Montana (29 page)

Apparently no one was impressed.

“When you transferred from the San Francisco school district to Sweetgrass,” Mr. Wilson said in that prim authoritarian way he had, “we requested and received a copy of your school records.”

Good, that ought to show everyone he wasn't a troublemaker. Well, sure there'd been the one incident, but that was it.

“You think because someone spray-painted the gym wall here it was me?” No one had told him
he
was going to be accused every time someone decided to decorate a wall.

“I don't think it could have been anyone else.” Mr. Wilson's voice held a frightening certainty.

“I didn't do it.” Tom wondered how many times he'd have to say it before someone believed him.

“Your signature's on the graffiti,” his mother said, sounding really depressed. It was the same voice he'd heard in the other principal's office. The voice that said he'd failed her and somehow it was her fault. She must be a terrible mother.

“My signature,” Tom said, almost relieved now. “That's got to tell you something. I may be a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. If I decided to do anything as dumb as spray a wall, I wouldn't sign my name to it.” They must think he was some kind of moron!

“Not your name, Tom. Gang symbols.”

The blood drained out of his face; Tom could actually feel himself go pale. Even his legs felt weak. He sat back down.

“The identical gang symbols you painted on the wall at your previous school,” Mr. Wilson said. “I had your mother look and verify these were the same.”

“But I didn't do it!” His words were edged with hysteria.

“Don't lie to me!” his mother cried. “You know how I feel about lies. You've always known. Oh, Tom, how could you do something like this?”

Tom's anger came so fast that it demanded every ounce of self-control not to grab something from Mr. Wilson's desk and hurl it through the window. “Would someone please listen?” he shouted. “I swear to you I didn't do it!”

“You don't expect me to believe that, do you?” Mr. Wilson asked, gazing at him with contempt.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to say something.” Sam spoke for the first time, commanding their attention. He was the only one who seemed to be in control. Mr. Wilson was angry and his mother was about to lose it and so was he.

“Please, feel free.” Mr. Wilson gestured at Sam.

“I've never known my stepson to lie,” he began. “I'm not saying the kid's another George Washington, but in all my dealings with him, he's been honest and fair. If Tom says he isn't responsible for the graffiti, then I feel obliged to believe him.”

Tom was so grateful someone trusted him enough to defend him that tears welled in his eyes. It embarrassed him and he looked away and hoped no one noticed when he pressed his sleeve to his face.

“How do you explain the gang symbols then?” Mr. Wilson asked, as if that was all the evidence needed to hang Tom from the nearest tree.

“Tom isn't the only student in the school who knows gang symbols.” Again it was Sam who spoke in his defense.

“
California
gang symbols?” the principal said.

“My guess is there are any number of students who have access to that kind of information. Answer me this, Mr. Wilson,” Sam said. “Has Tom caused any trouble since the start of school?”

“No, but it's early in the year—”

“In other words, you
expect
me to be a troublemaker!” Tom shouted, so mad he couldn't sit still.

One sidelong glance from Sam advised him to keep his mouth shut. Seeing that Sam was the only one willing to champion his cause, Tom was willing to follow the unspoken advice.

“What about his friends?”

Mr. Wilson's eyes lowered. “He seems to have made friends with young men who rarely require disciplinary measures.”

Like Brian Tucker. Tom nodded profoundly for emphasis, thinking this should be another point in his defense.

“Is there anyone who
saw
Tom do the spray-painting?”

Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. “No.”

“Any physical evidence? A can of paint in Tom's locker? Paint on his clothes or shoes the same color as the graffiti?”

Mr. Wilson wasn't making eye contact with them any longer. “None.”

Sam paused and glanced over at Tom, giving him a half smile. “Then perhaps it would be best if we decided to forget this unfortunate incident.”

“Who's going to repaint the wall?” Mr. Wilson demanded. “I'll have you know that's school property, and it's against policy to deface anything belonging to the school.”

“Perhaps you could ask for volunteers?” Sam suggested.

Tom had liked Sam from the first. But even if he'd never gotten along with Sam and resented him for marrying his mother, even if he'd hated the way Sam had become part of their family, everything would have changed this day. Sam was more than his stepfather. He was his friend.

Sam had believed him when no one else did. He'd stuck up for him when his own mother had found him guilty. This was no small thing, and Tom would never forget it.

“Tom,” Mr. Wilson said, looking directly into his eyes. “If I misjudged you, then I apologize. What Mr. Dakota said is true. So far you've proved yourself to be a good student and a fine young man. I hope you'll forgive me for leaping to conclusions. Adults do that sometimes.” The principal stood and held out his hand.

Tom shook it and met Mr. Wilson's eyes without flinching. He exchanged a firm handshake with the older man. Sam had taught him about handshakes, too—the importance of meeting the other man's eye and firmly shaking his hand. None of that limp-wristed stuff.

“No problem, Mr. Wilson,” Tom said, grateful to be back in good standing with the principal. “We all make mistakes. If I find out who did paint the gym wall, I won't worry about being called a snitch. I'll tell you.” Whoever it was had tried to frame him, and Tom wasn't going to let that pass.

“You do that. Now get back to Mrs. Kirby's room.”

“Thanks.” He was halfway out the door when he stopped and turned around. “Thanks, Sam.” His mother's look was forlorn and miserable. He wished she'd stuck up for him, too, but Tom kind of understood. It was because his real father was such a jerk and had lied to her so many times. So he had to forgive her.

“I'll see you tonight, Mom.”

