by Carol Arens
Who was she and why would she do it?
“You do what?” Now she did shove away from him.
“Forbid...you...to...go...there.”
He must have raised his voice because his mother looked up from her conversation with Mrs. Norman.
For half a second, she frowned. Then she smiled. Winked. But probably not at him. His mother would appreciate having an ally in thinking him overbearing.
Whatever Agatha had opened her mouth to say was cut short by Mrs. Bea hustling into the parlor, flushed and flustered.
“There’s someone at the door!” She wagged her finger toward the hall. “Many someones!”
“I do believe it’s half the town,” said Miss Fitz following in Mrs. Bea’s incensed wake. “They’ll be here in,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Now. I told them to wait outside—”
Mrs. Peabody sailed into the parlor waving her cane. “But we said it was raining and since this is the mayor’s house and we appointed him, we would be welcome.”
“Welcome.” He hoped his smile reflected what he said rather than what he felt.
This intrusion—mass intrusion—since more than thirty people had come into the room with a dozen more in the hall, could not have come at a worse time.
He needed to convince Agatha that it was not safe or proper to go the saloon.
“Pete’s Palace has become a menace!” the blacksmith announced loud enough to be heard above the general din of dissatisfaction.
Voices came all at once and from every corner of the parlor.
“My daughter was insulted again today! By two harlots leaning from their windows. I won’t have it!”
“My wife was leered at by a drunk.”
“Mine, too!”
“Someone stole a ham from my store window.”
“I heard a noise outside my bedroom.” Mrs. Peabody looked about, engaging her listeners. “When I looked out the window there was a gambler—I could tell he was by the greed in his eye—relieving himself in my geraniums.”
For some reason the crowd quieted down when Mrs. Peabody related her horror. Apparently the assault on the geranium was more wicked than the theft of the ham or the disrespect to the ladies.
“We need a new sheriff.” Mrs. Peabody pointed her bony finger in a direct line with his nose. “We need him to be you.”
“No.”
“What she meant was, we’re here to ask if you might be willing, for the good of the town,” said Aimee Peller with a dimple winking in her cheek.
“No.” To his astonishment it was Agatha who spoke up.
“I’m your mayor, not your lawman. How many potential sheriffs have you people turned away?”
“Only one or two who were not qualified,” someone said.
“Or too small.” A young female voice giggled but it was hard to hear just who it was with everyone murmuring at once.
A woman shoved her way from the hallway into the parlor then through the grumbling crowd.
“Mr. English, Mrs. English, I’m Hattie Smith.” She was a widow with young children, he recalled. “We don’t know who to turn to. I live near the saloon, only twenty feet away. I can’t sleep at night. My little girls are frightened. They won’t go outside to play—even to go to school. Please. Won’t you help us?”
He remembered that Hattie always attended town meetings. She had also spoken up in favor of the men he presented.
Of all the voices clamoring to be heard, insisting he take the job, her quiet “please” was the one that touched him.
His knowledge of law enforcement would fit in a can of beans. Still, he did know the law, he knew right from wrong.
He looked aside, trying to gauge what Agatha was feeling. Would a change of career, no, not change but addition, be upsetting to her?
She had not agreed to marry someone with a risky job.
Returning his glance, she tipped her head to the side, gave him a slight nod.
The decision was not for her to make, her gesture indicated. But she gave her approval either way.
It felt like a thousand eyes stared at him, waiting for an answer. All he wanted to do was kiss Agatha English for supporting him in whatever he chose to do.
Maybe he didn’t have the marriage some men did—but, he thought, he might have more.
“Yes,” he said quietly to the widow. “I’ll do my best to keep you and your children safe.”
* * *
The evening had not ended in the way Agatha imagined.
Because who could have envisaged dozens of dripping people invading her home, drafting her husband?
Still, the night was not over yet. There might yet be an opportunity to execute her plan. It would be complicated, given that she was displeased at the way he had forbidden her to help the women at the saloon.
Patience, she repeated in her mind. The man was a protector. And she truly did love that about him. But sometimes, she needed to have her own way.
Over on the couch, William’s mother hugged Mrs. Norman good-night, then stood and stretched her back. Lark and her father walked shoulder to shoulder out of the parlor.
Dove and Bert Warble lingered over putting the checkers away.
And the rain beat down harder than it had before. Not that Agatha minded that. She had always found the thrumming of water on the roof to be a sweet lullaby.
“I have to say.” Her mother-in-law crossed the room to hug her son about the ribs. “Having sheriff in your resume can only help your chances of being elected governor. It will give you a heroic aura. Given the choice between sheriff or mayor, ladies will vote for sheriff every time. Well played, son.”
“Played?” William dragged his long fingers through his hair. “It’s no game. I don’t know a thing about rounding up criminals.”
“You, my darling, are tall, strong and honorable. You are also a quick learner. And I don’t believe I have ever seen a more handsome sheriff, have you Agatha?”
