Frank Gentry rode with her, determined he’d told K.C., to see the man locked up and, if need be, to vouch for the sheriff’s story. In addition, he wanted to use the trip to town to buy Christmas gifts, including a turkey for Christmas dinner. She had a feeling that Kayleigh’s run-in with Holmes caused her father to experience an unusual burst of holiday generosity. His family would have much to rejoice in this Christmas.
The town of Sweetwater Springs looked like dozens of others she’d seen on her journey, although maybe a little more prosperous, considering the amount of whitewash on the wooden buildings, some taller houses in the distance, and the brick mercantile. The construction of several large buildings, one next to the railroad, one down the street a ways, showed that, unlike the rest of the country, a boom might be happening here. She wondered if mines existed nearby.
Like in Grant Hills, several saloons cast yellow light and raucous voices into the dusky afternoon. But unlike her community, Sweetwater Springs drew the eye to the white steeple and cross of the church. Something about this town appealed to her, although she couldn’t pinpoint what. If she didn’t have a prisoner to return to Grant Hills, she wouldn’t mind tarrying.
She could see a small Christmas tree in the window of the mercantile, and pine and holly wreaths on the doors of many of the buildings and houses. The privy by the side of a saloon sported a sprig of holly.
Even though Kayleigh’s mother had mentioned Christmas dinner, K.C. hadn’t really thought about the approach of the holiday. Not that it made any difference. One lonely Christmas in Grant Hills would be about the same as one in Sweetwater Springs; better maybe because here, there’d be no sad reminders around her.
A hot bath, clean clothes, and a warm meal eaten at leisure will be enough of a Christmas for me. Or so she tried to tell herself. But now that she wasn’t focused on capturing Charles’ killer, she ached with grief. Just two months ago, the man who’d been her beloved friend since childhood had hinted she’d find a ring in her stocking come Christmas. And she had only three days to savor the anticipation of that happy event. Three precious days.
As she eyed the two men on horseback riding down the street toward them, she figured the bath and time to grieve and review her options would have to wait.
The men saw her, checked their mounts, exchanged some words, and then trotted her way. They pulled up in front of her and forced her to stop. Both dropped their hands to their Colts.
K.C. held up her hand in a peaceable gesture. “Howdy.” Then she slowly touched the star at her shoulder.
They took their hands off their guns, but their bodies remained alert. Both stared at her and Holmes with narrowed gazes.
One man looked older, with a thin face and blue eyes. The younger man had green eyes and a slightly crooked nose that must have been broken at some point. K.C. wondered if he was a brawler.
“I’m Sheriff K.C. McNamara from Grant Hills, Wyoming.” She jerked her chin at her prisoner. “This man’s under arrest for murder. One man at Grant Hills, one outside in South Pass, Wyoming. For all I know, he probably has a string of victims, and, if he’d lingered in the vicinity of your town, would probably have added to that count. A little girl.”
Holmes roused himself enough to smirk.
K.C. read the truth of her words in his cold gray eyes and had to restrain herself from yanking him off his horse and strangling him. Instead, she made a fist, leaned over, and bashed his shoulder. Not on the wound, but above the bicep. She didn’t want to get her gloves bloody.
Holmes winced and slumped in the saddle.
Before she watched him be strung up, she wanted the names and locations of all of his victims. Their families deserved to know the killer had been brought to justice. But that was for later. “I’m taking him back to Grant Hills,” she told the strangers.
The older man nodded. “I’m John Carter, and this is Nick Sanders. We’ll be glad to help you, Mr. McNamara, if we can.”
She didn’t correct him on the prefix to her name. Even though wounded, Holmes was still deadly and needed to believe she was a hardened lawman.
Frank Gentry urged his horse next to hers. “Done saved my little girl. Man was making off with her.”
Both of the men shot her a look of respect.
“You have our thanks and appreciation for apprehending this outlaw,” Carter continued. “I have a family…” His jaw tightened, and he obviously couldn’t say more.
Sanders had clenched his fists around the reins. “We don’t have a sheriff, but we do have a jail. It’s down the street on the other side of the first saloon. A brick building. I’ll take you.” He looked at Carter. “Cobb has the keys?”
