The Sheriffs of Savage Wells

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Easier for him, certainly, but I’d guess it’s harder on you. It is a painful thing to be unable to help someone, whether a family member or a patient.”

  “We are a maudlin pair, aren’t we?” Paisley shook off the heavy emotions, not wishing to dwell on them. She had no desire to grow teary at a town social. “Has Cade arrived yet?”

  “He has.”

  “And did he come in a shirt he sewed himself?”

  Gideon nodded.

  It would do the absurdly confident Cade a world of good to be forced to admit he wasn’t particularly good at something, especially when she happened to be relatively good at that same something.

  They joined a small gathering of townsfolk.

  “Is this your new dress?” Mrs. Endicott asked.

  “It is.”

  “Lovely,” Mrs. Endicott said. “And I see you’ve left off the pistol this evening.” Her gaze dropped to where Paisley usually wore her gun belt.

  “I am not acting as sheriff today,” Paisley explained. “Mr. O’Brien will have to do all of the shooting this evening.”

  From just behind Mrs. Endicott, Miss Dunkle’s voice joined the conversation. “I hope that doesn’t prove necessary. It would be a shame to risk tearing or dirtying his lovely new shirt.”

  Lovely new shirt?

  Mrs. Endicott stepped aside, offering Paisley a clear view of Cade standing there, watching her. Beneath his plain-cut jacket and black vest, he wore what looked like a perfectly acceptable shirt.

  Cade pulled off his jacket, giving everyone a more detailed look at his entry in their match of skill. Though the bulk of the shirt was tucked out of sight beneath his badge-bearing vest, the most difficult parts of the endeavor were clearly visible. The collar fit well. The sleeves were the proper length. His cuffs were even.

  Surprise tied her tongue for a moment. She popped her hands on her hips and circled about him, studying the shirt he had apparently sewed himself. “You made this on your own?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m a man of hidden talents.”

  She met his laughing gaze. “I was not at all expecting this. You can sew.” Voicing that declaration drove home the truth of it. This was her challenge, the only one she was sure to win, and he hadn’t told her the truth.

  He smiled triumphantly. “Did I ever mention the factory I worked in during my childhood?”

  “Vaguely,” she said warily.

  “Horrid place,” he continued. “Nothing but tiny children’s hands running great, big machines, making clothes we couldn’t even afford.”

  “Making clothes? Let me guess, you specialized in shirts.”

  “Fastest seven-year-old shirtmaker in Boston.” He bowed ever-so-slightly.

  “I hate you,” she muttered.

  “No, you don’t.” He turned to Gideon. “You’re not necessarily neutral, but you are on the town council, Doc. Who do you declare the winner?”

  Not necessarily neutral. What did Cade mean by that?

  Miss Dunkle replied before Gideon could. “Mr. O’Brien did wonderful work. And that talent is so uncommon for a man, I think he deserves extra consideration.”

  Cade waved off her argument. “Skill against skill alone.”

  As if the admission pained her, Miss Dunkle added, “Well. There is some unevenness in the seams of the dress. The workmanship isn’t perfect, but it isn’t terrible, either.”

  Paisley knew the description was accurate, but Miss Dunkle added more than the necessary amount of doubt to her tone.

  “Looks like a fine bit of work to me,” Thackery chimed in. The more Paisley got to know him, the more she liked him. He was a good-hearted sort of person. And he’d left off his sweat-stained hat tonight in favor of slicked back hair. He looked almost like a different person.

  Rice was eyeing her and Cade far more critically than Thackery had. The man seldom had anything positive to say, so Paisley braced herself for the inevitable. “The shirt was a surprise,” he said. “But Miss Bell’s is the better entry. I’d give this victory to her.”

  Cade’s look of surprise no doubt matched her own. Rice offering a compliment? Maybe there was more to him than sour expressions and strutting about.

  “Your shirt is impressive, Cade.” Gideon stepped up even with the both of them. “But, though it apparently would not meet the most scrutinizing eye of one demanding perfection, I have to declare that Paisley’s dress is remarkable. I give this victory to her.”

