The Lawman Takes a Wife

by Anne Avery

When she reached for him this time, she simply smoothed the thick, unruly hair away from his face. “Nothing’s the matter. It’s just…you look so much like your father.”

  He blinked, then abruptly turned away to stare at the display of soaps. He picked up one of the paper-wrapped samples, turned it over in his hand, set it back down.

  “I dream about him sometimes,” he admitted. “Scarey things, about the cave-in and waiting to hear what happened and everybody cryin’, but…”

  “But…?” Molly prodded when he didn’t continue. He poked at one of the soaps, then another, then lifted one shoulder in an embarrassed shrug. “But I don’t remember him very well. I look at the picture of him, there in the parlor, trying to remember. But I can’t.”

  Molly’s heart shredded. She wanted badly to gather him in her arms, but the stiff-backed way he was standing warned that he didn’t want to be touched.

  “You were only four. You couldn’t be expected to remember.” It was only as she said the words that she realized she had expected more, perhaps because she remembered so very, very much.

  “But now I’m eight, goin’ on nine. Almost grownup!”

  She smiled despite the sting of the tears starting in her eyes. “Yes. You’re growing up fast.”

  Too fast, but she didn’t say that.

  “Your father would have been very proud of you, Dickie. Almost as proud as I am.”

  He blushed at the praise and tried not to look relieved. “Really?”

  “Really.” Though a man of almost nine might not like to be hugged, a mother of thirty-one couldn’t resist.

  He tried to squirm away. “Mother!”

  She gave him one last squeeze, planted a quick kiss on his brow, then reluctantly let him go.

  “The new issues of Beadles and Brave and Bold came in today,” she said, deliberately changing the topic. “You may choose one, if you like.”

  “Beadles!” His face lit up at a sudden thought. “An’ now that I got my own money, I can buy the other!”

  “No. One will be enough. In fact,” she added before he could argue, “I was thinking that now you’re earning such good money, we ought to open an account for you at the bank. You must have at least a dollar by now.”

  “Dollar-sixty.” It was an automatic response. His thoughts were headed off in another direction entirely. “Does it have to be the bank? Can’t I just keep it in a jar at home? Lots of folks do that.”

  “Of course they do, but that’s not nearly as wise as keeping it in a bank.”

  “But banks get robbed. What would happen to my money then?”

  “Nothing. The bank would still owe you your money, plus the interest you’d have earned. And you know about interest, remember? How your money can make money? Putting your savings in a secure, well-managed bank is much wiser than stashing it in a jar under your bed.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  Molly put her son to work sorting through a box of yarn that had just come in and went back to her accounts. The numbers still refused to cooperate. Nothing added up, nothing made sense, and her thoughts were too much a jumble to sort it all out.

  Dickie, the sheriff, Richard, memories and the lack of them, what she’d said, what he’d said, accounts due and bills payable—it all tumbled around in her brain until her head started to ache.

  Wherever they started out, however, her thoughts always circled back to DeWitt Gavin. Her son liked the sheriff, and the sheriff seemed to like him. A boy needed a man around, someone he could look up to, someone who could teach him the things his mother could not. Regardless of what he thought of her, she knew Gavin would be good for Dickie.

  And for herself?

  She didn’t want to answer that. Couldn’t answer it. Not yet.

  Maybe it was sheer foolishness to think the question even needed to be asked. She’d talked to him, what? Four, five times? Given him chocolates, sorted out his cleaning supplies, fed him dinner. Nothing important. And nothing he’d said or done indicated he’d thought of her in the same way she’d thought of him.

  Too shy, something within her said. Too soon. And then there was his divorce.

  Which left her exactly…where?

  Frustrated, Molly tossed her pencil aside, gathered up the slips and bits of papers and her account book, and stuffed them all into a drawer. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

  Witt stood on the corner where he’d stood that first afternoon and stared at the words painted on the store’s whitewashed siding: Calhan’s General Store. Guaranteed Best Store in Town! If We Don’t Have It, We’ll Get It, No Extra Charge!