Carter nodded.
“I’ll get them and fetch Doc,” Sanders said. “Not that your prisoner deserves to be patched up if he’s a killer. But as much as it goes against the grain, we’re decent people in this town. We won’t descend to his level.”
“I agree he needs medical attention,” K.C. said. “Just have the doc go easy on the morphine.”
Nick Sanders shot her an amused glance. “No problem at all.”
~ ~ ~
The brick jail was similar to the one she had in Grant Hills—two barred cells and office space with living quarters attached—except it had one desk instead of two, the yellowed wanted posters were several years old, and dust covered everything.
After the doctor had patched up the outlaw, she thrust Holmes into a cell, feeling the satisfaction of turning the key in the lock, hearing the click on the prisoner’s freedom. Then she’d left Sanders to keep guard, and Carter had taken her to the bathhouse.
K.C. returned from the bathhouse and found what must have been a battalion of women had descended on the jail, cleaning and sprucing it up. Amazing when she considered they must have plenty of Christmas preparations of their own to attend to.
She’d shooed off Nick Sanders so he could enjoy Christmas Eve with his wife at the town’s Christmas pageant, and prepared to spend a lonely evening with just Holmes for company. Not that he was company, and not that she wasn’t used to lonely evenings. Only a month ago, she’d thought those lonely evenings were about to end. The contrast between her dreams and the reality after Charles’ murder was a vast gulf.
But she wasn’t given much time to grieve her losses. In the tradition of small towns, word spread like lightning, and K.C. had a flurry of visitors, bringing bedding, logs for the stove, food, dishes and utensils, and wonder of wonders, a small Christmas tree with popcorn strings, bright red bows, and some clever carved and painted ornaments. She’d never had a Christmas tree before, although she’d always enjoyed the small one they’d put up in the church.
K.C. sat behind the desk, bootless, with new thick socks to keep her feet warm provided by one of the women. From here, she could keep an eye on her prisoner, not that it mattered. Holmes had passed out, and now slept the sleep of the unjust on a wooden bed in the cell. He snored away, sounding similar to Kayleigh’s goose. K.C realized that if she’d trailed him at night she could have found him by sound alone and captured him a lot sooner.
The jail smelled of soap and pine. K.C. took a deep, satisfied breath. She felt as content as she could be, given that she had a burden of grief locked away in her heart. But she was clean and better fed than she’d been in a long time. The good women of Sweetwater Springs hadn’t stinted on a tasty dinner, complete with berry pie. A plate of brown cookies beckoned from her desk, and she picked up one and bit into it, enjoying the tang of molasses.
Next to the plate of cookies rested a red-and-white peppermint stick, dropped off by Frank Gentry on his way home. “A poor man’s expression of thanks,” he’d said. “For the life of a daughter.” K.C. fingered the candy, remembering Gentry’s stilted thanks, the sheen of emotion in his eyes as he tried to express his gratitude.
From the desk, K.C. could see through the open doorway into the living quarters, where a small potbellied stove radiated comfortable heat into a room that held a
narrow bed, a small round table, two chairs, and some shelves, along with several hooks in the walls for clothing.
K.C. pushed back her hat, wishing she could take it off indoors. But the scarf she still wore kept her neck and chin nice and warm. She had no desire for Holmes to wake up and discover his captor was a woman. She relaxed back in the chair, but kept glancing over at the Christmas tree perched on the table and marveling how pretty it looked.
With the man safely behind bars, K.C. finally allowed herself to relax. Seems like she’d been tense for weeks. She flexed her tight muscles, trying to get them to unkink. She hadn’t lingered in the bath for a hot soak, just quickly scrubbed herself, so she could get back to the jail.
Now she could rest secure in that she’d finally done her job—kept her promise to the Stewart family to bring their son’s killer to justice. Holmes wouldn’t be harming any more good men like Charles and tearing families apart with grief. She forced herself to unwind, muscle by muscle, drinking the hot chocolate provided by the shopkeepers—she’d already forgotten their names. But she sipped the rare rich brew and appreciated their gift.
