by Anne Avery
“If you keep that up, we’ll have to take down the whole storefront to get the bunting off.”
The laughter in Molly’s voice shook him so, he almost dropped the hammer. Witt glared at her from over the top of the ladder. Glaring was safest since what he really wanted was to leap off the ladder and on top of her.
She was staring up at him, one hand on her hip, the other raised to shade her eyes against the sun. A breeze had teased some of her hair free of her bun so that it blew across her face, making his fingers itch to tuck it back. The teasing smile on her face was so bright it seemed to have swallowed part of the sun itself.
He wrenched his gaze away and blindly fixed it on the whitewashed clapboard storefront. The front could use a little paint here and there.
“Are you sure you’re going to have enough nails?” she asked.
That innocent tone didn’t fool him one bit. He scowled at his handiwork, then tugged at a loop of the bunting. The thing was hung firm, that’s all.
“Why can’t I help?” Dickie demanded for what must be the tenth time in as many minutes. “I’m good at hammerin’.”
“You’re good at falling off ladders, too,” his mother told him. “Besides, there’s only one ladder, and Sheriff Gavin’s on it.”
“But I—”
“No.”
“Why don’t you come help me, boy?” The booming voice brought them all around. “I could use a handy fellow like you on my crew,” Mike McCord added, giving Dickie’s head a friendly rub.
Witt cursed under his breath and laid his hammer down. Being this close to Molly was addling his wits—he hadn’t noticed Mike or his crew coming down the street. It took a lot of addling to miss a man Mike’s size, especially when he was carrying a six-foot ladder hooked over his shoulder and was accompanied by some of Elk City’s finest toting ropes and banners and flags and leading a pony and cart loaded with bunting.
“Can I? Really?” Dickie was almost jumping at the prospect.
“Sure, now, that’d be a fine thing!” Mike grinned. “What do you say, Missus Calhan? Since you’ve put our sheriff t’work, would you mind if I put that lad of yours t’good use? Saints know we’ve work and to spare!”
“I’ll watch out for him, Molly. That is, Mr. McCord and I will,” Louisa Merton added, blushing.
The normally well-dressed Miss Merton was standing at Mike’s side, hat in hand and with her hair undone so that it spilled over her shoulders and down her back in a shining, pulse-stirring fall of silken black hair. She’d always been a pretty woman, but right now, like this and with her face aglow in the sunshine, she was downright breathtaking.
Witt couldn’t help noticing that there was a proud, rather proprietary look about Crazy Mike every time he glanced at the lady, which was pretty much every other second.
Molly must have noticed it, too. She glanced from Mike to Miss Merton, then back again, then scanned Mike’s crew, all of whom seemed determined to enjoy themselves even if they had been roped into the job.
“Surely you’ll be too busy—” she began, while Dickie danced at her side in an agony of hope.
“The boy can fetch and carry and maybe hammer a thing or two,” Mike said, earning a look of undying gratitude from Dickie.
“Well…” said Molly. Her son was dying a thousand deaths, but Witt could tell she was going to say yes.
“All right,” she said, making Dickie whoop with delight. “But only if you’ll tell me what happened to Louisa’s…er, hat.”
Louisa giggled, then tossed her head, making all that black silk dance.
“Mike—that is, Mr. McCord—knocked it off with his ladder.” She looked up at the big miner, face alight with teasing laughter and something else, something a little softer and a lot more dangerous.
Witt gave a silent whistle and grabbed another nail. One thing good—from his perch atop Molly’s ladder, he’d have a front-row seat.
To his relief, Molly retreated into her store with a teasing reminder to let her know how many more pounds of nails he’d need, that she could always go begging at Jenkins Hardware. Dickie was put to work helping unload the pony cart. They’d be hanging bunting from the hitching racks on either side of the street and flags on the telegraph poles that lined the other side. The banners would be suspended from ropes strung across the street and anchored on the roofs of the taller buildings.
It was the latter that brought Hiram Goff out of his lair. He picked his way across the street like a fussy old lady, mindful of the dirt, and demanded to know who was in charge of this circus that was disrupting business and obstructing traffic.
