The Lawman Takes a Wife

by Anne Avery

  He frowned at the folder, then at her. “That’s quite a bit of money for a small store like yours, Mrs. Calhan.”

  Molly’s grip on her purse tightened. “I’m aware of that. But if you will look at my notes, you’ll see that I’ve considered everything. Expenses, interest, return based on increased sales. The bank won’t lose its money any more than it did with the other loans I’ve had.”

  “Yes, but a thousand!” He stared a her a moment, his eyes hooded and unrevealing, then flipped the folder open.

  “All very orderly, I see. A note from Dr. Smithers confirming his intention to rent to you. Construction costs, repayment schedule, new merchandise. Shoes, housewares, roofing supplies, wallpaper, toilet paper. Yes. Hmm. Plumbing.” His head came up. “Plumbing?”

  “Plumbing,” said Molly firmly. “Elk City’s growing. When the city puts in those sewer and water lines like the town council’s been discussing, people here will want better indoor plumbing. Water closets, bathtubs. Even water heaters.”

  “Water heaters!”

  “I take it you don’t heat and haul your own bath water, Mr. Hancock?” said Molly dryly.

  “My—Of course not!”

  “Trust me. The ladies in town will figure out a way to buy water heaters for their homes. They’ve heard about the plumbing system in the Grand Hotel, and a number of them have personally inspected the facilities at the homes of several of our leading citizens. Don’t forget, the Elk City Ladies’ Society meets in our members’ homes in rotation.”

  Hancock squirmed in his seat.

  Molly found herself relishing his discomfort. “The new water closet in Mayor Andersen’s house was quite a sensation, I assure you!”

  Gordon Hancock, president of the Elk City State Bank, distinguished member of the town council, chairman of the board of the Elk City Miners’ Benevolent Fund, member in good standing of his men’s club, and respected advisor to the annual Sunday school charity drive, boggled at the thought.

  He snapped his mouth shut and tried to regroup. “And if the city doesn’t put in those water lines?”

  “I imagine the voters will have something to say about that, Mr. Hancock.” She gave him a demure, dangerous little smile. “Their wives won’t give them any peace until they do, I assure you. The members of the Ladies’ Society have studied the matter very carefully and would be glad to discuss the public health issues of private wells versus city water and cesspits versus public sewers, if you like.”

  “Sewers!” said Gordon Hancock. He grimaced in distaste. “That’s not the sort of thing a lady should be thinking about.”

  “We ladies have been emptying chamberpots for years. I assure you, we know a great deal about latrines and cesspits.”

  “Cesspits! My God!” He almost shoved the folder at her.

  The satisfaction turned to triumph. She’d wanted to get the best of Gordon Hancock for a long time, but never thought she’d do it in the guise of a business conversation.

  She couldn’t help adding one more item, though.

  “That’s why toilet paper’s on my list along with the plumbing supplies. I don’t sell very much of it right now, but once folks start putting in their own water closets, I expect sales of toilet paper to increase at least three hundred per cent, and probably a whole lot more.”

  “Really, Mrs. Calhan!”

  “I didn’t want you to think I hadn’t considered this expansion very carefully, Mr. Hancock. I have! Right down to the last box of bolts and the last roll of—”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” he interjected hastily. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from an intelligent businesswoman like you, but cesspits…!”

  He cleared his throat, tugged on his tie, and squared his shoulders. He eyed her, then the folder she now held.

  “A thousand dollars, you said?”

  Molly nodded. “That’s right. Under the same terms as the last loan, but with a longer repayment period, of course.”

  With talk of dollars and terms, Gordon Hancock was back on familiar ground. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Interest rates have gone up—”

  “The same terms except for the repayment period,” Molly repeated firmly.

  His expression turned as pinched and disapproving as his clerk’s. “We don’t do business that way, Mrs. Calhan.”

  “You do if it’s with a businessman, Mr. Hancock.”

  For an instant, she thought he would snap her head off, but she’d misjudged him. Gordon Hancock was nothing if not flexible. After a moment’s thought, he tried another tack.

