Just West of Heaven

by Maureen Child

  “But that window glass comes all the way from St. Joe and,” he added, apparently finding a backbone briefly, “it costs a pretty penny, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “I’m sure it does,” she said sympathetically, then asked, “Mr. Simpson, Hattie tells me that you and your wife have five daughters?”

  He ran one finger around the inside of his collar as if looking for more breathing room. Then, rubbing his whiskery jaw with one hand, he admitted to the truth. “Yes’m. Be six come August.”

  Sophie smiled triumphantly. He was beaten and they both knew it. Honestly, this was all so much easier with Hattie’s help. The woman knew everything about everyone in town and wasn’t the least bit shy about sharing what she knew.

  “Well, then,” she said, easing back a bit from the counter, “my congratulations. And I know you certainly want to do what’s best for your children’s education, don’t you?”

  “I s’pose,” he murmured and rolled his eyes, already adding up the cost of donated paint and glass.

  “That’s fine, then,” she said and made a quick notation on the paper she drew from her bag. “Now,” Sophie said, tucking the paper away again. “As to the color of the paint...”

  “You’re killin’ me here, ma’am,” the man whined, giving her a pitiful look that froze and shifted as his gaze slid past her to the window facing the street.

  “What is it?” Sophie asked, half turning to see what could possibly have turned Morton Simpson such an appalling shade of green.

  But there was nothing unusual out there. The too­bright sun shone down on a town bustling with life. Her first Saturday in Tanglewood had been a surprise. It was such a quiet little place during the week and to see so many strange faces wandering through it was a bit of a shock. But at the same time, it was exciting.

  Made her feel a bit less like she’d moved to the ends of the earth.

  As she watched the people through the wide front window, her gaze seemed to be drawn to one man. Ridge Hawkins. Something inside her tightened, but she fought against it. Silly to be so affected by the mere sight of a man. Particularly, she told herself, that man.

  Argumentative, bossy, arrogant, he was all the things she’d never admired in a man.

  And yet, a corner of her mind whispered traitorously, he was also strong and brave and frankly had the broadest shoulders and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. And then there were his hands. Long-fingered and callused, they had strength and gentleness too, she thought as she remembered the way he’d held Jenna and comforted her after her accident at the school.

  Then too, she thought, remembering a certain night in the hallway at the boarding house, there was the look in his eyes when he’d seen her in her robe and nightgown. A rush of heat swept through her with a wild stirring of sensation and she only hoped Mr. Simpson put her flushed face down to the heat of the day.

  “This don’t look good,” Mr. Simpson muttered.

  She swallowed hard, then noticed he was still looking out the window.

  Clearing her throat, she looked through the glass at Ridge and asked, “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  The little man scuttled out from around his counter, hurried to the window, and leaning in close, looked off down the street in the direction Ridge was headed. “Yep. Just like I thought.”

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, Sophie walked to his side and demanded, “What are you talking about?”

  “You best come away from that window, ma’am,” he said, taking hold of her arm and pulling her backward.

  She shook him off with a quick move and a look that should have put hair back on his head. “Explain yourself, Mr. Simpson.”

  Scowling, he pointed off down the street. “See that young fella headed this way?”

  There were several “young fellas” but Sophie knew instinctively which one he was talking about. “The one with the dirty hat?”

  “Yeah,” he said tightly.

  “What about him?” She spared him a quick look. “Really, Mr. Simpson, get on with it, if you please.”

  “He’s a gunfighter,” the man said shortly.

  “Really?” she asked, turning back to look at the young man with the stringy hair and rumpled clothing in a new light. So this was a gunfighter. Hardly seemed as frightening as one might expect, judging from the sometimes lurid dime novels to be found on any street corner. Not that she actually read them, mind you. But she had been known to idly flip through their pages on occasion.

  “You see Ridge?”

  “Yes,” she said, shifting her gaze back to the man who now had his back to her. “He’s heading over to send that fella packing and it might be wise to get out of range.”

