Then he reached into his coat.
I stiffened.
He noticed.
“Easy.”
He pulled out a small paper-wrapped parcel.
He placed it on the ground.
Then he backed away.
I stared at it.
“What is it?”
“Food.”
June's stomach growled.
She looked embarrassed.
Caleb pretended not to hear.
“There's bread. Dried apples. A little smoked meat.”
I stared at the parcel.
“We can't pay.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
“Mr. Vane says nobody gives anything for free.”
Caleb's eyes hardened again.
“Mr. Vane says a lot.”
He walked away.
June waited until he was halfway across the alley.
Then she whispered, “Clara.”
“What?”
“Is he coming back?”
I watched the tall stranger disappear around the corner.
“I don't know.”
But Caleb Rourke did come back.
He came back every day.
And by the time summer ended, Mercy Creek would learn that the two little girls everyone had forgotten were the key to a crime that had been buried for nearly a year.
The first clue was inside a silver pocket watch.
And the second was hidden in a biscuit tin.
But neither June nor I knew any of that yet.
All we knew was that a stranger had brought us food.
And for the first time in months, tomorrow did not seem quite so hungry.
The Man in Black
Caleb Rourke returned the next morning.
And the morning after that.
At first, I distrusted him.
June did not.
June trusted almost everyone.
That was one of the things I loved about her and one of the things I feared most.
Our world had already taught us that kindness could disappear without warning.
I didn't want her learning that lesson the hard way.
So I watched Caleb.
Every morning he came to the alley behind the Lucky Star.
Sometimes he brought food.
Sometimes he brought nothing.
When he brought food, he never handed it directly to us.
He placed it on the ground and stepped away.
That made me trust him more.
A man who wanted something from us would have demanded we come close.
Caleb never did.
On the fourth morning, he brought two peaches.
June smiled.
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you keep bringing food?”
He leaned against the brick wall.
“Because you're hungry.”
“That isn't an answer.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You're four years old.”
“I know.”
“You ask difficult questions.”
“My father said questions keep people alive.”
Caleb went silent.
That sentence seemed to hit him.
“What else did your father teach you?”
“Lots.”
“Like?”
I shrugged.
“Fix fences. Tell north from south. Never trust a man who smiles when somebody else is hurt.”
Caleb smiled faintly.
“Your father sounds like a smart man.”
“He wasn't a thief.”
The smile disappeared.
“I didn't say he was.”
“Everyone says it.”
“Everyone is not always right.”
I stared at him.
“Were you here when Papa died?”
Caleb looked away.
“No.”
“Do you know him?”
A long silence.
“Yes.”
June came out from behind the barrel.
“You knew Papa?”
Caleb nodded.
“How?”
“I worked cattle with him once.”
“When?”
“Last winter.”
My heart beat faster.
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Near Blackwater Ridge.”
“Was Mama there?”
Caleb's expression changed.
“No.”
“Was Papa alone?”
“Yes.”
“Was he alive?”
Caleb looked at me.
“Yes.”
I felt something break open inside my chest.
“He was alive?”
“For a little while.”
“What does that mean?”
Caleb removed his hat.
“Clara, your father wasn't a thief.”
I stared at him.
June began crying.
I hated when June cried.
It made me feel helpless.
Caleb lowered himself to one knee.
“I need you to listen carefully.”
We did.
“Your father was trying to stop something.”
“Stop what?”
“I don't know all of it.”
“Then why do you say he wasn't a thief?”
“Because I knew the man.”
Caleb looked toward the street.
“And because thieves don't spend their last night riding twenty miles through a snowstorm to return money they supposedly stole.”
My mouth went dry.
“What money?”
Caleb shook his head.
“That's what I came here to find out.”
Before I could ask another question, the saloon doors opened.
Silas Vane stepped outside.
I had always hated him.
I didn't know why.
Maybe because he had the kind of face that never seemed surprised by suffering.
He was fifty years old, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, and dressed better than anyone in Mercy Creek.
His boots were polished.
His vest was black.
A gold chain crossed his stomach.
And he always smelled of expensive tobacco.
He stopped when he saw Caleb.
“Well,” he said.
Caleb stood.
“Vane.”
“You're back.”
“I never left.”
Vane looked at us.
His eyes lingered on June.
Then me.
“Those children don't belong on my property.”
Caleb glanced at the alley.
“Didn't know you owned the street.”
“I own the building.”
“And the garbage?”
Vane smiled.
“You've been asking questions.”
“That's what people do when they want answers.”
“You're asking about Daniel Mercer.”
Caleb's face became expressionless.
I stepped closer to June.
Vane smiled.
“Dangerous man to remember.”
Caleb's voice was quiet.
“Dangerous man to lie about.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Vane laughed.
“You always were a fool, Rourke.”
He walked back inside.
Caleb watched him go.
I asked, “Are you afraid of him?”
“No.”
“You should be.”
Caleb looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because he owns Mercy Creek.”
Caleb crouched again.
“No, Clara.”
He pointed toward the street.
“Men like Silas Vane don't own places.”
“Then what do they own?”
“Fear.”
That afternoon, Caleb took us somewhere I had never been.
An old cabin stood beyond the cottonwoods, nearly a mile from town.
There was a small garden behind it.
A well.
A woodpile.
A horse pen.
Caleb opened the door.