by Anne Avery
“Twenty-two!” Emmy Lou exclaimed. “My word, it’s a scandal what things cost these days.”
“That it is,” Thelma said, more than willing to agree on that point, at least. “Now about those ribbons, Molly…”
All the frustrations and confusions that had been bubbling just beneath the surface since Molly had watched DeWitt Gavin stare at the stars suddenly came to a boil.
“Six cents a yard, Thelma,” she said, sharply enough to make the older woman flinch. “And, so help me, you nag me one more time over the price and I’ll double it, just for you!”
Old Mr. Fetzer’s snicker died in his throat under Thelma’s baleful gaze.
Chapter Six
Grimly trying to forget the stares of the townsfolk who’d been assembled in Calhan’s, and even more grimly determined to squash the memory of Mrs. Calhan and how pretty she’d looked, and how surprisingly easily she’d blushed and how she hadn’t smiled, even once, at his own inarticulate clumsiness, Witt filled his new bucket at the public well, then hauled it back to the jail. His previous evening’s guest was gone, having roused to remorse and a pounding headache just before noon and been released shortly thereafter.
To Witt’s surprise, Crazy Mike had been more admiring of the blow that brought him down than resentful.
“It’s good to meet a man knows how to use his fists,” he said, grinning a little, then wincing at the effort. “You and me, we oughta have us a little sparring match, just for the fun of it.”
It had been Mike’s approach to bathing that had convinced Witt to buy a new bucket. Rather than pour the water out into the basin Witt had provided, Mike had simply stuck his head into the bucket, sloshed it around a bit, then pulled it out and shaken it like a dog after a dunking.
The floor was still wet where the water had slopped over the rim and flooded the bare pine plank flooring.
Since Mike had seemed genuinely repentant and sworn to pay for the damages he’d caused, and Jackson himself hadn’t bothered to come down to the jail to lodge a formal complaint, Witt had let the miner go with a warning. His promise of better behavior had sounded heartfelt, and Witt hadn’t believed a word of it.
His overnight lodger had, however, reminded Witt of one of the many items that had to be dealt with soon: he needed to find someone to clean the place on a regular basis.
It wouldn’t be much work, just sweeping up every few days and hauling his sheets and dirty clothes to the Chinese laundry at the far end of town on Fridays. Maybe a good mopping once a month. A boy like the one who’d been working in Jackson’s saloon, retrieving dirty glasses and cleaning up after the patrons, would do just fine. All he had to do was find one whose parents wouldn’t mind their darling paying regular visits to the town jail.
A boy who could also clean the windows, Witt thought, squinting at the dust-begrimed panes. They were so dirty that he almost needed to light a lamp to work by in the middle of the day. And there’d be meals to arrange for anyone who took up more than a night’s residence and—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the boardwalk outside. An instant later, Mrs. Calhan walked in.
Witt was on his feet so quickly that his chair almost tipped over. He grabbed it just in time, sweating a little at the thought of what she must think of him, as clumsy and inarticulate as he was every time he was around her.
“Ma’am.”
She smiled, a rather anxious little smile that instantly made him forget the sorry figure he cut.
“Is anything the matter?”
“You left before I could give you your change.” She held out her hand. Coins glinted in her palm. “I brought it over before I could forget.”
In his eagerness to escape, he’d forgotten entirely.
“Oh,” Witt said. He held out his hand, palm up; she tilted her hand and let the coins spill into his. They didn’t come close to touching.
“Thanks.” He shoved the coins in his pocket and tried not to stare.
She really was a fine-looking woman. Tall and dignified, despite the faint blush, and though her eyes weren’t sparking with laughter at the moment, they were still warm and clear under thick, brown, downcast lashes. Not a single hair had come loose from her neat arrangement.
Foolish to be disappointed that she’d been so carefully tidy.
He tried to think of something to say that would keep her there a little while longer, but nothing came. She’d given him his change and that, unfortunately, was that.
If only he’d been born with the clever tongue of a man like Hancock! He would have liked Mrs. Calhan to linger.
“Is Mr. McCord gone?” she asked, glancing at the empty cell.
“Who?”
“Crazy Mike.” She smiled. “He’s really rather a nice man when he’s not drinking, you know.”
“You know him?”
She nodded. “He comes into the store now and then. Always very polite. Rather sad, too.”
Witt tried to picture a sadly polite Mike in Calhan’s. His imagination failed him. “Someone said he’d had a girl.”
“Clementine. Smith, I think. Clementine Smith. He was planning to marry her, but she ran off with another man.” She looked a little sad at the thought. “Mr. McCord’s never been quite the same since.”
Witt went still. He hadn’t taken to drink when Clara had left him, but he understood the temptation.
“At least he doesn’t swear.”
Like sunshine from behind a cloud, her smile came back, sparked with a glint of amusement in her eyes.
“Crazy Mike never swears. He’s broken up every saloon in town, one time or another, but he never swears. He says his mother wouldn’t approve.”
Witt couldn’t help but smile back. There was something so comfortably right about seeing her smile and listening to the laughter in her voice.
