Читать книгу The Lawman Takes A Wife - Anne Avery - Страница 8

“What’d I tell you? That’s him.”

“You sure?” Bonnie Calhan frowned down at her eight-year-old brother. With the superior perspective of her eleven years, she’d learned to be cautious—even making Dickie cross his heart and hope to die wasn’t always a guarantee you could believe him. Now that he’d grabbed hold of this latest wild notion of his, there was just no telling at all.

Dickie wasn’t paying her any mind, anyway. He was standing on tiptoe, face pressed against the tall, narrow front window of Elk City’s sheriff’s office, straining to see inside.

“Are you sure?” she insisted, poking him to make him listen.

He grudgingly backed away from the window and dusted his hands on the seat of his overalls. “Certain sure. Saw him come in on the train last night. He was carryin’ a rifle an’ a saddle an’ askin’ for the mayor. An’ I heard him sayin’ somethin’ about the sheriff’s office. Honest. Couldn’t be nobody else.”

“Anybody else.”

He shrugged, irritated. “See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Bonnie eyed him doubtfully, then cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the rain and dirt-blotched window. The effort was wasted. What with the grime, the natural distortions in the crude glass, and the sharp contrast between sunlit street and shadowed interior, she couldn’t see anything except a dark bulk hunched over a desk at the back of the room.

But it was the sheriff’s office, and they’d been expecting the new sheriff for weeks, now. Much as she hated to admit it, Dickie was probably right.

“All right,” she said, reluctantly giving in as she usually did, sooner or later. “But if you’re wrong…”

“I ain’t. You’ll see.”

“Yes, I will. And don’t say ain’t. You know Mother doesn’t like it.”

She tried to take his hand, but he scowled and dodged out of reach. “Don’t you go bossin’ me, Bonnie Mae Calhan! Just ’cause you’re bigger’n me an’—”

“Oh, come on. If we’re going to do this, there’s no sense dawdling.”

His scowl deepened. “You sound just like Mother.” But when Bonnie moved toward the door, he was a half step ahead of her.

Bonnie halted on the threshold, blinking against the sudden transition from sunlight to shadow. Dust coated the raw plank floor and hung in the air like a gauzy curtain, obscuring details. Not that there was anything worth seeing except the desk and the man behind it.

He looked up at their entrance, but she couldn’t make out much more of his features than she had outside.

“Yes?” His voice was deep, pleasant to the ear.

“Are you—” The words stuck on her tongue like molasses.

All of a sudden, she was even less certain of the wisdom of this visit than she’d been when she’d given in to Dickie’s pleading. What if he laughed at them? Or gave them a tongue lashing for wasting his time like old Mr. Garver was always doing? Or worse, told their mother?

Bonnie blenched at the thought of what her mother would say if she found out.

Dickie had no such reservations. “You the new sheriff?” he demanded, boldly stepping forward.

“I am.”

Dickie threw her a look that clearly said, told you so! and edged a little farther into the room. “You really a gunfighter, like Freddy Christian said you was?”

The man’s mouth abruptly thinned to an intimidating straight line. “No.”

The single word rumbled in the dusty air like distant thunder. He deliberately set aside the papers he’d been reading, then shoved back his chair and came around the desk toward them.

Seated behind the battered old desk, the man had looked impressively large. On his feet and up close, he was downright intimidating—more like a mountain on legs than a man. The floor jumped with every step he took.

Bonnie backed up a foot.

Her brother didn’t budge, but he hunched his shoulders and stuck out his chin so he could swallow. If his eyes opened any wider, his eyeballs would pop out.

The sheriff loomed over them. Bonnie had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Her throat tightened. There was an awful lot of jaw on that sharply carved face of his.

He stared down at her unblinkingly.

Bonnie backed up another step and clasped her hands behind her, where he wouldn’t see their trembling.

The sheriff turned to Dickie. “Who is Freddy Christian?” His voice seemed to shake the walls around them, despite its mild tone.

“A friend,” said Dickie in a very small voice. He gulped and added, a little louder this time, “He’s a year younger’n me, but he knows ’most everything ’cause his dad, see, he’s the editor of the paper.”

The sheriff considered that a moment, then, “How old are you?”

Dickie rubbed his hands on the sides of his overalls. “Me?”

The sheriff nodded.

“Eight. Nine come October.” Dickie hesitated, then cocked a thumb in Bonnie’s direction. “This here’s my big sister, Bonnie. She’s eleven.”

Those coal-black eyes turned back to her. After a moment’s sober study, the sheriff politely ducked his head by way of acknowledgment. “Miss Bonnie.”

