The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller

become a necessary art, Sarah had taken pains to record the fibs she’d told, both for the sake of continuity in conversations with others and, she supposed, as a form of penance.
    God recorded both sins and virtues in the Book of Life, according to the preachers. Maybe He’d understand, on Judgment Day, that writing down the lies she told was a form of honesty in and of itself, convoluted as the idea seemed, even to Sarah herself.
    More likely, He’d order her flung into the Lake of Fire, immediately if not sooner. After all, God hated a liar, didn’t He?
    Sarah sighed. If the Lord was as cranky and hard to please as Brother Hickey and his ilk made Him out to be, she couldn’t hope to get along with Him anyhow.
    When closing time finally came—neither Thomas nor her father had returned from the visit to Dr. Venable, who was probably subjecting poor Thomas to all manner of painful cures—Sarah hung the sign in the door, locked up, and headed for home.
    She’d been a fool to invite Wyatt Yarbro to take a meal under her roof—he was an outlaw, badge or no badge—but it would be better than being alone, for all practical intents and purposes, with Charles Langstreet. Owen and her father would also be present, but both of them were children, despite the vast difference in their ages.
    A new worry rose up whole in her mind as she approached her front gate and stooped to pat Mehitabel, the three-legged cat, who sometimes came by to lap up a bowl of cream or sleep contentedly behind the cookstove when the weather turned cold.
    What might Ephriam say when he saw Owen? Once, she could have depended on her father’s discretion, but given the state of his mind, he might blurt out something the boy wasn’t prepared to hear, or understand.
    A chill rippled in the pit of her stomach.
    Owen.
    She could adapt to almost anything, including losing control of the Stockman’s Bank, if matters came to that pass, but seeing Owen hurt in any way would be beyond toleration.
    Charles claimed he’d brought the boy to Stone Creek because he could not remain at school, or at home with Mrs. Langstreet; he’d simply had no other choice. Caught off guard, Sarah had accepted the explanation the way someone at the top of a burning staircase would accept a wet blanket. Now, with the storm of her thoughts abating a little, she knew there had to be another reason. Charles could have left Owen with his aging mother, prevailed upon one of his three married sisters.
    Instead, Owen was there, in Stone Creek.
    Why?
    Certainly not because Charles felt any kindly inclination toward her. She’d begged him for photographs of Owen over the years, receiving only one, sent letter after letter to the child, revealing nothing, always signing the long missives with the spinsterly affection of an aunt. There had been no replies, but given Owen’s tender age, that wasn’t surprising.
    Sarah blinked, realizing she was still standing at the gate, Mehitabel curling into her hem, and worked the latch. The hinges creaked as she passed through.
    Are you my aunt Sarah? Owen had asked earlier, in the bank, his eyes wide and trusting.
    What had Charles—or, more worrisome yet, his wife, Marjory—told the boy about his “aunt”?
    The front door opened as Sarah approached, and Doc appeared in the gap. He was a stoutly built man with gentle eyes, and an old friend as well as physician to her father. The two men had met in the army, serving under General Grant, Ephriam as an infantry captain, Jacob Venable as a surgeon. Ephriam had sustained a bayonet wound to his right shoulder during a skirmish with Confederate cavalrymen, and Venable had tended him. Having a number of things in common, but primarily a shared passion for books, they’d swapped whatever rare and treasured volumes they managed to get their hands on. Both men had been at Appomattox when Lee surrendered, and taken off their hats to the