The Lawman Takes a Wife

by Anne Avery

  He had the sudden, disconcerting notion that she wasn’t just talking about his height and weight. He didn’t have much chance to worry about it, though, because a moment later she boldly pulled his trousers out of his hands and tossed them aside, giving him something else entirely to think about.

  “I told you. It’d be wrong to take advantage, to marry you just because of…this,” Witt protested.

  Molly looked up at him and smiled. He’d been arguing for the past ten minutes, caught between love and pride as only a man could be.

  “You wouldn’t be marrying me because we’ve made love, but because you love me as much as I love you. Where’s the taking advantage in that?”

  He set his jaw in a stubborn, mulish look she was coming to know all too well.

  “Go ahead,” she added, openly challenging. “Tell me you don’t love me. All you have to do is tell me that and I’ll never say another word about marriage.”

  With typical male bullheadedness, he retreated behind yet another useless argument. “I’ve nothing to offer you, no money, no land. Only a job, and that’s not all that secure.”

  “And not very well paid, either,” Molly said, calmly fastening the last of the buttons on her dress.

  “And not very well paid.” He didn’t look as if he appreciated her help on the subject.

  “It doesn’t matter because I have the shop.”

  “I’d make a damned poor shopkeeper.”

  She smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I agree. You’re much too large. You’d never fit behind the counter.”

  “Molly, would you please listen?” he demanded, exasperated.

  “No. I’m not listening to another word until you say, Yes, thank you, Molly Calhan. I’d be delighted to marry you.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, instead.

  This morning, his stubborn refusal might have dismayed her, but not now. Witt Gavin loved her—her body still ached and throbbed with the satisfying knowledge of just how very, very much he loved her. She’d bring him round to the rest of it in spite of him.

  “In that case, would you please release my dog? Or do I have to post bail to get him out?”

  She laughed when Witt just growled and stomped out. While he unlocked the cell door, she turned out the lamp they’d left on the floor, then cautiously made her way across the now dark office to the front door. Behind her, she caught Pete’s happy bark, then the click of his toenails as he trotted across the floor after her, clearly pleased to be free.

  “Shhh,” she said, moving to block the door so he wouldn’t dart out the instant she opened it. An instant later, she eased the door closed and sagged against it, heart pounding.

  “Something the matter?”

  “The drunks are staggering home.”

  “You could wait a bit,” he suggested with feigned casualness.

  Molly sternly repressed the urge to agree. “No, better not. Who knows when the last of them will go past.”

  He sighed. “True.”

  “But I’ll bet I can get out your window.” Better that than risk giving in to temptation.

  With Pete happily clicking after them, they retreated to his bedroom. Molly was grateful for the darkness that hid the rumpled bed.

  She pressed her ear to the window. No sound came from the alleyway. It wasn’t likely the saloon patrons would stagger around back here when they had Main Street all to themselves.

  Witt pulled her to him, starting a fresh, unsettling wave of heat surging through her. “I don’t like you going out in the night like this unescorted.”

  “I can’t wait till morning, when half the town would see me.”

  “I know.” His hand cupped her face, his callused palm warm and rough against her cheek.

  “I’ll be all right. And I do have Pete if I run into anyone.”

  “Damn dog.” A moment’s silence, then, “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Molly laughed. “I agree completely.”

  The dog, seated on the floor between them, gave a little bark of encouragement.

  Witt reluctantly let her go, then pulled aside the blanket that served as curtain and slid up the sash. It grated against the warped frame, disconcertingly loud in the night’s silence. They both froze, listening.

  Nothing. The alleyway was empty.

  Molly cautiously poked her head out the window. The buildings across the way loomed, black shadows in the darkness. Not one showed so much as a hint of lamplight through a shuttered window. She gathered up her skirts and swung a leg over the windowsill.

  “You’ll be careful?”

