“Why now, Miss Steele?” he asked, his voice just as sad as the expression in his now gun-metal gray eyes.
Her heart beat a little faster, and her stomach tightened. She’d made a mistake. A big one, judging by the look on his face. Regret filled her for even asking him to relive the horrors he’d seen, and yet, she forged on despite his sorrow, determined, and perhaps a little desperate to prove to her father she could do this. “I’m sure you’re aware that Jeff Logan’s prison term is almost over. I’d like to get your thoughts on his upcoming release.”
He took another breath and let it out slowly. His gaze never left hers. “Miss Steele, over the years, there has been a number of journalists who have approached me, though none nearly as lovely as you, and I’ll tell you exactly what I told them. I am no hero, simply a man doing his job . . . and not very well at that.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t become hard, and his words did not become terse, but still, there was a firmness to his tone that, aside from his expression, told her she had gone too far. The use of her last name instead of her first was the other clue.
“I have no interest in being interviewed by you or anyone else. My story, as you put it, is my own, as are my thoughts, and I have no desire to share them. I most certainly don’t want to talk about the Logan Gang or what happened here.” He picked up a pipe from the glass dish to the side of him and stuck it in his mouth. The bowl moved a bit as he clamped down on the stem, the only sign that he was, in fact, irritated. “Was there anything else I can help you with, Miss Steele?”
Ryleigh studied him and knew the interview was over. More importantly, she knew she’d upset him. Sympathy for what must have been the most devastating time in his life rushed through her, making her face flush and her stomach tighten a bit more. She wasn’t nearly as hard-hearted as she’d just portrayed herself to be, but her father’s words―a woman has no place being a journalist. She doesn’t have what it takes to get the story―rang in her ears. Perhaps her father was right.
She shook her head, an apology on the tip of her tongue, but before she could utter a word, he rose from his seat, strode across the room, and opened the door. He took the unlit pipe from his mouth and stood there, his hand on the knob, those silvery eyes of his boring into her. They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity until she stood and stuffed her belongings into her satchel. She couldn’t give up now, not when she’d come so far, but there was no reason why she couldn’t take a step or two back and regroup.
“You may not be willing to talk with me, Sheriff, but there are others in Paradise Falls who won’t hesitate, I’m sure.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. She moved toward him, again with an apology that stuck in her throat, and the open door, then stopped in the doorway and studied him, noticing for the first time the small scar on the very edge of his chin as her gaze traveled up to his eyes.
Teague’s gaze remained steady. No smile graced his lips. In fact, whatever welcome there had once been in his expression was completely gone, and his voice, when he finally spoke, was tight. “Miss Steele, I really don’t care who you talk to. You could interview Shotgun . . . ” She smiled at that, but he didn’t. “But you won’t get anything from him aside from the complaint that I don’t pet his belly enough.”
The door closed behind her, not with a slam, but with a quietness that was somehow more final.
“You certainly handled that well, didn’t you?” Ryleigh castigated herself as she let out her breath in a long sigh and crossed the street. She stopped on the sidewalk in front of the saloon and turned around, feeling as if someone watched her. Perhaps it was Sheriff MacDermott making sure she returned to her hotel.
She stared at the door to his office, willing the portal to open.
It stubbornly remained closed.
She was tempted to go back over there and confront the sheriff again―this time to apologize for her insensitivity. He might or might not accept that from her. From the expression in his eyes as she left she was pretty sure she’d lost any chance of getting to know him better. And that was a shame. He seemed to be a nice man. A good man.
She swept into the Prentice Hotel minutes later, still chastising herself for her lack of kindness, though that didn’t help her situation.
Chatter came from the dining room to the right of the stairs leading to the second floor. She glanced up at the landing and pursed her lips. She didn’t want to go to her room, where she would be alone with her thoughts over how unsympathetic and unkind she’d been with the sheriff. What she wanted was to console herself with a piece of chocolate cake. It wouldn’t solve her problem, but somehow, things became a little more bearable with her favorite dessert, especially if the frosting was thick and creamy. If the hotel didn’t have it on the menu, perhaps she could persuade them to add it or let her in the kitchen to make it herself.
There were many things she couldn’t do, such as walk a straight line without tripping or dance gracefully, but she could bake. Quite well, actually. Just the thought of tying an apron around her waist―she was definitely the kind of woman who needed an apron―and measuring out ingredients always made her feel better, and maybe she’d be able to forget her disastrous meeting with Sheriff MacDermott. For now.
“Miss Steele, welcome.” Krissa Prentice met her at the doorway to the dining room, her arms full of menus. Prentice Hotel was embossed in gold on the dark leather jackets. “Will you be dining alone?”
She didn’t know anyone, had only arrived in town a few short hours ago, but she didn’t mind dining by herself. She did so on a regular basis. It never bothered her . . . until now. “Yes, it seems . . . yes.”
“I have the perfect table for you. If you’ll follow me?” Krissa led her inside the dining room, their footsteps on the hardwood floor swallowed up by the sound of diners conversing with one another or giving orders to the wait staff, and the clink of cutlery against fine china. The room was wonderfully appointed on the same scale as any grand hotel in San Francisco―potted plants, champagne-colored wallpaper, not one but two chandeliers, floor to ceiling sheer draperies in pale blue over floor to ceiling windows that let in plenty of natural light―not exactly what Ryleigh expected to see in a small town in Colorado, but delightful nonetheless.
