A Sheriff's Fugitive Bride

by Blythe Carver

  Henry fell back a step. “I can take care of my girls and my business, Sheriff.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Rance murmured, “but I’d still think you would welcome any chance to get a little extra help with that. Girls might be more willing to speak to a man of the law than they are to their employer, after all, especially if I tell them they won’t come to any harm even if they were the one who stole the wallet.”

  “They wouldn’t?” Henry hardly looked as though he believed this.

  “I don’t see any reason for them to suffer, seeing as how the wallet was recovered. This could all be smoothed over with a few words and assurances. But I want to know who it was. I need to know. And Jake Nielsen wants to know even more than I do, and he’s a lot less pleasant than I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Henry’s unlined brow creased at the mention of the man’s name. “I still don’t see why you have to visit my girls at home. Why can’t this wait until tonight, when they’re here?”

  Rance tipped his hat back, grinning wryly. “You sound a lot like a man who doesn’t want me speaking to his girls when he’s not there to hear what they say? What’s the matter, Henry? You afraid they’ll tell me something I shouldn’t hear? Maybe they’ve been doing things they shouldn’t?”

  Color flared on Henry’s cheeks. “Now, wait just one minute, Sheriff.”

  Rance held up his hands. “Spare me. I don’t have the time, and I’m sure you’re a busy man, too. I only wish to speak to them about that evening, and nothing more.”

  When Henry didn’t offer a reply in what Rance considered to be a timely fashion, he added, “The longer I’m here, the worse it is for you. You see how uncomfortable I’m making the customers, I’m sure.” In fact, a pair of men had already entered, then left immediately after seeing Rance standing on the other side of the room.

  After a put-upon sigh, Henry whispered, “Some of the girls live at Mrs. Nettle’s. That’s the most I can tell you without breaking their trust. Now, would you please go?”

  Rance had half a mind to tell him he would not go. That he would set up an office right there in the middle of the saloon if he had a mind to, as he was the law in those parts and could, therefore, do just about anything he damn well pleased. That was what old Samuel Matthews would’ve done when he was sheriff and Rance was nothing more than his deputy.

  Of course, some would’ve said that attitude played a large part in the man’s untimely death at the end of a shotgun. And they would’ve been correct. Rance’s memories of that night may have been hazy at parts, but he knew for certain that the tragedy had been Samuel’s own making.

  “All right, then.” He’d won, no need to rub his victory in the little man’s face. He tipped his hat before nodding in acknowledgment of the few men who watched his movements while doing their best to look as though they weren’t watching at all.

  Mrs. Nettle’s boarding house. Only women lived there, and the woman running the place made it a point to put on airs and graces whenever she was in public. She might have been a fine person who truly lived by the rules she set down for her boarders, but Rance was old enough to recall when her sprawling home belonged to her husband, who was about as mean a cuss as ever he’d had the misfortune to meet. The sort of man one knew could not sit at the head of a happy household, for no one could be happy living with him.

  Until one day, he’d fallen down the stairs and broken his neck. The insurance he’d taken out on himself years earlier had brought about repairs to the house, and his widow had decided to turn it into what it was to this day.

  There were always townsfolk—including Rance—who’d questioned whether the fall had been entirely an accident. Those who’d heard screaming from inside at all hours of the day and night. These same questioning townsfolk never thought to contest the official report of the death, however, all of them of a mind that the poor woman deserved to live in peace.

  Still, it was enough to give one pause when they crossed paths with her on the street, and she looked down at them over the tip of her long nose. Like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  This was precisely the sort of look she gave him when she opened the door. “Sheriff Connelly,” she said, the words flat and dull. “What brings you here today?”

  He removed his hat. “I take it from Mr. Henry Lawrence that several of the girls who work in his saloon live here. I need to speak to them, one at a time. In privacy, if possible.”

  Her sharp eyes looked him up and down. “To what purpose, Sheriff?”

  “That’s a matter between the girls and myself, ma’am, but I’m sure you’ve heard of the incident which took place a few nights back. I believe it’s in Mr. Lawrence’s best interest to know if one of his girls is a thief.” He leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And wouldn’t you like to know as well? I wouldn’t imagine you’d sleep well at night, always with the threat of a thief going through and liberating you of your silver and such.”

  “The girls under my roof are all honest, hardworking young ladies,” she insisted, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and patting her forehead as if the very thought of a thief under her roof send perspiration flowing.

  “I don’t doubt they are, but there is still a thief on the loose, and I have to do my job. I’m sure you understand my uncomfortable position. I don’t wish to menace any of your young ladies, believe me. There are other matters in need of my attention. But I don’t get to decide what deserves attention and what does not. I only serve the townsfolk and do what’s best for them. Now, can you please tell me which of the girls living here make their living at Mr. Lawrence’s saloon? Or do I have to go through the house myself?”

  She let out a snort of indignation. “Why I never.”

  “I’m sure you never have,” he muttered to himself as she turned to a girl who had just descended from the second floor. A pretty thing, and quite young. But that didn’t mean she was the girl Phoebe had met, seeing as how he doubted anyone older than twenty-two would be considered worth employing.