She nodded and Tom could see she was close to tears. Good, a little guilt now and again wasn't a bad thing. She'd probably cook his favorite dinners all week to make up for this.

Maybe things weren't so bad, after all.

 

Molly was an emotional wreck. She'd just been through one of the most traumatic weeks of her life. First Sam had been arrested, and when she'd finished dealing with that crisis, the school had phoned. The incident with Tom had taught her some valuable lessons. She'd been willing to believe a stranger over her own son. Her heart ached each time she thought about that afternoon. Sam had been the one to stand up for her son.

She knew why he'd done it, too. Sam understood what it was to be falsely accused. She was convinced of Tom's innocence. But not in the beginning, and that she would always regret. She'd let her son down when he'd needed her most.

If that wasn't enough, Sam sold off part of the herd and was forced, along with the other independent ranchers, to accept the lowest price in a decade. The check wasn't enough to cover expenses. They had no choice but to apply for a loan.

Molly rode into town with Sam when he went to the bank to talk to Mr. Burns. There was some consolation in learning that the Broken Arrow wasn't the only ranch in the area experiencing financial difficulties. Sam and Molly had spent most of every night for the past week reviewing the money situation. It didn't look promising.

Although Molly had applied to the school district for work, there hadn't been an opening for a language teacher. She had mixed feelings about this. They needed the money of course—but she actually enjoyed being a stay-at-home wife and mother. For a while, anyway. It was the first time since Clay's birth that she was able to be with her children. In the beginning she'd expected to be bored within a month, but the house needed a lot of work, a lot of maintenance, and she'd been able to provide it with a minimum of expense.

“Do you mind if I don't go in to see Mr. Burns with you?” she asked Sam. He'd parked in front of the bank and didn't look all that thrilled about the appointment himself.

“No problem,” he said, and Molly glanced down the street to the pawnshop. Every week without Sam's knowing, she'd taken a little of her grocery money to pay off what was owed on Sam's rodeo buckle. She'd wanted to give it to him as a wedding present, but the cost had been too high.

“Sure you're okay?” Molly asked, her attention returning to the bank. As she recalled, Mr. Burns seemed a decent enough man, sympathetic to the needs of the community. Surely other ranchers had been forced to ask him for assistance.

“I'm not looking forward to this, if that's what you mean,” Sam said, and with an exaggerated groan of dread, opened the door on the driver's side.

Molly placed her hand on his forearm, stopping him. “Need a little fortification?” she asked suggestively, then moistened her lips so there'd be no doubt about exactly what she had in mind.

Sam's eyes sparked as he gazed at her lips, and Molly could see he was tempted. “Later, all right?”

She was mildly disappointed, but smiled and nodded.

“Oh, what the hell,” he said in an abrupt change of mood. He reached for her, his fingers slipping into her hair as he brought her mouth to his.

The kiss was hot enough to cause a nuclear meltdown, and when they broke apart, Molly sincerely wished they were anywhere but Front Street.

“Does the Sweetgrass Motel rent by the hour?” Sam whispered as his lips hovered close to hers.

“Sam!” Molly giggled and prodded her husband's arm. “Go see Mr. Bank President. Smile real nice and let him know how very grateful little ol' us would be if he sees fit to grant us a loan.”

Sam chuckled. “You might be a hell of a lot better at this than me.”

“Get in there, cowboy, and do your best.” They both avoided talking about what would happen if Mr. Burns refused to advance them credit.

Sam frowned suddenly.

“What is it?” Molly asked.

He shook his head, then looked away. “Someone else once called me cowboy.”

“A woman, no doubt.” Molly pretended to be jealous.

“As a matter of fact it was. Pearl Mitchell.”

“Oh.” Pearl's body had yet to be found, but there was plenty of speculation. The matter of Pearl's disappearance might have been forgotten if not for the efforts of Russell Letson. Ginny told her that the attorney spent a lot of time riding Sheriff Maynard about the case. It left Molly wondering what connection Russell might have had with Pearl. Had he been one of her clients? Presumably that wasn't something a man like Russell would want broadcasted. According to Ginny, Pearl was said to have been popular with her customers—but no one seemed to care what had happened to her as much as Russell. Were there personal reasons for his obsession, reasons no one knew? Still, Molly couldn't see the attorney with a woman like Pearl.

“I hope they solve that case.” An eerie unreal feeling came over her every time she thought about the murder.

“I hope so, too,” Sam added.

Molly's own reasons were mostly selfish. Once the real killer was brought in and tried, no one could point a finger at Sam. Molly believed in her husband's innocence with all her heart, but she wasn't sure everyone else in town did.

“I'll meet you back here in a half hour,” Sam said as he headed into the bank.

Molly waited until he was out of sight before walking down to the pawnshop. The bell jingled above the door when she entered. Max Anderson hurried out from the back room and nodded in greeting when he saw her. He was a tall skinny man with a lank ponytail and one gold front tooth.

“Making another payment, are you?” Max asked.

“Please.” Molly set her purse on the counter and reached inside for the ten-dollar bill. At this rate it would take her years to buy back Sam's award buckle, but she refused to let him lose it.

“That's an interesting cameo you're wearing,” Max said.

Molly's fingers closed around the necklace, surprised he hadn't noticed it before. She wore it every day as a reminder of Gramps and of her grandparents' love. The cameo and the plain gold band around her finger were the only pieces of jewelry that had any real meaning for her.

“Gramps gave it to me years ago after my grandmother died.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at it?”