  Did he mean it? She’d been lied to often enough.

  Gideon held up his hands in a show of innocence. “I don’t know what it is you suspect me of, but that is an accusatory look if ever I saw one.”

  “I’m only trying to be certain you are sincere in declaring me the winner.” She watched him closely. “I’ll not accept a pity win.”

  “Dagnabbit, you’re stubborn.” Cade took a step closer and spoke under his breath. “You did fine work and won handily. All four of us agreed on that.” He motioned to Gideon, Thackery, and Rice. “It’s for you to accept the victory so we can all get on with the social.”

  Why was it her cautiousness always seemed to prick men’s impatience? Gideon was forever telling her, in tones of exasperation, that she needed to stop second-guessing everything. She didn’t think she was as bad as all that, but it kept happening.

  As Rice and Thackery wandered back into the crowd, Paisley heard Rice say under his breath, “It isn’t as though tonight’s competition is going to count for anything.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Pais,” Gideon said. “He’s just grumbling because he knew he would have lost.”

  Even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered. Paisley was willing to accept the win, she just wished it could have been a victory that would matter.

  “Sheriff O’Brien.” Miss Dunkle was suddenly there, placing herself between Paisley and Cade. She slipped her arm through his, sparing only a momentary glance for Paisley. “I believe this is our dance. It seems to have arrived swifter than you anticipated.”

  “Moments of reckoning often do,” Cade muttered. “Come on, then.”

  Miss Dunkle blinked a few times at Cade’s less-than-enthusiastic tone. Paisley bit back a smile. He ought to at least pretend the prospect wasn’t horrible.

  Miss Dunkle pulled him toward the dance floor. Several couples stepped out as well. Paisley stood alone along the outskirts. The pattern held true as the evening dragged on.

  Gideon passed by after a half hour. “You look upset.”

  “Only a little disappointed. I had hoped to dance tonight, but no one’s asked me.”

  He chuckled. “Probably because you’re glaring at everyone. The poor fellows are likely scared out of their wits.”

  Her shoulders dropped in a sigh. “I have never been any good at this. Set me in a room with a dance floor and I’m lost. Put a gun in my hand and tell me to track down an outlaw, well, that’s another thing entirely.”

  “And you do it in dresses you sewed yourself.” Gideon never could resist a jesting response.

  “Fine dresses seem more suited to these occasions, don’t you think?” There were certainly quite a few of them in the room. “Maybe I’m just not well suited to—”

  “I swear, if Petulant Paisley makes an appearance tonight—”

  “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  “Then quit deserving it,” he said. “Enjoy yourself. Stop assuming the worst in everyone, including yourself.”

  She took a deep breath. This was an old argument, one best left in the past. “Miss Green has been eyeing you for the better part of five minutes, Gid. You should ask her to dance.”

  He shook his head, his good humor somewhat restored. “If I dance with her, she’ll assume I’m courting her, a notion I’ve been trying to disabuse her of for a year now. I’ll just go chat w
ith Mrs. Wilhite and Mrs. Carol for a time. They won’t try to sink their claws into me.”

  “I don’t know about that. You’re quite the catch, Doc.” She smiled at him.

  “Give the men of Savage Wells a fighting chance, will you, Pais?” he said. “Try to look like you wouldn’t be entirely put out if they asked you to dance.”

  “I’ll summon every acting skill I possess,” she replied. When he looked as though he thought she was serious, she gave his shoulder a shove. “I really would enjoy being asked to dance, and I’ll work at making sure it shows in my face. Good enough?”

  “Good enough.” He gave her fingers a quick squeeze before making his way toward Mrs. Wilhite and Mrs. Carol sitting by the punch bowl.

  Paisley made certain she wasn’t scowling. She kept herself from crossing her arms in a look of defiance. Gideon was right: She’d never get to dance if she kept scaring people off.