  He was so close, his whispered demand came as a brush of warm air against her ear. A shiver shot through her, rousing desire. She was in a sad way if so simple a thing could set her aching. No matter. Witt might have his doubts about marriage, but he’d come round—she make sure of it—and once he did…

  She laughed and jumped. It was a longer drop to the ground than she’d expected, but she stumbled only a little when she landed. Witt ducked back inside, then leaned out a moment later with a squirming bundle of fur in his hands.

  Molly clamped her hand over Pete’s muzzle before he could bark. The little dog gave a wiggle of protest, then obediently settled into her arms.

  “As if you’ve never done anything wrong in your miserable little life,” she whispered to him, and kissed that flyaway ear.

  Keeping to the darkest shadows close to the buildings, Molly cautiously made her way down the alley. She glanced back once and saw Witt’s head sticking out of the window. When she looked back again, just before she reached the street, his shadow was gone and she was alone.

  She didn’t let Pete go until they were safely back in the house and the door was bolted behind her.

  She didn’t fall asleep until shortly before dawn.

  Witt didn’t get to sleep at all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Grown-ups sure talked a lot. Bonnie sighed and fidgeted on the rough plank bench that was one of dozens set out around the bandstand so people could sit while the mayor and old Reverend James and a bunch of long-winded old men droned on and on about Elk City and the vision of its founders and the great things that lay in its future.

  The parade through town this morning hadn’t been too bad, but you could die waiting for those old fogies to stop talking.

  If it hadn’t been for having to keep an eye on Dickie, who fidgeted ten times worse than she did and who’d managed to sneak some bread for Pete into one pocket and his slingshot into the other, she’d probably have keeled over an hour ago from sheer boredom.

  At least watching Dickie meant she didn’t have to watch her mother and the sheriff making stupid sheep eyes at each other. They thought nobody noticed, but if there was anyone over six years old who hadn’t noticed, Bonnie hadn’t spotted them. They were worse, even, than Crazy Mike and that silly Louisa Merton, and those two were bad enough.

  It was embarrassing to see her mother act this way. No, it was downright, die-in-your-shoes humiliating. Her own mother for Heaven’s sake! Blushing and smiling and just as silly about it as Mary Sue Mandelbaum had been when Jimmy Jacobs had been courting her, and everybody in town had talked about how silly Mary Sue had been.

  At least the endless yammering from the folks in the bandstand was coming to an end. The band played something loud and unrecognizable—that new tuba player Mrs. Trainer was so happy about couldn’t hit one right note in ten—then everybody cheered and clapped and started getting to their feet. Judging from the expressions on the faces of some of them, the cheering was mostly relief that the ceremonies were over and now they could focus on the picnic lunches they’d brought and look forward to the afternoon’s entertainments.

  Dickie was one of the first off the bench. “Come on, Pete.”

  “Don’t you go running away and getting lost in the crowd, Dickie Calhan,” Bonnie warned him. “We’re going to have lunch pretty soon!”

  “And don’t you g
o bossin’ me around, Bonnie Mae Calhan. Me’n Pete are goin’ t’do just what we want, and you can’t stop us. So there!”

  He was off like a shot, worming his way through the crowd. Shoving sometimes, even, which would upset Mother no end because she was always lecturing about good manners and consideration for others.

  Not that her mother had even noticed, Bonnie thought sourly, setting off after him. She was too busy smiling at the sheriff.

  As she always did, Molly had brought enough food for a dozen. She bent to retrieve the heavy wicker basket she’d shoved under the bench only to find that Bonnie and Dickie had disappeared. A quick scan of the crowd revealed no trace of them.

  Ah, well. No sense worrying. When it came to eating, they always found their way back.

  With the basket bumping against her leg, she slowly worked her way through the crowd toward Witt. If she’d had any sense, she’d have invited him to share their lunch last night. But last night she’d had other things on her mind. It was only while she was dreaming over the skillet of frying chicken this morning that she’d remembered that a well-fed man was much more likely to be reasonable than a hungry one—and she was determined to make Witt Gavin see reason if she had to feed him the whole darned chicken to do it.

