The Reluctant Hero (3 page)

Kissing, maybe. Maybe those plump red lips had no qualms about traveling either, only the journey they would take would involve a man's flesh. Maybe they'd light upon his mouth—

“Sheriff?”

He jerked his gaze up from her lips to her eyes, wondering how long he'd been staring, watching her eat, watching her tongue slip out and capture any lingering juices. She didn't seem particularly offended. Rather she seemed amused.

“Your food is getting cold,” she said, a twinkle in her eye as though she may have realized that she rattled him.

“It's long past the getting part,” he muttered.

To his utter astonishment, she stood, picked up her plate, and moved to the chair beside him, the one Joe had vacated.

“I realize mine is probably not quite to your tastes, since it's actually cooked, but it is still warm,” she said, while cutting her piece of beef in half. She set a portion on his plate.

“I can't take your food,” he said.

“Don't be silly. I could never eat this much.”

Silly? Matthew Knight had been called a lot of things in his life, many of the names not repeatable in the presence of a lady. But silly?

That was a word with the potential for disaster.

“I hope you've got no plans to describe me as silly in your book,” he said, glaring at her.

She gave him a bright smile. “So you've decided to assist me in writing your story?”

“No, but it sounds like you don't give a care what I want. You're gonna write what you're gonna write.”

“Now, Sheriff, that's not entirely true. I would like to portray you as accurately as possible, but if you won't spend time with me so I can determine your true character . . .”

He narrowed his gaze. “How many desperadoes would ride through this town if you wrote that the sheriff was
silly?
”

“You're assuming that desperadoes read—”

“I'm serious,” he said, cutting her off.

“I can see that. I won't identify you; I won't identify the town. And I promise the word ‘silly' will appear nowhere in the book.”

“Since you've agreed not to do any of this identifying, you ought to do just fine making things up.”

“I explained to you why I can't. And even though I write fiction, I want it to be as realistic and accurate as possible. All I need is one day. Just following in your footsteps. If you won't give me that, then I'll interview the townsfolk. I'm sure Joe could share a lot of interesting stories about your adventures with me.”

“Lord have mercy,” he muttered, shuddering at the thought of her basing a story about his life on the ramblings of a cowboy who was a couple of bullets shy of having a loaded six-gun.

“As a matter of fact, it might be better if I went to people who weren't quite as close to the truth. It would give me a more objective—”

“Wait.” He rubbed his brow. “You don't have to get your information from a man who might not be living in the real world. I'll give you a day.”

“Thank—”

He held up a finger, silencing her with it and his glare. “One day. That's it. And I need your promise that you won't ask the people of this town any questions about me.”

“Have secrets, Sheriff?”

None that the people of this town knew about, but if there was one thing these good people excelled in, it was exaggerating the truth. They'd have him killing a dozen men with a single bullet.

“Those are my terms. If you want time with me, you limit asking your questions to me, and you only get one day to do it.”

“That's going to give me a rather biased view.”

“What difference does it make? You write fiction, not fact.”

“All right. We have a deal,” she said resolutely.

“Good.” He stood. “Be at my office when the sun comes up. That's when my day begins. If you're late, you lose the chance to follow me around.”

Her eyes grew big and round, her lips parting slightly. Like a woman on the verge of having pleasure roll through her.

“You mean when it comes up overhead, like at noon?”

“I mean when the sun first starts to push back the night.”

“Dawn?” she asked, clearly horrified.

“Yes, ma'am. Before the rooster crows or you're too late, and you've lost your opportunity.”

He walked out of the restaurant, feeling triumphant. He wouldn't see her tomorrow unless it was seeing her climb into a stagecoach at noon.

Three

Before going to bed the night before, Andrea had considered searching out every rooster and wringing its neck. Then there would be no crowing roosters, and she wouldn't have the sheriff's unreasonable deadline to meet. But since eliminating the sun was a bigger problem, she'd left the roosters alone. She wasn't accustomed to starting her day at the crack of dawn, since she usually favored working by lamplight late into the night. It was when she did what she considered her best writing.

Last night had been no exception. With a kerosene lamp to provide the light in her room, she'd alternately hit the keys on her typewriter and stared out the window at a town encased by shadows. Her hero was beginning to take shape. And he strongly resembled the sheriff. Even if the man didn't want a book written about him, she could still write it. Change his name, the color of his eyes, the strong shape of his jaw. Remove the mustache. Although she couldn't quite envision him without it. She thought removing it from his face might be like removing the leaves from the trees. In winter they always looked to her as though something else was needed. She thought he might appear the same.