  “You know, I worry about you, Mrs. Calhan,” he said.

  He edged his chair around beside hers, propped his elbow on the arm, and leaned toward her confidingly.

  “All those responsibilities. Two children, a store and a house to run.”

  His voice dropped a little to carry a faint, but unmistakable note of intimacy. He leaned a couple of inches closer and smiled.

  “It can’t be easy.”

  “It isn’t.” She had to fight against the urge to shrink back in her chair, away from him.

  “Having to plan and scheme and try to make ends meet. Most women couldn’t do it.”

  “Most women,” Molly said flatly, “manage just fine.”

  He smiled, a very gentle, sympathetic, understanding smile. His voice dropped lower still, until it was just this side of an intimate whisper.

  “You know, there are ways to make things easier.”

  “Are there?” Her skin crawled just at the thought of what he was suggesting.

  “Yes. Yes, there are.” His smile widened as he leaned even closer, then gently placed his hand on her knee. “I could show you, if you liked.”

  Molly drew a deep breath, smiled and looked him straight in the eye. “Mr. Hancock, if you don’t remove your hand from my knee this instant, I will personally break every one of your beautifully manicured fingers until you do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Elk City was beginning to stir with the comfortable, end-of-the-work-day relief that promised supper and maybe a quick visit to Jackson’s, if a man could sneak past his wife, or a long session with the Denver and Gunnison papers that would have come in on the late train if he couldn’t. The only part that interested Witt was the supper.

  “Steak,” he said. “At Mrs. Jensen’s. I’ll buy.”

  McCord nodded agreeably, swinging wide to miss a large pile of horse droppings adorning the street. “Don’t mind if I do. Better’n the grub where I board, and that’s a fact.”

  They were half a block from Nickerson’s stables and almost to the broad steps that led up to Elk City State Bank’s front door, but Witt’s attention was on the front of Calhan’s across the street. The sign on the door said Closed. The candy display was long gone, and he was grateful for it.

  The sour balls Molly had given him were tucked at the back of the bottom drawer of his desk at the jail. Yesterday afternoon he’d bought some lemon drops in George Goodnight’s little store at the other end of town. He’d told himself it was good politics to spread his visits among all the stores, and known that he was lying. It hadn’t helped that they weren’t half as mouth-puckering sweet as the ones Molly sold.

  “You tried the steaks at Mrs. Jensen’s?”

  Mike’s cheerful query dragged Witt back to Main Street and the thought of supper. “Not yet. Heard she makes a good cup of coffee.”

  “Darned good apple pie, too.”

  He winced, remembering Molly’s pie and the plate and her laughter at the confusion and what it had all led to last night, down there by the river. He’d tried to put it out of his thoughts and for a while, with the whiskey dulling everything, he had. Now, with just a few casual words, McCord had brought it all back.

  “I’d rather have a steak,” he said, just as the sound of hurrying footsteps brought his head around with a snap.

  Molly damn near knocked him down, she was going so fast.

  He put out his hand to steady her. Hi
s horse jerked backward, startled, so that he ended up grabbing her arm more roughly than he’d intended. She yanked free and spun aside, furious.

  “Keep your hands off me!”

  And then she was gone, storming across the street like a black and very angry cloud. Witt just stood there openmouthed, staring after her. They could hear the front door of Calhan’s slamming shut from clear across the street.

  “The lady seems a mite upset,” Mike said mildly after a moment. Too mildly.

  Witt turned to study the front door of Elk City State bank, and frowned.

  Molly didn’t bother changing the Closed sign to Open when she slammed the front door of Calhan’s shut behind her.

  The cad! The scheming, unprincipled, oily cad! If she were a man, she would have hit him in that pretty face of his. Pow! Square on that perfect nose.

  For a moment, Molly stared into nothing, blissfully contemplating the prospect of Gordon Hancock, Esquire, with his nose bloodied and twisted askew.

  The bliss changed to a scowl. The one whose nose she should have smashed was that arrogant animal who’d grabbed her arm there in the street. One quick blow and—

  The scowl gave way to a dawning horror.