  She was as good a place to start as any. Mrs. Nettle waved her onto the front porch, where he urged the girl to have a seat. They were behind a tall hedgerow on that side of the house and could not be seen from the street.

  “There are six girls in all,” Mrs. Nettle finally saw fit to inform him. “I can send them out when you wish to speak with them.”

  “That would be very helpful, thank you.” Six girls. This was shaping up to be a challenging day.

  Though there was no challenge too great, so long as it meant clearing up this mess and getting Phoebe out of the house. It had been a mistake to bring her. A dreadful one.

  18

  “Don’t worry about setting a place for Rance,” Martha explained as they busied themselves with supper. “He sometimes doesn’t come home until all hours. I always tell him to send word if he’s going to be late, but I expect you know but now how he is. He seldom does what I ask.”

  “As you said, he takes his work seriously.”

  Martha paused in the act of pulling bowls from the cabinet. “He does. Sometimes too much so, as long as we’re being honest and keeping this between us.”

  That seemed to be the way Martha’s confidence worked. She enjoyed opening up and had been doing so all day, but almost always under strict secrecy.

  “Naturally,” Phoebe murmured for at least the dozenth time.

  “I worry about him. He would rail against me if he ever heard me say it, but it’s the truth. I believe he works too hard. Cares too much. Before…” She took a breath, turning away for a moment. “Before he had reason to move his things into the house, I never saw him. He was always in the jailhouse. I can’t tell you how many nights he must have spent there. He’s very fair, mind you, and he doesn’t enjoy placing men in jail.”

  “Or women?” Phoebe asked, her mouth quirking up in a wry smile.

  “Or women.” Martha shook her head with a chuckle. “I wager you were the only one he�
��s ever had reason to place in a cell.”

  “A dubious honor.”

  “What I mean to say is, I believe his coming to live with us was as much a blessing for him as it has been for us. I only wish he would allow it to be so.”

  Phoebe turned away from the stove. Martha was sitting at the table in the middle of her much cleaner kitchen. In the course of one day, Phoebe had managed to scrub the floors, free the corners of all webs and dust, scour the dishes, wash the windows and black the stove. Now it was much more cheerful, down to the handful of flowers she’d asked Jesse to pick from the garden.

  Martha turned to gaze upon them, sitting in a small vase in the center of the table. A fond smile lit her face. “A person needs more in their life than their work.”

  “I agree with you. There have been times when I’ve wondered whether my own father would have been happier if we’d stayed in Carson City. All he had was the ranch, and all of his efforts went toward growing it. He hardly made it possible for us to live with him, however. Molly tells stories of how afraid the older girls were to even tiptoe past his study.”

  “That isn’t a way for children to grow up.”

  “No, I suppose not. I believe Mama did what she felt was best, and perhaps it was for the best.” She turned back to the stove to hide the sudden flush which touched her cheeks. “I wouldn’t want Rance to become hardened and embittered as my father supposedly became.”

  He was already hardened and embittered toward her. She hadn’t stopped thinking about his reaction all afternoon. She’d hurt his pride.

  How was she supposed to know he would take what she’d said personally? He’d done nothing up to that point to give any indication of wanting to be friendly. He’d been downright rude on more than one occasion. And he’d treated her as nothing but a nuisance.

  Martha, unaware of this, continued speaking. “I believe he would have if it weren’t for Jesse. At least he has Jesse to come home to. And it means the world to me that my boy still has a man in his life. A little boy needs a man to look up to, especially when he adored his father so.”

  “He thinks the world of Rance.”

  “That he does. Wants to be sheriff one day, just like him.”

  “Do you think Rance would wish that on him?”

  Martha laughed. “I doubt it.”

  Jesse entered the room. “Were you talking about me? I heard my name.”

  “Little pitchers have great, big ears,” Martha chided, holding out her arms. “Come here, young man. Have you washed up for supper yet, the way I asked?”

  “I sure did!”

  “Why do your hands look so dirty, then?”

  He shrugged. “Because I been playin’.”

  As if it made all the sense in the world. Phoebe bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

  “You’re supposed to not play in anything dirty after you wash up!” Martha ruffled his hair. “Wash your hands again, and your face. I want you squeaky clean when you sit down for supper.”

  “He’s a delight.” Phoebe chuckled once they were alone again.

  “That, he is. The light of my life.” Martha’s smile faded somewhat as her eyes took on a faraway look. She was lost in memory again. It always happened suddenly. Some word, some phrase would send her back. Phoebe finished preparing supper, suddenly embarrassed.

  What was it like to love someone that way? To be completely bereft at their passing? To merely drift through life, as Martha had confessed earlier in the day? Phoebe suggested the image of a boat being untied and left adrift on the open water, and Martha had nodded enthusiastically and said yes, exactly that.

  Phoebe had been in love before, heaven knew. She’d fallen in love more times than she had fingers and toes on which to count. Her tutor, her dancing instructor, the man who’d delivered milk, the man who’d run the streetcar. Mr. Stevens was only the most recent man to whom she’d fallen victim, and now, his marvelous sideburns and warm, gentle eyes seemed silly.