No, she would describe her hero so he
was
Matthew Knight in her mind. Her description of him would ensure that she would remember him after she left. Although she thought it unlikely that she'd ever forget him . . . or the manner in which he'd looked at her lips as though he were contemplating devouring them with more enthusiasm than he had his meal. She was certain the feral intensity of his gaze had made her blush. She'd never had a man look at her with his thoughts so blatantly revealed.

Memories of the sheriff's gaze had been quite exhilarating. She'd been unable to sleep, because every time she closed her eyes, she saw the hunger. And so she'd written until, while looking out her window, she'd seen someone passing through the town, extinguishing the flames in the few streetlights. Only then had she realized that the sun would no doubt soon be peering over the horizon.

She'd forced herself away from the typewriter, and perhaps that was the most exhilarating feeling of all. It had been too long since she'd anticipated writing a story, too long since she'd greeted moments away from her work with impatience.

While she washed up, fixed her hair, and put on a fresh dress, she was surprised that she wasn't yawning and looking at her bed with undisguised longing. As much as she didn't want to be away from her typewriter, she wanted to be with the sheriff. Spending the day with him, observing him. What if he were involved in another gunfight? She'd be right there, able to witness it. He might arrest any number of people. Today she would gather fodder for her novel.

Tonight she would write with even more enthusiasm and direction.

Making certain that she had plenty of paper for writing down her experiences throughout the day, she walked out of her room, locked the door, and took the stairs down to the lobby. Only an occasional lamp guided her way. Shadows lurked at the edges of all the rooms. A perfect setting for committing a crime. No doubt the reason that the sheriff began his day just as the sun was coming up.

She stepped onto the boardwalk. Based on the barely perceptible light in the distance, she was close to losing her opportunity. The blasted, uncooperative man would no doubt keep his promise and send her away if he saw the sun before she reached his door. Hurrying along the boardwalk, she was determined that wouldn't happen.

She didn't notice anyone stirring as she rushed across the wide dusty street to the brick building at the distant edge of town. The last building at the end of the boardwalk, it ensured that few townsfolk would have to be bothered by the outlaws who would be held within its walls.

She reached the sheriff's office. His windows were as dark as every other window in town. Shouldn't he already be at work? So why was there no light? Was he already out, seeing to business? Had he not waited on her?

Dang the man! He'd promised to let her spend the day with him. The sun was only just now starting to lighten the sky. She wasn't late. Disappointment and anger reeled through her. She kicked the door. She took three steps toward the hotel, before going back to kick the door again.

How dare he fill her with hope!

She kicked the door yet again and again and—

It swung open, and she found herself staring not so much at the gun directed her way, as she was at the bare chest of the man holding the weapon.

“Woman, what in tarnation are you doing?” he asked, his voice scratchy as though it hadn't yet been used today, his gaze boring into her.

“You told me to be here when the sun came up.” She pointed east. “It's coming up. I thought your day began now.”

Yawning, rubbing his chest with his free hand, he nodded. “It does. It is. Reckon you can wait out here—”

“I'm not waiting, Sheriff. It's an ungodly hour, and I dressed practically in the dark so I could observe your day. I'm observing.” Without waiting for him to respond, she marched past him, into his office, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his chest as she went by, then stood there in the shadows wondering what to do next. Perhaps she should have waited outside, but she was here now, and retreat was not in her vocabulary.

“Don't you think it's a mite inappropriate for you to be here this time of day?” he asked in that same raspy voice.

She spun around. “You suggested it, Sheriff. It's your office—”

“And where I live.”

Ah. That explained the absence of light, shirt, and . . . boots, now that the sun was easing into the room, giving her a clearer look at him. “Just leave the door open.”

He moved a little farther inside. “Thought you wanted a true accounting of my day.”

“I do.”

“I don't leave my door open.”

A resounding echo filled the building as he slammed the door shut.

Even in dawn's shadows, Matt could see those gorgeous green eyes of hers grow wide with alarm. Made him feel like a villain. And why not? He was suited to the role.