  The sheriff had grabbed her arm. She’d run smack into him, rude as could be, then snarled like a she-cat and stomped away without so much as a word of apology.

  Her cheeks flamed at the memory.

  Too bad she couldn’t tell him the reason for her temper—he could flatten Hancock’s nose for her. In fact, she’d bet he’d enjoy rearranging the banker’s features. The one time she’d seen the two of them together, right here in the store, they’d been as wary as two dogs, hackles up and circling for a fight.

  Molly tossed her folder under the counter, then thoughtfully drew out one of the long, pearl-headed pins that kept her hat in place. What she couldn’t figure out was why Hancock had thought his advances would be welcome. Without saying a word, he’d long ago made it clear that he was more than willing to “keep her company” so long as there was no commitment involved, but until now, he’d never dared step over the line into an outright advance. What had tempted him to do so now?

  The answer came in a flash of certainty so disconcerting that she pricked herself with the second hat pin. The sheriff.

  Thoughts spinning, Molly stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked at the welling blood.

  Hancock had heard the same gossip as everyone else—that she’d walked out with the sheriff last night and hadn’t come back until long after dark. His perverse little mind had made the leap from speculation to conviction and decided that he might as well get in on the fun. From his perspective, her need of a loan was the perfect lever to ensure he got what he wanted. Presumptuous toad!

  She ripped off her hat, then shoved the hat pins back in so savagely that the roses on the brim quivered. Next time Hancock tried to put a hand on her knee, she’d yank out a pin and stab him. And then she’d ask the sheriff to do what she couldn’t and flatten Hancock’s nose.

  She could picture it now—the sheriff standing tall and fierce, triumphant, her vanquished enemy groveling in the dirt at his feet. He’d be glorious, a knight in shining armour clad, not in steel, but in a rumpled work shirt and worn wool pants, with a dusty Stetson on his head and dusty boots on his feet and a gleam in his eyes that would be all for her. And then he’d turn to her and he’d smile and open his arms—

  Had she gone mad? What in the world was she thinking?

  Shaken, she pressed her hands to her face. Her cheeks burned her palms; the tip of her finger throbbed where she’d pricked it. She scarcely noticed. All day she’d fought against the temptation to think of him, yet still he’d slipped past her defenses.

  Gavin. Witt

  Why did he attract her so? What was it that gave him the power to rule her dreams and torment her waking thoughts? The way she was behaving lately, she might as well be a giddy girl of sixteen as a grown woman of thirty-one with children and more responsibilities than she cared to count.

  If she closed her eyes, she could see him standing there by the riverbank, dark hair tossed by the breeze, that strong, hard face shadowed with remembered grief. She could feel his lips, firm and warm beneath hers, sense the almost imperceptible trembling in his limbs as she’d regretfully pulled away.

  She smiled, remembering the plate.

  She’d have to apologize for running him down, of course. Poor man was probably wondering what he’d done to merit such rudeness.

  There was always kiss and make up.

  The thought made her laugh.

  The rose looked fine in the water glass, a flash of scarlet in the gray drabness of his room. In the space of twenty-four hours it had gone from a half-opened bud to a full-blown blossom. By this time tomorrow, Witt knew, it would be shedding its petals one by one until the lightest touch would scatter them all, leaving only the stem.

  Witt stared at it, remembering the way she’d teetered on tiptoe to hook it through his buttonhole, the way her hands had pressed against his chest. He’d swear his flesh burned just at the memory, right where her hand had rested for a moment, just there, over his heart. He rubbed the spot thoughtfully, troubled.

  Not a week in town and already things had gone too far. And that kiss last night…

  He wished he’d kissed her back.

  He’d wanted to. Badly. So badly that a day later he still ached from the wanting.

  The hell of it was, he’d swear she wanted him, too. There she’d been, breathing hard, just like him, with her lower lip trembling and her hand trembling and that heat on her skin that sure as hell wasn’t from the exercise. If he’d been another man, a man with a little more skill and a lot less size, maybe they could have made something of that wanting, there in the tall grass with the stars looking down. Maybe.

