Читать книгу The Lawman Takes A Wife - Anne Avery - Страница 9

A shadow claimed half the light in the store.

Molly looked up from straightening the disaster the ladies had left in their wake and found a mountain standing in her doorway. The mountain held out a hand to make sure the screen door didn’t slam shut behind him, then took a cautious step forward, squinting against the change from the bright sunlight outside.

Slowly, she set down the drawer of buttons she’d been about to put away. Coreyanne Campbell had said the new sheriff was big, but Molly hadn’t pictured anyone quite this big. Who would have? The man stood six three in his oversized stocking feet, maybe more. He’d have to have his clothes special made for him—those broad shoulders wouldn’t fit into any ready-mades she knew of, and she’d done her best to scout out all the options for her customers.

And his face…

Molly’s fingers closed around the edges of the drawer.

If the man himself was a mountain, the core of him had been made out of granite. His face was all hewn slabs and hard lines, like the stark, gray rock that jutted out of the nearby Elk Mountains. Life had slashed grooves at the side of his mouth and the corners of his eyes, but it hadn’t softened one angle of the sharp-edged nose or that uncompromising jaw.

There was an awful lot of jaw.

Slowly, deliberately, Molly raised her gaze to meet his.

Gray eyes gleamed from beneath heavy lids. Even with the light behind him, shadowing his face, they seemed alive and bright and warm. Wary, almost. She had the odd sense that he took in more in one glance than most people saw in an hour of looking.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” she said, “What can I do for you?”

He snatched his hat off and, squinting, lowered his head to look for her in the shadows at the rear of the store. “Ma’am?”

When he came forward, his movements were quiet, controlled, but that didn’t stop the floor joists from creaking in protest at the weight. She could feel the jouncing with each step he took.

The glass in her display cases rattled softly.

“You’re Mrs. Calhan, the proprietor of this store?” His voice rumbled up from somewhere deep in that big chest like distant thunder over the Elk Mountains. Just like the thunder, it sent a shiver of charged awareness down her spine.

“I am. And you must be Sheriff Gavin.” She smiled. “The ladies were talking about you just this morning.”

Too late she remembered what they’d been saying.

His expression didn’t change, yet she sensed a tension in him that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. To cover her gaffe, she extended her hand over the counter. After a moment’s hesitation, he gingerly took it in his own large, callused paw.

The warmth and the hard, masculine strength of that hand wrapped around hers made something inside her squeeze tight. It had been four years since Richard had died. Four long, hard and often lonely years.

“Welcome to Elk City, Sheriff.” She slid her hand free, palm tingling from the contact. “We’re glad to have you here at last.”

“You’ve had trouble?” The question came too quickly, as if he’d had it prepared beforehand.

“Oh, no,” she hastily assured him. “No trouble. Not really. Not that sort of trouble. Only, if there were trouble, we’d rather have a sheriff around than not.”

He nodded, glanced at the disordered counter, then let his gaze slide along the shelves of goods that lined the walls behind her.

Nervous, she nudged a couple of the button boxes in the drawer on the counter in front of her. The faint clack of the buttons shifting was comfortingly normal.

“I take it you’re introducing yourself to the shopkeepers?” she said. “That’s very commendable, such dedication to duty. And on your very first day, too.”

That came out a little more stiffly than she’d intended. She was used to men who weren’t much on conversation—a couple of her customers shopped mostly by grunting and pointing—but she wasn’t used to being quite so aware of the male on the other side of the counter. It was…unsettling. And strangely intriguing.

“We—the shopkeepers here in town, I mean—we’re very glad to have you. Things were getting to be so…difficult. Arguments, you know, about who was going to be sheriff and—” She smiled. “Well, let’s just say there was a good deal of discussion before the town council agreed we’d be better off getting a man with your…er, your experience.”

Heaven help her, she’d been about to say “your reputation.” Surely it was her imagination that his shoulders stiffened as if he were expecting a blow.

“I’m not sworn in yet,” he said, deliberately not looking at her.

“I’m sure Mayor Andersen will take care of that little matter just as quickly as he can.”

“Mmm.” His gaze slid from the table in the center of the store with its eye-catching stacks of tinned fruits, to the glass-fronted case where she kept the sweets, to the rack made of antlers that displayed a range of ropes and twine, then over to the artful arrangement of tin washtubs and willow baskets that she’d hung on the wall at the back.