  He’d read it over more times than he could count, trying to get up the nerve to go over there and apologize to Molly Calhan. A couple dozen paces to the other side of the street, maybe. Three steps up. Half a dozen more paces to the door. That’s it. Cross the street, walk in the door, apologize, walk back out. How hard could that be for the man who’d felled Crazy Mike McCord with one blow?

  Just the thought of it made him sweat.

  It wasn’t the apologizing that bothered him so much—he’d had plenty of practice on that with Clara since nothing he’d done had ever pleased her, no matter how hard he’d tried. No, it was the thought of why he was considering apologizing to Molly Calhan that had him twisted into knots.

  The woman tempted him in a way no woman had since he’d been so besotted with Clara that he didn’t know which way was up. Not that there was much chance of her paying any more mind to him than she did to any other man who waltzed in to buy a chew of tobacco, but he didn’t want her thinking he was not only rude and crude, but a fool, as well. But how was he going to manage that without making an even greater fool of himself in the process? He’d never had much talent for talking to the ladies, and when it came to this one lady in particular it was pretty much a guaranteed sure thing he’d make a mess of it.

  One thing for sure, he’d have to do something. Sooner or later someone was going to notice he’d been staring at Calhan’s for the better part of the past half hour, and if that didn’t start tongues wagging, he didn’t know what would.

  He sighed and shoved away from the wall he’d been propping up for so long. Best get it over, one way or the other. Nothing ever got easier by running away from it.

  It took eighteen paces to cross the street, another seven to get from the top of the boardwalk steps to the front door of Calhan’s. He counted every one. He was on the point of reaching for the handle on the screen door when Molly Calhan’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Dickie. You keep an eye on things while I’m gone. And if Mrs. Thompson comes in, don’t let her talk you down on the price of anything, all right? Just tell her she’ll have to discuss it with me when I get back.”

  An instant later, the screen door slammed open and Molly Calhan walked straight into his arms.

  “Oh!”

  He grabbed her to keep her from stumbling. It was instinct that made him wrap his arms around her and draw her closer.

  “Oh,” she breathed, staring up at him wide-eyed.

  He almost stopped breathing when she relaxed and swayed into his embrace. She fit as neatly as if she’d been made for him, and his body automatically responded. He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest, her hips against his. If he slid his hands farther down her back he could press them into the neat curve of her slender waist, or lower still to the firm, tempting swell of her hips beneath the flaring skirt.

  He couldn’t help noticing the bit of lace on her collar. The tiny pearl buttons at her throat made his mind go blank and his fingers twitch with the urge to unbutton them, one by one, all the way down until—

  “Ma’am.” It was all he could get out against the sudden constriction in his throat.

  She braced her palms against his chest and pulled away. Witt sucked in air and tried to be grateful, but he’d swear her hands lingered longer than was absolutely necessary.

  He gulped, backed up
. “I was just coming—”

  “I was going—”

  They stopped, stared. Her cheeks were turning a pale rose-red.

  Witt cleared his throat. If you couldn’t get out of wrasslin’ with a bull, it was always wiser to grab the horns straight off.

  “I wanted to apologize for takin’ so long to return your plate. I meant to bring it back but what with one thing and another…”

  No, that was skirting a little too close to an outright lie. And there was no way he could tell the truth.

  He swallowed, tried again. “See, I was sort of embarrassed. Here you’d been so kind to me and I hadn’t hardly said thank you properly, let alone returned the favor. I sure didn’t like to trespass on your generosity and what with all—”

  “Trespass on my generosity? Is that what you said?” she demanded, suddenly intent. “You didn’t want to trespass?”

  He nodded, puzzled.

  She threw back her head and laughed. “I should have known!”

  “You should?”

  “That’s what we get for relying on an eight-year-old boy to carry a message. Dickie told me you didn’t want my generosity. He didn’t say anything about trespassing on it.”

  “Didn’t want—? Oh!” Understanding dawned. His grin went lopsided with relief. “I could see where that wouldn’t go down too well.”