“Miss Steele?”
Ryleigh glanced to her right at the man dining at a table by one of the windows. The table had been set for two, but he was alone. The occupant on the other chair was his hat.
He rose from his seat. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“Of course I do. Deputy Travers, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced past her, his glance meeting Krissa’s for a brief moment before focusing on her once again. “If you’re not meeting with anyone, please join me.”
“If you’re sure I won’t be intruding.”
The man shook his head, then grabbed his hat from the chair and hung it on the spindle of his own chair. “Not intruding at all. In fact, I’d love the company. My com―friend . . . that is to say . . . my . . . Bethany—”
“Roy Travers, everyone knows Bethany Silas is your sweetheart,” Krissa broke in, a big grin on her face. She brought the menus up and hugged them to her chest. “It’s the worst-kept secret in town. Just call her that and be done with it.” Her grin widened. It was obvious to Ryleigh that the two were friends. It was even more obvious that Krissa said what was on her mind, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d offered her opinion. Or the last. At least, that was Ryleigh’s impression from watching them. It was hard to miss.
“She’d probably like it if you called her wife.” Krissa winked.
The deputy’s face flamed red, and his mouth opened and closed several times before he said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take that into consideration.”
Ryleigh struggled to keep the smile from her face.
“You do that, but don’t take too long.” Krissa laid a menu on the table. “She’s a fine woman.”
“Yes,
Miss Bossy Britches.”
Miss Bossy Britches? Ryleigh swallowed her surprised chuckle. Krissa didn’t respond to the nickname, but she did blush and hurry back to her post at the doorway. Roy tilted his head as he watched her, a mix of affection and exasperation in his eyes. Ryleigh half expected him to stick out his tongue. “My sister. Older than me by three minutes. Thinks she can still boss me around like she did when we were kids.”
Now that he’d mentioned it, she did see the resemblance between the two in the dark blond hair and hazel eyes, although that’s where the similarity ended. No one looking at them would assume they were twins.
He pulled out the chair and took her from her thoughts. “Please.”
“Thank you. This is very kind.”
“Not at all. I’m dining alone. You’re dining alone.” He shrugged and waved away the sentiment. “Was Sheriff MacDermott able to help you?”
She shook her head as she slid into her seat and allowed him to push the chair in for her. “No, not really.”
The deputy tilted his head, surprise registering on his face as he settled himself in his own chair, then gestured to the small carafe of coffee on the table. “That doesn’t seem like Teague. He’s the most helpful person I know.” He didn’t wait for her consent as he grabbed the carafe and poured coffee into her cup. “What was it that you needed?”
“I wanted to interview him for an article I’m writing for the San Francisco Tribune.”
Understanding dawned on the man’s face. “You’re a journalist?” His tone was both belittling and awestruck at the same time. There weren’t many women journalists around, except for the very famous ones like Nellie Bly, who’d spent ten days in an insane asylum and written about the experience. Chances were, Roy had never seen one. At least, not in person. “And what would this interview be about?”
Was he truly interested? Or just being polite? He seemed earnest enough, though there were still questions in his eyes. She’d seen that before . . . and decided to ignore it, as she always did. There were many who didn’t believe she was a journalist or that a woman, the so-called weaker sex, could be one. “It would be a human interest piece. People want to know about Teague MacDermott, the sheriff who nearly destroyed the Logan Gang. They want to know how he feels about Jeff Logan, the last member of the gang, getting released from prison. They want to see his words. They want to know everything that happened the day the Logans came through town.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I’ve known that man since we were both twelve years old. Been friends with him that long, too, and I’m here to tell you, he ain’t gonna talk about that day. Hasn’t uttered a single word about it since it happened, and I ’spect he won’t. Ever. I think it’s too painful for him. Believe me, I’ve tried.” He picked up his menu and perused the contents but didn’t stop talking.
“It was a bad day, Miss Steele. The worst I can remember in Paradise Falls.” He sighed as he closed his menu and put it down on the table. “Can’t rightly say I blame Teague for not talking about it.”
“But you were there,” she prompted, hoping he, at least, would talk. It wouldn’t be the same as Sheriff MacDermott telling her what happened, but it was a start. At this point, anything would help, considering how badly she had botched her meeting with the sheriff. And he hadn’t forbidden her from talking to anyone else, which made Deputy Travers the ideal person to begin with. Who better to give her insights to Sheriff MacDermott than his deputy?
“I was. Got the scar to prove it.” He said it with a touch of pride mixed with anguish, then ran his hand over his shoulder.
“Do you mind if I take notes?” Without waiting for an answer, Ryleigh pulled her notebook from the satchel and laid it open on the table. She rummaged in her bag and found a pencil, then sat, poised for his first words. When they didn’t come right away, she studied his face and realized, perhaps too late, that she was once again expecting too much. He opened his mouth then closed it, his gaze drifting to the menu then the notebook open on the table instead of meeting hers.