At the sight of a man mannequin with a rolled theatre bill in its waxen hands and sporting a ready-made suit, stiff-collared white shirt and bowler hat tipped at a rakish angle, he blinked and glanced back at her, clearly surprised.

“Never seen a store quite like this.”

His eyes were blue, Molly realized, not gray, as she’d thought. She wrenched her gaze from his face before it became obvious she’d been staring.

“It’s proven very handy, putting things on display like this.” There was an odd little catch in her throat. She cleared it, tried again. If she hadn’t known it was mere foolishness, she’d have sworn she could feel the heat of him clear across the counter. “This way, folks can find what they’re looking for without me having to fetch it off some shelf or dig it out of some drawer first. Saves a lot of time for everyone.”

She didn’t tell him it also increased her profits significantly. With so much right out in the open where customers could get their hands on it, more often than not they walked out of the store with at least one or two things they hadn’t intended to buy but hadn’t been able to resist. Sometimes they bought so much they forgot what they’d originally come for and had to come back to buy that, too.

Molly smiled at the mannequin. Since she’d installed it in the store, she’d doubled her sale of men’s hats and fancy dress clothes. Sales on cravats and ties had more than tripled and showed no sign of slacking. She’d already started to look for a child-size mannequin to go with it.

She hadn’t bothered with a female form since there were cheaper ways of tempting her women customers.

The sheriff wasn’t interested in mannequins any more than the rope and twine. His gaze swung back to the glass-fronted display case where she kept her candies and sweets.

Without speaking, he walked over, making the floorboards groan at every step. Staying safely on her side of the broad counter, Molly followed.

“Saw your display out front.” He bent forward, forehead furrowing as he studied the array of riches behind the glass.

From this angle, she could see the back of his neck. His hair was too long and poorly trimmed. It brushed over the top of his collar in a ragged ruffle that made her itch to set it right. She’d always trimmed Richard’s hair, just sat him in a chair and gone to work with her scissors until he was neat and presentable. Better than any barber, or so he’d always said.

Her hands twitched at the memory of how a man’s hair felt sifting through her fingers, of the heat and texture of his skin.

She smoothed her palms down the sides of her skirt, cleared her throat. “Did you like it?”

Confused, the sheriff glanced up from his perusal of the case’s contents. “Like it?”

“The display. In the window out front. Did you like it?”

“Oh.” His jaw worked as if he were chewing on the question. “It was…nice. Real nice.”

“Thank you.”

If he heard her, he gave no sign of it. His attention was riveted on the display. After a moment’s careful consideration, he pointed with a blunt-tipped finger. “Those chocolate drops, there. They the bittersweet kind?”

Molly craned to see what he was pointing at. “No, that’s milk chocolate. But I can get the bittersweet if you’d rather.”

He shook his head but didn’t take his gaze off the collection of sweets. Molly had seen that look in the face of children who couldn’t decide how to spend their precious pennies, but she’d never seen a grown man take it so seriously.

“Try one of these chocolate creams,” she said on impulse, moving behind the case. She slid open the glass door at the back and plucked a cream in its paper nest from the box. “They come all the way from New York. Try it.”

He eyed the chocolate on her open palm, then glanced at her, clearly embarrassed.

“Think of it as a welcome to Elk City,” she said.

Delicately, frowning in concentration, he plucked the chocolate from its nest, then popped the thing into his mouth whole. She watched his mouth work as he tongued the confection, fascinated in spite of herself. His eyes closed and an expression of bliss softened the hard lines of his face.

“Good?”

He blinked back to an awareness of where he was. “That’s…fine. Real fine.”

He said it reverently, like a man who’d experienced a small miracle. She wasn’t sure, but that looked like the faintest trace of a blush under his dark tan.

“Told you!” Smiling, she impulsively slipped a half dozen into a little paper bag. “Have some more.”

He glanced at her, then the bag, then backed away, shaking his head.

Molly waved the bag slightly, just enough so he could hear the shifting of the paper-wrapped sweets inside. “It’s not a bribe, you know. And it’s rude to refuse.”

His eyes locked with hers.

“Please,” she said.

Reluctantly, he reached to take the sweets. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s…very kind.”

She laughed. “Not at all. It’s plain good business. If I get you hooked on them, you’ll have to come back, now won’t you?”

There was no mistake this time—that really was a blush under the tan.