  Not a moment later, Cade caught her eye from across the room. He was dancing with Miss Dunkle. Again. Paisley smiled, expecting a look of commiseration or shared humor. His expression, however, was one of a sheriff seeing to a problem.

  He pulled his hand free of Miss Dunkle’s long enough to point at something behind Paisley.

  She looked over her shoulder and knew in an instant what had drawn Cade’s attention. Her papa was engaged in a rather heated discussion with Ned Perkins, and neither of them appeared likely to keep things civilized.

  She crossed to where they stood nearly nose to nose. “Men.” She addressed them in her firmest, most authoritative tone. “What seems to be the difficulty?”

  “He’s a blustering old fool.” Ned swayed as he made the accusation.

  “I’m a fool, am I?” Papa seemed every bit as unstable. “No more of a fool than…a fool.”

  The slightly slurred words combined with both men’s inability to stand entirely upright were her first clues. The real clincher, though, was the smell on their breaths.

  She stepped over to the punch bowl and lifted up a ladleful. The fumes were strong and unmistakable. “Did you add any liquor to the punch?” she asked Mrs. Carol.

  “None at all.”

  “Well, then, someone else has done it for you.” She set the ladle back.

  In a flurry of skirts and gloves, Mrs. Endicott, Mrs. Carol, and Mrs. Wilhite bustled about Gideon as he lifted the heavy punch bowl and headed out to dispose of the tainted liquid.

  “You went an’ got the punch tossed out,” Ned growled at Papa. “I worked hard at that!”

  She might have known Ned had been the one to add spirits.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Papa slurred. “And you’re nothing but a scoundrel.”

  Ned shoved Papa. “Better a scoundrel than brain-scrambled.”

  Paisley only just managed to keep Papa on his feet. “You’d best keep a civil tongue, Ned,” she warned.

  “He’s a loon,” Ned said. He stumbled on his next lunge at Papa. “Drunken old fool.”

  “I’m not a fool.” Papa’s declaration was too slurred to be authoritative.

  “Are too. Waiting around for a wife who’s dead.”

  That was way beyond the line.

  “Don’t you talk about my wife.” Papa swung at Ned, losing his precarious balance. He bumped into the table. A slice of cake tumbled onto the floor.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Ned pointed at the cake with growing fury. “You killed the cake!”

  Ned pushed Papa again, starting a shoving match between them. Partygoers scrambled away. A few of the ladies gasped. Gideon rejoined the scene in that very moment.

  “Sorry about this,” Paisley said and tugged at his necktie, untying it in one smooth motion and pulling it from his neck.

  She quickly looped it about and slung it around one of Ned’s wrists. His surprise gave her enough time to tie up his other hand as well, pinning both his arms to his back.

  “Paisley, what are you doing?” Papa slurred.

  “Keeping the peace.” She eyed her father pointedly. “Come along. Don’t make me tie you up as well.”

  “Tie me—?” He stared in shock.

  “Just come along, please,” she insisted.

  Cade reached her side just as she stepped out of the restaurant with the two combatants. “I can take over from here. You’re not the one on duty tonight.”

  “No, but I am the one you asked to see to this. I’ll manage this lot; you straighten up the mess in there.” She motioned toward the restaurant with her head. “We don’t have enough room in the jail for the entire town to sober up.”

  He hesitated, as though unconvinced she was equal to the task of escorting two drunks, who were quickly growing more maudlin than anything else, to a couple of quiet cells across the street.

  “I’ve locked people up before,” she told him. “I can manage it again.”

  Rice stepped out and joined them as well. “It’s not your day, though. It’s hardly sporting to make a show of doing sheriff work when you aren’t the one acting as sheriff.”

  Maybe that was the real reason Cade was objecting. “I’m not trying to take over or make a show,” she said. “I just know these two, and I know how to handle them.”

  Rice didn’t care for that explanation. “Know them or not, it’s not your day.”

  She could see this wouldn’t be an easily won argument. She turned her attention fully to Cade. “If you insist on taking them in, I won’t stop you. But Ned’ll be passed out shortly, and my father will still need looking after. And he is my father. I think you can allow me to see to his welfare without feeling threatened by it.”