  “It didn’t go down at all. If you’d tried to hand me that dime yourself, I’d have flung it back in your face.”

  That he could easily believe. “And my filthy money that you didn’t like? What was that all about?”

  “Filthy money? I didn’t say anything about—No! Wait! I think I said something about not wanting your filthy lucre, and that if dinner wasn’t enough…” Her mouth curved in a wicked smile. “Which explains why you sent more money.”

  He nodded, relieved. “Seemed mighty strange to me, but I figured maybe there was a sudden shortage of sour balls. Either that or you were mad about a lot more than me not bringin’ that plate back pronto.”

  “Oh, dear. I should have known. Well, I did! I kept telling myself you wouldn’t be so rude, but then I thought—”

  She stopped, blushed.

  “You thought…?” Witt prompted, fascinated by the mix of emotions that washed across her face.

  She bit her lower lip, shook her head. The color in her cheeks was rapidly changing from rose to scarlet.

  “Yes?” There was less than a foot of empty air between them now. “You thought…what?”

  She had very kissable lips.

  “I thought—”

  He bent closer. He couldn’t help himself. She drew him like a magnet drew iron. “Yes?”

  “I thought you thought I was too…forward. That I was…”

  Closer still. “Yes?”

  “Chasing you.” The words escaped on a gasp.

  Witt’s head spun. Molly Calhan? Chasing him? Him?

  He liked the thought. A lot.

  “I wouldn’t ever have thought that.” That was the honest-to-God truth.

  She stared at his mouth. “That’s what I decided. Eventually.”

  A couple of inches was all that separated them now. All he had to do was lower his head just the tiniest little bit and—

  “If you two’d quit spoonin’ in the doorway, I could maybe get past.” Mr. Fetzer’s quavery voice brought Witt up with a snap.

  He glanced around to find the old man staring at them, head cocked, pale old eyes bright with unabashed curiosity. Witt moved aside and, with more presence of mind than he usually showed in such circumstances, took Molly’s arm and pulled her with him.

  Mr. Fetzer snickered into his collar as he edged past them into the store.

  “Would you care to go for a walk this evening?” Witt said, forcing the words out before he lost his nerve.

  “A walk?” She stared at him. “You mean, as in a walk?”

  Witt nodded and felt his throat go tight, choking off his air. Too late to back down now. If you were in for a penny, you were in for the whole damned pound.

  “That’s right. Just a…uh…” He groped for a word that might make it sound a little more tempting. None came. “A walk.”

  She blinked a couple of times, glanced into the store where Mr. Fetzer was rummaging around, then looked back at him. Her chin came up a defiant inch.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, thank you, I’d like to go for a walk. Say, seven o’clock? Would that suit?”

  His head spun. “That’d suit just fine.”

  Silence, then, almost regretfully, she said, “I have to get back to work.”

  “Oh. Right. Of course you do. Sorry.” He shook his head a little to clear the dizziness. “Seven, you said?”

  She nodded, smiled, and pulled open the screen door. “Seven.” And then she was gone.

  Molly floated into the store. Neither Mr. Fetzer’s avid glance as she walked in nor his dickering over his bill ten minutes later was enough to prick the heady feeling that had claimed her.

  She didn’t care what Mr. Fetzer thought. She didn’t care what anyone thought. It was just a walk. She took them every night when the weather was good, only this time she’d have a man beside her when she did. A big, iron-jawed man who blushed and tripped over his tongue whenever she smiled at him. A man with laughter in his eyes.

  It took Dickie emerging from the back room to bring her back to earth with a jolt. She was a mother, for heaven’s sake, not a callow schoolgirl with nothing better to do than wallow in stupidly romantic daydreams. And as a mother, she had responsibilities that needed tending to.

  Half an hour later, she’d closed up the store, hung a sign to say she’d be back by four, and escorted her mutinous son into the Elk City State Bank, right across the street.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Goff,” she said to the pinch-faced little man sitting at his desk behind the railing.

