“I wasn’t inviting you to my room. I was inviting you to see a typewriter.”
He took another slow sip of coffee. “Is that the reason you looked so skittish yesterday when they were hauling your trunk into the hotel?”
“I wasn’t skittish, but yes, I did have concerns. The machine was an investment, and I’m not in a position to replace it if it’s mishandled.”
“Don’t see why you need a machine. I can accomplish the same thing by pressing pencil to paper.”
“But is your handwriting legible? Is every letter perfect?”
“I can read it. That’s all that matters.”
She crossed the room back to his desk. “Well, unfortunately, in my profession, others have to be able to read what I write. Although my point was that I’m sure you could learn to use a typewriter and I could learn to use a gun.”
“Well, teaching you isn’t part of my job.”
“Why are you so ornery?” she asked, sitting back down in her chair.
“You’re disturbing my peace.”
There it was again. That word “peace.” He was cantankerous. And had gone back to staring at the cell.
She sighed. “When do you actually start to work, Sheriff?”
“I’m at work now.”
“You’re in your office, but I don’t see you working.”
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For trouble to come calling.”
She glanced around. “Surely, you must do something more than sit there all day … waiting.”
He slowly shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“How will you know when trouble arrives?”
“I’ll know.” He took another leisurely sip of that disgusting coffee. He turned his head to the side so he could see her. “Reckon there’s really no reason for you to stay.”
“On the contrary. I see no reason to leave.”
She noticed that a muscle in his jaw twitched.
“My day would make for mighty boring reading, Miss Jackson.”
She scooted up to the edge of her chair so she could rest her elbows on the desk. “It might, Sheriff, if I didn’t have such a vivid imagination. Besides, my job is to embellish the mundane.”
He narrowed his eyes, and that muscle twitched again. “I don’t see that there’s really anything for you to write about.”
Oh, but there was. Simply because he didn’t want her here was reason enough to be here. It was her stubborn nature that had allowed her to get published to begin with. Several of her works had been rejected by the publisher before she’d found a story that an editor had thought was worth telling.
She had a feeling that Matthew Knight had a story worth telling. Why else would he so desperately guard it?
“Where are you from, Sheriff?”
“Around.”
“Is that a town in Texas? I’m not familiar with it. Whereabouts is it located?”
She wasn’t certain, but she thought a corner of his mouth quirked up. Rather than answer her, he took another sip of his coffee.
Her stomach growled like a dog that had spied the sheriff’s undercooked tossed-out meat. She pressed her hand below her ribs, embarrassed by the noise.
“I have another can of beans,” he offered.
“Thank you, but I’m not really hungry.” If anything, she was feeling nauseous. She wondered if the only restaurant in town was open yet. She should probably go and have some decent breakfast, but she was certain that as soon as she left, the excitement would begin.
Settling back in her chair, she studied the posters on the wall. Men wanted for breaking the law. Rewards offered. Only a few had a likeness of the man printed on them. Most were descriptions only.
“Do you suppose outlaws take pride in the amount of their reward?”
“I doubt they take pride in anything.”
“Why would a man steal?” she asked. “Why would he kill?”
The muscle in his jaw jerked, and she remembered that he had killed. Was he haunted by his actions? How could he not be?
“Do you know the time?” she asked, refraining from asking him how it had felt, how he had dealt with it. If he wouldn’t tell her where he was from, he certainly wouldn’t share with her the doubts that might plague him.
He stretched back and pulled a pocket watch out of his trousers watch pocket. “Twelve minutes after seven.”
That was all? She’d thought it had to be at least ten. She got up, went to the window, and looked out on the town. She could see people moving about, sweeping the boardwalk, unloading wagons. “Shouldn’t you be out walking around?” she asked.
“Better to stay put in one place so people can find me if they need me.”
She spun around. “Don’t you get bored?”
He tipped his head back so he could see her. “I tried to tell you. Nothin’ exciting about my life.”
She released another sigh and returned to her chair. She wasn’t going to leave. “It would be a mite less boring if you’d at least answer my questions with some enthusiasm.”
“You wanted to follow my footsteps. I granted permission. I never said I’d answer questions.”
“It’s a little difficult to follow your footsteps when your boots seem to be permanently at rest.”
She was certain this time. His mustache moved; a corner of his mouth did shift up.
“This is my life, lady,” he said flatly.
“Fine. I can do this the hard way.” She picked up her paper and pencil. He said that he’d been around long enough, and she thought she might be able to gauge his age, but based on the deep lines fanning out from the visible corner of his eye, she didn’t think he was referring to years with his cryptic statement. The lines were many and deep. No doubt a result of squinting at the sun or carrying heavy burdens. Ruggedly handsome, he wasn’t at all hard on the eyes. Before he’d shaved this morning, she’d noted how thick his morning beard was. Probably one of the reasons he grew the mustache. He probably looked like a desperado by the end of the day. She wondered if that mustache would tickle if he kissed her. She supposed she could ask for research purposes. In her stories she always had a damsel in distress, and her hero always received a kiss at the end.
