The Reluctant Hero (5 page)

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

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.”

“Matt, I don't think she meant any harm,” Tom said.

“Doesn't matter if she meant harm or not. I've got a job to do, and I need those supplies to do it, so if you'll please add what I owe you to my account, I'd be much obliged.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom bustled over to get behind the counter. Matt's gaze still had Andrea pinned to the spot.

She swallowed hard. “I'm sorry. I might have been a bit deceptive.”

“A bit?”

“I'm not going to write anything that will embarrass you.”

“Lady, you don't know me well enough to know what will embarrass me.”

“Exactly!” she shouted. “Exactly the reason why I want to get to know you. But you keep giving me these cryptic answers, thinking that you're going to discourage me, and all you're going to do is make me dig in deeper.”

She took a step toward him, raised up on her toes until she could gaze directly into his eyes. She saw his startlement, and it emboldened her.

“Sheriff,
you
don't know
me
well enough to know how to effectively get rid of me. But if you're a man who thrives on failure, keep doing what you're doing. I guarantee you'll fail.”

Marching past him, she glanced over at Tom, whose jaw looked to have come unhinged. “Thank you, Tom.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Then she went on out the door with her head held high and her tears held back. In the past few months she'd become a master at holding back those tears.

 

 

When Matt walked out of the general store, Andrea was still standing on the boardwalk, her arms crossed over her chest, hurt, anger and stubbornness clearly mirrored in her eyes. If anything was going to send her running, it would have been the exchange between them that had taken place inside the store. Strange thing was, seeing her anger had defused his. If anything, it intrigued him.

He thought events in his life had made him tough. Something in her life had made her even tougher.

He held up the sack. “I'm going over to Josh Logan's house. Most folks around here don't have locks on their doors, and I figured since Mrs. Logan was going to be gone a spell, I ought to make sure that her house is secure from intruders. So I bought some locks and nails. I figure I'll find a hammer there. I'm going to walk down this boardwalk until it ends. Then I'm going to take a right and head up the road until I get to her house. Probably about a good ten-minute trek. Then I'll secure the house and walk back to my office where I have some papers that I need to look at.”

As far as peace offerings went, it wasn't much, but it was all he had.

Her mouth twitched, and a sparkle returned to her green, green eyes, as though she recognized that apologies were foreign to him. He had a powerful urge to draw her into his arms and latch his mouth onto hers until the sun set and the moon rose.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said.

“I won't put you off any longer. I'll answer your questions, if you give me your word that you won't ask anyone about me or that day.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him as though she thought she could decipher exactly why he was so set on her not bothering the folks. She finally relented. “I give you my word.”

“And no splitting hairs, trying to ask a question because I wasn't specific enough with the rules I was laying down.”

She nodded. “No splitting hairs. And I owe you an apology—”

“Yeah, you do.”

She angled her chin. “Are you going to let me finish?”

“Do I have a choice?”

The corner of her luscious mouth tipped up higher. “I owe you an apology for attempting to get around my promise.”

“All right,” he said brusquely, so she wouldn't get the impression that she'd gained more advantage than he wanted, “now that we've delivered all our apologies, can we get moving?”

“Certainly, Sheriff. Down to the end of the boardwalk, then to the right. I'm more than happy to oblige.”

They headed down the boardwalk, greeting people they passed, as if everything was normal, as if his stomach wasn't knotting up as he wondered what might happen if she ever wrote her story.

He didn't know many women who were as straightforward as she was, women who didn't back down. He didn't particularly like that he found himself admiring her. Respect, trust, caring . . . they were pitfalls that could lead a man into confessing his sins.

Six

The Logans' house was quaint, two stories, recently painted robin's egg blue with a wide white porch that wrapped around the sides. Honeysuckle grew in abundance next to the porch. The scent wafted on the breeze, made Andrea feel incredibly welcome.

She touched one of two large wooden rockers on the porch, watched it move to and fro with her movements. Beside each one was a smaller rocker, and she imagined a husband and wife watching the sun go down while their sons sat beside them.

Matt had gone through the house, made sure that everything was as it should be, and was now hammering away at the doorjamb. Andrea sat in the rocker and gazed out on the yard. This house wasn't so different from the one in which she'd grown up. A swing hung from an ancient oak tree. She could hear the lingering echo of a child's laughter. She could sense the silent sobs of a grieving widow.

When Matt finished with his task, he sat down on the porch step, his back against the beam supporting the eaves, angled so he could see her, one foot on the step, his other leg stretched straight, his foot on the ground. He patted his thigh. “Come here, Sammy.”

She watched as a large short-haired black dog ambled forward, then stopped. It seemed the Logans' prodigal dog had returned.

“Come here, boy,” the sheriff said. “Come here. You remember me. I'm not going to hurt you.”

“What if he bites?” Andrea asked.