She didn’t notice his smile because she was looking about her, a little more relaxed now than at first, and obviously curious.
“I’ve never been in a jail before,” she admitted.
Her gaze fixed on the rapidly drying damp spot on the floor where Mike had slopped half the contents of the bucket. The dirt and dust that had covered the floor before the deluge was rapidly turning into a solid layer of dried mud. Her nose wrinkled in disapproval.
“Too bad Mrs. Morganthau’s moved away. She used to sweep out the place for the last sheriff every now and then.”
“I was thinking about hiring a boy to sweep out. I—” Witt paused, suddenly struck by a dangerously tempting thought. “I don’t suppose your son would want the job?”
“Dickie?”
“I know he’s young and you—”
“He’d love it.”
“—probably don’t want him hanging arou—What?”
She smiled, and he’d swear the room brightened. “Dickie would love it. He hasn’t stopped talking about you since you arrived. Says you’re a real-life dime novel hero.”
Witt blinked, frowned. A dime novel hero?
“He’s going to be disappointed when he finds out I can’t measure up to Buffalo Bill or Deadwood Dick.”
That made her flinch. “I suppose you think I let him read too many dime novels.”
“No!” he said, surprised. “Smart boy like him is bound to have an imagination.”
“Too much, sometimes.” A shadow crossed her face. “He misses his father.”
Witt’s fingers twitched with the urge to touch her, to smooth away the shadows. Foolish thought. As if any touch could ease the lingering pain at the loss of a beloved husband and father, let alone his clumsy fumblings.
He cleared his throat, instead. “Has to be hard, losing a husband like that. Dickie told me,” he explained when she looked surprised. “Said his father died in a mine cave-in. That has to be hard.”
“Yes,” she said in a very small, tight voice. “Yes, it is.”
After a moment, she forced a smile back on her face, but she couldn’t force the light back into her
eyes.
Kicking himself for a fool, Witt retreated to safer conversational ground.
“Could he start tomorrow?” he said, a little more stiffly than he’d intended. “Your son, I mean? I was thinking to pay four bits a week, maybe a little extra at the first, since there’s so much to do.”
“So much? Surely—”
“Four bits,” Witt said firmly.
In the end, after a little haggling over the details, she agreed. Mostly, Witt suspected, because she’d realized she couldn’t wear him down if she’d tried. One of the advantages of not talking too much, he’d found, was that you didn’t end up arguing much, either, or following your tongue into trouble because you didn’t stop to think before you opened your mouth.
For a long time after she left, he remained right where he was, staring at the open door, thinking of her and her children and wondering what he’d gotten himself into. He’d find out soon enough, he supposed, and then he’d wish he’d kept his mouth shut while he had the chance.
Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.
He thought of Mrs. Calhan, of her laughter and the sadness that it hid, and decided that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t regret it after all.
What had she gotten herself into? Molly wondered as she walked back to her store.
Nothing, she tried to assure herself. Absolutely nothing. She’d given the man the change he was due and arranged a job for her son, that’s all. A lot of boys had a job by the time they were Dickie’s age. No one could criticize her for agreeing to the sheriff’s proposal.
Or could they?
She sighed. Of course they could, and would. But she’d never let that stop her before.
It was just a job. A good-paying job. She could make sure Dickie saved most of what he earned. She’d let him keep enough to buy a treat now and then, maybe one of those dime novels he was so fond of, but that’s as far as it went. The rest would go into a bank account so he could start saving for the future.
But he was only eight! If she hadn’t been so dazed at being so close to DeWitt Gavin, she’d never have agreed to it in the first place.
But she had agreed, and she couldn’t go back on her word.
Or could she? Should she?
She thought of the expression that had flitted across his face when she’d mentioned Crazy Mike’s lost love. The shadows she’d seen in those changeable eyes of his had struck right to her heart. DeWitt Gavin had lost a love, too, she thought. And the loss still hurt.
She remembered the smile that had followed. Just a little one, but it had softened the hard lines of his face and made him a little less intimidating.
DeWitt Gavin, she thought, was a nice man. A kind man. She was as sure of it as she was that the sun would come up tomorrow. He’d be good to Dickie. He’d be good for Dickie. Her son needed a man in his life, a good, kind, decent man.
She’d have to check on Dickie now and then, of course. Make sure he was doing the work he was paid for. And if Sheriff Gavin was there when she did—
The thought stopped her in her tracks. What was she thinking? She was a respectable widow woman, the mother of two children and proprietor of Elk City’s most prosperous general store. She didn’t have time to go mooning after a man just because he was good-looking and available. And had a nice smile. Or because his voice could send little shivers up and down her spine even if he was talking about the weather and blushing and saying “ma’am” just about every other time he opened his mouth.
And she wouldn’t think about his mouth, either, or the way it might feel pressed against hers in a passionate kiss.
She yanked open the screen door of Calhan’s, and froze, her attention caught by her own display of sweets in the front window, especially the chocolate creams and candy kisses.
With an effort, Molly wrenched her gaze away, then sailed into the store without bothering to catch the door before it banged shut behind her. It was, she decided, high time she changed the window display.