But she’d never had a hero with a mustache.
Her stomach rumbled again.
“Why don’t you mosey over to McGoldrick’s?” he suggested. “I’ll go over and get you if there’s any excitement.”
She presented what she hoped was her sweetest smile. “Why would I even contemplate exchanging the pleasure of your company for food?”
The door opened, and he grimaced. His booted feet hit the floor with a resounding thud as he sat up. “Not now, Doc,” he fairly growled.
“What do you mean not now?” asked the man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a white shirt with a black jacket. Over his arm dangled a wicker basket. “I have no plans to eat a cold breakfast.”
Breakfast?
She could smell enticing aromas wafting out of the basket as the man walked farther into the room.
“I didn’t know we’d have such lovely company for our morning ritual,” he said, setting the basket on the table.
“Morning ritual?” she asked, coming to her feet.
He removed his hat. His blond hair was shaggy, his light blue eyes twinkling. She thought he was close to the age of the sheriff, whatever age that might be.
“Why, yes, ma’am. The owner of the boardinghouse where I live cooks a hearty breakfast for the sheriff and me each morning. Since my cantankerous friend isn’t one to make introductions, allow me. I’m John Martin, and I’m assuming that you’re the writer everyone is whispering about this morning.”
She didn’t know whether to be glad that food had arrived or to throw something at Matthew Knight for feeding her horrid beans when he’d known food was coming. Warring against her instincts, she fought back her anger and decided to be pleasant. This man could no doubt provide her with infor
mation.
“I find it difficult to believe the sheriff has a friend,” she said sweetly.
“Not cooperating, is he?” He glanced at her cup on the desk. “Don’t tell me he gave you his awful coffee to drink.”
“Nothing wrong with my coffee,” Knight said.
John Martin shuddered. “As long as you were born without the ability to taste. Matt, why don’t you start setting the food out, while I fix us something proper to drink?”
He walked over to the stove, and Andrea leaned over the desk until her nose was almost touching the sheriff’s. While he’d offered beans, he’d known something better was coming.
“Don’t think I haven’t figured out your game. You promised me today, and I’m not about to walk out without a fight.”
“ ‘Sadly, his aim failed to equal his courage.’ One of your more memorable lines,” John told Andrea. “Although I was saddened that the poor man was done in by the outlaws.”
Matt sat behind his desk, watching with disgust as John poured on the charm and Andrea—Andi—lap-ped it up.
“I can’t believe that you’d remember the exact words,” she said. “I’m not sure the sheriff has even read one of my stories.”
“I’m not even sure he can read,” John said with a chuckle.
“I can read,” Matt muttered.
She looked at him now, a pinch of strawberry jam nestled at the corner of her mouth. His gut clenched with the thought of what it might be like to taste the jam and her mouth at the same time, just dip his tongue into that corner and …
“Have you ever read any of my novels?” she asked.
He wanted to lie, wanted her sparkling gaze directed at him instead of John, but his friend was a more likely hero. After all, he saved lives; he didn’t take them. “Not that I can recall.”
He dunked the biscuit into the bowl of gravy that Mrs. Winters had sent over with John. She prepared them a breakfast every morning, and John always brought it over. Matt felt a bit spiteful for having hoped that sitting here doing nothing, offering his poor excuse for a breakfast, would have sent Andrea on her way.
And when had he started to think of her as Andrea? Maybe as she’d watched him shave, the intimacy of it making him long for a woman who was there every morning as he prepared for the day. But a woman in his life would no doubt mean him being peppered with more questions than a writer might ask him.
Not that Andrea had asked him a lot of questions, but she’d sure taken a lot of danged notes.
“… sheriff going on three years now,” John said.
Matt snapped to attention, realizing he’d been focused on Andrea rather than the conversation going on around him.
“That’s not long considering the reputation he’s acquired,” she said. “Do you know where he lived before—”
“It’s not important,” Matt snapped. He glared at John. “Think you could content yourself with telling her your history instead of mine?”
“I was telling her my history. She asked how long I’d known you. Although I’ll admit that my history isn’t nearly as interesting.” He leaned toward Andrea. “Quite honestly, I don’t know his history. People come to Gallant to start over. Most leave their past at the edge of town.”
“Did you?” she asked quietly.
John shifted his gaze over to Matt, who took satisfaction in the look of discomfort on the man’s face. “Not so interesting when the questions are about your past, is it?”
John cleared his throat. “No, reckon it’s not.” He clapped his hands together. “So, are you going to give Andrea a tour of a day in the life of a lawman?”
Matt set his empty plate into the wicker basket, leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands behind his head. “This is it. What I do all day.”
“I didn’t fall for it before,” she said. “I’m not going to fall for it now.”
And dang it, if she didn’t look somewhat hurt.
“Dadgum it,” he growled. He stood, his chair making an awful scraping sound as it scooted back.
She jerked, her eyes growing wide.
“Let’s go,” he said, heading for the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To do my job.” He snatched his hat off the peg on the wall and looked back in time to see John grinning with satisfaction. The man probably thought he’d accomplished something. Lord only knew what.