  Out of range? Of bullets?

  “Do you mean they might actually shoot at each other?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he told her solemnly. “I’d say there’s a good chance.” He took another step back from the window for good measure. “’Course, Ridge’s pretty good at his job, so maybe not.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered, more to herself than the skittish storekeeper. “They can’t shoot guns at each other. There are women and children out there. Someone will be hurt.”

  But even as she said the words, she noticed that the crowds had thinned remarkably. People scurried for cover, ducking into the shops and alleys lining the street. Apparently, this wasn’t an unusual situation. In just a few short moments, Ridge Hawkins was practically alone with the oncoming gunfighter.

  Sophie’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t fair. Not fair at all. True, he might be the sheriff, but this was their town. Should they really all stand by and watch a single man meet trouble alone?

  Back home in Albany, there were dozens of constables, ready to help the citizens and each other in times of trouble. Here, there was this one man standing between the people of Tanglewood and danger.

  She shot a look at the little man beside her and frowned to herself. How could these people look themselves in the mirror? What kind of example was this to set for their children?

  “Aren’t you going to offer your assistance?”

  He looked at her like she was speaking Greek. “That ain’t my job, ma’am.”

  “It’s your job to protect your home. Your business.”

  He snorted. “Now, that’s why we pay Ridge, ain’t it?”

  Good Lord, she thought. If everyone else in town felt as Mr. Simpson did, Ridge Hawkins would be alone on that street in a matter of minutes. He’s a sheriff, she told herself, and no doubt used to danger.

  But at the same time, she knew it wasn’t right. Not right at all to leave him to deal with a potentially dangerous situation all alone.

  And was she expected to simply stand here and watch? No, Sophie thought firmly. Before she could think better of it, she marched to the door, yanked it open, and drove the bell above it into a wild dance that pierced the still air with a jangling, discordant sound.

  “Ma’am,” Mr. Simpson said, “come on back here, ma’am.”

  She ignored him as any sensible woman would. For heaven’s sake, would the people here allow young thugs to scatter them like frightened birds? Were they willing to let gunfights take place on the very street where their children played? This was their home. Her home now too. Well, Sophie Dolan—Ryan—wouldn’t be among those seeking shelter from a storm.

  Marching along the boardwalk at a brisk pace, she ignored the whispered warnings hushed at her from those she passed. Her gaze darted from Ridge to the gunman and back again. A flutter of something warm and dangerous started low in her stomach and spread to her nether regions as she watched Ridge lift his right hand to set it atop his pistol butt.

  He looked so sure of himself. So confident. So…

  He suddenly noticed her presence. She gave him a smile of solidarity and he rea
cted with a brief scowl before turning his attention back to the man almost abreast of him.

  ●

  Damn woman!

  But Ridge couldn’t think about Sophie now. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the young man sitting atop a worn-out chestnut gelding. It had been a while since he’d seen the gunfighter. But he really hadn’t changed all that much.

  The Kid smiled broadly, reached up to tip his hat farther back on his head, then resettled his right hand even closer to the butt of his pistol. “Hey, Ridge,” he said. “Been a while.”

  “Yeah, it has,” Ridge said, keeping far enough back that he couldn’t be kicked and stepping to one side so that the sun was to his back, giving him a slight, but welcome edge. “Heard you were down in Mexico.”

  “Yeah?” the Kid asked, leaning forward on the pommel of his saddle. “And where’d you hear that?”

  “Around.” Go into any saloon west of St. Louis and the talk would eventually roll around to gunfighters, and once that conversation started, most folks ended up talking about William H. Bonney. Billy the Kid. “What’re you doin’ here, Billy?”

  “Nothin’,” the younger man said with a casual shrug that didn’t fool Ridge in the least. It was said that Billy did everything with an easy smile—talk, laugh, kill. Since the Lincoln County war three years before, Billy’d been riding a rough trail.