  His brow furrowed. “You’re certain you don’t mind missing the rest of the social?”

  “Believe me, I’m not heartbroken over it.” She was disappointed, certainly, but not devastated. She might have secured a dancing partner once she’d gotten her scowl under control, but there would be other chances.

  She gave Ned a nudge. “One foot in front of the other, Ned. You’re gonna sleep it off behind bars.”

  Ned pulled at his cloth shackles. The man was desperate to be seen as a rough-and-tumble outlaw. He’d managed it for one night, anyway.

  “You’ll rue the day you arrested Dead Ned—”

  “—the Wyoming Kid,” Paisley finished for him. “I rue it already, compadre.”

  Cade had little patience for women who sat around weeping and waiting for someone to solve all of their problems. His ma and her fiery determination had neatly destroyed for him the notion of women as the “weaker” sex. He didn’t expect women to be pugilists or steel drivers, but he far preferred when they showed a little backbone. Paisley’s cool handling of the disturbance that night placed her firmly on his list of fiery women.

  The approach of Miss Dunkle—once again—forced him to amend his requirements. The schoolteacher certainly was one to take charge but not in a way that inspired admiration. Truth be told, the woman was a bit terrifying. She had the single-mindedness of a bird of prey with none of the elegant grace.

  “I still can hardly believe you sewed that shirt yourself.” Miss Dunkle’s talons sunk into his arm.

  “This shirt is the lingering remains of my childhood, miss.” He managed to detach her. “I hadn’t the opportunity of attending school as some people do.”

  “I am sorry for that,” she said. “As a teacher, I, of course, wish all children could have a chance for learning.”

  “The children of this town are fortunate.” He watched a few of them, spinning about in the corner, laughing with one another. The children of Savage Wells were quite fortunate in a lot of things. Not all the young ones in the West had the luxury of play and laughter.

  “I think the social has been a success,” Miss Dunkle said. “I do wish Ned Perkins hadn’t undertaken his bit of mischief, but otherwise, the evening has been a fi
ne one. And the music has been perfect for dancing.”

  Miss Dunkle had corralled him into dancing with her twice that evening. He wouldn’t be roped into a third.

  “I’ll just be off to check in at the jailhouse.” He tipped his head and slipped from the restaurant with a speed that likely reeked of fear. He could see Miss Dunkle had designs on him, and while he could easily douse her enthusiasm, he didn’t care to hurt a woman’s feelings if he could avoid it. Even if avoiding it required avoiding her.

  A light burned inside the jailhouse. He pushed open the door. All was quiet. Ned had been rather tossed when Paisley had led him off, and her father hadn’t been far behind. Paisley sat at the desk, reading a book.

  “Is the social over already?” she asked, turning a page.

  “Not yet.” He stepped over to the first cell and glanced inside. Ned laid on his back on the cot, mouth hanging open, snoring quietly. “I’ve come to relieve you.”

  “And give up all this excitement for the dull, monotony of a town social?” She turned another page.

  Cade checked the next cell. Mr. Bell was also sleeping.

  “How many times did Miss Dunkle get you to dance with her?” Paisley asked. “Three? Four? A cool dozen?”

  He sat on the edge of the desk. “Laughing at me, are you?”

  She answered with a barely concealed smile.

  “Twice,” he said. “She made a stab at three. I don’t know whether to be flattered or frightened.”

  “Definitely frightened.” She looked entirely serious. “She is doggedly determined to snag herself a husband by fair means, thus far, though foul can’t be far off.”

  He shook his head even as he unbuckled his gun belt. He stood and hung it on its peg behind the desk. “Seems I was lucky I escaped the social with my life. Although seems to me there are a great many bachelors around these parts. My disinterest shouldn’t shake her prospects too greatly.”

  “Were she any other woman, it might not,” Paisley said. “But she’s not interested in a farmer or a rancher. She’s set her sights on something more sophisticated.”