Beyond Pamela sat Amanda. Her eyes glowed as she listened to the spirituals and hymns. She’d crawled up into Mel’s lap, or had he picked her up? They looked natural together. Mel had a lot of experience with girls, first his own and now his grandchildren. Jake admired him for the ease with which he held the little girl.
Jake turned his attention to the Burkett family. They’d gone to the front to sing a special together. The Burketts all looked alike with bushy blond hair and wide grins.
Jake noted the room full of families. That was the way it always was. He was the only single man in the bunch. There was nothing wrong with being single, he reminded himself. Being single had its advantages.
“Are you getting tired, sweetie?” Pamela asked Amanda in a soft voice that warmed Jake’s heart.
“No, Miss Kottis,” Amanda replied. “I had a nap in the jail.”
“You slept in the jail?” asked Pamela.
“Yes, ma’am. In Sheriff Moore’s jail cell.”
Pamela turned scandalized eyes to the handsome sheriff. He could see the gleam of mischief in her look.
“Sheriff, really!” she said, mocking horror, “that is not the proper place for a young lady to sleep.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. He feasted his eyes on her. Pamela Kotchkis would make a fine mother. She had a head full of tawny gold hair and blue eyes rimmed with dark lashes.
Would all her children look alike in the same way the Burketts resembled one another? Would they all look happy like Pamela did tonight? Or would they all be reserved, as she’d always been with him before this night?
The only thing he’d noticed about Pamela Kotchkis before was that she had good sense. The good sense not to bump into him “by accident.” The good sense not to casually walk up and join in a conversation that had nothing to do with her. The good sense not to giggle and flirt.
Pamela Kotchkis turned and smiled at something her father said. She’s a pretty woman, Jake thought, a calm, serene, gracious woman. She’s got dignity, but not too much. She has a pretty smile. And that dimple…
No doubt her children would play and laugh and know they were loved. Her husband would hurry home, assured that her warm sense of humor and gentle ways would welcome him. He looked at that tiny dimple that flashed so intrigu- ingly at the corner of her mouth. Her lips were pink. They looked soft.
Jake heard the huge yawn and shifted his eyes reluctantly to the little girl who claimed she was not sleepy.
Amanda shook her head wearily. “That wasn’t a proper place for me to sleep.”
Jake had to think. What wasn’t? Oh, the jail. His mind must have wandered.
Chapter 3
Ineed a nightgown,” Amanda Greer announced stubbornly and not for the first time.
“Miss Amanda, I don’t have a little nightgown,” said Jake between clenched teeth. He bit back other more impatient words. “I don’t have any nightgown, big or little. You are just going to have to sleep in your shift.”
“It is not proper for a young lady to sleep in her shift. A young lady needs a nightgown.” Amanda crossed her chubby arms across her chest, stuck out her lower lip, and frowned the fiercest frown she could summon.
Jake cast a look at Maggie. His eyes held equal measures of exasperation and desperation. Draped in her habitual black sagging gown, Maggie leaned squarely against her parlor door. She raised a scrawny shoulder in an expression of indifference.
Jake counted off with self-righteous indignation the number of times Miss Maggie Hardmore had made it clear she didn’t appreciate his bringing the tired little girl to her boardinghouse. There isn’t an ounce of compassion in the woman’s bony breast. Obviously he’d get no help from her quarter.
“I’ll be right back,” said Jake, and he bolted from the room, taking the narrow stairs two at a time. In a minute he thundered down the same stairs and burst back into the parlor. He held a creamy-yellow shirt of soft material. He offered it to the midget minx who had remained like a stubborn statue anchored to the parlor room rug.
“This is my dancing shirt.”
From her position by the door, Maggie rolled her eyes.
“Shirts do not dance,” said Amanda.
“No!” barked Sheriff Moore. He took a cooling breath. “No,” he repeated in a milder tone underscored by a heavy black line of forced patience. “It is the shirt I wear to dances.” He knelt down and held the shirt out for the girl to feel. “It’s soft. The ladies like it.”
Maggie made a strangled chortling noise behind him. “Since when do you go out of your way to attract the ladies, Jake Moore?”
“Maggie, if you are not going to help, be quiet,” said the sheriff.
Amanda touched the fabric with chubby fingers. Sighing in resignation, she took it.
“It’s not a nightgown.” She made one last protest.
“It’s a nightshirt,” conceded Jake.
The furrows deepened on Amanda’s brow. “Father wears a nightshirt,” she said. “I’ve seen it on the laundry line.”
“Then you know”—Jake spoke quickly before her mature little mind could reason out further objections—“he’d think it more proper for you to wear a nightshirt than a shift.”
Amanda nodded.
“Fine,” said Jake, unfolding his body and stretching to his full height. He looked at Maggie, daring her to abandon him. He spoke to Amanda. “Go with Mrs. Hardmore and change for bed.”
Maggie stretched out a hand hardened by years of housekeeping. Amanda crossed reluctantly, took it, and followed the old crow out of the room without looking back.
Jake took the stack of sheets and blankets, provided under protest by Maggie, from the chair in the corner and began making a bed for Amanda on the parlor sofa. Finished, he collapsed in the big overstuffed chair.