  For in the face of such love, untouched by death, she began to understand the hollowness of what she’d felt before. It was mere infatuation, nothing more, and it always came to an end. Afterward, once the flames of passion had died to little more than the dimmest embers, she would ask what she’d ever seen in the man who she’d been so certain she loved.

  The three of them soon took their seats for a pleasant supper, though Rance sat heavy on her mind all the while. Where was he? Why had he not sent word that he wouldn’t be able to join them? Was it her fault? She feared it was.

  “Would you like me to take supper to the jailhouse?” she asked when they were finishing up. “I hate to think of Rance sitting there all evening with nothing to eat.”

  “That would be a nice gesture, though isn’t it a bit dangerous? Allowing yourself to be seen about town?”

  A fine rain had begun to fall. “If I carry a parasol to stay dry, I can conceal my face. In my work clothes, I might as well be any other woman walking along the sidewalk at this time of night, taking supper to her man. A man,” she quickly corrected, ducking her head in an effort to hide her flushed cheeks.

  Martha showed no sign of noticing this slip of the tongue. “I know he would appreciate it. I’ll pack the pail.”

  Minutes later, Phoebe hurried down the street, her head low beneath a black parasol. The rain was more of a mist, but it still provided the cover she required.

  On reaching the corner of Carson Street, she looked both ways before emerging from the shadows. There was no sign of Jake Nielsen anywhere. A small blessing. Still, she put on extra speed and all but ran to the jailhouse.

  Imagine running toward a jailhouse, and not away from it, she thought with a grim chuckle as she pushed open the door.

  Rance was alone, bent over his desk. “Don’t pester me. I know I didn’t send word,” he grumbled, not bothering to look up.

  “I wasn’t here to pester you.”

  He looked up then, shocked. “Oh. Ah. I didn’t know—”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “What are you doing, out like this? I thought you understood your presence was to be something of a secret!”

  She held up the pail, full of stewed chicken and dumplings with carrots and cornbread. “Are you hungry or aren’t you? Because this is so delicious, I could just be persuaded to eat your entire helping.”

  “Give that here.” He cleared room on the desk for her to leave the pail.

  “To answer your question, I was careful to avoid notice. The rain helped.”

  “Rain? It’s raining?” He turned in his chair to look out the window, where mist floated around the glowing lamps. “Oh. So it is.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken such a risk otherwise. And I knew you must be hungry.” She couldn’t help looking over the papers he’d pushed aside. He’d been writing something down when she entered. “What is this?”

  “It isn’t any of your concern.”

  “I only asked a question.”

  “And I only gave you an answer.” He stopped to lick his lips. “How she manages to get these dumplings so light is beyond me.”

  “She’s really a gifted cook, isn’t she? It’s a good thing cooking isn’t my forte, or else there would have been no reason for me to stay with you.”

  He snickered. “Have a seat. Might as well sit down, now that you’re here.”

  The only other chair in the room was the one sitting behind the second desk, which she assumed was meant for the deputies. “What has you here so late?”

  “I often work late.”

  “Alone? Where are your deputies?”

  “At home, I would imagine.”

  “Why do they get to go home when you do not?”

  His gaze chilled her. “If you came here to berate me, you can leave. I’ve taken about as much berating as I can stand for one day.”

  “I wasn’t trying to—” She stopped herself, then stood. “You needn’t worry. I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Wait.” He pushed back from the
desk and blocked her exit. “Don’t go. Not yet. I’m in a foul temper, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “You’re correct about that,” she said with a sniff.

  “It’s been a long day, is all.” He gestured to the chair, which she returned to after hesitating a moment. His moods seemed to swing up and down to where she couldn’t tell where she stood with him.

  “You mentioned Jake Nielsen earlier,” she murmured, blushing at the memory of how they’d parted ways that afternoon. While she hated to bring it up, she couldn’t help asking.

  He grimaced. “Yes, I did. I’d like to say we enjoyed dinner, but…”

  “I can’t imagine enjoying a meal with him.”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  “What happened?”

  “The same as always. He threatened me on the street, in front of people, so I invited him to join me at Ruby’s. We could discuss it there, I thought. All he did was order the most expensive dishes on the menu and leave me to pay. He made certain I knew he has a spot on the town council, too, and that they could remove me from my post if he bent enough ears.”

  “They wouldn’t!”

  “They could. I don’t know that they will, but I would bet my bottom dollar he’ll try. When he wraps his fist around a grudge, he doesn’t like letting go. Stubborn, willful…”

  “That sounds like somebody I know.”

  “You’re not as stubborn as him.”

  She burst out laughing. “I was speaking about you!”

  “I know I’m not that stubborn.”

  “I don’t know…” She looked around. “Alone in the jailhouse, with only a single light burning. Everyone else has gone home. Yet you insist on remaining, as though you have something to prove.”

  “I have notes to write out and cross-reference after speaking with Henry Lawrence’s girls today.”

  “You could do that at home, after seeing your family. Who knows? Being away from this place might help you think better.”