“So what does this mean for me? The fact that they ‘hold me accountable’?”
“Well… For one, if you need to walk anywhere farther than the livery at the other end of town, I’d like to ask that you stop by the office for an escort. Either Joe or I will be happy to accompany you anywhere you need to go.”
“What about field trips with my class?”
Reagan twisted his hat through his fingers. “Again, Joe or I will be happy to accompany you.”
Charlotte lifted her hands in exasperation. “So because I had the unlucky fortune to end up riding on a stagecoach with a criminal who kidnapped me, I’m basically to be held prisoner in my own town?!”
Reagan tipped her a be serious look. “It’s not going to be like that.”
Charlotte folded her arms. Her feelings about one Patrick Waddell had just recast themselves into all-out anger instead of fear. “And how long must this go on?”
Rubbing one hand over the scruff on his jaw, Reagan seemed to consider his answer for a moment. “Oh, all the hubbub should die down in a few weeks’ time. Let’s just take one day at a time, shall we?”
“Bah!” Charlotte set to rather forcefully unpacking the crate of the extra fountain pens, inkpots, blotters, a map, and several books she’d chosen at the mercantile. “And Mother was worried I’d be killed by wild Indians! How little did she know!” She glanced up in time to see Reagan covering a smile, and let the loud sound of the dictionary falling to her desk reveal her pique.
He strode toward the door, tamping on his hat, and paused at the threshold to give the brim a tug in her direction. “Should you need anything, you know where to find me.”
She only tipped him a nod and continued with her unpacking. But the longer she worked that afternoon, the more her agitation rose. Her anger was slowly seeping back around toward fear again. Should she pack it in and return to Boston? No, she couldn’t do that. Hadn’t she just decided the other night that the Lord really was the One to bring her here? She wasn’t going to start doubting that now.
But what if she was attacked while walking through town? Or what if one of the outlaws broke in during school hours and threatened one of the children?
She tucked one fingernail between her front teeth and considered her options. And after only a moment, the truth hit her.
“I need to buy a gun!”
Yes! That was the perfect answer. Then even if Reagan or Deputy Joe were not around when the outlaws came for her, she would have something to protect herself with!
She dropped the last pencil into the blue Mason jar on her desk and looked around the room. Satisfied that the place was as ready as she could make it, she hefted the crate and made her way back out to the street.
Charlotte eyed the mercantile’s sign as she marched toward it. Hanging crooked and misspelled as it was, it basically matched the rest of the town to perfection.
Mr. Hines stood behind the counter when she pushed her way inside. At the jangle of the bell, he glanced up. Perhaps one of these days she’d find a way to tell him that his sign needed to be redone. But for now…
She set the crate on the counter between them. “I’ve brought back your crate.” Charlotte tucked her hands behind herself and scanned the store, searching for the area where he might keep his guns.
Mr. Hines smiled. “Oh, that was right kind of you, Miss Brindle. But next time don’t put yourself out. I could have had my son David bring it home from school on Monday.” He removed the crate from the counter and turned toward a stack of other empty crates behind him.
“And I need you to sell me a gun.”
Mr. Hines somehow lost his grip on the crate, and it landed on his boot. “Ow! Dadblame!” His face flamed as he hopped on one foot. “Forgive me, Miss Brindle. I ought not to speak that way in front of you.”
Charlotte surprised herself by immediately waving away his concern. Mother would have been horrified at such a breach of propriety on Mr. Hines’s part. And Miss Gidden certainly would have coached Charlotte to politely but succinctly put Mr. Hines in his place. Could she be adapting to the vulgarities of the country so quickly? She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or perturbed at that thought.
Apparently, the pain in Mr. Hines’s foot had subsided enough that he could walk on it again. He limped over to the stairway that led up to the second floor. “David! Come down here a minute, Son.”
A sprightly little redhead, the spitting image of his father and about ten years old, bounded down the stairs only a moment later. “Yes, Father?”