A knock on the outer door brought her to her feet, energy surging through her body. Then she remembered this wasn’t her town, and she wasn’t responsible for keeping the peace here. Strange how much she’d come to feel at home in only a few short hours.
She pulled her boots back on and strode to the door, keeping her footsteps light. She didn’t want to wake Holmes, preferring he sleep.
K.C. opened the door to see Mr. Carter, a woman, and an older man standing outside.
Mr. Carter touched his hat. “Sheriff, this is my wife, Pamela, and our minister, Reverend Norton. We’d like to talk to you.”
“Of course.” K.C. quickly ushered them inside.
Mrs. Carter, her plump face wreathed in a bright red scarf, reached out her hands, took K.C.’s and squeezed. “Thank you so much for apprehending that criminal. I shudder to think what could have happened here if you hadn’t.”
Heat crept into K.C.’s cheeks. How long has it been since someone’s touched me? Not counting the punches she often took when wrestling a drunk into a cell. Even Charles had kept his hands to himself, although she had wished he wouldn’t. She’d looked forward to that changing when at last they were married.
“We’re a close-knit town, Sheriff,” said Mrs. Carter, pulling K.C. into the present. “If someone had been murdered, we all would have been affected,” she said, her brown eyes anxious.
“Don’t think about it, ma’am. You’ll just tie yourself in knots for nothing.” K.C. hastened to reassure her.
“Wise words, Mr. McNamara.” Carter took off his hat to expose his thinning sandy hair. Up close, K.C. and the rancher stood about the same height.
K.C. glanced at the snoring Holmes, decided he was down for the night, and then waved the three of them into the back room, pulling in the desk chair. She set it down at the table and gestured for Mrs. Carter to take a seat. While her visitors unwrapped their winter wear, she returned for the other desk chair. She closed the door and then sat down, looking at each one.
The reverend had an austere, white-bearded face, and intelligent blue eyes. She bet he could preach a good hell-and-brimstone sermon. Not that the kind of men who needed to hear about the wages of sin ever darkened a church.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Mr. Carter said. “For the last year, we’ve been searching for a sheriff for our town.” He grimaced. “Wouldn’t have thought finding one would be so difficult.”
Ah … the people of this town aren’t just grateful, they’ve been courtin’ me! Since K.C. had never been courted before, not even by Charles who’d been her best friend since they could first ride, the idea gave her a warm feeling in her gut. Before Mr. Carter even popped the question, K.C. considered her answer, tempted to put down roots in a new town that wasn’t full of the memories of Charles.
They don’t know I’m a woman. The thought deflated all her good feelings. The only reason she was a sheriff was because her father had been the sheriff of Grant Hills. Then after his death, the corrupt man who’d taken his place had given the Tasen gang free rein. K.C. had taken matters into her hands, and the grateful citizens of Grant Hills had pinned the badge to her shoulder.
But these people didn’t know her history, wouldn’t have any reason to let a woman be sheriff. For a moment she debated living a lie. K.C. bet she could do it too, but the truth would get out some way, and, anyway, she wasn’t the lyin’ type.
Although part of her protested, she held up a hand to stop Carter. “Before you go any further…” Slowly K.C. raised her hands, unwound her scarf, and took off her hat. Her braids spilled over her shoulders. She placed her hat on the table.
Identical expressions of shock crossed each of their faces, and K.C. braced for what would come next. It’s not as if it matters, she told herself. You have a place in Grant Hills that suits you just fine.
Mrs. Carter was the first to recover. With a laugh, she grabbed hold of K.C.’s hand. “How marvelous. You’re a woman. I’ve never heard of a female sheriff.”
I’ll bet the men won’t think it’s so marvelous.
Reverend Norton frowned. She wondered if the preacher would think she was going to hell for doing a man’s job, considering all it involved.
Carter, though, looked thoughtful. “I have. Read about one in Wyoming…” He stopped to think for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Wasn’t Grant Hills, though.”
She shrugged, not knowing who he meant.
