Dean took a deep breath and continued.
Dean continued to stare at her, waiting for further explanation.
One morning there was a loud knock at Dean Swift's door.
Dean asked and she nodded.
The ten-year-old girl had resided at Bird Song with David Dean, his wife Cynthia, and Dean's seventy-seven-year-old stepfather, Fred O'Connor, for the past six months.
David and Cynthia Dean had experienced little success in trying to secure a more formal arrangement for long term custody of Martha, managing only undocumented assignment as temporary foster parents.
Anyone in authority seemed habitually out of the office after Dean gave his name.
Dean went to cat and girl and gave them both a long hug.
"But remember," Dean continued, "your mother has a major say in what happens to you.
"Martha," Dean said, "you've got to trust in someone sometime.
Dean followed his wife but she dismissed his concern.
Dean was replenishing the coffee and setting plates for late breakfast arrivals when Maria, their newly hired helper, arrived.
When Dean first introduced himself, the young lady continued with her engaging smile until it became obvious she had no idea what he was saying—even after he sputtered the half-dozen words of Spanish he knew.
"Guess I'd better brush up on my Spanish," Dean said, but Fred shook his head.
It was a beautiful smile that caused Dean to wonder what life the young girl had left behind.
He said nothing of his visit to Martha's room and busied himself on the stoop taping a "Dean for Sheriff" poster to a wooden stake before adding it to a growing pile.
As Dean entered the room, Pumpkin was filling his plate with baked goods.
Dean wondered if Bird Song could afford the food bill as he sat down and joined Pumpkin for a cup of coffee.
Dean certainly hoped so—at least the clean part.
"I suppose you're anxious to get back on the road," Dean hinted.
Dean grabbed the near-empty plate, salvaging the few remaining morsels while Pumpkin was searching for more empty pockets to fill as he rose to leave.
Dean nodded in agreement.
Dean had watched Billy play high school basketball the past winter.
Dean cautioned Pumpkin to keep his hand on his wallet, but the young hiker dismissed the advice with a wave of his hand.
Loaded with pastry, he was soon headed off to the park with his typical youthful enthusiasm.
After smearing peanut butter and jam on whole wheat bread for a lunch on the fly, Dean knocked on Martha's door.
Once clear of town, Dean drove along at a brisk clip, trying without success to engage Martha in conversation.
When Dean saw the flashing lights behind him he was startled until he recognized the white Chevy Blazer, the sheriff's car, and his reaction turned from concern to a smile.
When Dean didn't answer, she continued, professionally, but with a hint of sarcasm, sing-songing a rehearsed litany—present your driver's license and registration and something about exceeding a fifty-mile-an-hour speed limit.
Dean quickly understood this was no social call.
Dean muttered, immediately regretting his big mouth when he saw the look on her face.
Dean tried to comfort her while complying with the officer's request.
"Where are your parents?" she asked, as Dean continued to stand, hands on the roll bar that circled the Jeep.
Martha spat with a viciousness that shocked Dean as much as the officer.
Larkin asked, trying to look down at Martha and at the same time keeping a wary eye on Dean, who was ready to kill her.
Dean boiled every inch of the remaining trip to Montrose.
"The whole day has been a disaster," Dean said as he settled into an easy chair in his bedroom, a shopping bag in his lap.
"August is only the primary," Dean answered, but they both knew in the near one-party County of Ouray, that was tantamount to the final election.
Dean didn't dare say he hadn't noticed and described the tall red head in general terms.
Dean changed the subject by holding up the shopping bag from his lap.
When the show was over, Dean carefully laid out his new slacks over the back of his chair and reluctantly went to shower—and shave.
Dean thought a moment.
Dean began buttoning his shirt.
"You look like a princess," Dean said.
Dean remained standing as Martha took a seat on the edge of the bed.
Dean breathed deeply as he watched the late afternoon sun filter through the curtains.
"I guess it would depend on how important the something was," Dean answered.
Dean looked down at her.
"Go on," Dean said.
"Trust us to do what's fair, Martha," Dean said.
Dean sensed her relief.
Dean could picture the messing around.
Dean was equally unnerved.
Dean asked, trying to control the quiver in his voice.
Tell us everything, Dean said.
Dean looked at his wife.
Dean offered, but she shook her head.
"Here's something else for the Dean," he said roughly, and tossed it into the servant's arms.
"See here," said the Dean in a stern voice, "that is not the way to deliver a message here.
Then, taking out his purse, he offered the Dean a shilling.
And the Dean also took the hint; for he always remembered to give the man a "tip" for his trouble.
Jonathan Swift, often called Dean Swift, was famous as a writer on many subjects.
James Dean is locked in our minds with a cigarette.
Mr. Hutton introduced me to many of his literary friends, greatest of whom are Mr. William Dean Howells and Mark Twain.
She bore a look of defeated resignation as Dean and his wife joined her.
Dean just rolled his eyes.
Dean asked to break the silence.
"I thought you were Jake Weller," Dean said with a smile.
He was a great admirer of Dean Swift, and took pleasure in sending him presents of game.
"The next time he comes," said the Dean, "let me know, and I will go to the door."
The Dean went to the door.
Just step inside and make believe that you are Dean Swift.
The Dean took the rabbit and went out of the house.
And it seems to work pretty well, as author Dean Koontz noted when he observed, "Civilization rests on the fact that most people do the right thing most of the time." 3.