It wasn’t until the screen door to Calhan’s General Store had banged shut behind him that Witt realized he hadn’t thought to ask Mrs. Calhan about the bank or if she’d seen any suspicious strangers lurking in any alleys. Nothing but that one question if she’d had any trouble, then he’d shaken her hand and whatever smarts he’d ever had had flown out the window. All he could think of was how cool and strong and feminine her small hand had felt encased in his, and how pretty her hair was, especially those soft strands that had pulled free to drift along her cheek and the back of her neck.

It’d been all he could do to keep from staring. Seemed like he’d looked at darned near every single box and bag and bale in the place rather than look into those cool green eyes that seemed to throw off sparks every time she smiled.

So much for tending to his proper business.

Disgusted, he tugged his hat low over his brow, propped his hands on his hips, and scowled at a hipshot bay lazily twitching away flies at the hitching rack in front of him. The packet of chocolate creams in his pocket rustled with his every move. The taste of chocolate lingered on his tongue, rich and sweetly heavy.

Hell of a way to start a new job.

So what did he do next? Besides make a damned fool of himself?

He scanned the street, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to follow up little Dickie Calhan’s tale, or if he ought to just do what Mrs. Calhan had thought he was doing in the first place and introduce himself to a few more of the storekeepers and businessmen along the street.

Nothing to say he couldn’t do both at the same time. And then there was the meeting with the mayor and the town council. Six o’clock, the mayor had said, and don’t be late.

Shifting his gun belt a little so it rode more comfortably on his hip, Witt stepped off the boardwalk and headed toward the bank.

From the shadowy safety of Nickerson’s Riding Stable six doors down and on the other side of the street, Bonnie and Dickie Calhan watched the sheriff walk out of their mother’s General Store. The sound of the screen door slamming behind him came like a distant thunderclap.

Bonnie poked her brother in the ribs with her elbow. “Now we’re in for it. Told you, didn’t I? Carrying tales like that. Mother will make us scrub the floor for a week because of this!”

“Weren’t carryin’ tales,” Dickie growled, poking her back. “It’s the truth and you know it!”

She watched the sheriff tug his hat lower on his brow, prop his hands on his hips, then scan the street from one end to the other. Slowly, like a man who was looking for someone. Or two particular someones.

Ignoring Dickie’s squirming protests, she grabbed the back of her brother’s overalls and tugged him away from the open stable door.

“I’m going home and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll come, too. Besides, Mother said we were to clean the lamps and carry out the ashes from the stove.”

Dickie dug in his feet and pulled free. “We don’t gotta do it right now, do we? She didn’t say nuthin’ about right now.”

“No, but look.” She pointed toward the store.

Her brother turned just in time to see the sheriff hitch his gun belt on his hips, like a man who wanted to be sure it sat right in case he needed to go for the gun it carried. And then he stepped off the boardwalk, headed their way.

Dickie was right behind her when Bonnie scooted out the back door of the stable and ducked down the alley, headed toward home as fast as her feet could carry her.

A fair amount of money had gone into Elk City State Bank’s fancy tiled floor and carved oak paneling and shining brass fixtures. The building wasn’t overly big, but it was solidly built, exactly the respectable, prosperous-looking sort of place a man might think could be trusted to keep his hard-earned savings safe.

The clerk who guarded access to the bank’s nether regions looked up at Witt’s approach. When it became clear that Witt was not going to go away, he reluctantly removed his wire-rimmed glasses, folded them, and set them precisely in the middle of the enormous bound journal he’d been writing in.

“May I help you?” His thin lips pinched together as if the prospect of helping anyone with anything was bitterly distasteful, and helping Witt more distasteful still.

Witt couldn’t help wondering if the fellow found it difficult to breathe. His shirt collar was the tallest, stiffest piece of torture Witt had ever seen, and it was cinched in place with a fussily knotted tie that would have strangled a lesser man. Witt’s throat hurt just looking at it.

“I’m looking for the president,” he said, forcing his gaze away from the clerk’s neckware.

“Mr. Hancock is busy at the moment.” The man’s voice was as pinched and tight as everything else about him.

“Tell him the new sheriff would like to talk to him.”

“The sheriff?”

Witt nodded, meeting the man’s disapproving stare impassively.

When he showed no sign of budging, the clerk sighed and got to his feet. “What name shall I say?”

Judging from the way the fellow walked, his shoes pinched him even more than his collar.