“No one told me about this,” he huffed, tilting his head back to glare at Crazy Mike. Even without his glasses, he looked like he was peering disapprovingly over them. “You have to have permission from Mr. Hancock before you can do something like this. Ropes and banners and flags on the bank indeed!”
Mike shrugged, irritated, but clearly determined to keep a rein on his temper. “I’m just the labor and do as I’m told. It’s Mrs. Trainer you’ll be wantin’ t’talk to, not me.”
“This is most irregular,” Goff fussed. “All this noise. All this dust you’re kicking up. It wasn’t like this last year. I’m sure it wasn’t like this.”
“Perhaps I’d better go find Mrs. Trainer,” Louisa said.
Even from his perch on the ladder, Witt could see the clerk’s mouth thin with distaste. “Mrs. Trainer does not run the bank!”
Witt debated whether to work faster so he could finish and be gone before Mrs. Trainer appeared, or slower so that he’d be sure to have a front-row seat. Mrs. Trainer and Gordon Hancock butting heads, he finally decided, was simply too good to miss.
He’d only had to move the ladder once before Mrs. Trainer came striding down the street like a ship sailing into battle, cannons primed and ready. Louisa trotted along behind her, the laughter in her face replaced by a brow-crinkling, worried frown.
Hiram Goff had been surreptitiously keeping watch—Witt had seen his face pop up at the bank windows every now and then, then as quickly disappear. As soon as the enemy hove into sight, he flung open the bank doors, then stood aside to let his champion take the field.
Mike’s people dropped whatever they were doing and strolled over, clearly primed for fun.
From long experience at waging war, Mrs. Trainer had the sense to pick her own ground. She claimed Molly’s second step, not so far up that Hancock would be obliged to shove onto the boardwalk, but high enough to force the bank president to look up at her while he himself remained standing in the dirt.
Hancock was not pleased. “Mrs. Trainer?”
Ever the dutiful second in command, Hiram Goff dug in a foot to the rear, pinched face alight at the prospect of battle.
Mrs. Trainer clasped her hands beneath her bosom and frowned down at him. “Mr. Hancock?”
“I understand there’s some misunderstan—”
“Not on my part, I assure you! I clearly remember informing you that we would be hanging banners over the street.”
“Yes, but—”
“To do that, we must string ropes from buildings on one side of the street to buildings on the other.”
“Of course, but—”
“We can’t do that from short buildings, Mr. Hancock.”
“No, but—”
“Elk City State is one of the tallest buildings in town, Mr. Hancock.”
Hancock kept his mouth shut and glared.
“Therefore, anyone of intelligence would realize that we planned to attach ropes to your bank. Especially since it is also located on one of the major intersections in town.”
Stubborn silence.
“I always thought you were an intelligent man, Mr. Hancock.”
Tittering from the crowd. Hancock’s face reddened. His mouth thinned.
“Just how badly do you want to hang those banners of yours, Mrs. Trainer?” he silkily inquired.
Mrs. Trainer opened her mouth, then shut i
t without saying a word.
The banker was too much the politician to want to antagonize one of Elk City’s leading citizens, however, no matter how rude and overbearing she might be.
“Of course, Elk City State is always a good citizen, and we are happy to support important events such as Founders’ Day. Had we been properly notified of your plans, we could have arranged to have some men on hand to assist you. As it is—”
“But, Mr. Hancock!” Hiram Goff’s interruption got everyone’s attention. The clerk glanced nervously at the crowd, then stood on tiptoe to whisper into his employer’s ear.
Hancock’s frown deepened. “Well, yes, there is that…Hmm…perhaps the sheriff—”
“He’s right there.” Goff pointed an accusing finger at Witt.
“Gavin?” Hancock squinted, shading his eyes against the sun. “May I ask what you’re doing up there?”
“Hammerin”’ said Witt shortly. He dropped his hammer into the bucket of nails, then climbed down the ladder. “There somethin’ I ought to know?”