“Reckon you’ll clean up the mess you made while you were here,” Matt said to John.
“As much as I’m able. I’m assuming you won’t be available for our weekly chess game this evening.”
“We’ll be back before sundown.”
“Still, I’ll assume you’ll be otherwise occupied, answering Andrea’s questions.”
“I’m not answering anything. I only promised she could follow in my footsteps, so following is all she’s going to do.” He glared at her, and she backed up a step before squaring her shoulders and taking a defiant step forward. “And you’re not going to ask anyone any questions about me.” He arched a brow. “Ain’t that right?”
“I’ll only observe, Sheriff. You won’t even know I’m there.”
Was she joshing? The only way he wouldn’t know she was there was if he was dead and long buried.
Five
Without hurry, he strode down the street as though he owned the very dust that his boot heels kicked up.
—From Tex Knight and the Devil’s Rope
by Andrea Jackson
Andrea couldn’t believe that he was actually allowing her to accompany him. Considering the various ways he’d attempted to discourage her this morning, she wasn’t quite sure if she should trust him now.
She wanted to ask where they were going and what they were going to do when they got there, but based on his unwillingness to share even the most mundane of facts with her, she decided peppering him with questions would only increase the tension radiating from him and possibly result in their returning to his office before she’d had an opportunity to observe anything of interest.
So she walked beside him … and periodically came to a stop so he could catch up. How could a man with such long legs walk so dang slow? It was obvious that he was a stranger to impatience, and she supposed that was a good thing in a lawman.
“In here,” he said when they reached the general store.
“What are we going to do here?” she asked.
His mustache twitched. “You’re the most question-asking person I’ve ever met.”
“If you’d willingly carry on a conversation, I wouldn’t have to prod you with questions.”
“I need some supplies.”
She sighed. Supplies. Specific was obviously not in the man’s vocabulary.
He held the door open, and she preceded him inside. It was typical of a general store, offering almost everything a person could think of.
“Morning, Matt,” the man behind the counter said.
“Tom. This here’s Miss Jackson—”
“The writer?” Tom asked, perking up. He came out from around the corner, wiping his hands on the white apron that circled his substantial girth. “I heard you were in town, and gonna write a story featuring the sheriff here. I’ll tell you there ain’t a finer man in all of—”
“Tom?” the sheriff barked.
Tom peered over at him. “Yes, sir?”
“She doesn’t need to hear all that. We’re just here for a lock.”
“Back of the store, bottom shelf.” Tom turned back to her. “Ma’am, it is an honor and a privilege to have you in my store. I have one of your books over here, just waiting to be bought. Would you like to see it?”
“I’m sure she’s seen her books,” the sheriff said.
She scowled at him. “It’s always exciting to actually see one in a store.” She turned back to Tom. “I’d love for you to show it to me.”
“Right this way.”
She glanced back at the sheriff. “Holler at me when you’ve got all your supplies.”
She fell into step beside Tom. “Do you sell a good many dime novels?”
“Yes, ma’am, especially when the cattle drives come through.” He stopped at a shelf on the far side of the counter and puffed out his chest. “Right there, ma’am.”
She had a sneaking suspicion that he’d moved her book to the top of the stack as soon as he’d heard she was in town on the off chance that she might just happen to come through.
“Do you know yet what you’re going to write about Matt? What kind of story it’ll be?”
She shook her head. “Right now the idea is just a seed.” Glancing back over her shoulder, she couldn’t see the sheriff. She’d promised him only that she wouldn’t ask the townsfolk questions about him. She turned back to Tom. “I’m trying to gather some information about the day the bank robbers came through.”
Tom shook his head like a buffalo on the range. “It was a sad day in this town. They killed Josh Logan before anyone knew what was going on. They came out of the bank shooting, guess they figured to scare people off, so they could hightail it out of town. But Matt didn’t hesitate. He just rushed toward ’em, rifle ablazing. Don’t know how he managed to be so accurate considering he was sick as a dog that day.”
“Sick?”
“Yes, ma’am. Saw him out behind the bank some time later, shaking like he had a terrible fever, puking up his insides, something violent. I fetched the doc right away. He couldn’t do nothing for the dead men, thought he needed to see—”
“We had a bargain.”
Rage slithered through the voice that had spoken, nearly stopping Andrea’s heart. Considering that Tom had gone as white as a sheet and was pressing his fist against his chest, she had a feeling that he felt the same way.
She twirled around, then stepped back. The sheriff’s anger was palpable, and it was terrifying to be on the receiving end of that heated glare.
“I gave you my word that I wouldn’t ask any questions about you, and I didn’t. I asked about the bank robbery,” she said, amazed that her voice came out as calmly as it did.
“You’re splitting hairs.”
“I need information that you’re not willing to give.”
“You’re morbid. Feeding on the misfortune of others. There’s no story here. I’m no hero. I told you that. Three men rode into town intent on taking money from the bank. Four men died. End of story. No happy ending.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Tom, tally up my expenses so I can get about my business.”
The Reluctant Hero Page 4