However much the clerk might resemble a dyspeptic fish, the bank president was a handsome devil who looked like he belonged in big-city boardrooms and expensive men’s clubs, not workaday coal mining towns like Elk City.

He looked, in fact, a lot like Clara’s fancy man, Witt thought, and felt his hackles rise.

“Sheriff Gavin!” The man smiled and extended his hand over the low railing that fenced off the office area from the lobby. “Gordon Hancock. Welcome! Speaking as the president of Elk City State Bank and as a member of the town council, I’m damned glad to meet you! And you’re already on the job! Excellent! Excellent!”

The clerk sniffed, slipped his glasses back into place and pointedly buried his nose in his journal.

Hancock opened the railing gate with a theatrical flourish. “Come on back, Gavin. Let’s talk.

“Drink?” he added a moment later as he waved Witt to a chair in his office and closed the door behind him. “I know it’s still a little early in the day, but—”

Witt glanced at the bottles of expensive whiskey that stood atop a low cabinet, then set his hat on one of the two chairs in front of the desk and deliberately claimed the other. “Thanks, no.”

Hancock shrugged and came around the big oak desk to take his seat. He shot his cuffs, rested his perfectly manicured hands on the leather blotter and leaned forward, smiling.

Witt had to fight to suppress his irritation. “You’re on the town council.”

Hancock’s smile widened. “That’s right. As president of Elk City’s largest and most important bank, I regard it as my responsibility to help guide this fine city of ours into the future. There’s great things happening here, Sheriff. Great things! And you’ll be a part of them, I promise you.”

He flipped open a brass-trimmed humidor and extended it across the desk. “Cigar? Cubans, straight from Havana.”

The sweet, rich smell of expensive tobacco filled the air.

Witt shook his head. He liked a good cigar as well as the next man, and a good Havana didn’t come his way every day, but he didn’t like Hancock and he didn’t like the idea of being charmed as the banker was obviously trying to charm him.

“No?” Hancock chose a cigar, sniffing at it appreciatively. “Gold and silver now, they go up and down. But Elk City’s built on coal, and coal…”

He paused to pull a small, silver-handled pocketknife out of his pocket. Frowning in concentration, he neatly cut off the tip of the cigar, then lit it with a match from a fancy glass holder and puffed the cigar into glowing life.

Witt kept his expression impassive.

“Ah!” Hancock tilted back in his chair. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, then smiled in satisfaction. “Nothing quite like a good cigar. Unless it’s a good woman, heh, sheriff?”

“Coal?” Witt prompted. He didn’t like men who made leering references to women, either.

“Ah, yes. Coal.” Hancock took another deep drag. “Coal’s going to be around for a while, Sheriff. You can take my word on that. A long while. The faster the state grows, the more we’re going to need it. It’s not very glamorous, of course. Not like gold or silver. But, oh! the things you can do with it!”

Behind his big cigar, he smiled, and his eyes glittered. Watching him, Witt was reminded of a hungry wolf he’d once faced, years ago.

Hancock lowered the cigar to study him. “Ever thought about it, Sheriff? All the things you can do with coal?”

Witt shook his head. He’d never been much of a talker, but Hancock didn’t want a response. He wanted somebody to talk at, somebody to show off for.

“Railroads, Sheriff! Think of ’em! And that big steel mill down in Pueblo. And the electric plants going up around the state. There’s not much of that yet, but someday electricity will be for more than just a factory here and there, you mark my words. And our homes! Where would we be without coal to heat our homes and cook our meals, eh, Sheriff? People might give up buying gold and silver, but they still have to eat and keep warm, don’t they?”

Hancock punctuated his remarks by stabbing at the air with the glowing tip of his cigar. With the last point, he glanced down at that bit of fire in his hands, and smiled, a small, secret smile just for himself. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep draw, held it, then pursed his lips and slowly exhaled.

“Yes sir, Sheriff, coal’s going to be around for a while, and that means Elk City’s going to be there, too. Growing, expanding, getting richer every day, by God!”

“And you want to make sure someone’s here to keep those riches safe for you.” The dryness in Witt’s voice wiped the smile off the banker’s face.

“That’s right.” His eyes glittered coldly. “Not that there’s much to worry about in the way of trouble around here. A few drunks on payday, a quarrel between a shopkeeper and a customer every now and then. That’s about it. We’d like you to keep it that way.”

