Tennessee Waltz

by Simmons, Trana Mae

  She was evidently—

  He whirled on her with practiced smoothness, a glower settling on his face.

  She was evidently the prettiest thing ever to hit Liberty Flats since the town was born. Maybe even the entire state of Texas. Blond hair brought the Texas sunshine into the office, curling and cascading in a riot as it escaped the yellow ribbon she'd tried to tame it with and wisping around her heart-shaped face. Above an elfin nose and insolently pursed lips, eyes the color of spring bluebonnets met his glower with impudent defiance. She drew herself up to at least a full five feet, tipping her chin until he could see her entire smooth neck.

  The men in town wouldn't need to imagine her curves. The tight bodice of that yellow dress outlined every one of them, nullifying the fact that her petticoats blurred the shape of her bottom and legs. Even the skimpy attire that Ginny's girls wore wouldn't allow them to compete with her. For some reason, the yards of material on her were more alluring than if she'd bared as much as the saloon women did.

  He took a step backward, settling his rear on the edge of the desk and recrossing his arms defensively. The involuntary protective gesture was too late to counteract the feeling that a fist had just slammed into his stomach.

  "Then spit out what you want and let me get on about my business," he halfway snarled at her.

  Having his full attention at last didn't appear to defuse her indignation one iota. She matched him glare for scowl.

  "I fail to understand how you can consider sleeping on a chair in front of your office doing your business," she spat.

  He briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. No sense even attempting to dispute that stupid comment. There were some things people like Little Miss Greenhorn had to learn on their own.

  "What do you want?" he prodded again.

  "I wish to lodge a complaint." She started that danged toe-tapping again. "And from what I understand, this town has no government officials — not even a mayor, let alone a town council. You seem to be the closest thing to an authority figure available, so I came here. Perhaps I've miscalculated, however."

  "Well, I reckon that depends on what your complaint is. If it's got something to do with a law being broken, I might be able to help you out. If not . . ." He shrugged in disregard, although his fingers tightened on his upper arms. No one messed with a woman in his town, whether she be a lady or a doxy.

  "It's the streets," she said resolutely, surprising him and quelling his budding empathy as effectively as though she'd thrown a bucket of ice water on him.

  "They are in a deplorable condition," she continued as he gritted his teeth to keep from telling her that he didn't give a damn about the town's streets.

  "Yesterday I almost ruined one of my best traveling gowns," she went on in that prissy voice, "and that was just taking the three steps from where the stage stopped to the walkway. Surely there are some resolutions on this town's books about street maintenance. If not, there certainly should be! Since Liberty Flats is now my home for a while, I wish to be able to traverse the streets without worrying about ruining my attire each time I venture out."

  "The streets," Jake repeated in a dumbfounded voice. "You want me to have the streets paved. It's not even six o'clock in the morning, and you want me to start going around telling everyone we have to pave the streets."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Marshal. I'm well aware that it would be a major undertaking for a town like this to pay for enough bricks to pave its streets. However, it should be a simple enough matter for the store owners all to contribute to paying for someone to periodically go up and down the streets and clean up after the animals. In fact, although it's necessary for the horses to be allowed access to the streets — after all, they provide transportation for the stores' customers — I see no reason why the streets should be a depository for all sorts of other refuse."

  She lifted her index finger, admonishing him as though he were a child. "For instance, I watched you dump a basin of dirty water in the street a little earlier, and also the dregs of your coffee." Her chastisement accomplished, she still wasn't done. "Furthermore, there's no reason why other animals, besides the horses, that is, should be allowed to roam freely in town. Why, it can't be healthy for the children, not one of whom I've seen in a pair of shoes!"

  Good God Almighty. Where did this woman come from? Every other female in town was probably still sleeping — or at the most, stoking the kitchen stove so the coffee would be ready by the time her man rose. And here she stood, primped and outfitted as though attending a social, radiating the kind of energy that should only be apparent after at least a full pot of coffee. She made him tired just looking at her.