“Now, why would he bite the hand that fed him last night?” he asked.

“You found him last night?” she asked incredulously.

“Yep.”

“Where was he?”

“Stretched out across Josh Logan's grave.”

Matt's voice was somber, and she thought he might be hurting as much for the dog's loss as he was for Mrs. Logan and her boys.

“Have you ever had a dog?” she asked.

“I was never in one place long enough to take on the responsibility until I moved here three years ago.”

Good Lord, she almost fell out of the chair. In that one sentence he'd given her more information than he had from the moment she met him. She wanted to do like the dog, who eased forward until he sat beside Matt and laid his head on Matt's thigh.

“That's a good boy,” Matt crooned, petting the dog. “Miss him, don't you, fella?”

The dog released a small whine as though he understood exactly what Matt had said.

Matt peered over at Andrea. “Sammy used to follow Josh to the bank.” He shrugged. “I didn't know his name, but I'd see him every morning.” She thought he actually blushed, looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Normally I begin my day by walking through the town, right after the sun comes up, before Doc brings breakfast over.”

She glared at him. “Why, you deceitful man! You thought if you didn't do anything that I'd grow bored and leave.”

“I was hoping.”

She couldn't seem to stop herself from admiring his honesty, nor could she truly blame him for his earlier actions when he was so set against giving her any time at all. She wanted to gain his trust, wanted him to realize that no harm would come from a few embellished stories. She wanted to prolong a conversation that wasn't marred by his dark scowl.

“So finish telling me about the dog,” she prodded.

“Well, once Josh went inside the bank, Sammy would trot back over here and keep watch over the family. Then at five o'clock when the bank closed, he was waiting outside the bank to walk back home with Josh. Dangdest thing I ever saw. A dog that could tell time.”

She smiled. “He obviously loved his master.”

“Yep. Lot of people loved Josh Logan. He was a good man. Even from the short time I knew him, I could tell he was one of the best.”

She didn't know what else she could add to his statement, and questioning him seemed inappropriate at the moment, considering the somber mood and the nature of the conversation. They sat in companionable silence, listening to birds, enjoying the slight breeze. She thought this was a pretty spot, a nice place to have a family.

“I always liked this place,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps you can purchase it if Mrs. Logan doesn't come back. It would give you a nice place to bring a wife, raise a family.”

He shook his head. “A wife and family aren't for me.”

“Why not? You're relatively easy on the eyes.”

He glowered at her.

“A tad moody, though,” she added. “I suppose you might have difficulty holding on to a woman at that. Did you grow up in a house like this?”

He released a harsh chuckle, then shook his head. “No.”

This time the silence following his pronouncement wasn't quite as comfortable.

“Are you going to tell me where you grew up?”

He studied her, his eyes narrowed, as though he was contemplating whether or not he should answer her question, when in truth he had no choice unless he was willing to go back on his word. She thought she should remind him that he'd promised to be forthright. Instead, she said, “I did.”

She leaned back against the rocker. “At the edge of Fort Worth . . . Well, it was the edge when my father bought the place, but eventually there were a lot more houses and a lot more people. I still live there. With my mother.”

“She must be beside herself with worry with you traipsing all the way to Gallant alone . . . in search of a hero.”

She felt the tears sting her eyes, but held his gaze. “I didn't tell her that I was coming in search of a hero. I told her that I had to visit with my publisher. Her health isn't good, and I didn't want her worrying.”

“What's wrong with her?”

She thought she detected genuine concern in his voice.

“The doctors don't know. My father spent a good deal of money trying to find out.” She didn't know why she felt the need to unburden herself, especially to this man, but she did. Maybe it was because in spite of the harshness with which he always addressed her, his eyes held compassion. Perhaps it was his poor attempt at an apology outside the general store that had won her over. Or the fact that he was a man who fed and comforted a dog that held no loyalty to him.

She released a sigh. “My father died recently. Shortly afterward, it was discovered that he'd taken money from the bank to which he had no right.”

“You mean, he was an outlaw?”

“I believe in his case that the correct term is embezzler. The founders promised not to say anything if I would pay the money back. My fiancé—”

“You're getting married?”

He sounded horrified, and she wondered if it was because of the times when she'd spotted him staring at her with undisguised longing. She slowly shook her head.

“No.” She felt the dang tears sting her eyes. “I lived in a fancy house and had pretty clothes and nice things, but when he realized that I came with a financial burden that would take me most of my life to pay back.... I suspect that it wasn't me that he loved, but rather everything I represented: wealth and prestige. We were quite the social family. It will kill my mother if she finds out what my father did.”

“It doesn't bother you?”

“Oh, God, of course it does. I'm furious with him. I don't know what he was thinking.”

“Maybe he was thinking he'd do anything to save the woman he loved.”

She stared at him. “You don't strike me as a man who would put a lot of stock in love.”