Bonnie flushed. She’d never had a grown-up gentleman call her Miss Bonnie before. And now that she’d had the chance to study him a bit more, the new sheriff didn’t seem nearly as hard as he had a minute earlier.

On the other hand, he didn’t seem any smaller, either.

“I’m Dickie,” her brother announced, drawing the sheriff’s attention back to him. “Richard James Calhan. Named after my dad and granddad. My mother—”

“Our mother,” Bonnie snapped. She was happy to leave the talking to Dickie, but she didn’t care to be left out altogether.

“Our mother, then,” Dickie conceded, annoyed. He wasn’t willing to interrupt his recital to argue with her about it, though. “She runs Calhan’s General Store. Guaranteed best store in town! If we don’t have it, we’ll get it, no extra charge.”

The sheriff mulled over that bit of information, too. “If your ma runs the store,” he asked at last, “what’s your pa do?”

Dickie’s face fell. Over four years had passed since their father had died in a coal mine cave-in and he still had nightmares at times. For that matter, so did Bonnie, though she would never admit it. Mother already had enough to worry her.

“Da’s dead,” Dickie admitted reluctantly.

That admission was usually enough to launch a dozen questions about how he’d died and when, and how they were getting along without him. At the very least it got an “I’m sorry to hear that” kind of response, regardless if the person was sorry or not. But this man mountain neither asked rude questions nor offered false sympathy. He accepted the statement with the quiet composure that seemed as much a part of him as his broad shoulders or big feet. Bonnie found his calmness strangely reassuring.

With one smooth motion, he squatted on his heels in front of them. The change in position brought him to eye level with her.

“So,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Bonnie looked at him, then she looked at Dickie. This was all Dickie’s idea, not hers. She’d only agreed to come with him because, if he was right, she didn’t want to be left out of the excitement. But that didn’t mean she wanted to take the blame if he got into trouble, instead.

“Dickie’ll tell you. This was his idea, not mine.”

Dickie, ever the showman, swelled with importance. “It’s this,” he said, pulling a rolled-up newspaper out of his back pocket and holding it out to the sheriff. “We wanna report a bank robbery.”

Calhan’s General Store was filled near to bursting with ladies who had gathered to inspect the new collection of winter dress goods. Since it was unthinkable that any self-respecting woman in Elk City would let the other ladies get a jump on her in the matter of selection, each of them had made a point of arriving early, only to find that everyone else had been possessed of the exact same thought. By the time Molly opened the door at 9:00 a.m. precisely, the boardwalk in front was jammed. It was eleven now, and while the lengths of cloth and ribbon and lace had shrunk, the crowd appeared to have grown.

As she always did, Molly had gotten up early so she could arrange the new bolts of cloth and boxes of buttons and trim in an attractive display on top of the broad oak counter that ran the length of the store.

It took her hours to set up the display, and hours more to straighten up after, but the ladies only needed a couple of minutes to create chaos out of her carefully constructed order. Molly suspected that was part of the attraction of this novel method of selling and the main reason she always sold three times more sewing notions and more yards of cloth than any other dry goods store this side of Denver.

Dealing with the ladies was never easy, however. Not only did she have to cope with their often heated competition for the more popular fabrics and notions, she had to sort their questions and requests out of the confusing babble of conversation and gossip that always reigned at these events. At the end of the day, she inevitably emerged with a headache and a satisfyingly well-stuffed till.

As long as the till was full, she never begrudged the headache. The store was Bonnie’s and Dickie’s future, after all.

And hers, of course. She tried not to forget that.

At the moment, though, she didn’t have time to think about the future. It was all she could do to deal with the present—measuring and cutting and tallying orders while answering the dozens of questions being flung at her from all sides. The gossip and chatter she ignored, as much out of habit as out of necessity. No merchant could afford the luxury of gossip or of choosing sides, and her position as a widow and Elk City’s only female store proprietor made her more careful than most.

That didn’t stop the ladies, however—the latest rumors had been flying thick and fast all morning. At the moment, a recent arrival held undisputed center stage.

“The new sheriff’s in town,” Coreyanne Campbell said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The announcement caused a gratifying stir. Even Molly put aside her scissors for a moment, intrigued.

“Arrived last night on the train,” Coreyanne added, her vast bosom swelling with satisfaction at being the first with the latest news. “From what I hear, he was packing a saddle and a rifle and a bedroll and not much else.”

“The sheriff’s here already?” The large silk daisies on Emmy Lou Trainer’s hat bobbed dangerously. “I’d heard he wasn’t coming for a couple of weeks, yet.”

“Wouldn’t you know! And no one expecting him so we could give him a proper welcome.”

Molly couldn’t tell who had spoken.