  He made the mistake of stifling a yawn.

  She drew in a deep breath, preparatory, he was sure, to lambasting him for his rudeness.

  "Look," he said quickly, "perhaps we could at least introduce ourselves before we continue this argu. . . uh . . . discussion. I'm Jake Cameron. And you?"

  Her eyes narrowed ominously. "I thought all responsible law officials kept track of any new people in their town. Since I've been here well over twelve hours, I would think by now it would behoove you as marshal to know me — or at least, know of me."

  "Look, lady," Jake replied, his lassitude quickly disintegrating, along with his struggle for patience. He dropped his arms and straightened up. "It's too damned early in the morning to be playing word games with you. And for your information, I'm not this town's marshal. This town doesn't have a marshal. I work for the Texas Rangers, and I take my orders from them, not the citizens of Liberty Flats. Perhaps those dime novels you're so proud of having read explained to you just what type of organization the Rangers is. We furnish our own horses, as well as our own guns. And one of the other requirements is that we know how to use our firearms accurately."

  She flicked a smirk of disregard at the low-hanging brace of pistols on his hips. "The Texas Rangers," she mused haughtily. "Ah, yes, I do believe I remember reading about a rogue band of Rangers that held the town of Brownsville hostage fifteen years or so ago. And the work that needs done in this town is not work that can be accomplished at the end of a gun. I suppose I'll just have to see what I can do about it myself." With a flounce of yellow skirts, she stormed out of the office.

  Jake leaned back against the desk once more, the rigidity slowly easing from his body. Who the hell did she think she was, bringing up that blot on the Rangers' history? She couldn't even have been old enough to read when that happened.

  Good God, he was glad to get rid of her. Wasn't he? His head swiveled slowly as he took in the contrast of the drab office to her brief, vital presence. One other shabby chair sat in the corner, and tattered pull-down shades covered the dust-smeared front windows. The only wall decorations were curled and faded Wanted posters tacked up here and there. How long had it been since he'd even checked them against the periodic updates he got over the wire on recent captures?

  He mentally examined the two jail cells behind him. It had been more than a month since he stripped the bunks and took the linens to the laundry. But, hell, he'd only had a couple of drunks sleeping it off during that time. And he'd made the one who puked all over the cell clean up his own mess before he turned him loose the next morning. The drunk did a halfway decent job before Jake got tired of listening to his hangover moans and shoved him out the door.

  Besides the occasional drunk, the only other person in town he didn't really get along with was Saul Cravens. So far, though, the biggest problem he'd had with Cravens was the man's seeming lack of respect for Jake's badge. But as far as Jake knew, Cravens didn't carry that lack of respect far enough to allow any crooked games in his saloon. He knew damned well that Jake continued to keep an eye on him.

  And even Cravens' saloon was a tad more cheerful than the jailhouse. Jake had never paid much attention before to how dismal his office surroundings were; the town expected him to be visible on the streets, not holed up in the jailhouse office. His active presence made
sure people like Cravens didn't get completely out of hand.

  What the town didn't expect was an outspoken woman sticking her nose into matters she had no business prying into. His lips curled in amusement. It might be fun watching her butt heads with the merchants. There hadn't been any entertainment in town since that medicine show put on a performance a couple of months ago while the blacksmith repaired its wagon.

  He'd just get back out there and claim his usual seat to observe, though it would be an hour or so yet before the town started stirring. His friend Charlie Duckworth would probably be by soon for his usual morning visit and cup of rank coffee.

  Sauntering over to the pegs lining the wall beside the door, he took down his extra hat. Though he'd never bothered to have the bullet hole in the crown repaired, it would do until the mud dried on his other one and he could brush it clean.

  Right before he walked out the door, a fleeting movement caught his eye. He glanced at the upper corner of the ceiling, where a huge brown spider was industriously repairing a web already hanging full of insect body husks. He didn't much care for spiders, but at least they kept the rest of the bug population down.