Carter sent a look to the minister that K.C. couldn’t interpret. “We broke tradition with hiring a married lady schoolteacher,” he said. “What do you say we go a step farther, Reverend Norton?”
The minister stroked his beard. “We’ve been looking for someone of good character. Someone who wouldn’t chase the womenfolk, who’d uphold law and order. Seems to me she’s proven herself on all counts.”
Now it was K.C.’s turn for shock. “How do you know I have a good character?” she demanded.
The reverend gave her a gentle smile that softened his severe face. “You took off your hat.”
“That’s right,” Carter seconded. “You could have chosen to hide from us. I, for one, would never have expected to find a lady underneath what I took to be a man’s exterior.”
Mrs. Carter shook her head, causing loose brown tendrils to tumble around her face. She studied K.C. as if seeing her with new eyes. “I can see the woman now. However you had me fooled.” She glanced at the door between them and the prisoner. “I suppose it’s necessary.”
K.C. nodded, relieved she understood.
Carter smiled at his wife, before turning back to K.C. “Do the people of Grant Hills know?”
“Yes,” K.C. said. “I grew up there. My father was the sheriff before me. He taught me everything I know about being a sheriff.” She paused to think. “Cept what I’ve learned on the job.”
Mrs. Carter’s brown eyes widened. “Have you killed a man?”
K.C. thought back to the Kasen gang. To stalking and picking them off one by one. To the final shoot out that took out the leader. “More than one, ma’am.”
Carter rubbed his chin. “I could see you knew I was about to ask you to take the job and that you wanted it. You’ll have to cultivate more of a poker face, Sheriff, if you want to play with those boys in the saloons … make sure no one’s cheating.”
Mrs. Carter looked around the room. “Will your quarters be adequate?”
K.C. wanted to laugh, but she could see the woman was sincere. “Just fine, ma’am. Similar to what I have in Grant Hills, but decorated a bit more festive.”
Carter named a salary that was more than she currently earned and mentioned some benefits, one of which was eating at Widow Murphy’s boarding house. From the face his wife made, K.C. wondered if that was a benefit after all. Did she burn the food?
The minister placed his hands on the table. “Speaking of festive—�
� He rose. “We have a Christmas pageant starting in a little while. I must be going. Sheriff, I’m sorry you have to miss it. Perhaps next year your jail cells will remain empty and you’ll be able to join us.”
“She hasn’t said yes,” Carter commented. He slanted her an inquiring glance. “Well, K.C. McNamara. Will you have us?”
At the marriage-vow-sounding question, K.C. felt a smile play around her lips, perhaps the first one since Charles’ murder. In keeping with the formality of his question, and because a little imp of humor prompted her, she said, “I do.”
All three faces lit up. Carter slapped his leg. “Splendid. When can you start?”
She lifted her chin in Holmes’ direction. “I’ll pack up and leave Grant Hill as soon as that one’s hung and buried.”
The men shook her hand, and Mrs. Carter surprised her by leaning over and giving her a hug. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs, Sheriff K.C. I’ll look forward to knowing you better.”
Stunned by the rapid turn of events, K.C. watched them wrap up for the cold and escorted them to the door. She shut it behind them and stood there for a moment, still holding the doorknob.
The honking snores from the cell told her she didn’t have to worry about Holmes. She stood a moment watching him and pondered. Perhaps angels had directed his path. He could have headed anywhere, but he came here, and, thus, brought me here.
Or maybe it wasn’t angels. Maybe the guide was Charles. She touched her mouth, feeling her lips curve under her fingers at the thought.
Abruptly, she turned and strode into her room, canting the door partially closed. Standing by the table, she reached out and fingered a tiny carving of a horse, fastened to a branch of the Christmas tree. For a moment, K.C. imagined the soft brush of a hand over hers. Her fingers fisted around the horse. Tears came to her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall.
“Goodbye, Charles,” she whispered. “I’m moving on to a new town … a new life. Wish me well.”
Another light touch on the back of her hand, and he was gone. Around the edges of her pain, K.C. felt hope seep into her heart, and she knew… Someday, she’d find love here in Sweetwater Springs. The occasion might not be for a while, but it would come.
Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection Page 8