Now it was Hancock’s turn to study their assembled audience unhappily. “A word in private, Sheriff.”
“Calhan’s good enough for you?”
To his surprise, Hancock hesitated. He was about to suggest the bank when Hancock squared his shoulders, adjusted his starched shirt collar, and nervously checked his cuffs. “Calhan’s will be fine.”
“What about the decorations?” Mrs. Trainer demanded, temper rising.
Hancock ignored her and walked into Calhan’s. Witt followed warily.
The screen door banging shut drew Molly from the storeroom at the back. “Can I—”
At the sight of Hancock, she stopped dead. Her smile vanished.
“Mr. Hancock. What a surprise.” Frost coated every word.
“Mrs. Calhan. Sorry to intrude. I just needed a private word with the sheriff, here.”
The man sounded as if he were trying to dance on hot coals in bare feet. Witt’s right hand automatically curled into a fist. He shoved it into his pocket. What in hell had Hancock been up to? Not that he couldn’t guess.
Molly just stared at Hancock, outwardly polite but with a gleam deep in her eyes that made the banker squirm. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
Even coldly angry like this, she was beautiful, Witt thought, and felt his blood stir at the thought of the fire beneath the frost. When more than his blood started stirring, he wrenched his hand out of his pocket and forced his fingers to flex.
He couldn’t decipher the expression on Hancock’s face as the man watched her walk away, but he was damn sure he didn’t like it.
“So, Hancock, what’s this about?”
Hancock shook himself like a man coming out of a trance, then glanced out the door to be sure no one was listening. Everyone was gathered in the street, chattering and laughing. Still, he moved closer and lowered his voice.
“You have to keep an eye on the bank, Gavin. I don’t care if they are just hanging decorations for tomorrow. There are four mines’ payrolls in the safe in my bank right now, and I don’t like the idea of anyone hanging around the bank, no matter what the reason.”
“Payday’s more’n a week off, still. What are you doin’ with the payrolls this early?”
“A special arrangement that needn’t concern you,” Hancock replied testily. “What does concern you is that the money stays in that bank until payday. Understood?”
A muscle in Witt’s jaw jumped. “I know my job, Hancock.”
Hancock’s hostile gaze locked with his. “Then see that you do it, Gavin. Remember those men in Kansas? I expect you to be as efficient in dealing with any problem that might arise here as you were in dealing with that one.”
If the banker hadn’t abruptly turned away, Witt would have punched him. Witt stood there, flexing fingers that still wanted to curl into a fist, and listened to Hancock’s cheery apology to the people waiting outside. The man sure could turn on the charm when he wanted to. Within minutes he had Mrs. Trainer giggling like a schoolgirl as she accepted his invitation for a little coffee before she once again, as Hancock put it, took up the burden of her responsibilities.
“Is he gone?”
Molly was standing by the table with the stacks of soap and cans of who knew what. Her hand was wrapped around the top of a solid-looking tin big enough to do some damage if it was swung just right.
Witt nodded. “He’s takin’ Mrs. Trainer for some coffee.”
“Good. How’s Dickie doing?” Her fingers slowly uncurled.
He watched her flex them, just like he’d flexed his, and grinned. He’d have to stay on his toes or Molly was likely to flatten Hancock first.
“Dickie’s doin’ fine, and Pete hasn’t been more’n half a pest, so far.”
She laughed. “Need more nails?”
Witt could have sworn the air in Calhan’s suddenly got a little thin. How was a man supposed to keep his distance when just listening to her laugh was enough to make him dizzy?
“Won’t need any nails if I don’t get back and finish,” he mumbled, and fled.
Hancock and Mrs. Trainer were nowhere in sight. Mike’s crew had returned to whatever they’d been working on before. Mike was burying Dickie under a pile of folded banners.
“Don’t drop ’em, boy,” he warned as Dickie tried to shift the load so he could scratch his nose. “Missus Trainer’ll string you an’ me both up, you get ’em dirty.”
Louisa Merton giggled, her expression radiant again.
“Everything all right?” Witt asked.