Mr. Hines pressed the crate into his son’s arms. “Here, take this out back and put it with the other broken ones for me, would you?” Then Mr. Hines bent forward and whispered a few words into David’s ear that Charlotte couldn’t hear. Whatever he said caused the boy’s eyes to widen, and he dashed out the door with the crate so quickly that Charlotte didn’t even have time to introduce herself as the lad’s new teacher.
She smiled at the cuteness of it, but a glance at the time on the clock above the counter told her she was going to miss dinner at Dixie’s if she didn’t get on with her purchase and get back to the boardinghouse. “Now about that gun, Mr. Hines? I’m thinking of something fairly small that could fit in a dress pocket. But it has to be a large enough…bang…to stop a grown man in his tracks.”
“O-oh, m-my. That sounds sserious.” Mr. Hines’s hands fluttered over the front of his apron, and he seemed to be looking at something out the front window of his store.
Charlotte tried to locate what had caught his attention but couldn’t seem to see anything. “Mr. Hines? Do you have a gun that fits that description?”
“W-well. Y-yes, I do, as a matter of f-fact.”
Since when had the man developed a stutter? He’d really been quite prompt with each request she’d made of him earlier this afternoon. Yet now his feet didn’t seem to move any faster than a tortoise in mud.
Charlotte’s impatience could no longer be contained. “Well, may I see it please? I’m sorry to be in a hurry, but I’m afraid I’ll miss the dinner hour at Dixie’s.”
Yet no matter her urging, the man seemed to be operating with his wagon’s brakes clamped into place. First he didn’t have a key for the locked wooden cabinet behind the counter where he said he kept his guns, and he had to go upstairs to fetch it. But Charlotte had never seen someone climb a set of stairs so slowly in her entire life. He took an inordinately long time above stairs. Then when he returned below stairs, he once again seemed to be searching for something out on the street, and for the second time, Charlotte couldn’t see what he might be looking at. It took him at least five tries to fit the key into the lock and get it to turn. Charlotte was just about to jump behind the counter and offer to help, when the key finally turned and the cabinet door swung open.
“Okay…let’s see what guns I might have in here.” He squatted very slowly before the cabinet, then lifted his face to look at her. “Do you have a price range in mind?”
Charlotte thought of the money that Father had pressed into her hands when she’d boarded the train in Boston. She hadn’t touched it, and she felt certain there was enough there to cover the price of any pistol. “I don’t think money is an object, Mr. Hines.”
“Oh.” He almost looked disappointed at that.
Charlotte frowned. Whatever had gotten into the man since he’d helped her so efficiently this afternoon? It was almost like he didn’t want to sell her a weapon!
“Well, how about this one?” Mr. Hines laid a pistol nearly as long as Charlotte’s forearm on the counter.
She eyed it dubiously. What if she picked it up and it went off? She didn’t want to be the cause of poor Mr. Hines losing a limb! “Is it…does it have…bullets in it?”
The man’s lips twitched, and he rubbed at them fiercely. “No, ma’am.”
Gingerly, Charlotte reached out and tried to lift the gun. But she found she was loathe to touch it, and the two-fingered grip she put on it was only sufficient
enough to raise it a few inches before its weight caused it to clatter back to the counter with a loud commotion. Charlotte slapped her palm to the pistol to keep it from dancing around any more than it already was.
“Ah, I think this one is rather larger than I was hoping for.”
“Very well. Yes…I can see how it might be too large.” The man ducked back down to peer into his cabinet, and for some reason he seemed intent on keeping his face averted at the moment. “Let’s see what else I have in here.”
Behind them, the bell above the door jangled. Mr. Hines lifted his head so quickly that he clipped the top of it on his cupboard.
As Mr. Hines gasped out a protest of pain, Charlotte turned to see Reagan striding through the door, with Mr. Hines’s son David right on his heels.
“Sheriff!” Mr. Hines greeted, gingerly rubbing a hand over the top of his head. The word held so much relief that it was unmistakable. “Do you know that Miss Brindle here has decided to buy herself a gun! Ain’t that something?”