“Come to think of it, Miss Steele―”
“Ryleigh, please.”
“I’ve never really talked about that day, either.”
She nodded, realizing the man was clearly uncomfortable, then smiled as she put the notebook away. It may have been the very sight of the open notebook which made him reticent to share his eyewitness account. “Perhaps after we’ve dined, you’ll feel more inclined to tell me what happened.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Maybe. Maybe not. Some memories are too painful and need to be left alone. Can’t keep poking at a wound and expect it to heal.”
Later, after dinner, Ryleigh settled herself in front of the typewriter she’d placed on a table on the veranda outside her room, and began to type, recalling almost verbatim what little Roy had shared.
He’d spoken about everything except the day the Logans rode into town: about growing up in Paradise Falls, and the mischief he’d gotten into with the MacDermott brothers―Kieran, Brock, Eamon, and, of course, Teague. He spoke about going off to university to study law only to realize he didn’t want to prosecute or defend criminals. He wanted to catch them, like his father had, like Teague, himself, who had easily slipped into the role of sheriff when his father passed away and continued to win election after election to remain sheriff despite what had happened. According to Roy, Teague MacDermott could do no wrong in the eyes of the townspeople.
When she was done, she realized she knew nothing more about the infamous gunfight than she did before, but she had learned more about Teague MacDermott, things that hadn’t been in the newspapers, and what he’d been like before the tragedy that had befallen his family. And what she’d heard, she liked.
Chapter Three
“Can I pour you another cup of coffee?”
Startled from her thoughts, Ryleigh jumped, then gave a little laugh. “Yes, please.”
Krissa poured and nodded toward the open notebook on the table. “Roy told me you were a journalist, writing about Teague and the Logans and what happened the day they rode into town.” She placed the coffeepot on the table, her hand finding her hip as her gaze went once more to the book. “How’s it going?”
Ryleigh let out a sigh. “As well as can be expected, I suppose, considering the sheriff won’t talk to me.”
The woman laughed. “It’s not just you, honey. He won’t talk to anyone about that. We’ve all tried. Roy, Nate Finch, Cooter Henry. Lucky and Dal. Even the right honorable Reverend Miller. Michaela tried, too, before she gave up and left town. He won’t say a word. Not even to me, and between all of us, we were the closest. We all grew up together, been friends for more years than I can count, except for Michaela. She came to Paradise Falls later and knocked our Sheriff right off his feet.”
She laughed again. “And if you think Teague is the silent type, you should meet his brothers. Even when we were kids, Brock didn’t talk much. From what I’ve heard, he still doesn’t. And Eamon was quiet, too, but not as quiet as Brock.”
Her eyes glowed, and her smile grew as she spoke about the MacDermott brothers and the part they’d played in her childhood. “Kieran was the oldest of the MacDermott boys. He could charm the rattle from a rattlesnake. He was the most like their father. And Shamus! Oh, he could talk, telling stories of Ireland and how keeping the law was the MacDermott family tradition. His father and his father’s father had done so in Kilkenny, where Shamus grew up. He had that fine Irish lilt that you could listen to forever. And the more whiskey he drank, the more pronounced it became. Sometimes, that lilt slips into Teague’s speech, too. Oh, he’ll deny it, but it’s there.”
She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. “I remember Shamus sitting on the swing on their back porch on warm summer nights, small glass of whiskey in one hand, pipe in the other, and talking about keeping law in the old country, while one of us neighbor kids cranked the handle of the ice cream maker.” A lovely blush spread over her face as
more recollections surfaced, the memories of her youth making her appear younger than her years, which Ryleigh guessed was only a few years older than her own thirty. “And just listen to me, rattling on like neither of us has anything important to do.”
Ryleigh grinned at her. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Mrs. Prentice.”
The woman returned her grin and picked up the coffeepot. “After standing here flappin’ my gums at you, you should probably call me Krissa.”
“And you should call me Ryleigh.”
The woman nodded, then hurried off to fill someone else’s coffee cup. Ryleigh watched her for a moment, then quickly jotted more notes in her notebook as well as the names Krissa had mentioned. She smiled, picturing the sheriff as a young boy listening to his father with rapt attention, learning about the law at the man’s feet. No wonder the MacDermott boys, with the exception of Kieran, grew up to carry on the family tradition. According to several newspaper articles she’d read, Brock had been sheriff in Pueblo and Eamon a U.S. Marshal at the time of the Logan gun battle. Keeping law and order was in their blood just like ink was in hers.
She glanced out the window. Several children were walking along the street beside the town square across from her, heading to the school at the edge of town. The children weren’t alone. Sheriff MacDermott, along with Shotgun, walked with them, hat pulled low to shade his eyes from the morning sun. There was no denying it was him, even if she couldn’t see his face. He walked with confidence, shoulders back, spine straight, but kept his stride much shorter than usual in deference to the children, especially the little girl whose hand he held.
She was adorable. Just a tiny thing with light brown hair done up in ringlets that bounced against her back. The untied shoelace of one shoe dragged on the ground with each step she took. She didn’t seem to mind.
A Kiss in the Sunlight Page 3