  And maybe not. She hadn’t looked any too pleased when she’d run him down in the street this afternoon.

  Without any evidence whatsoever, Witt was more than willing to lay the blame for that square on Gordon Hancock’s well-tailored shoulders. That low-down snake in the grass was just the type to try to take advantage of a fine woman like Molly, who had no man to protect her.

  Not that she really needed one, he admitted with a sigh. Molly Calhan managed just fine on her own.

  With an effort, Witt pushed aside the thought of her and concentrated on the mundane details of undressing for bed, instead. But as he bent to turn down the lamp, he spotted the small, crumpled brown bag that had sat there ever since that first day he’d met her. There was one chocolate cream left. He’d been saving it, telling himself he didn’t need it even though his mouth had watered at the thought of it.

  Truth was, he’d been afraid to eat it, knowing that the taste of it would make him think of her.

  Slowly, frowning, he opened the bag and shook its treasure out onto his open palm. It made him think of the first one she’d given him, and how she’d looked, smiling at him over the top of that glass case.

  It tasted as good as the first, too. For a moment, he simply let it lie on his tongue while the flavor filled his mouth. God, he loved chocolates! But what in the hell was he going to do if just the taste of them was enough to make him think of her?

  At the thought, he bit down, crushing the chocolate shell so that the sweeter cream filling spilled out. Better and better.

  Witt closed his eyes, savoring the taste, only to see her as she’d been that first day, with strands of hair spilling along her cheeks and throat and that smudge on her cheek and that smile that made him think of sunshine.

  With a groan, he turned down the lamp, suddenly grateful for the enclosing dark. The rough sheet and rougher blanket were solid and utterly normal. The bedsprings creaked as he tried to find a comfortable position on the too short bed. The lumpy excuse for a pillow seemed more lumps and empty ticking than ever, and as he pounded it into a ball, he realized he could buy a good one from Molly. She’d be bound to have one in her store somewhere.r />
  Just the thought of Molly and pillows was enough to make him sweat. With a curse, he rolled over onto his back—to hell with having to hang his feet over the foot of the bed. It wasn’t any help.

  The taste of chocolate was sweet and heavy on his tongue, the scent of roses on every breath he took as he lay there staring into the dark, aching for what he knew he could never have.

  Morning brought cold good sense: Apologies, yes; kiss and make up, no. Absurd to feel so disappointed.

  Since it was Friday and Dickie’s day to sweep up, Molly accompanied her son to the jail. Witt was tilted back in his chair, feet casually propped on the desk, glaring at a sheaf of papers in his hand. Stacks of papers and folders and battered ledgers littered the desk. If he was making any progress with them, whatever they were, she could see no sign of it.

  At the sight of them, he tossed aside the papers and brought his feet to the floor with a thump. A sudden tightness squeezed Molly’s throat.

  He studied her warily, as if he expected her to bite him. “Ma’am.”

  “Sheriff Gavin.” She’d almost said, Witt.

  He winked at Dickie. “Mornin’, boy. Still game, are you?”

  Dickie beamed back. “You betcha!”

  Molly gave him a little nudge.

  “Uh, I mean, yes, sir, I sure am.”

  “That’s good. Broom’s right where you left it last time. You can start with my room, there at the back. I already got my laundry bundled up in a sheet off my bed.”

  Dickie vanished, leaving Molly tangled in dangerous thoughts.

  “I wanted to apologize for my rudeness yesterday,” she said, stumbling a little over the words. “I was…distracted.”

  “Looked to me like it was more upset than distracted.” He cocked his head, studying her. That calm, direct gaze was unnerving.

  “That, too,” she reluctantly admitted.

  “Hancock?”

  She bit her lower lip, remembering how she had imagined him standing over the defeated banker, remembering a kiss.

  “A…business matter.”

  He didn’t believe her—she could see it in his eyes and the way he stood, so still and poised, as if he could extract the truth simply by waiting. He was too polite to call her a liar, though. When she remained silent, he stepped back.