  He turned away, then quickly looked back. Nah, there was no way he could actually be hearing that spider spin its airy concoction. The tiny rasping noise must be his own breathing.

  ~~~~

  Liberty Flats woke up slightly earlier than usual that morning. Sunny Fannin made sure of that. She couldn't seem to muster the fortitude to rouse her Aunt Cassie after she lost patience with that hardheaded Texas Ranger and returned to the white clapboard house on the edge of town. Considering the lukewarm reception she had received from her aunt yesterday afternoon, it might be best to prepare the morning tea and biscuits herself, and keep something back for Aunt Cassie to eat when she rose.

  The only thing was, she couldn't find anything but coffee in the cupboards. She despised that bitter brew, and besides, just because she found herself in the wilds of the West didn't mean she couldn't maintain some semblance of civility.

  But did she have time to run back to the general store and pick up some tea before the biscuits baked, or should she wait until she got back before she made them? The town wasn't that large at all, as she'd been able to determine when she arrived yesterday at the stable and stage stop catty-corner and a little west across the street from her aunt's house. It didn't look like there were more than a dozen and a half buildings total, evenly divided on each side of the street.

  She'd had to cross the street and pass the stable this morning in order to talk to that darned Ranger, and she'd passed only a couple other buildings before she came to the jailhouse. She had noticed the general store on the opposite side of the street, however, the same side as her aunt's house sat on. There was an intersecting street between the house and the main street of the town, but she should have plenty of time to get to the store and back if she walked swiftly.

  Just then, her stomach growled, making the decision for her. She hurriedly mixed the biscuits and popped them in the oven. Leaving the house once again, she headed for the general store.

  As she neared the store, she could hear a wagon coming down the street behind her. The only other sign of life, except for the mangy hound raising its leg next to one of the hitching rails, was that Texas Ranger lazing in front of the jailhouse again. He definitely wasn't asleep, although she had no idea how she could be aware of him watching her when he was that far away. Her stomach clenched as she recalled how far back she'd had to crane her neck to meet those whiskey-hued eyes when he finally deigned to look at her a while ago. Had he been standing in the street, with the sun at his back, she would have been completely engulfed by the shadow of those broad shoulders.

  His narrow hips had seemed barely wide enough to hold up the gunbelt with two deadly-looking pistols riding low on his thighs. But when he had nonchalantly strolled down into the street to retrieve his hat, she'd realized the bulk of the weight rested on a well-formed rear. The skin-tight denims outlined every curve, hugging the long expanse of his legs and fitting like an extra layer of leather over his boot tops.

  Chastising herself for even the memory of that outlandish sight — and her extremely unladylike reaction to it — she could barely keep from waving a hand in front of her flushed cheeks. Land sakes, it was hot in this town, even on the shaded boardwalk. She should have picked up her parasol before she left the house. Then she could have shifted it sideways to block the gaze from the other side of the street.

  He'd used those whiskey-brown eyes to try to intimidate her in his office, but she'd been distracted by the shining blackness of his hair and the rugged planes of his face. It should be against the law for a man that good-looking to have such an obnoxious personality. But then, he was the only law available here, from what her aunt said.

  And to be honest — which she prided herself on being — part of her indignation had been because of his rude attitude, fostered by his apparent indifference toward her. Why, from what she'd read, she expected Western men to exhibit a more reverent manner toward women. She was no slouch in the looks department, and she'd certainly had her share of beaus back in St. Louis. However, Jake Cameron had stared down at her as though she were a pesky fly buzzing around that run-down office.