“Probably Josiah Andersen’s fault,” the widow Thompson snapped. “He may be mayor, but he never could get anything right.” Her sharp, narrow little face looked extra pinched with disapproval. “High time that man got here, though. Must be a month or more since the town council offered him the job.”

As the crowd murmured agreement, she took advantage of the diversion to grab a length of blue-and-white Sheppard plaid she’d been eyeing for the past twenty minutes. She fingered it, judging the weight and feel of it, then brought it to within three inches of her pointy little nose and squinted.

“Weave’s off. Be a tough job to get that straightened out.” Without letting go of the cloth, she craned forward across the counter so Molly couldn’t ignore her. “How much you asking for this, Molly?”

“Fifteen and a half cents a yard,” Molly said, and braced for what came next. It didn’t matter what price she quoted, Thelma Thompson would say it was too dear, and then she’d start to haggle.

“Fifteen and a half!” gasped the widow, scandalized. Her thin face flushed. “Ridiculous! It’s not worth a penny over ten.”

Molly ignored the protest and unrolled a bolt of a silk-and-wool blend for another of the ladies. “I remember you were talking about making yourself a new suit, Ida, so the minute I saw this, I thought of you. The green’s just your color. Go with your eyes, you know.”

“That’s nice, Molly,” Ida Walker said, smiling. “Trust you to remember. Though I don’t know…” She slid her work-worn hand over the fine cloth doubtfully. “What with young Will growing out of his britches faster than I can think, and big Will talking about buying some land up Oh-Be-Joyful Creek…well…”

“Did you hear me, Molly Calhan?” Thelma sniffed and tightened her grip on the plaid. “Not a penny over ten. It’s scandalous, the price of things these days. Absolutely scandalous!”

“You could probably get it for twelve and a half or thirteen cents a yard in Denver, Thelma, but then you’d have to pay for the train and your meals, you know. Don’t forget, I can’t buy things in quantity like the big Denver stores can, and that’s besides having to pay for the freight. And you know how high freight charges are getting to be!”

“I still say it was wrong to bring in someone from outside,” said Emmy Lou Trainer, dragging the conversation back to the new sheriff. The daisies quivered with her indignation. “Especially when we had perfectly good candidates for the job right here in Elk City.”

Emmy Lou’s husband had been one of the unsuccessful candidates, but the other ladies politely forbore to mention that fact. Three months ago, when there’d been no clear winner after four rounds of voting, the town council had decided to bring in a sheriff from outside the community rather than see the city split into factions. Everyone had thought the suggestion inspired except Emmy Lou.

“Josiah Andersen says he comes well recommended,” said Coreyanne. Her husband was drinking partners with the mayor, so she got all the scoop on city hall goings-on. “Seems the town council from someplace up north had been talking to him about a job. According to Josiah, Elk City’s lucky to get him.”

The widow Thompson wasn’t interested in new sheriffs or town councils. She especially wasn’t interested in Josiah Andersen’s opinion on anything since the two had been feuding for years.

“You know I’m too old to be making that trip to Denver if I don’t have to, Molly Calhan,” she protested. “And my widow’s pension certainly won’t cover something as dear as this plaid. Besides, Ben Dermott over to Gunnison always gives me a discount, me being a widow and all. I was just sure you would, too. You ought to understand how it is, not having a man around to provide, yourself.”

“What did he look like?” Louisa Merton asked. “The sheriff, I mean.” Louisa was nineteen and pretty and known to be on the prowl for a husband, and rumor had it the sheriff was still unclaimed. “Did you see him? Is he…nice?”

“I didn’t see him,” said Coreyanne, “but my Ed said he’s big. Real big. And quiet. Didn’t say much, Sam says, even when he was treated to a round or two in Jackson’s saloon.”

She shook her head, lips pinched shut in disapproval of anyone, and especially the new sheriff, being seen drinking in Jackson’s Saloon. Especially if they were seen drinking with her husband. Ed Campbell had a fondness for drink that almost exceeded his fondness for his well-built wife, and Jackson’s was far more likely to cater to his weakness than any other of the town’s establishments.

Worries about her husband’s drinking and the excitement of a new sheriff couldn’t compete with the attractions of new yard goods, however.

“Could I take a look at that pink silk, there, Molly?” Coreyanne said. “It looks like it’d be just the thing to go with my old gray suit. Sort of spruce it up, if you know what I mean.”

“But what did he look like?” Louisa had a one-track mind when it came to men. “Is he handsome?”

“I’ll give you thirteen,” said Thelma grudgingly.

“Now, Thelma.” Molly passed the pink silk down the counter to Coreyanne. No one paid any attention to Louisa.