Charlotte folded her arms and glowered at the man, not a bit fooled by his act. “And does every citizen in town need the permission of the sheriff to buy a gun? Or only those of the female persuasion?”
Mr. Hines’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Now don’t go gettin’ all kerfuffled, Miss Brindle. I only done called the sheriff over for your own protection.”
Charlotte was afraid a breath might have hissed through her teeth. “And I’m only buying a gun for my own protection!”
Reagan cleared his throat. “I’m afraid this is some my doing, Jerry.” He pulled Charlotte to one side, tilted her an are you serious look, and spoke low. “Do you know how to shoot? Did you carry a pistol in Boston?”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow at the man. “I can assure you, Sheriff, that I had no need to carry a gun while living in the civilized city of Boston. No one there ever decided I was the reason a villainous kidnapper went missing!”
A quick hint of humor tucked around the corners of Reagan’s mouth, but he was apparently smart enough to manacle it before it could break free. He folded his arms. “Very well, Miss Brindle.” He tossed her return to formality back in her face. “Buy your gun, but I can’t let you carry it until you allow me to give you some lessons on how to use it.”
Charlotte was opening her mouth to protest what she felt certain was likely discriminatory treatment, but then she thought better of it. This could be the answer to her problem. After all, she had no idea how to use a gun, and if Reagan was willing to give her some lessons, she really ought to take him up on the offer. So she transformed her protest into, “Very well, I accept.”
Reagan loosed a sigh and stepped up to the counter by her side. “You still have that Webley and Scott British Bulldog revolver with the ivory grips, Jerry?”
Mr. Hines’s eyes widened. “But that’s a forty-four caliber!”
“It’ll pack a wallop, that’s for sure. But it’s nice and compact, and will fit in the pocket of her skirt with no problem.”
Packing a wallop. Charlotte gave a little nod. She liked the sound of that.
A moment later, Mr. Hines laid a gun no longer than the length of her hand on the counter. And Charlotte let out a sigh of pleasant relief. The gun was even pretty. She picked it up to examine it more closely. Nickel-plated, the very shiny silver gun was engraved all over with an intricate floral pattern that was quite feminine. And best of all, the gun wasn’t too heavy and felt comfortable in the palm of her hand when she wrapped her fingers around the beautifully grained ivory handle. This was much better than the huge monstrosity Mr. Hines had showed her a moment ago.
She set the gun back onto the counter. “Yes. This one. I’ll take it.”
Mr. Hines glanced at Reagan as if for permission to sell her the weapon. Charlotte snapped her teeth together and tried not to be too irritated with the man. Perhaps he was worried she might shoot herself in the leg.
Charlotte’s eyes dropped closed. Perfect. Now she was worried she might shoot herself in the leg.
“Add in two boxes of cartridges.”
Mr. Hines must have taken Reagan’s instructions as approval, because a moment later he laid two boxes next to the pistol and said, “The gun and two boxes of cartridges come to twelve dollars and fifty cents, Miss Brindle.”
Charlotte couldn’t resist. She looked at Reagan and lifted her brows. “Is it all right with you, Sheriff, if I pay Mr. Hines now?”
With a grin, the man nodded. He rubbed his jaw, the blond stubble rasping under his fingers. The look on his face said he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her. And she supposed that ought not to be a surprise. There were days she didn’t know what to do with herself either.
She paid for her purchase and then very deliberately picked the items up. It was a bit scary having something so small and powerful in her hands. Something that could bring about so much tragedy if she mishandled it. Without another moment’s thought, she transferred the pistol and boxes to Reagan’s hands. “I suppose you can keep me safe from murderous outlaws until you can find the time to teach me how to use this?”
He tucked the pistol into his waistband, holding the two boxes of cartridges in one of his large hands and propping his other hand on his hip. “You do one nice thing for a woman, and the next thing you know she’s begging you to spend every last minute you have at her behest.” The words were spoken so low Charlotte felt sure no one else heard them, yet still her cheeks blazed.