  Just then, he raised his hand and very deliberately tilted his hat up just a tad. Land sakes, had he put that muddy hat back on over his clean hair? Didn't the man have any pride? Oh, he must have another hat, because that one was a couple of shades darker than the one she'd knocked off his head.

  An older man emerged from the doorway behind the Ranger, blowing on the rim of a cup in his hand. The Ranger kept his gaze on her, though, instead of turning away to speak to his companion. She guessed he was practicing ignoring people once again. She very deliberately lifted her nose a trifle and stared straight ahead, telling her mind to concentrate on tea, not whiskey-colored eyes.

  The wagon reached the general store at the same time she did, and the woman driving it pulled to a stop. Sunny nodded a brief greeting, then tugged on the door of the store. It refused to budge, and she stepped back a pace, frowning at the closed sign in the window.

  "Fred doesn't usually open for another hour yet," the woman in the wagon called to her. "But I'm fixing to pick up some supplies I ordered, so I can let him know you're down here. He lives above the store."

  Sunny stifled a horrified gasp as the woman climbed down from the wagon. She wore . . . pants. And they were every bit as skintight as those denims on the Ranger. Embarrassed, she quickly focused her gaze on the woman's face, feeling a surge of pity for her that was not entirely due to her plainness.

  She couldn't have been more than ten years older than Sunny. The sun had frizzed her dark-brown locks, and lighter streaks filtered through them. She'd cut her hair so short that it barely swung down to her shoulders. A man's hat hung down her back, probably more often there than on her head.

  Tiny wrinkle lines had already settled in the outer corners of her brown eyes. And such sad eyes. Shadows filled them for an instant before the woman visibly straightened her shoulders with an effort and spoke again.

  "I'm Mary Lassiter."

  "Sunny Fannin," Sunny responded. "And I suppose I could wait until the owner decides to open, but my aunt appears to be out of tea. I wanted to have breakfast ready for her when she woke."

  "Tea?" Mary chuckled wryly. "I doubt you'll find any tea in Fred's store. You can ask him to order some, but since his new order just came in, you'll probably have to wait a month or two."

  "Oh, for pity's sake. I could get it quicker by writing to one of my friends back East and having her mail it to me."

  "That would be faster," Mary agreed. "Well, it was nice meeting you. But I need to get my supplies and hurry back to the ranch. We're de-horning the yearlings today, and cas . . . uh . . . taking care of that other nasty job with them."

  "Other job?" Sunny unfortunately asked.

  "Um . . . you know." A brief flash o
f amusement lit Mary's eyes. "Making them into steers instead of bulls, so they're not so randy they fight with each other all the time when they should be grazing and putting on weight."

  "Oh!" When she understood the meaning of Mary's words, a giggle erupted from Sunny's mouth. She tried to smother it with a hand over her lips, but Mary laughed too, and Sunny immediately forgot her embarrassment and joined her.

  "I don't suppose that works on human males," Sunny found herself daring to say when she could speak. "At least not your Western males. Why, every one of them I've seen since I left St. Louis has carried a gun and just bristled with the urge to draw it and protect himself."

  She wrinkled her nose and cast a disparaging look across the street. "Well, at least almost every one. That Ranger over there acts like it would be an effort to flick a fly off his nose."

  "Never underestimate Jake," Mary said in a warning voice. "He's the reason I can come into town alone, without wearing my own pistol and having to bring half my crew with me. I still carry my rifle under the wagon seat, but it's more habit than because I really need it."

  "You . . . you wear a pistol?"

  "I can hit what I aim at, too," Mary informed her. "And with the rifle. Nowadays, though, I usually only shoot a rattlesnake once in a while. Or a coyote that thinks my henhouse holds a free meal."

  "Hmm," Sunny mused. "Since I'm going to be a Western woman, at least for a while, maybe I should learn how to shoot a gun."

  "Tell you what. Give me a week or so to get the cattle taken care of, then ride on out to my ranch and I'll give you a lesson. I've got a stash of tea, too. I still had plenty left, so I didn't order any this time, or I'd give you some before I leave. But if you get desperate for a pot, maybe I could send one of my hands into town in a couple of days."