Witt gave a small, noncommittal grunt. It’s because of Clara, he told himself. I’m thinking of that smooth-talking fancy man she fell in love with. It has nothing to do with Hancock. Nothing.

“Paydays for the mine,” he said, remembering Dickie Calhan’s tale. “Gotta be a lot of money coming in for those payrolls.”

“True.” Hancock smiled in wolfish satisfaction. “A very great deal of money, and we take good care to keep it safe, I can assure you. Only a few people know what train the money’s coming in on. Even some of the railroad and bank people aren’t informed. That way, there’s less chance of the train being stopped and robbed. No sense in stopping a train when all you might get is a few wallets and women’s purses for your troubles.”

Witt remained silent, waiting.

“This bank is solid, too, of course. You saw. Solid brick, bars on the windows, and the best safe money can buy. The mines, of course, have their own guards for when the money is actually being paid out.”

“Are you the only bank that handles the payrolls?”

Hancock shook his head, took another drag, blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “No, but we handle the majority. All the big mines, certainly.”

“And you’ve never had an attempt on the bank or the payroll?” Witt persisted.

“No, I told you. Nothing like that.” Hancock was growing irritated. “Watch the saloons. A few of the men get drunk and rowdy, but that’s as far as it goes. We’ve never had more of a problem than that. But if we do…” He stared at Witt across the desk, his eyes hard and unblinking. “If we do, then you’ve proven you’re the man for the job. That’s why we hired you, you know. Because you proved you knew how to deal with real problems.”

A chill swept down Witt’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now, Sheriff. There’s no need to play the silent hero here, between the two of us. Frankly, that little incident with those two bank robbers over in Abilene is what convinced us to hire you. Convinced me, anyway. I had to do some arguing to talk some of the other council members into the idea. They weren’t sure they liked the idea of a gunfighter serving as our sheriff.”

“I’m not a gunfighter.”

Hancock looked skeptical. “You’re not trying to tell me you didn’t kill those two, are you? We checked into that incident pretty thoroughly, and—”

“No, I’m not going to say I didn’t kill those men. I did. But I’m not a gunfighter.” After five years, he still found himself sweating, just thinking of it.

“But you faced them down, right there in the street, didn’t you?”

“It happened outside the bank, yes. They—”

He stopped. He didn’t owe this man an explanation, but he should have known the minute that little Dickie Calhan asked him if he was a gunman that he would have to face it. Like divorce, the fact that he’d killed two men—two boys, dammit—wasn’t the sort of thing people forgot.

“I’m not a gunfighter.” He shoved to his feet. “If that’s what you and the town want, Hancock, hire someone else.”

“No, no. Sheriff!” Hancock was on his feet, hands raised, palms out, the still smoking cigar between his fingers. He smiled. “Please. Forgive me if I’ve offended you. My choice of words was…ill-considered.”

Witt’s hands twitched with the urge to punch that handsome face.

“I’d best get going.” He bent to retrieve his hat.

Hancock deliberately set the cigar on the rim of a massive polished stone ashtray. “You know about the council meeting tonight?”

“Six o’clock.”

“In the town hall. You know where that is?”

It wasn’t because of Clara. “I’ll find it.”

“Good. Good.” Hancock came around the desk. “I’ll see you there, then.”

Witt gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. He didn’t trust his tongue for more.

The instant they stepped out of the office, the clerk looked up, face squinched in disapproval. “Mr. Hancock? There’s Mr. Dermott here to see you.” His face pinched a little tighter. “And Mrs. Thompson.”

“Mrs. Thompson.” Hancock turned pale. “What—”

A thin, stooped little woman popped up from one of the chairs set near the office railing. “My accounts, Mr. Hancock! I want to speak to you about my accounts!”

“Mr. Dermott was here before you, Mrs. Thompson,” said the clerk, peering at her disapprovingly from over the rims of his glasses.

A stout, middle-aged gentleman occupying the chair farthest from Mrs. Thompson’s waved his hands to indicate he’d rather wait than be dragged into the discussion. Both the combatants ignored him.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your accounts,” the clerk insisted. “I reviewed them myself, just last week. Accurate to the penny and so I told you.”

The woman sniffed. “As if that makes me feel one whit better, Hiram Goff! You’re so tight your shoes pinch, but that doesn’t mean you’ve the wits God gave a goldfish or you would know a two from a twenty at the back end of the day.”