He strode over to his desk, struck a match, lit the lamp, and glanced back at her. He sure as hell hadn't expected her to show. Kicking on his door at dawn for God's sake. The woman was as tenacious as a starving dog that had latched on to a bone.

Moving around to the corner of his desk, he opened a drawer, then laid his gun inside. The way she was looking at him, he didn't want her near a weapon.

“Did you lie when you said your day began with the sun?” she asked haughtily, as if she had a right to be aggravated with him.

In a way, he guessed she did.

“No.” But he usually didn't have such a horrendous night of tossing and turning, haunted by her fragrance and the mystery of what that enticing mouth of hers tasted like, what her skin would feel like beneath his fingers. “I'm just a little slow getting started this morning. Make yourself comfortable while I see to my morning
duties
.”

He went to the stove in the corner, lit the wood he'd shoved into it last night, and set the coffeepot in place. He needed coffee bad. While it was heating, he walked to the small back room where he lived and lit the lamp that sat on a table beside his bed. Other than his horse, his spring bed was his most prized possession. He'd ordered it from the Montgomery Ward catalog for two dollars and seventy-five cents. Unfortunately, the damned freight charges to have the thing delivered had darn near sent him to the poor house.

He went over to the washstand and poured water from the ceramic pitcher into the ceramic bowl. He turned around, came up short at the sight of the woman in his doorway, then marched past her to the stove.

“Why don't you take a seat by my desk?” he suggested.

“Nothing interesting happening at your desk.”

He wrapped a small towel around the handle on his coffeepot and took it back to his room. “Nothing interesting happening here as far as I can see either.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Heating up my shaving water.” He poured a little of the hot water in and carried the pot back to the stove. He opened the lid and dumped in some coffee grounds. “Coffee'll be ready soon.”

He returned to his room, stirred up his shaving lather, lifted the brush, looked in the mirror, and nearly yelped at the sight of her unexpected reflection as she stood in
side
his room, peering over his shoulder. Slowly, he turned. “What are you doing?”

“Observing your day.”

“I didn't watch you get ready.”

“And I wouldn't be watching you if you hadn't started your morning by lollygagging.”

“Don't push me, lady.”

“Don't push you? You told me that I'd suffer consequences if I wasn't here early enough. So here I am. Now you can suffer the consequences for not being ready.”

He heaved a sigh, reluctant to go back on his word. He had told her to be here or else. Well, she was here, so the
or else
fell to him now.

“It's unseemly for you to watch me,” he said, conviction ringing in his voice.

“I've watched my father shave.”

“Then you don't need to watch me.”

He turned back around and began lathering his face. Dang fool woman stood right where she was. Paper and pencil suddenly visible in her hands. They must have been hidden within the folds of her skirt. Rolling his eyes, he picked up his straight razor, wondering if slitting his own throat might be the way to go this morning.

“How long have you been sheriff?” she asked.

He glared at her reflection in the mirror, before tipping up his chin and scraping the razor along his neck. “Long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

“To be good at what I do.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Guess you'll know by the end of the day. How long are you planning on staying in town?”

“Long enough.”

He ground his teeth together to keep himself from smiling. She looked so danged pleased with herself, throwing his words back at him. If she just didn't look at him as though he was a hero, her being here might not be so bothersome.

She'd gone back to scribbling. What could she be writing about? She wasn't asking questions. Whatever had possessed him last night to invite her to spend the day with him? He'd done it because he hadn't thought she'd show. She was a tenacious little thing.

“What are you writing?” he asked, as he finished scraping away his beard, reached for the towel, and wiped away the last of the soap.

“I'm just making notes about your sparse surroundings. Do you think all sheriffs live as you do?”

“Nah. Some have houses, wives, families.”

She lifted her gaze. “So you don't have a wife?”

He shook his head. “Or a house. Or a family. And that suits me just fine.” He took his shirt off the peg on the wall and shrugged into it. “You had breakfast?”

“That's a silly question. Where would I have breakfast this time of day when I'm staying in the hotel?”

“Give me a minute of privacy, and I'll fix you something.”

Her gaze dropped to his shirttail, and he thought in the dim light that she was blushing again. Lord, she was sugar and vinegar, and both aspects intrigued him.

She spun on her heel and walked away. He tucked his shirt into his trousers, cursing his thoughtless tongue that had offered to fix her breakfast. He didn't want to give her any excuse to stay.

Hell of it was, he had to admit that he didn't want her to leave either.