  “Mrs. Calhan.” Hiram Goff didn’t seem at all pleased to see her, but then, he never seemed pleased to see anyone. “What can I do for you?”

  “My son would like to open an account.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Dickie muttered. He’d kept his fist balled around the coins in his pocket ever since she’d informed him that he didn’t have any choice in the matter.

  Molly nudged him forward, through the railing gate. “Yes, you would.”

  Hiram Goff eyed him disapprovingly. “Checking or passbook savings?”

  Dickie glared right back at him, eyes narrowed with suspicion. The rigid set of his jaw gave warning of impending rebellion. “Neither. I don’t wanna put my money in the bank.”

  “Dickie.”

  “There’s bank robbers out there,” he protested. “I got a whole dollar and sixty cents an’ I don’t want no robber gettin’ it.”

  At the word robber, Goff’s nostrils flared.

  “Any robber,” Molly corrected, distracted. “And I have, not I got.”

  “I don’t want any robber gettin’ it.”

  “Where,” Mr. Goff demanded icily, “did you hear of robbers?”

  “I seen ’em.”

  “You saw them,” Molly said automatically, then realized what he’d said. “You did? What robbers? There are no robbers.”

  “Yes, there are,” Dickie insisted. “I saw ’em. This morning.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff?”

  For an instant, he looked as if he wasn’t going to answer, then, reluctantly he replied, “Yes’m.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “They were gone by the time he went lookin’ for ’em,” Dickie stated even more reluctantly.

  “More likely they were never there at all,” Goff said acidly. “Young people these days spend entirely too much time reading trashy novels and those appalling penny dreadfuls. Bank robbers! Ridiculous!”

  It was Molly’s turn to let her nostrils flare. “I believe we were talking about a new account?” she said coldly.

  “You’re opening
a new account? Wonderful!” Molly jumped, startled. She hadn’t seen Gordon Hancock emerge from his office. Perfectly groomed, as always, he looked the epitome of the handsome, successful man of business. And as always, just the sight of him made her prickle like a porcupine.

  He beamed at her, then at Dickie. “Mrs. Calhan. And you must be our newest depositor?”

  “No,” said Dickie.

  “Yes,” said Molly.

  “He’s afraid of bank robbers,” Hiram Goff muttered. Hancock stiffened, instantly wary. “Bank robbers? Wherever did you get the idea that there are bank robbers around?”

  “I seen—saw ’em,” said Dickie.

  “Bank robbers! Hah, hah, hah! There’s no bank robbers, boy. This bank is perfectly safe, isn’t it, Mr. Goff?”

  The clerk sniffed as if at a bad smell, then withdrew a printed form and a small bank passport from a drawer and pointedly put them down in front of Dickie.

  “Fill this in and sign it. Here’s a pen.” He eyed Dickie disapprovingly. “You do know how to use a pen, don’t you?”

  Dickie squirmed, caught between resentment and embarrassment. “Mother doesn’t let me use a pen. She says I make too many blotches.”

  And got ink on everything in sight, thought Molly, remembering. It had taken three soakings before she got all the ink out of his shirt the last time he’d tried.

  Goff’s mouth puckered. Without a word, he set the pen aside and pulled out a pencil. “Use this, then. And make sure there are no mistakes.”

  If anything could have gotten Dickie’s mind off the safety of his money, it was a challenge like that. Pencil firmly clutched in his fist, brow furrowed in concentration, he slowly worked his way through the form.

  “It’s a proud day for a mother when her son takes this first step into manhood,” Hancock said.

  He’d maneuvered around so that he was standing a bit too close, not enough to be obvious, but too close for her comfort. Molly edged to the side and hoped he’d think she was angling for a better look at her son’s face.

  Hancock sidled after her. “They make some fine coffee down at the Grand, Mrs. Calhan. Can I tempt you to join me for a cup?”

  “Now?”

  “This evening, if you like.” He smiled, showing lots of straight, white teeth. “You can’t keep turning me down forever, you know.”