“Thirteen cents a yard,” said the widow, pulling the plaid out of Ida Walker’s reach. “That’s my final offer.”

Molly repressed a sigh. “Let me think about it, Thelma.”

She’d give in eventually. Both of them knew it. None of the other women would touch that plaid until they were sure Thelma had either gotten what she wanted or given up the hunt—and Thelma never gave up. The woman could wear down rock with her nagging if she set her mind to it.

“What’s his name? Is it true he’s not married?” Louisa asked of nobody in particular. “I heard he was at least thirty. If not older!” Her face went white at the thought of still being single at the advanced age of thirty.

“His name’s DeWitt Gavin, and he’s thirty-three, Sam says,” Coreyanne informed them with satisfaction. She started to say something else, then bit back the words.

“What else have you heard?” demanded Emmy Lou, leaning closer. “Is he married? I’d heard he was going to be living in that room at the back of the sheriff’s office. There’s not enough space there for a cat to turn around in, let alone a family.”

“Nooo,” said Coreyanne, still uncertain. “He’s not married.”

“Well, then?” said Emmy Lou. All the other ladies stopped breathing so they wouldn’t miss a word of whatever came next.

Coreyanne glanced at them nervously, but it was clear to everyone present that her information was simply too good not to be shared.

“I told Sam I wouldn’t say anything, but I know he didn’t really mean I couldn’t tell you ladies. After all, you’re my friends.”

“That’s right,” said Emmy Lou. “We are. You know you can trust us!”

“Well…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Coreyanne,” Molly said sharply, yanking on a piece of wool felt that had gotten tangled around a bolt of flannel. She tugged the fabric to straighten it and started to roll it back up. “If you promised not to tell—”

“You can tell us!” Thelma interrupted. Even talking Molly down on the price of the plaid took back seat to the pleasurable possibility of scandal.

Coreyanne caved in.

“He’s divorced!” she said in a theatrical whisper loud enough for all to hear.

A collective gasp shook her audience.

“Can you imagine?”

No one said a word. The news was just too thrillingly awful to treat so lightly.

Molly knew the silence wouldn’t last long. “I can imagine, but it’s none of my business to try.” She flipped the bolt over another turn, giving a snap to the fabric as she did so it lay straight and taut.

“No, but—”

“No buts, Coreyanne!” she snapped. She kept her gaze fixed on the bolt. She’d never liked confrontation or conflict, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided, no matter how much she wished it could. “I won’t listen to gossip of that sort! You know that.”

“Well, I will,” Emmy Lou said. Nothing fazed Emmy Lou, especially not Molly’s straitlaced notions of propriety and good manners. Especially not when it came to dirt about the man who’d taken the job that rightfully belonged to her husband.

“What did she do that he’d divorce her? It must have been something pretty bad.”

“Mmm,” said Coreyanne doubtfully. She cast a nervous glance at Molly, then at her friends. There wasn’t a chance she’d get out of the store without sharing whatever juicy tidbit her Sam had shared with her. “Well, according to what my Sam heard, he didn’t divorce his wife. She divorced him!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Well, I never! In all my born days, I never!”

Molly glanced at the avid faces in front of her, every one of them focused on Coreyanne. There was only one way to get the ladies’ attention off the sheriff and his disreputable past and back on the business at hand.

“Tell you what, Thelma,” she said to the widow. “I’ll let you have that plaid for fourteen cents a yard. I can’t do better than that, and neither can you. And Coreyanne, did you want the silk? If you don’t, Sally, here, was interested.”

A discount and competition for a coveted fabric! As one, the ladies abandoned the sheriff and plunged back into the fray. The distraction wouldn’t hold for long, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

Distraction or no, as she measured lengths of fabric and rang up sales, Molly couldn’t help wondering—what could the new sheriff possibly have done to make his wife take the scandalous step of divorcing him?

Witt Gavin had no trouble finding the store little Dickie Calhan had mentioned. It was a good-sized clapboard building with a one-and-a-half story false front facing the town’s main street. From the busy cross street running alongside the store, Witt had a clear view of the sign painted in big red letters on the whitewashed siding: Calhan’s General Store. Guaranteed Best Store in Town! If We Don’t Have It, We’ll Get It, No Extra Charge!

At least the boy had gotten that part right.

As for his wild tale about strangers who skulked down alleys and loitered around the town’s main bank whenever the mine payrolls were delivered…

Witt propped his shoulder against the building opposite Calhan’s, crossed his arms across his chest, and studied the scene before him. From where he stood, Main Street stretched north through town, headed straight toward the Elk Mountains that gave the town its name. The street’s unpaved expanse was lined on either side by false-fronted wood buildings and a dozen impressive brick ones. Saddle horses and teams hitched to a variety of buggies and wagons were tied at rails on either side of the thoroughfare. Several blocks up, a covered public well occupied the middle of an intersection, readily accessible to any citizen who lacked the convenience of a private one.

