The Accidental Lawman (3 page)

“Until now.”

“Until now.”

They fell silent. She opened what proved to be a jar of salve.

“What is that? It smells awful.”

“Sweet oil salve. Of all the towns in Texas, how did you choose Glory, Mr. Larson?”

“No newspaper.”

“A wiser man might have realized that’s because there’s no news.”

“There’s always news, Miss Hawthorne. Life’s unfolding drama can be most interesting. It’s all in the telling. Life
is
news.” His voice trailed off into silence.

She hesitated before applying the ointment to his cut. He stiffened and drew back when her fingers touched his cheek.

“Will your family be joining you?”

“My family?” The words lodged in his throat.

She nodded. “Do you have family?”

Tricia and their stillborn son. They’d been his life, his hope, his joy, until God saw fit to take them both.

“Mr. Larson? Are you all right?”

He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes. He snapped them open. “I’m fine.”

“Hold still while I smear this on your cut. It may sting a little.”

A
little
was an understatement. The minute the ointment hit his torn skin, he almost bit through his cheek trying not to yell for mercy.

“What’s in there?”

“Linseed oil, sweet oil and a couple of secret ingredients.”

She leaned close and blew gently on the stinging cut. He found himself staring at the crown of her head, at the crooked part in her glossy auburn hair. Tricia would have never gone out in public unless her hair was perfectly coiffed and she was dressed in style.

Amelia Hawthorne, on the other hand, looked like she’d thrown herself together without thought. Her hair was a disaster. The cuffs of her blouse were frayed. Her skirt, spattered with Mrs. Cutter’s blood and missing a good portion of the hem, had seen better days long before this morning.

“There.” She sat back, satisfied with her work. If she realized he hadn’t answered her question about family, she deftly let it go.

“What do I owe you?” he asked.

“Owe me?” Her face went bright red. “Why, nothing.”

“You must not make much of a living doctoring if you don’t charge for your services.”

“It’s just a scratch. In a way, I feel responsible.”

“I ran into you.” They both said the same thing at once.

Hank chuckled for the first time in forever. Amelia didn’t.

He stood up and dug a dollar from his vest pocket and set the coin on the table. “Is that enough?”

“More than,” she said softly.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Amelia?” Perhaps she’d been far more shaken than she’d let on earlier. After all, a gun had gone off right beside her. Perhaps she’d been
thinking of the near miss when he caught her staring across the land a few minutes ago. For whatever reason, she was no longer acting like the plucky young woman he’d met in the bank. There were worry lines etched across her forehead and a distracted look in her eyes.

“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Really.”

“Then I’ll be on my way. Thanks again.” He started to walk away, to head back to his place, a former Chinese laundry turned newspaper publishing house.

“Mr. Larson!”

He was off the porch when she called to him. He turned and found her holding his flattened hat.

“You almost forgot this.”

He walked back, reached for it. “Thanks, I think.”

In that moment, as she stood there framed against the back porch looking bedraggled, worried and alone, he remembered that she hadn’t badgered him about family—as if she’d understood that he couldn’t bring himself to speak of them.

If there was one thing a reporter hated more than a dangling participle, it was an unanswered question. She’d asked. The least he could do was answer. He took a deep breath and steeled himself against the painful truth.

“My family won’t be joining me, Miss Hawthorne.” He forced himself to say the word he had avoided using for twelve long and achingly dark months. “I’m a widower.”

A
melia watched him walk away, punching his misshapen hat as he went.

She wasn’t in the habit of being alone with a man and, yet, despite her worry, she’d been surprisingly comfortable talking with Hank Larson. He wasn’t like most of the men in town. He was well-spoken, educated—

She stopped right there and reminded herself that she’d been embarrassed by a well-spoken stranger before. But Hank Larson wasn’t just a handsome stranger passing through—he was here aiming to settle down and start a newspaper.

Even more reason to be on guard.

Newspapermen needed stories to tell and Hank Larson was easy to talk to. As the sheriff
and
a reporter, he was a double threat to her. She’d have to watch what she said around him—if she was ever around him again. She had to be cautious not to let anything slip about having seen someone who looked a lot like Evan outside the bank that morning.

She picked up the salve and the washcloth and stepped
inside her small kitchen. She walked through to the front room that was both a parlor and her apothecary shop and replaced the salve on the shelf amid other potions and lotion bottles and jars. The interior of the house was still surprisingly cool. She raised the parlor shades now that the sun had moved high overhead.

As she passed the oval mirror on the hall tree near the front door, she paused to see her reflection, critical of what Hank Larson must have seen when he looked at her. Hair the color of rust pulled back in a messy braid. Her nose and cheeks were stained with freckles coaxed to life by too many sunny hours spent in the garden. Bloodstains marred the front of her ruined skirt. It was long past saving even before this morning. The sight of the dark red stains called to mind the near calamity she’d witnessed.

She turned away and thought of another image, that of the tall, lanky man holding a gun outside the bank, an image she’d seen only through swirling dust.