Mike nodded. “Just fine. Hancock’s gone off to sweet-talk Missus Trainer, an’ Hiram’s over in the bank, waitin’ to show us where to put things.”
“And none too pleased about it, I imagine.”
Mike just grinned and winked at Louisa. “Miss Louisa’ll sweet-talk him out of it purty quick.”
“Not Mr. Goff!” she said, blushing. “He was born a sourpuss.”
“Come on, boy,” said Mike, stacking one last banner atop Dickie’s pile. “I hear you got your eye on that bank, anyways. Whaddya think? That flagpole there at the top be a good place to tie the rope?”
Witt eyed the bunting he’d hung so far, then reluctantly headed back up his ladder. He picked up his hammer and fished another nail out of the can. This one was big and shiny, but bent enough so that it would never go in straight. Hancock, to a tee, he thought, and grabbed the next bit of bunting.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! BAM!
Chapter Eighteen
Lamplight and the silent house around her—Molly raised her head, then laid down her pen and rubbed her eyes. She really ought to go to bed. She’d spent the last three hours sorting through her notes and figures for the expansion to Calhan’s, yet still come to no firm decision.
After that first unpleasant encounter with Gordon Hancock, she’d put her plans aside, knowing she was too angry to make a wise decision. She’d returned to it tonight as distraction against thoughts of Witt, only to find herself once more caught by the possibilities of her plan.
And the risks, she reminded herself.
But there were always risks, in life as well as in business, and this expansion…
Frowning, she picked up a sheet covered with scribbled figures. Even using worst-case estimates of sales, the expansion would pay for itself in a little over two years. Two years wasn’t bad, and she’d never once come close to worst-case. But there was always a first time and now, because of Hancock, the money would have to come out of the investments she’d put aside for the future, for her children’s education and a good start in life.
The click-click of toenails on the stairs dragged her out of her thoughts. Pete clipped into the kitchen and over to the back door, then sat and looked at her over his shoulder.
“You’ve already gone out for the night,” Molly told him sternly.
Pete grinned and scratched at the door.
Molly hesitated. Until now, she’d insisted that Dickie go out with the
dog to make sure the mutt didn’t wander off, but she wasn’t in the mood to dog-sit tonight. Pete had an annoying habit of sniffing every bush and fence post in sight, thereby turning his little trips out into expeditions.
“Promise you won’t run away?”
Pete gave a low, encouraging growl and wagged his tail, then dashed down the steps the instant she opened the door. Since he went straight to the closest bush, Molly left him to his business and went back to hers.
She picked up the folder she’d prepared for Hancock, then tossed it down again, unopened. She knew what she wanted. The question was, was she willing to accept the risks involved to get it?
Decide, she told herself. Yes or no.
Sometimes you have to take a chance. She thought of Witt and drew in her breath, then slowly let it out and sat back down at the table.
Five minutes later she sealed the envelope containing her letter to the Denver broker who handled her investments, authorizing the sale of enough stocks and bonds to raise one thousand dollars. A few more pen strokes for the address, then she set it aside, turned down the lamp and slowly went up to bed.
Witt couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep. Not since he’d kissed Molly, for sure. After several nights spent tossing and turning, he’d eventually given up the battle and taken to patrolling Elk City’s streets, instead. The townsfolk thought he was being conscientious. He didn’t intend to tell them otherwise.
Not that the walking helped much, though. Alone in the streets like this it was too easy to let his thoughts run off in dangerous directions. Waking or sleeping, his mind churned with images of Molly Calhan, laughing. Of Molly, smiling. Of Molly touching him.
His blood burned just at the thought of her touching him.
If he could just stop thinking, it would be a whole lot easier, all the way around.
He heard the dog before he saw it, a small, defiant, annoyingly familiar bark, then the sound of toenails scrabbling on wood. He peered into the shadows. “Pete?”
He almost didn’t catch the beast. Pete was quick and clever and enjoying his freedom, but Witt was quicker. He grabbed the dog as he shot past. “Oh, no, you don’t!”