  Once free of the crowd, Dickie broke into a jog trot. He’d heard some of the older boys talking about firecrackers and some bottles of beer snitched off a delivery wagon carelessly left unattended behind Jackson’s saloon. He wasn’t quite sure what they planned, but he was determined to find out. After all, mother wouldn’t be laying out lunch for hours and hours and hours—once they got going, grown-ups always ended up talking for forever—and he’d listened to about all the talking he could take for one morning.

  “Dickie Calhan, you come back here!”

  Dickie briefly considered running faster, then decided that would only make things worse. To his disgust, the minute he stopped, Pete raced back to Bonnie, tail wagging.

  “Traitor,” he said when the two of them caught up. Pete just plopped his bottom on the ground and grinned.

  “You shouldn’t be running off like this,” Bonnie scolded. “We’re going to have lunch soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon.”

  “I’ll be back by then,” Dickie said. “Come on, Pete.”

  “I’ll tell Mother!” Bonnie reluctantly fell into step beside him. “She says I’m supposed to watch you ’cause I’m the oldest, but you’re the one who’s always getting into trouble, not me!”

  Dickie didn’t bother listening. He glanced down a side street, hoping to spot the older boys with the firecrackers, and stopped dead. “Holy cow! Look! The bank robbers are back!”

  Bonnie almost tripped over the dog. “Who? Where? What robbers?”

  “See? Those guys disappearin’ round that corner.” He was almost bouncing he was so excited. “Didja see ’em?”

  “There’s nobody there.” Bonnie frowned. “And there are no bank robbers.”

  “Are, too, and I’m gonna catch ’em!” said Dickie, starting after them. “Wait ‘n’ see if I don’t!”

  “I’m telling Mother.”

  “Go ahead,” Dickie retorted. “I don’t care.”

  “You’ll be sorry!”

  “Hah!” Dickie said.

  “Hah yourself!” Bonnie pointedly flounced away.

  The street suddenly seemed awfully empty without her. Dickie’s steps slowed. For an instant, he debated going after her. On the other hand, maybe he ought to find the sheriff. But the last time he’d spotted these guys the sheriff had said he was busy and maybe he, Dickie, ought to round them up since he seemed to be the only one who ever saw them.

  Rounding them up sounded good. Dickie considered it for a moment, caught between burgeoning excitement at the possibility of adventure and a stomach-squeezing doubt. After all, they were grown-ups as well as bad men. He’d never managed to make grown-ups do what he wanted, ever.

  Maybe he really oughta get the sheriff.

  Pete decided for him. His dog emerged from a good sniff under a bush halfway down the street and barked as if wondering what was keeping him.

  The streets were empty—everyone up at the park, for sure—yet there were two horses tied in the alleyway that ran behind the bank. Dickie had read enough to know what that meant.

  Heart hammering, but with every sense alert in the very best detective tradition, he crept around the building. To his delight, the bank door was open a crack.

  Dickie started up the steps, then hesitated. It was one thing to read about guys like Nick Carter and Frank Meriwell, quite another to act like them when faced with real, live bad men. But someone had to stop those bank robbers and right now there was no one else in sight.

  Screwing up his courage, Dickie pushed open the door to the bank and walked in.

  Nothing. The place looked like it always did. Pete whined unhappily.

  A scuffling sound came from the back, then a very masculine curse.

  Cautiously, Dickie crept forward, through the wooden gate, past Mr. Goff’s desk and the door to Mr. Hancock’s office. All the way to the back room where the big safe was kept. For a moment, he simply stood in the doorway, heart pounding, struggling to remember what Nick Carter had done in a similar situation.

  “Hey!” he said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The two men abruptly stopped what they were doing and turned to face him.

  He shouldn’t have agreed to this, Witt told himself grimly as he helped Molly spread a worn checked tablecloth in the shade. He wouldn’t have come at all if it hadn’t been his responsibility to keep an eye on things.

  You would have crawled here on your hands and knees if it meant being able to see her, a silent voice in his head chided.