She lifted her chin and challenged, “Are you saying you can’t, Reagan?”
He grinned at her and leaned closer. “Anything for a woman with beautiful green eyes who calls me by my given name.”
She rolled her eyes at him but had to pinch her lips together to keep from smiling.
He didn’t seem fazed by her pretended lack of appreciation for his flirtation. “How about we have your first lesson Monday afternoon after classes?”
Charlotte swallowed. She hadn’t expected him to be able to teach her so soon. Truth be told, she was already having second thoughts about the need to carry such a weapon with her everywhere she went. But her pride made her bite her tongue and tip up her chin. “That should be fine. Thank you. I’ll meet you at your office after I dismiss school for the day?”
He tugged on the brim of his hat. “See you then.”
Oh Lord have mercy. What had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Eighteen
Liora stared at the derringer all day.
She’d put it back in its holster when Doc had come to look at her, but pulled it out again after he left. And since Ewan had given her the night off on account of her left eye being swollen near shut, and Doc confirming she had several broken ribs also, she’d stared at it a good portion of the night too.
Now the first rays of light streamed through her window. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. She tucked her hands beneath the pillow and looked at the glint of gray metal across the room on her dresser.
She longed to silence the questions. The pain. She longed for an end. Oblivion. Rest.
She pushed back the covers, padded to the dresser, and lifted the cool metal of the gun into her hands. Back at the bed, she sat cross-legged and laid the gun onto the blankets before her. She folded her hands and rested her chin on them.
Looking.
Willing herself to courage.
How was it I was cursed to have an impudent child such as you? You’re just like your imbecile of a mother. Get out of my sight. Life would be better if you’d never been born.
Liora trembled. She scooped her hands back into her hair and rocked.
Better if you’d never been born.
Better.
She reached for the gun.
Joe woke with a start.
Sunday morning’s light was just beginning to stream through the window of the room he rented from Ewan McGinty. For the past several nights, ever since Liora Fontaine had come to him for help, he’d slept fitfully.
Knowing
she was just down the hall. What Ewan was paying her to do just down the hall… He gritted his teeth and rolled to his side, putting his back to the light from the window. She wasn’t his responsibility. But her story yesterday had found its way deep into his heart.
He huffed. He’d done more for her than he should have already, as evidenced by the fact that he was awake and thinking of her in the wee hours of the morning.
Liora…
He frowned. Sat up. Had someone just called her name? He listened but heard nothing. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tugged his pants on.
He reached for his boots and held them a moment, listening again. Still, he heard no sound. But an uneasiness deep inside urged him to action. Something didn’t feel right.
He shoved his feet into his boots and slung his Colt around his hips. His fingers fumbled with the task that was so familiar he should have been able to do it in the dark. Finally, he got the holster buckled. He grabbed his shirt and thrust his arms through the sleeves but didn’t bother with the buttons.
Out in the hall, he paused to listen once more. Silence still permeated the building, but he couldn’t shake the premonition that something was wrong. No light came from under Doc’s door. Ewan’s room seemed all quiet.
He reached down and unsnapped the strap on his Colt, settling his palm against the grip. Leaning over the rail at the top of the stairs, he searched the room below.
Empty.
A breath eased from him. He was jumpier than a treed coon.
Nothing was wrong, and he should try and catch some more shut-eye before his day began. Sundays were his day to take care of any complaints, feed the prisoners, and make the presence of the law visible about town.
He was turning back to his room, when he saw a shadow pass beneath Liora’s door. His breath hitched. So she was up. Two steps took him to her door. He stood there for several long minutes. She likely wasn’t going to appreciate him knocking on her door at this hour of the morning. But she’d taken that beating the other night. What if something was wrong?
His hands clenched into fists by his side. How had none of them heard her cry out that night? Surely she hadn’t taken a beating like that in silence. Even the sound of the punches would have been loud.
Not a Sparrow Falls (Wyldhaven Book 1) Page 23