“I don't.” He shrugged. “So that's the reason you need to write a whole bunch of books.”

She nodded, looked away, looked back at him. “Yeah.”

She got up and moved to the porch steps, sitting down beside him. He had so much strength, seemed so confident of his path. She wanted to simply lean against him and absorb the power that radiated from him.

As though reading her need in her eyes, he leaned forward and trailed his fingers over her cheek. “You shouldn't have to pay for your father's sins.”

“What he did was wrong. I won't excuse it. And I'll make it right.”

“Not everything is that simple.”

“He broke the law. That's unforgivable. Surely you understand that, being a lawman.”

“I think sometimes a man loses his way.”

“And you think that's what happened with my father?”

“Can't say for sure. I didn't know the man. Should you have left your mother alone?”

“Trying to guilt me into going home?”

He had the good graces to blush.

“I'm figuring you out, Sheriff.”

“Don't be so sure. What about your mother? How will she manage?”

“I hired a nurse to take care of her. It gets expensive, and my only means of support is my writing, which brings us back to you.”

His hand stilled; she was as grateful as she was disappointed. His touch was a distraction she could ill afford.

“Where is your mother?” she asked.

“Never knew her. And before you ask, I don't recall much about my father or my life when I was younger. Besides, my youth wouldn't make for interesting reading.”

She scoffed. “I'm not sure you're exactly an unbiased judge of what's interesting and what's not.”

“I'm a fair judge of what's interesting—when it's not related to me. Interesting is the color of your eyes and the way they darken when something excites you.”

Andrea felt the heat rush to her face, and before she could tell him he wasn't going to distract her into changing the subject—

“Interesting is the way you can step off a stagecoach and capture a man's attention. Since I've been in this town, I must have seen two dozen folks arrive on that stage, and you're the first one I couldn't look away from.”

She angled her chin. “And now to distract me, you're going to tell me that I'm beautiful.”

He shook his head. “Nah, I've seen beautiful women before. The surface might get my attention, but it's not gonna hold it.”

She wasn't sure if she should be insulted.

“It's not your surface that holds a man. It's something deep inside you that shines through. Something more than goodness. Kindness, maybe. The way you worried about that dang trunk of yours but tried not to let the men carrying it know that you didn't trust them to get the job done.”

“How did you know—”

“The way you kept reaching for it, then pulled your hands back.”

“You're observant, Sheriff.”

He took her hand and stroked his thumb slowly over the knot on her finger. She could feel his sensuous touch clear down to her curling toes. She'd never felt this way when Elliot touched her, not that he'd been this brazen. He'd always been the perfect gentleman. There were no perfect gentlemen in her stories, and until this moment, she hadn't realized why: they were boring.

“I couldn't see it when you were by the stagecoach, of course, but it was one of the first things I noticed when you were standing in front of me. I couldn't figure out what had caused it.”

“Too many hours with a pencil gripped in my hand,” she forced out. She wanted to be touching him as well, but she'd never been physically bold. “I've been telling stories since I was old enough to form letters.”

“Where do they come from?”

He was looking so deeply into her eyes that she thought he might be able to read all the doubts about herself that she tried to hide, the insecurities that had been built slowly, one by one, as she'd learned about her father's deceptions, taken on the responsibility of caring for her infirmed mother, and been taught by a man she'd cared deeply for that love didn't conquer all things.

She shook her head, becoming as lost in his eyes as he seemed to be in hers. What had the question been? Stories, about stories.

“I don't know where they come from,” she admitted. “They've always come so easily, and now they seem so reluctant to appear.”

“You know he was a fool.”

“Who?” she asked, startled by the abrupt change in topic.

“Your fiancé. To have given you up for the reasons he did. A man could live with you in poverty for the remainder of his days, and he'd still be rich.”

Heartfelt poetry from the sheriff was nearly her undoing. She didn't object when he cradled her face with his large hands, didn't protest when his mouth blanketed hers with a kiss that stole her breath, stole the steadiness of her heartbeat. He snaked an arm around her, drawing her close until her breasts were flattened against the firm planes of his chest. He swept his tongue through her mouth as though he were exploring a long-forgotten trail: tentatively, unsure of the path, his confidence growing as he mapped out the area.

She thought she should break off the kiss, press her palms to his chest and push him away, but it had been so long, too long since she'd felt desired or, more importantly, since she'd felt even the whisper of desire, of the need to be with a man. Demands and responsibilities had put her own needs on hold.

She wound her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with equal fervor. His mustache didn't tickle, but was soft, comforting. She'd never been kissed like this, with so much passion that came as slowly as he walked. As though the journey was to be savored, each step along the way noticed for what it offered.

Slowly, leisurely, he took his fill of her as though he had all day to do so, hungrily, deeply, as though it was his only chance. As though today was all that would be given to him—