Playing by Heart Read Free Page A

A lace-gloved hand.
    Careful to keep a neutral look on my face, I raised my head.
    Wide blue eyes stared into mine. Yellow curls peeking out around a pale face. “Mr. Vaughn! What a pleasure to see you.” She blinked twice. “You do remember me, do you not?”
    I took a step into the emptying aisle. Her hand fell from my sleeve. “Of course, Miss Morrison.” I tipped my head in acknowledgment, not wanting to offend the banker’s daughter. Then I let my gaze roam over the congregation of mourners. “But if you will excuse me, I believe I’m needed—over there.”
    I gave a quick smile to diffuse her sputtering before I escorted Ma outside. I meant to join the men who stood in clumps, hands in their pockets, asking two-word questions and receiving one-word answers, but my focus snagged on Davy Wyatt’s widow. She stood apart from the mourners, her face chalky above thecollar of her dark dress. Two little girls flitted around her skirt while a smaller child lay limp against her shoulder. Her grief seemed to draw a circle around her, preventing others from penetrating the space.
    All except Ma. She bustled right up to the widow and laid a hand on her arm.
    Mrs. Wyatt’s face brightened a bit at the touch. They spoke out of my hearing. Then Ma reached for the sleeping child and nudged the widow toward the men shoveling dirt into a gaping hole amid a cluster of gravestones behind the wrought-iron fence. The gate creaked loudly under the woman’s hand. She stopped, looked back. Ma nodded again.
    I didn’t want to watch her plodding steps through the cemetery as she attempted to avoid the resting places of those gone far longer than her husband. But I couldn’t seem to turn away. Pastor Reynolds and her relatives followed at a distance for the short graveside good-bye. When Mrs. Wyatt knelt at the new grave, I lowered my chin, not wanting to witness the private moment with her husband. Had Ma ever wished she could visit Pa’s grave in the sad aftermath? I couldn’t imagine it possible, but then I’d never been able to make sense of the female mind.
    I hung back with the other men as Mrs. Wyatt returned through the creaking gate. A man dressed in an army coat and breeches, complete with canvas leggings and a Montana-peak campaign hat in his hand, approached and took the sleeping child from Ma.
    A blur bolted from the graveyard. Two ladies shrieked and jumped back.
    â€œJC? JC, come back!” A feminine voice rose above the hum of the crowd.
    I eyed the road open before the boy, a lonely stretch leadingas far as he could run. I stepped into his path. The boy slammed into me, stumbled backward. I caught his arms, held him upright. “Whoa, there! Moving pretty fast, aren’t you?”
    He wriggled and twisted, trying to escape my hold. I bent down, one knee in the dirt, peering up at the child’s tear-streaked face. “I’ve got you, son. Let me help.”
    JC stilled, red-rimmed eyes finally meeting mine. “You cain’t help. Cain’t nobody help. ’Cept God. And He let my daddy die.”
    The childhood ache of missing Pa hollowed my stomach. “You’re Davy Wyatt’s boy, aren’t you?”
    He nodded and looked to the angry faces of those standing just beyond us, those ready to snatch him up and scold him for running.
    â€œYou’re right. Nobody can bring back your father. But I can listen if you want to talk.”
    His eyes pinched almost shut as his arms tensed beneath my hands. “Talk about what?”
    Two men I’d met on Wednesday night tried to pry JC from my grasp. I refused to let go. This boy needed to know someone understood his situation, understood how he felt. “Whatever you want. Your pa. God. Life and death.”
    Mrs. Wyatt pushed through her relatives, huffing and puffing, hat askew, dust clinging to wetness that streaked her cheeks. JC wrenched himself from one of the men