Had anyone else seen the second man? If so, would they have noted his similarity to Evan?

There were a million and one things to do besides worry. Forcing herself to move, to think, she went into her room and changed into a navy serge skirt and fresh shirtwaist. As she balled up her ruined skirt in her hands, she felt a lump in the pocket she’d sewn inside the waistband. She removed her father’s gold watch.

A shiver ran down her spine when she realized she might have been forced to hand the watch over to a thief. She might have lost it forever.

The watch was the one thing of value she owned, but even if it were worth nothing, she’d still have held it dear. She carried it every day and thought of her father whenever she felt the weight against the folds of her skirts. It
ticked, slow and steady, an imitation of a beating heart. She set the watch on her bureau beside her mother’s Bible and took up her hairbrush.

She unbound her braid, brushed her hair to a high shine and rebraided it, taking more care this time. After tying a grosgrain ribbon at the end, she walked back to the mirror near the front door and gave herself a curt nod of approval.

No sense in running around looking like something the cat dragged in.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and whispered, “Dear Lord, help me to begin this day anew. As always, I put my trust in You, knowing that whatever happens, You’ll show me the way.”

She prayed that no one else had seen Evan. She prayed for God to guide her brother onto the right path.

And she knew that if anyone asked her directly, if Evan had been outside the bank this morning, that there was only one thing she could tell them. The truth.

Two hours later, Hank was prying open a packing crate when the preacher walked into the narrow two-story building on Main Street. The false front over the entrance was supposed to make the place appear more impressive than it really was, but the space had originally housed a Chinese laundry and the acrid smell of lye with an overlay of incense and other exotic odors had seeped into the walls.

Hank hoped a fresh coat of whitewash would help, but he had no idea when he’d ever get to it. For now, he had to focus on making a living before what was left of his savings ran out.

“What can I do for you, Reverend?”

Brand McCormick took in the empty room, the Hoe
press and cylinders, all the unopened crates and stacks of books and was polite enough not to mention the smell, though his eyes were watering a bit.

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” he said, blinking.

Hank nodded. “You can say that again.”

The preacher hitched up his pant leg and sat on the corner of the desk. “Harrison Barker just reminded me that the fella who tried to rob the bank is still trussed up in his storeroom.”

“Harrison?”

“The storekeeper.”

“Ah.” Hank pictured the talkative man who wore glasses and slicked his hair down, parted in the middle. “What’s Barker going to do with him?”

“Well…” McCormick shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s where you come in. As sheriff and all.”

Hank rolled up his shirtsleeves. He’d already shed his jacket and vest and was thinking about unbuttoning his shirt collar. He looked around the crowded room.

“I don’t have a storeroom, obviously. Even if I did, I wouldn’t want some outlaw locked up in here.”

“We were thinking that you could take him over to the county seat at Comanche. It’s not far from here, as the crow files. I might even be able to scare up a couple of volunteers to go with you. You could hand him over to Oswald Caldwell, the sheriff over there, and Oz can hold him until the circuit judge comes through.”

“You want me to escort a prisoner to the jail at the county seat?”

“You are the sheriff now, Mr. Larson.”

“Call me Hank.”

The good reverend nodded. “So, Hank, I was thinking if you left now, you’d be back before nightfall.”

Hank set down the crowbar and forgot about the boxes. It was a little past noon. Outside, the temperature was rising.

“You know, I need to get this newspaper up and running, Reverend, if I’m going to support myself.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Brand told him. “Right now, I’m going to find a couple of men willing to ride over to Comanche with you.” McCormick pulled a silver-backed watch from his vest pocket, checked the time and snapped it closed. “Could you be ready to leave in half an hour?”

Hank opened and closed his mouth before he said something he’d regret saying to a man of God. He mopped his brow with the back of his arm and ran his hand over his hair. Reverend McCormick was still smiling. Hank doubted anything ever flustered the man.

“I’ll go if you can find someone to go with me. The
only
reason I’m doing this is because you somehow got me to swear an oath to uphold the law. Besides,” Hank added, “I hate to think of anybody tied up and stashed in a storeroom for much longer. Last time I saw him he was trussed up like a stuffed pig.”

“He’s tied to a chair. Harrison’s clerk gave him water and they’re fixin’ him some lunch. In regard to the robbery, I’ve heard that Laura Foster, a lady who owns a boardinghouse, claims to have seen
two
men hanging around outside the bank about the time of the robbery.”

“Did she get a good look at them?”

Brand shook his head. “Her place is at the other end of the street, but she thinks she saw more than one man outside the bank before the robbery.”

Hank massaged his temple with his thumb. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it? I’ll have to talk to her later.”

“You’re probably used to interviewing folks. That’ll be a real asset as sheriff.”

When Hank ignored the comment, the reverend asked, “What are you going to name the newspaper?”

Hank frowned. “I have no idea. I thought once I got here and saw the place, I’d know what to call it. So far, nothing’s come to me.”