Witt’s new cleaning boy showed up at a quarter to eight the following Monday morning with his mother in tow. Mrs. Calhan looked as neat and tempting as she always did, though he’d swear there was a stiffness about her that hadn’t been there when she’d brought him his change.
He had to force himself to look away, to concentrate on the boy.
Dickie’s eyes were round as saucers and he made sure to keep close to his mother’s side. From the way his right hand kept clenching into a fist, then unclenching, then clenching again, Witt suspected the boy was fighting against the urge to cling to his mother’s skirts.
Reporting bank robbers was evidently one thing, applying for his first job quite another.
The boy was clearly determined not to let his fears get the best of him, however. He shuffled his feet and shoved his fists into his pockets, then as quickly pulled them out again before his mother had to remind him about his manners.
“I’m here, Sheriff,” he said with only a little waver in his voice. “Just like you said.”
Witt squatted on his heels, bringing his gaze more on a level with the boy’s. “Your mother told you what I expect?”
The boy nodded, eyes wide.
“Dickie?” Dickie glanced up at his mother warily. “Speak up, son.”
Dickie squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir. She said I was to sweep the floors three times a week—” Witt had suggested twice a week “—and take your clothes to the laundry on Fridays and mop out every other Wednesday.”
Witt was trying to concentrate on the boy, but it wasn’t easy with his mother standing so close. Squatted on his heels like this, he had a tempting view of her bosom and the intriguing way it curved out, then in again and down into a neat waist that just begged for a man to wrap his hands around it. Worse, he was uncomfortably aware that beneath the full, dark-blue skirt were two long legs that he suspected would be just as well-shaped and intriguing as the rest of her.
Just the thought of her legs was enough to make him sweat.
At this rate, he’d have to be making that trip down to Gunnison whether he wanted to or not.
He forced his gaze back to the boy. “That’s right. I’ll pay you four bits a week.”
Dickie’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Fifty cents? Really?”
Witt grinned, remembering the time his pa had hauled him into Mr. Ledbetter’s livery stable with the firm intention of getting him a real, wage-paying job. Ten cents a day and his midday meal with the Ledbetter family. It had seemed a fortune, way back then, and Witt remembered all too clearly how he’d had to fight to keep from shouting for joy at the thought of all those riches.
“That’s right. Every week. And an extra four bits this week if you’ll clean the windows, too.”
“Sure! I do ’em at home sometimes.”
“But no streaks!” his mother warned.
The warning scarcely registered. “I do ’em real good. You’ll see!”
“I do them well,” his mother corrected. “Occasionally.”
Dickie nodded. “That’s right.”
His mother sighed.
Witt grinned and shoved to his feet. “All right, then. If your mother doesn’t mind, you can start right now. There’s a broom at the back.”
Dickie left a dust cloud in his wake, he was moving so fast.
“Is there a mop to go with the broom?” Mrs. Calhan asked. “Or anything at all to clean the windows?”
Witt’s grin vanished. He hadn’t gotten past the broom in any of his calculations.
She rolled her eyes, then shook her head and smiled at him—the amused, indulgent smile of a woman wondering how a man ever survived without a female around to do his thinking for him.
“You’d best come on to the store with me,” she said.
Witt meekly followed her out the door. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when she refused to take his arm out on the boardwalk.
It wasn’t far between the sheriff’s office and the store, but Molly was uncommo
nly aware of every step.
She was also conscious of the interested stares of a couple of passersby. That brought the heat up to her cheeks, which only irritated her more. She hadn’t blushed this much since Richard had come courting all those years ago.
The sheriff didn’t say a word. He waited politely while she unlocked the door, then held it open for her and followed her in. Her shoulders tingled with her awareness of his presence behind her.
“Vinegar and ammonia,” she said, carefully unpinning her hat and setting it aside, then pulling on the big apron she always wore when she was in the store. “Mix them in water. They’ll take the grime right off those windows. I don’t suppose you have any rags?”
She glanced at him when he didn’t speak. He hadn’t moved three feet from the door.
At her querying look, he shifted his feet. “No, ma’am. No rags.”
She gave a small inward sigh. It must be her. He hadn’t been so stiff and formal with Dickie. He hadn’t even been this formal yesterday, when she’d returned his money, but then, they’d been on his turf, not hers.
All she said was, “I have some cloths I’ll sell you, then. And you’ll probably need another bucket just for mopping and cleaning. A bigger one than the one you bought yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She wondered, suddenly, what her name would sound like spoken in his deep, soft voice. A shiver went down her spine at the thought.
“The mops are in the back,” she said, grateful for a chance to put some distance between them.
Five minutes later she’d gathered everything he needed, and he’d moved as far as the display case that held the chocolate creams.
“Did you want some more of those chocolates?” she asked, moving behind the case. The memory of how he’d looked as he’d tasted that first cream was surprisingly vivid.
He shook his head. “No creams.” His voice sounded oddly thick. “Thank you,” he added an instant later, remembering his manners.
“Some horehound drops, perhaps? They’re in fresh this week.”
“Peppermints,” he said firmly. “And lemon drops. A nickel’s worth each.”