Dobbs' personal business. Maybe that was how Stanislaus got so
much gossip from folks. He tricked them into volunteering details about their
lives that were nobody's concern.
    "I'll see he
gets these," Del replied, reaching to take the mail out of the older man's
hand.
    "That sure was
a shame about the Fourth of July celebration, wasn't it? Oh, I forgot. You and
Leon and the others were gone…so you didn't even hear about it yet."
    There was a
distinct gleam in the man's eyes. "Widow Pratt try baking her awful pies
again?" Del couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. A couple of years
before, at least a dozen men spent all day July 5th in their outhouses after
the widow's pies got donated to the pie-eating contest. Luckily for him, Del
wasn't much for pie. "Thank the Lord I never enter those eating
competitions. Pie, watermelon, whatever. I avoid 'em."
    "Unless it's
whipped cream and chocolate syrup. They say you pretty much took the honors in
that one," Amos quipped.
    Del had heard more
than enough about that debacle and made his feeling clear to any man who dared
broach the subject of his aborted wedding. Apparently Amos' memory was
slipping. "Don't want to hear about that again, Amos. There's times when a
man has to learn to put a muzzle on before his flapping jaw gets him into
trouble."
    Amos flushed and
glanced around. "Well, there is and there isn't. I figure since you missed
all the commotion and it sort of affects you…in a roundabout sense, you should
be told. And it's exactly the sentiment you just expressed that will keep
others from informing you about it."
    Del bit down on his
tongue so hard, he could swear he tasted blood. He really didn't want to know
what other folks said about him, even if it was only "in a roundabout
sense." He damned well knew better than to ask. You didn't poke a sleeping
grizzly to ask if he thought you'd make a nice dinner. But frigging Amos had
hooked him. Nothing to be done but regret it later.
    "What
happened, and why's it any concern of mine?"
    Del hunkered over
the counter and rested his elbows on it. Stanislaus really ought to put in
chairs, like the barber had. Picking up mail was an hour-long endurance test.
The postal customers should at least be allowed to sit while their postmaster
bent their ears.
    Amos went over and
locked the front door, flipped his sign to "Closed."
    A premonition
skittered down Del's spine and pooled in the heels of his boots. Amos had never
locked up to confide a malicious rumor before. Which meant one of two
possibilities:  either it wasn't just a rumor, but could actually have
some basis in truth…or it was going to be way beyond malicious. Something truly
heinous. Downright vile.
    Dear God, no.
    "Jesus, don't
tell me Jordy finally went too far?" Del seized the older man's collar in
his fist. "Did they hang that bastard while I was out of town? They get up
a lynch mob or something, Amos?"
    Amos slapped at
Del's fingers. "Christ, of course not!" His shirt collar freed, Amos
smoothed it and glowered at Del. "Everybody knows that horse's ass is a horse's ass. He ain't worth the rope it would take to hang him. Zoyer isn't
even at the core of the trouble this time. No, this time it's a woman."
    Del was swamped
with relief. "Oh, well, that's a whole other kettle of fish. You know
those painted cats. If it's not a disease or dispute over money, then it's some
woman's husband run off with the best piece of pussy he's ever had. Who's the
fella? Anybody I know?"
    Amos cleared his
throat. "That's the oddest part. It ain't one of …them." When Amos
paused significantly, Del knew he was steering back in the other direction. A
direction that could lead to a gal like Betty Lee…and he really wasn't going to
listen to any tale concerning that particular woman. But before he could say
so, Amos stunned