“Well, I’m sure folks will want to read your eyewitness account of the robbery. That ought to sell a few papers.”

“I doubt a sheriff ever published a newspaper before. You see any conflict of interest there, Reverend?”

“Not if you tell an honest tale, Hank. Not at all. Besides, this is Glory, not some big city. Where do you hail from, anyway?”

“Saint Joseph, Missouri. How about you? Were you born in Texas?”

“I’m originally from Illinois. I moved my children here, along with my sister, Charity, almost two years ago now. I’m a widower.”

An ache, swift and searing, touched Hank’s heart. McCormick seemed to say the word so easily. Hank wondered if it would ever be that way for him.

“Me, too,” he said softly.

“Any children?”

The image of the stillborn baby boy wrapped in the small quilt Tricia had so lovingly made for him flashed into Hank’s mind. He forced it away. He shifted, glanced out the grime-streaked front window at Main Street.

“No,” he said, still avoiding McCormick’s eyes. “No children.”

“I have two. A boy and a girl. They’re a handful. My sister is good with them, but she’s a quiet soul by nature and by the end of the day, they’ve nearly run her ragged. You’ll meet Charity and the children at church on Sunday.”

“I’m not a church-going man, Reverend. Sorry.”

“Well, the invitation is always open. It’s the only church in town. Right there on the park at the far end of Main. You’ve seen it, I’m sure.”

“Big white building with a steeple and cross on top? Hard to miss.” Hank glanced around until he spotted his jacket amid the mess. He’d tossed it over the back of a chair. His dented bowler lay nearby. He couldn’t help but remember Amelia’s suggestion that if he didn’t want to look like a rube he should buy himself a new hat.

That would have to wait, he supposed, until he was actually making some spending money. He gathered up his hat and jacket. McCormick took the hint.

“Well, I guess I should be going. I’ll walk back to Harrison’s store with you. Along the way we’re sure to find someone to deliver the prisoner with you.”

“My own little posse,” Hank muttered.

“I guess so.”

McCormick waited for Hank to lock the door. On the way down the street, the act of walking along the boardwalk in the fresh air revived Hank. They passed the bank and he remembered there was a mystery in the air and started thinking like a reporter.

“Has the prisoner said anything?” Hank asked. “Anyone know who he is?”

“He’s not from around here and he’s not talking.”

“I ought to make certain he was acting alone.” Hank figured if that were true, then the case was closed. “You mind standing in while I question him?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“Just so when I do write the story I won’t be accused of embellishing it to make the ‘sheriff’ look more competent,” Hank said.

“Just don’t report it in a way that makes the ‘sheriff’
look inept, either. We both know how bad you want to shed the title.”

“Does it show that much?”

“You might as well be wearing a sign.”

Both men laughed. Hank liked McCormick, even if he didn’t like the way the man had talked him into becoming sheriff. Good as his word, the preacher drummed up three volunteers to help Hank escort the prisoner to Comanche and waited while Hank questioned the man.

While Hank and the preacher were closeted in Harrison Barker’s storeroom with the robber, the storekeeper fluttered back and forth between dry goods and sundries, straightening items on already straightened shelves.

Up close, Hank realized the holdup man was younger than he first thought, somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. The lower half of his face was covered with a couple days’ growth of stubble. His eyes looked tired and wary. Hank had the feeling the man was just waiting for someone to slip up so he could make his escape.

“I’m Hank Larson.” Hank had to clear his throat before he added, “Sheriff.”

The robber’s lip curled. His tone was surly. “Yeah. Wasn’t for me you wouldn’t
be
sheriff. I was there when they swore you in, remember?”

“I recall you tripped over me and fired off a round inside the bank. You nearly killed the teller.”

“I wouldn’t have fired off a round if you hadn’t been on the floor nuzzling up to that redhead.”

When Hank’s face flamed, the cut on his cheek began to sting something fierce. He had to remind himself the man’s hands were tied. He glanced over at Brand McCormick and caught the preacher eyeing him speculatively.
He wasn’t about to explain the remark. His actions had been perfectly innocent.

Hank walked around behind the holdup man, where he couldn’t be seen. The young man strained at the rope that bound him to the chair.

“What’s your name?” Hank asked.

“None of your business.”

“I’m making it my business. We’re taking you to Comanche and if I don’t get it out of you, I’m sure there’s a bona fide lawman there who has ways of finding out.”

“Harvey. Harvey Ruggles.”

“You dream up this robbery alone, Harvey?”

“Don’t waste your breath,
Sheriff.
I’ve said all I want to say.”

Hank decided not to waste any more of his time, either. This wasn’t his job. He had a paper to publish, the sooner the better.

“I guess we’d better untie him so I can get him over to Comanche and be back before dark,” Hank said to the Reverend.

“Don’t forget to talk to Laura Foster,” the minister reminded him.

Hank nodded. “Tomorrow will be soon enough for that.”