“I’m sure I have not.”
With her mind becoming focused—obsessed, truth to tell—on her scheme rather than this discussion, she kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek.
She bid her husband good-night by patting his cheek with her fingertips while yawning.
“I’m sure to be asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.”
She felt his gaze on her back so she swayed her hips, subtly, just enough to make him notice. Mrs. Bea had told her that the line between winsome and wanton was a fine one.
In the privacy of her bedroom, she stripped off her clothes and reapplied a splash of rosewater. She put on the coral-colored sleeping gown she had purchased this afternoon.
It was a pretty thing, the way it fairly floated about her ankles. The way the peekaboo fabric leaned toward wanton rather than winsome.
With a sigh, she climbed onto the bed, tussled the covers then lay her head on the pillow.
This game of seduction would be more fun if she didn’t want to punch him as much as kiss him.
Well, she would have to wait and see what developed. In the meantime, she fanned her hair out on the pillow, all except one hank that she used to cover her chest from his view.
She closed her eyes and waited—and waited—and waited some more.
Blame it! Every night he came in precisely ten minutes after her bedsprings creaked.
He must be figuring out a way to apologize for forbidding her to do what she needed to, and for doing the forbidding in the presence of others.
How odd it was that her vexation with him also felt freeing. Until she’d married William she hadn’t felt—what? Strong enough—bold enough, to allow that emotion.
Which left her wondering what would happen when he sat down on her bed—if he did. Where was he?
Was it as hot in his bedroom as it was in hers? Sitting up then kneeling upon her pillow, she pushed her window open.
No sooner had she felt the breeze prickle the sweat on her skin than she heard William’s bedroom door open.
She lay down and resumed her pose.
When she felt the bed give under his pressure, she turned onto her back, made sure the strand of hair protecting modesty slid away.
She sighed, heard the sudden intake of his breath. As she suspected, the nightgown was only a suggestion of modesty.
Slowly raising one arm, she brought it to rest on the pillow above her head, nestled her shoulders back into the mattress. This was her own idea, not the teaching of Mrs. Bea.
“When did you become so beautiful?” he whispered.
At birth, she assumed, but could hardly say so since she was asleep. And the truth was, what childish beauty she’d possessed had been stolen from her by ill health and Hilda Brunne.
But her husband believed she was beautiful. She had worked hard to regain her health and so felt some pride at his words—more so than had she been born lovely and stayed that way.
Since she’d had to work to get to this point she could not help but smile because he noticed. Smile in her sleep that is.
“What are you dreaming about, honey?”
If he only knew! Her wide-awake dream was that she wanted him to touch the breast that she had offered to his view.
“Hope it’s not about rescuing the doves at Pete’s Palace.”
Curse the man!
Sitting bolt upright in bed, she used the word waiting on her tongue. It was the foulest term she knew—one that she had never spoken out loud before.
It could not be denied, there was some satisfaction in letting out her frustration that way. Just not enough to make the frustration go away.
“You may not forbid me. I refuse to let you.”
“You’re awake?”
“Do I look asleep?” She yanked the cover over her chest. The seduction was finished.
“You look angry, and pretty.”
“Do not make light of my feelings, William. I have been forbidden to do things all my life. I will not be again.”
“I’m only looking out for your good.”
“For months I’ve been looking out for my good. I don’t need you for that.”
“Then what do you need me for?”
The stricken look on his face cut her to the quick.
“You gave me everything when you married me, Agatha. You saved my reputation and my career. But what did you get from it?”
Her life for one, since she would probably be dead or crippled had she been shot out of the cannon. He’d given her a sweet little dog when he’d rushed back to rescue Miss Valentine.
And he’d given her a home where she would be safe.
There it was. It hit her that she did need his protection.
Without that point of security she would not have been able to go out every morning and run. If it were not for the fact that she loved him and wanted to give him children, she might not have pushed herself to do it.
Without that goal, she might have found a dark corner and moldered in it. Even with Hilda Brunne dead, she might have gone on living in the woman’s shadow.
“What can I give you?” He stood up, turned to leave.
She knelt on the bed, caught his hand.
“Yourself.” She drew him toward her and he didn’t resist. “All of yourself.”
“You know I cannot.”
She set his hand at the curve of her waist, and once again he did not resist. “I know that you can.”
What was it that Mrs. Bea said should happen next? She couldn’t recall because her head was abuzz—no, not her head—everything hummed. It radiated from her belly to her toes and fingers. It robbed her brain of logical thought. Her body demanded him, would have him.
She looped her arms around his neck, drew him back to the bed.
Since he resisted lying down, she settled upon his lap. The coral haze of the nightgown rode high on her thighs.
Tangling the hair over his ears in her fingers, she gently tipped his head, gazed hard into his eyes.