  The Kid glanced around the now nearly empty street, paused to smile and tip his hat at Sophie, then looked back to Ridge. “Pretty lady over there.”

  Ridge’s jaw tightened. Damn it, why didn’t she disappear like everybody else had? “She ain’t lookin’ for a new friend.”

  Billy’s lips thinned slightly and he stiffened in the saddle. “I’m not lookin’ for trouble, Ridge. Just want to lay low for a couple days. Get my horse rested up.”

  “I don’t think so, Billy,” he said, letting his fingers curl around the butt of his pistol. You just never knew how Billy Bonney was going to react. Some days, he’d be as nice as all get out. Others, he’d just as soon shoot you as look your way.

  The gunman’s gaze flicked to the badge on Ridge’s chest. “You know, Dirtwater Dave told me you was a lawman now. I didn’t believe him.”

  “Been a couple years now,” he answered softly.

  A fly buzzed near Ridge’s ear and the low droning sound was just another irritation. Everything inside him was keyed up for possible battle. And now he had to worry not only about Billy’s unpredictable temper, but Sophie’s unpredictable nature. Hell, for all he knew, she could step off that boardwalk at any minute and tell Billy the Kid to wipe his boots before coming into town.

  As if his thought prompted her actions, Sophie came down the three short steps in front of the barbershop, walked to his side and stood staring up at the young gunfighter.

  “Sophie,” Ridge said tightly, taking one step in front of her, “go inside.”

  “I will not,” she said, sparing him a quick glance before stepping out from behind him and returning her sharp gaze to the man on the horse. “I won’t run from trouble, Ridge Hawkins. I’ve read about situations like this.”

  “Ma’am,” the Kid said, interrupting her flow of words and receiving a frown for his trouble. “It might be best if you just do like the sheriff says.”

  “And if I don’t,” she asked, tilting her chin up at a mutinous angle, “are you planning to shoot me?”

  Inwardly groaning, Ridge could hardly keep himself from tossing her over his shoulder and carting her to the closest store. Where he would lock her in.

  Billy reared back in his saddle and stared at her, shock evident in his wide eyes. “Ma’am, I ain’t never shot a lady yet and don’t aim to start now.”

  “I might,” Ridge murmured just loud enough for her to hear, but she disregarded it.

  “That’s hardly commendable,” Sophie said sternly. “Since it means that you have no compunctions about shooting men.”

  “If that means I’ll shoot back when shot at, yes, ma’am, I will.” Billy’s left hand tightened on the saddle pommel. Tearing his gaze from her, he said simply, “Ridge...”

  “That’s enough, Sophie,” Ridge said and put himself squarely between her and Billy again. And this time, he’d keep her behind him if he had to hog-tie her.

  Naturally, though, his move didn’t stop her from talking.

  “As I said,” Sophie continued, taking advantage of their silence, “I’ve read about these situations, and if you’re going to have a ‘shoot-out,’ I believe the accepted form would be for you to dismount and stand with your back to the sheriff’s.”

  “Sophie...”

  “Or is that for dueling?” she wondered aloud, then waved a hand in dismissal. “Doesn’t matter, the result would be the same, wouldn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she plunged ahead. “Bloodshed.”

  “Ma’am,” Billy said quickly when she paused for breath, “you got no cause for worry from me.”

  “No?” She didn’t sound convinced and Ridge flexed his fingers to keep from throttling her. What did she think she was doing, egging on a man like Billy?

  Couldn’t she see the wildness in his eyes? The eagerness in the fingertips that danced ever so closely to his pistol?

  “No, ma’am,” he said, nodding at the sheriff. “I reckon I know better than to try something fast and loose in Ridge Hawkins’s town.”

  “Is that right?” she whispered and Ridge felt her stare on the back of his neck.