  Witt glanced at Molly, who was setting a stack of enameled tin plates on the cloth, followed by forks and napkins, and food in a variety of jars and covered bowls. Without looking up, she filled a plate with baked beans and potato salad and spiced tomatoes and a hunk of fried chicken, then handed it to him.

  Reluctantly, Witt took it. “People are going to talk. About me having lunch here with you, I mean.”

  Molly nodded. “Probably, but wait till you hear what they say about Louisa and Mr. McCord picnicking all by themselves like that.” She glanced up, eyes sparking with mischief. “I think he’s going to propose.”

  Witt stabbed the chicken with his fork.

  “Or maybe he already has.” She lowered her voice to a secret-sharing level. “I saw them kissing this morning. Right over there by that pine tree. Kissing! Can you imagine?”

  Witt abandoned the fork and simply ripped off a hunk of meat with his teeth.

  Her voice lowered still further, soft and intimate. “I must say, he looked like he was a very good kisser, though not anywhere near as good as you.”

  The chicken stopped halfway down his throat. He choked, then thumped his chest once, twice, until he coughed and swallowed it down.

  Molly calmly dug another jar out of her basket. “Pickles?”

  “No!”

  “No pickles?”

  Witt angrily shoved his plate aside and leaned forward, close enough so no one else could hear him. “Molly—Mrs. Calhan! This is crazy. We can’t just pretend that—that last night never happened. Your reputation—”

  Her smile almost blinded him. “You know, I wouldn’t have dreamed of being half this bold when Richard was courting me. On the other hand, I wasn’t anywhere near so sure of what I wanted, way back then.”

  He just stared. He didn’t know what to say. Bandits, he could have dealt with. Drunks and bullies and disasters were easy as falling off a log. But this wild, confusing mix of love and hunger and a thousand doubts—he didn’t even know how to begin to sort it out.

  It was her turn to lean close, so close she seemed to steal his air, making it impossible to breathe.

  “Last night I said all you had to do was tell me you didn’t love me,
that you didn’t want to marry me,” she said. “You couldn’t say it last night, but maybe it wasn’t fair to ask right then.”

  Her clear gaze locked on his, pinning him in his place. “If you can say all that now, in the clear light of day, I’ll believe you and I will never say another word about the matter.”

  She leaned closer still, eyes narrowed in unmistakable challenge. “But you have to say it first.”

  Witt opened his mouth, then closed it without breathing a word.

  She gave a little crow of triumph and sat back. “I knew it! I knew you couldn’t say it. You couldn’t say it last night and you can’t say it now because you know that you’d be lying if you did.”

  “And I told you I don’t have much talent for being a husband.”

  Molly nodded agreeably, smug in her conviction that she’d won. “That’s what you said. I still don’t believe you, though.”

  Her face was alight with laughter and something far more dangerously tempting.

  Witt groaned and shifted position so she couldn’t see the effect she was having on him. He’d almost gotten his breathing under control when he spotted Bonnie storming across the park toward them.

  Molly looked up, and sighed. “Where’s your brother?” she said when Bonnie threw herself down on the cloth, clearly disgusted.

  “Off getting into trouble. Said he saw those bank robbers of his again.”

  “Here? Right now? Well, you just go find him and tell him if he wants any fried chicken, he’d better leave the bank robbers alone and get back here where he belongs.”

  Witt couldn’t help but grin, grateful for the distraction. Somebody’d better rob the bank soon or Dickie was going to pop from frustration.

  “I tried,” said Bonnie. “He didn’t listen to me. He never listens to me! Anyway, I think he’s really gone off to watch Tom Seiffert and his friends set off all their firecrackers.”

  “Firecrackers! I’ve told him not to play with firecrackers.” Molly glanced at him, then at the picnic she’d laid out on the cloth. “I suppose I ought to go get him.”

  “Boy’ll be all right,” Witt assured her. It was dangerous being so close, but he didn’t want her leaving him, either, not even for five minutes. “He’s like a cat. Always lands on his feet no matter what he gets into.”