A sudden gust of wind blew inside. Raindrops hit her face, neck, and chest. She swore they sizzled against her heated skin.
“Love me, William. It’s all I want.”
Without warning, he shifted her weight. No longer sitting on his lap, she now lay under him. Muscular thighs pressed her into the mattress.
The dressing robe he wore came loose at the waist. She touched the cords of his chest lightly with her fingertips.
Lowering his head, he licked raindrops from her neck and downward, only pausing at the low-cut neckline of her gown.
He tugged it lower, maybe searching for wayward raindrops but maybe searching for something else, her breasts perhaps and the heart cradled between them.
“I love you, William,” she whispered into the dark, damp hair tickling her neck.
If she had slapped him in the face his reaction would not have been so swift.
He leapt from the bed, stalked toward the door then turned to look at her.
“I love you, too.”
And then he was gone.
For man who had just made the declaration of a lifetime he looked perfectly miserable.
But he loved her and that was a place to begin.
* * *
Since sleep had gone from difficult to impossible, William slid into his rain slicker and left the slumbering house behind.
Chances were, his wife was not sleeping. No doubt he’d left her weeping in confusion. What kind of man was he, nearly seducing her that way?
His act of selfishness might have cost her life.
She wanted his love? She had it.
He would never put her at risk again, no matter how badly he ached for carnal knowledge of her.
What he would do was learn how to be sheriff. He would begin tonight, or this morning depending upon what time it was. He’d long since lost track of the hours.
By the time he unlocked the door to the sheriff’s office he was soaked to the skin.
He lit a lamp then glanced about. A gun belt hung on a coat rack but there was no weapon in it. The badge he had so recently given out lay on the desk.
Fool kid sheriff had at least had the good sense to leave it behind before he hightailed it out of town.
At least there was a coffeepot set on top of the stove. There were even coffee beans in one of the cupboards, but judging by the thick layer of dust on the can, they were stale.
Three wanted posters set on the desk. Too bad none of them were of Pete Lydle. But the man was not precisely a criminal, only a lowlife bringing his unwanted business to Tanners Ridge.
Sitting on the desk chair, he opened one drawer, then another. Most of what he found was dust and odd bits of trash. But in the last drawer he came upon what he guessed to be the calling cards of his trade...a gun, bullets and a set of handcuffs.
Lifting the handcuffs from the drawer, he jangled them, locked and unlocked them with the key. Wasn’t a whole lot to learn about them.
He knew a bit about guns, having spent most his life on a ranch. But he did have to admit that controlling critters with this weapon would be a great deal different than keeping lawbreakers in line. He wondered if he would even be able to use it on a human if the occasion arose.
He put on the gun belt, loaded the weapon then shoved it in the holster.
It was time to visit the Palace. But with his hand on the doorknob to go out, he paused, bowed his head and prayed that the occasion to use the gun would never arise.
With the saloon only a block down from the sheriff’s office, he couldn’t help but hear the p
iano and the bawdy laughter as soon as he stepped onto the boardwalk.
He thought of the widow and wondered if she and her children were awake and frightened.
The rain had blown away while he’d been inside. Walking down the boardwalk he thought the night looked magical with the moon glinting off wet buildings, even making the mud puddles in the street glimmer.
Too soon he left the fresh beauty behind and climbed the steps to the Palace.
Sure wasn’t fresh in here. It was sad to see hints of the elegance that used to be the Bascomb Hotel. Instead of the landscape paintings that used to adorn the walls, there now hung paintings of naked women. Where there had once been vases of fresh flowers on tables, there were empty whisky bottles tipped over and dripping on the floor.
At one time, the piano in the corner of the room had played classical masterpieces. Tonight a man with a lace garter banding his sleeve pounded out tunes that were far from inspiring.
“I wondered how long it would take our fine, upstanding mayor to come enjoy the entertainment.” Pete Lydle rounded the corner of the bar and crossed the room a drink in his hand. He shoved it at William.
“On the house.” His words were cordial, welcoming, but the curve of his mouth was not.
“Another time,” William lied.
Lydle shrugged, downed the drink in a single swallow. “What do you think, Mayor? Fine alcohol, beautiful women, games of chance—all a gentleman could want of an evening.”
All the debauchery at least, he decided while he evaded the groping hand of a half-dressed woman strolling past.
“No taste for my sultry Mistymoon?” Pete glanced about, spotted another woman dressed in less than Mistymoon had worn. He waved her over. “I reckon you want someone sweeter, more like your wife. Here, spend an hour with Sugar Blossom, on the house of course.”
His gut clenched. Sugar Blossom could barely be out of the schoolroom.
The look in her blue eyes was vacant. She was here, standing next to Pete, but her mind was somewhere else. He wondered where. It seemed to just be—gone.
If these girls wanted help, someone ought to give it to them. But it was not going to be Agatha.
He’d have a word with the preacher about Sugar Blossom.