  Ordinarily, he might be willing to take Billy at his word, but since Sophie was standing right in the line of possible fire, he kept his gaze fixed on the Kid as he offered, “You can take your horse down to the livery. Toby may make you a trade for your animal. It looks about done in.”

  Billy gave him a sheepish smile. “Been doin’ a lot of runnin’ lately. I ‘preciate it.”

  Ridge nodded and stepped back, holding one arm out to ease Sophie back as well. She was stiff as stone and about as easy to move. “You’ll be leavin’ soon.”

  The Kid nodded slowly. “Reckon so.” Then he tipped his hat to Sophie and said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” Then he leaned down and held his right hand out. “Ridge, good to see you again. Looks like takin’ root agrees with you.”

  Ridge shook his hand and. said only, “You watch your back, Billy.”

  “Always do, Sheriff,” the Kid assured him and nudged his horse into a walk again. “Always do.”

  Well, things were calm. For now. But that didn’t mean the danger was over. Nothing was assured until Billy was on his way out of Tanglewood and back to Mexico. And Ridge would be there at the livery to be damn sure the Kid got on his way quick.

  But before he did that... he grabbed Sophie’s upper arm, turned her around, and steered her in a fast walk toward the sheriff’s office. Around them, the town slowly chugged back into life, with people straggling out of the shops and gathering in small knots to talk about what they’d just seen. After all, it wasn’t every day Billy the Kid rode into your town and out again without a shooting.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t pay her any more attention than he did the other people they passed. His brain seethed with fury and every step he took only fed the flames. Sophie skipped alongside him, her feet getting tangled in her skirt, despite her efforts to hike it out of her way.

  He paused at the edge of the boardwalk, grabbed her by the waist and swung her up the short set of steps. Setting her onto her feet again, he heard her teeth click together.

  Then he grabbed her hand, and dragged her into the sheriff’s office, slamming the door behind them.

  Once inside, she yanked free of his grasp, swiped her fallen hair out of her eyes, and glared at him. “I have never been dragged through a street before, Sheriff Hawkins. Would you mind telling me why you decided to treat
me to such an experience?”

  He stepped up close to her and grabbed her upper arms, jerking her close enough that she had to tilt her head way back on her neck just to meet his gaze. “Because, Mrs. Ryan, it was either that or strangle you out there in front of witnesses.”

  Sophie stared up into his eyes and swore she actually saw flames of fury dancing in those blue depths.

  His grip on her arms was strong, but not bruising, so she didn’t believe his threat of physical violence for one moment. And despite the fact that she could almost feel his anger rippling off him in waves, she was feeling something else as well.

  A strange, not altogether unpleasant warmth skittered unevenly throughout her body. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she suddenly seemed to be tingling in a very unusual fashion. Mouth dry, she licked her lips and watched as his gaze fixed on her mouth, following her tongue like a hungry man looking at a steak.

  Her throat closed up. She coughed, swallowed hard, and fought past the hardship to say plainly, “I was only trying to help.”

  “Help?” he repeated and let her go so quickly that she stumbled back a step or two before she caught her balance. “You could have gotten us both killed.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, and made a half­hearted attempt to fix her hair. When yet another lock fell down across her eyes, she gave it up. “He was very young, after all.”

  “Yeah,” Ridge told her flatly as he pulled off his hat to slap it against his thighs. “He is young. That’s why they call him Billy the Kid.”

  “Billy the—”

  “Ah,” Ridge said, an evil little smile curving his mouth as he watched her shock set in. “I see you’ve read about him, too.”

  Stunned, Sophie dropped into the closest chair and didn’t even speak when Ridge glared at her and said, “Now I’m going down to Toby’s to make sure Billy gets out of town. You stay put, Sophie, or so help me God I’ll lock you in one of the cells for your own protection!”

  CHAPTER Eight

  True to his word, at least today, Billy changed horses at the livery, trading his gelding to Toby in exchange for a mare with fast feet and a wild disposition. Then he was gone, with nothing more than a small swirl of dust to mark his passing.