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She smiled, relieved. If Sawyer was up and around, he’d be leaving soon. Maybe very soon. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said. “Sit down.”
He was leaning against the framework of the doorway now, probably conserving his strength, and he looked around, taking in the small desks, the benches. “Where?” he asked, practically snarling the word.
Piper was determined to be pleasant, no matter how rude Mr. McKettrick chose to be. “There’s a chair behind my desk,” she pointed out. “Take that.”
He groped his way along the wall, proof that he wasn’t as recovered as she’d first thought, pulled back the wooden chair and sank into it. “Where’s my shirt?” he asked. “And my .45?”
Piper ladled water into the small enamel coffeepot that, like the three drinking mugs, her narrow bed and the rocking chair, came with the schoolhouse. “I burned your shirt,” she said cheerfully. “It was quite ruined, between the bullet hole and all the blood. And I put away the pistol, since you won’t have use for it here.”
Sawyer thrust his free hand through his hair in exasperation. Clearly, the laudanum had worn off, and he hadn’t rested well. “I need that shirt,” he said. “And the .45.”
“I’m sorry,” Piper answered. “Perhaps Clay will bring you fresh clothes, when he comes to take you out to the ranch.” She refused to discuss the gun any further.
Sawyer frowned. His chin was bristly with beard stubble, and he narrowed his blue-green eyes practically to slits. “When will that be?” he growled. “My trunk is over at the train depot. Plenty of clothes in there.”
Piper didn’t reply right away, since she didn’t know precisely when Clay would return, and fetching Sawyer’s baggage from the depot was not presently an option. Instead, she put some coffee beans into the grinder and turned the handle, enjoying the rich scent as it rose to entice her. Coffee was normally a treat for Piper, though she’d been drinking more of it lately, being snowed in and everything. Since the stuff wasn’t considered a staple, like canned goods and meat, potatoes and butter, the town didn’t provide it as a part of her wages. Since she saved practically every penny toward a train ticket home to Maine, Dara Rose bought it for her, along with writing paper, postage stamps and bathing soap.
God bless Dara Rose’s generous soul.
Sawyer cleared his throat, a reminder, apparently, that she’d neglected to answer his cranky question. “Clay will be coming back—when?”
“I don’t know,” Piper said honestly. “Soon, I hope.”
His frown deepened as he looked around again. “Where did you sleep last night?”
She measured coffee into the pot and set it on the stove to boil. “You needn’t concern yourself with that,” she said sunnily.
He gave a gruff chortle at her response, completely void of amusement. Then he pushed back the chair and stood, with an effort he clearly wanted very much to hide. “I suppose the privy is out back?” he asked.
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