Shades of Gray by Carol A. Spradling Page B

door closed
    She shook her
head with the same determination Crowning Glory had used when demanding her
food.  “No, you don’t,” she corrected.  “You choose to have an
obligation there.  Why do you allow her to live so far away when Oak Willow is
her home?  This is where she belongs.”  She turned to straighten the saddle
blankets, mumbling under her breath.  “I have never understood your thinking in
this matter.  What purpose does it serve?”  She slammed a saddle on top of the
pile.
    “Excuse me,
Gray, Mrs. Gregory.”  A strange voice called to them from outside the barn. 
    Gray jerked
his head to the side and hurriedly recounted the last five minutes of his
conversation with his mother.  He didn’t need an eavesdropper drawing the wrong
conclusions.  Narrowing his eyes toward the door, he tried to recognize the
visitor. 
    Back-dropped
in natural light, the darkened figure moved into the barn.  Buffed and
polished, Magistrate Istle stood in the entryway.  The door frame surrounded
him like a portrait. 
    Gray cast an
accusing glance toward his mother.  He pulled at his shirt collar, already
feeling the noose tighten around his neck.  There would be no trial or
judgment, just a rope and the sturdy limb of the oak tree in the front yard. 
He would be boxed and buried before night fall.  Would it be too much to ask
for them to wrap his body in a blanket from his bed?
    “I only
considered talking with him.  I didn’t say a word,” she whispered under her
breath.
    The magistrate
stepped closer, studying both of them.  “Excuse the interruption.  I did knock
on the front door of the house.”  He moved closer to them still.  “When no one
answered, I followed the sound of shouting to the back yard.  I hope I’m not
intruding.”  He studied their faces as though contemplating which side of their
argument he should support.
    “What brings
you all the way out here, sir?” Gray asked.  The quicker he could send this man
on his way, the more comfortable his day would be.
    “I’ll prepare
tea,” Laura volunteered, looking up at Gray.
    “Thank you,
ma’am, but I don’t have time to socialize,” the magistrate said, closing the
distance between them.  “I’m following up on a concern that was lodged by Emma
Bradford.”  He turned his gaze to Gray.  “I heard you were in town last week.”
    “Is that Mrs.
Bradford’s complaint?  That I came into town last week.”
    “No.  She is
more concerned about what she found while she was here.”
    Laura’s hand
went to her throat and she worked the buttons on her blouse.  Nearly twisting
the beads free of the thread, she blinked up at the officer.  This old habit
revealed her nervousness better than a sweaty, upper lip, and the blinking
technique was one Gray had become familiar with as a youth.  Outright
disobedience should have cost him a thorough lashing, but his mother had tried
to calm herself before deciding his punishment.  His first trip to Richmond had
nearly blinded her.  Gray hoped the magistrate wasn’t familiar with his
mother’s nervous ticks.
    “I wasn’t
aware Emma had visited Oak Willow,” Gray said, looking down at his mother. 
    Laura lifted a
brow to Gray and then swung her gaze to the magistrate.  “I saw no need to
mention it.  You’re aware that she takes in laundry and sewing to support her
family.  She stopped by a day or two ago, as she usually does, and asked if I had
any mending for her.  I planned to give her that shirt of yours.  You know the
one.  It has the rip across the shoulder.”
    “You planned to give her a shirt?” the magistrate asked.  He stopped his inspection of an
empty stall.  “Did you change your mind about having it mended?”
    “No,” Laura
answered.  “After I retrieved the shirt and returned to the foyer, Emma was
gone.  I assumed she would return later.”
    Magistrate
Istle peered at the harness hanging next to his shoulder.  He ran his hands
down the