Gordon Hancock’s smile was getting a little forced around the edges. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure if Mr. Goff says your accounts are accurate, there’s no need for you to worry, Mrs. Thompson. In fact, now we have Sheriff Gavin on the job, you can stop worrying about anything.”

She looked Witt up and down. “So you’re our new sheriff.”

The corner of Witt’s mouth twitched. He could make two of her, with some left over, but that didn’t bother her in the least. He’d seen banty roosters that weren’t half as feisty. “Yes.”

“Sheriff Gavin—” Hancock began.

“Can speak for himself, I shouldn’t wonder,” the old lady snapped. She leaned closer. For a moment, Witt had the feeling she was going to poke him, as if he were a smoked ham and she was judging the balance of meat to bone.

“Well?” she demanded. “You can speak for yourself, can’t you?”

Witt stifled the grin that threatened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

He nodded.

“Huh!” she said, and skewered Gordon Hancock with her stare. “Hired yourself a fool for a sheriff, did you? Trust the mayor for it. Isn’t a thing in the world that Josiah Andersen can’t foul up, including hiring a sheriff.”

“Mr. Dermott…” Hancock began, a little desperately.

“Though if it’s a choice between a fool and Zacharius Trainer, I’d rather have the fool. At least there’s a bit more of this fellow than that old windbag, Zacharius.”

“Mr. Dermott,” said Hiram Goff with a pinched little frown, “has left.”

Witt clapped his hat on his head and sidled toward the railing gate. “Ma’am.” He glanced back at Hancock. “Six o’clock.”

“I’ll just see you out.” Hancock darn near trod on his heels following him out to the boardwalk in front. “Good of you to drop by, Sheriff. I’m glad we had this little chat, just the two of us.”

Witt gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Not real talkative, are you, Gavin? But that’s all right. We hired you because you’re a man of action. Proved that in Abilene.” Hancock beamed, then clapped him on the shoulder as if they were old friends. “You do the right thing at the right time, we won’t care how few words you use to tell us about it. Guaranteed!”

From the shadowed safety behind her storefront windows, Molly watched Gordon Hancock escort the new sheriff out of the bank. Hancock was a handsome fellow and by far the best-dressed man in town, but it wasn’t Hancock she was watching.

From the looks of it, DeWitt Gavin didn’t have much more to say to the bank president than he’d had to say to her. That made her feel a little better. Not a lot, but a little. For a few minutes there, she’d been fool enough to think he’d been rather more dangerously aware of her as a woman than most of her customers ever were.

She watched as Hancock slapped the sheriff on the back, just as if they were good friends and had known each other for years. The sheriff’s expression was so impassive, she couldn’t tell what he thought. When he stepped off the boardwalk and started up the streets, she shifted to get a better view.

Despite his size, he moved with a deceptively lazy ease that got him from one place to another quicker than it seemed. Scarcely a minute had passed since he’d stepped out of the bank before he disappeared through the post office door.

Just as well, she told herself, regretfully abandoning the window. She had better things to do than get interested in a man. Any man, let alone one with nothing more to his name, it seemed, than a saddle and a rifle and a bedroll. A woman her age with two children to worry about should have better sense than that.

But still she couldn’t help pausing in front of the tall, narrow mirror she’d mounted on the outside of one of the storage cabinets for the convenience of her customers.

The sight was enough to make a grown woman cry. If this was how she’d looked when Sheriff Gavin had walked into the store, it was no wonder the man had had a hard time looking her in the face, then run as soon as he could.

Blushing, she hastily tucked up the tendrils that had escaped her bun, scrubbed the pencil smudge from her cheek, and tugged her shirtwaist into place. And then she sternly turned away to finish the task of putting up the rest of the notions and yard goods.

No matter what the town gossips might say behind her back, she was doing just fine without a man in her life. Richard had been a good husband and a kind lover, but he was dead and the dreams they’d shared and the children they’d had were her responsibility now, and hers alone. So far, she’d done all right by both the dreams and the children, but there were times…

Molly sighed, remembering the brief feel of her hand in Sheriff Gavin’s, the comfortable, solid, eminently masculine bulk of him.

Sometimes it was awfully hard to be a widow when she was still young enough to hunger for the pleasures of the marriage bed. The prospect of years of cold sponge baths in the middle of the night was too grim a possibility even to consider.