Nearer at hand, catercorner to Calhan’s General Store, stood a substantial brick building with an aura of sober respectability that immediately identified it as Elk City’s main financial institution. The sign over the door said Elk City State Bank in bold gold letters. It was more a concession to convention than an absolute necessity—the place was impossible to miss.

If there’d been any suspicious goings-on, a sharp-eyed, intelligent boy on the boardwalk in front of Calhan’s would have spotted them right off.

And if there weren’t any suspicious strangers, Calhan’s boardwalk was the ideal place for a boy with an overactive imagination and a taste for the lurid tales in dime novels to dream some up.

Elk City was a decent, workaday place that boasted good railroad connections, coal, lumber, water and some of the finest grazing range in the state of Colorado. It was also well off the more traveled roads and rail lines that laced the state. Payroll or no, the town wasn’t the sort of place he’d expect to find a bunch of desperadoes intent on a shoot-’em-up bank heist.

Witt watched as an old woman with a shopping basket over her arm made her way along the opposite side of Main. Every man she passed doffed his hat. Several exchanged a few pleasant words, as well. There was something comfortable about the scene, as if the folks he saw were glad to be right where they were. That wasn’t something you could say about every town he’d ever been through. Not by a long shot.

With hard work and a little luck, Elk City just might be the spot where he could finally put down roots, buy some land, some cattle. Maybe even get married. He was almighty tired of boarding house meals and narrow beds for one.

At the thought, the old, familiar hollowness came back. Witt shoved away from the building, disgusted with himself and his mush-headed daydreams. There wasn’t a woman in her right mind would want him, even if he’d had more than a dream to offer her, which he didn’t. Besides, if Clara hadn’t been able to abide him, it stood to rights nobody else would want to try.

He’d might as well not waste time reminding himself. The mistakes he’d made were well-plowed ground, yet for all the time he’d spent working that field, thinking it over, worrying about it, he’d never yet gotten a crop of anything but weeds out of it.

He’d do better to tend to his work, and right now that meant introducing himself to Mrs. Calhan and finding out if she’d noticed anything to indicate her son really had seen something, no matter how improbable the boy’s tale sounded.

As he crossed the street, Witt was conscious of a number of curious glances directed his way. Word had obviously gotten around that Elk City’s new sheriff was somewhat oversize. He ignored them. Over the years, he’d gotten used to the attention even if he’d never learned to like it.

He’d even gotten used to checking an unfamiliar boardwalk before he stepped on it to make sure it would hold his weight. Calhan’s boardwalk was sturdy enough and neatly swept, which was promising. The broad front windows were so clean they gleamed, which was even better.

Witt glanced at the display behind that glass and stopped dead in his tracks.

The proprietors of dry good stores generally had two ways of filling their front windows—either they stacked their excess supplies higglety pigglety on the broad display shelves built under the windows, heedless of appearance, or they crammed in as many unrelated items as they could until it was next to impossible to sort out anything from the heaps and piles and mounds of merchandise.

Mrs. Calhan had done neither. Instead, she’d constructed an intriguing arrangement of boxes of various sizes, then draped a length of shiny, bright-red cloth on top. The fabric spilled over the boxes and gathered in glistening folds in the spaces between them, for all the world as if it had been carelessly flung there, then forgotten. Yet there was something about the arrangement, something about the way the cloth caught the light, that drew the eye from one displayed item to another and then another, so that Witt felt as if he were being irresistibly drawn into the store.

Of course, it was possible the secret to the display’s attraction was that it offered nothing but candy—and Witt had a sweet tooth whose roots went all the way down to his toes.

He moved closer, studying the riches laid out before him. There were peppermint sticks in a tall glass jar, and chocolate creams in a box lined with shiny gold paper. There were licorice jawbreakers, and bright-yellow lemon drops, and candied nuts, and cream balls, and lady kisses, and an assortment of chocolate biscuits and bars arranged on a silver tray. There was a bowl of candied peanuts and another of mouthwatering pecan pralines. There was a little metal pirate’s chest stuffed with French bonbons that were as tempting to Witt as pieces of eight would be to a pirate. And there, right in the middle of it all, was an enormous glass jar tied with a bright-red ribbon and filled to overflowing with gumdrops in every color of the rainbow.

Witt let out the breath he’d been holding, and licked his lips. And then he pulled open the broad screen door and walked into paradise.