“Where am I going to sleep?” asked Amanda, standing at his elbow.
Realizing he must have dozed off, he looked her over with groggy eyes. She was dressed in the pale yellow shirt. The rolled-up sleeves came to her elbows. The hem dragged on the floor.
Maggie Hardmore had brushed the unruly curls and wrestled them into two short braids. Amanda held her doll tightly against her side with a grip around its neck that would have strangled any living creature. In the other hand she carried the square basket.
Jake leaned forward in the overstuffed chair. It had been a long day, and his own bed called to him. He rubbed a hand across his scratchy face and stretched.
“On the sofa,” he answered.
“In the parlor?”
Jake didn’t like the way Amanda had said the word parlor. Somehow it sounded as though he was about to have trouble, and the trouble would be with a strong-minded little girl.
“It’s a very nice sofa. Mrs. Hardmore is very proud of her company parlor and the furnishings therein. The sofa came from St. Louis.”
Amanda took a couple of small steps across the dim room on silent bare feet. She stood next to the sofa and examined it thoroughly. Sad eyes traveled from one brocade-covered arm to the other. Her solemn face showed her disapproval.
Finally, she shook her head. The short braids swung and thumped her on the cheeks.
“It’s not proper for a young lady to sleep in the parlor,” she said in a low, calm voice. “It’s not proper for a young lady to sleep on a sofa. I want a bed. I want my room. I want Miss Kottis.”
She turned mournful eyes brimming with tears and faced down the sheriff.
“Miss Kottis?” Jake was surprised. “I mean, Kotchkis? Miss Pamela? She went home. She’s miles away in a farmhouse outside of town.”
“Miss Kottis knows what’s proper for a young lady.” Amanda hung her head and sniffed.
“This is just for one night, Miss Amanda,” assured Jake. He pulled himself out of the chair and dropped to his knees. He put an arm around the stubborn, stiff shoulders of his little guest. “You must be a brave little girl and crawl into bed with your doll. At lunchtime tomorrow the train will come, and you can cl
imb aboard and go to your sister in Big Springs.”
Jake pulled the blanket back in an invitation to the little girl to climb in. She looked at him with pity in her eyes and sighed. Shaking her head over his ignorance, she put her doll and the basket on the sofa and knelt beside it. She seemed to be waiting for him, so Jake hobbled on his knees closer beside her.
“Heavenly Father,” said Amanda with her eyes firmly shut and her hands clenched in prayer, “thank You for this lovely day. Please take care of Althea’s broken foot. Please take care of Mother and Father as they travel to New York City, New York. Please take care of Amelia and her suitable husband, Mr. Beasley, and all the little beastly Beasleys. Please take care of Augusta and her ne’er-do-well husband, Mr. Jenkins, and my scoundrel cousins, James, John, Jordon, and Jacob. Thank You for the nice dinner and the sheriff and Miss Kottis. Keep me safe this night in this awful parlor and this awful sofa. Amen.”
Amanda rose to her feet and took up the doll and basket once more. She stood in quiet misery, staring at the sofa while big tears coursed down her round cheeks.
“It’s not that bad, Miss Amanda,” whispered Jake, strangely moved by the silent tears.
“Do you have a bed?” she whispered in return.
“Yes, but I have slept on the ground outside on more than one occasion.”
Amanda transferred the basket to the same hand that held the doll. She rested her free hand on the sheriff’s shoulder and gave it a consoling pat. Clearly sleeping on the ground was worse than sleeping on the awful sofa. Jake put his arm around the tiny figure, and she melted against his chest, burying her face against his shoulder.
“Please, Sheriff Moore,” she sobbed, “find me a real bed, not in a parlor.”
Jake rode Dancer at a sedate pace through the muggy night air. Completely limp,
the little figure sitting before him in his yellow dancing shirt sagged against him. He took the handle of the square basket from her fingers before she dropped it. They hadn’t been a mile out of town before she relaxed, not two miles before her head lolled to one side and her mouth drooped with a whispered snore.
Now why, he wondered, was it not proper for a young lady to sleep in a parlor on a perfectly comfortable sofa, but it was perfectly proper to ride out of town in the middle of the night wearing his good shirt? Of course, he didn’t point out the quirkiness of this reasoning to the mite sleeping before him.
Back in Maggie’s parlor, overwhelmed by the child’s tears, Jake had proposed taking her to Miss Kottis, who knew what was “proper for a young lady.” When Miss Amanda agreed, he scooped her up with the doll and basket and made for the livery stable as fast as his long legs would carry him. She clung to him with those fat little arms, and he found himself holding her tighter as if to assure her that everything was going to be all right.
And everything was going to be all right. It wasn’t really the middle of the night. The church social had ended around eight thirty. He’d wasted a little under an hour trying to get Miss Amanda to bed at the boardinghouse. It would be around ten o’clock when he reached the Kotchkis place. If he were coming calling, ten o’clock would be improper. But this wasn’t a social call.
What did he care about what was proper and improper? He was just doing his duty, seeing that the little mite got a good night’s sleep before her journey tomorrow. He’d sent a prayer up to God for an answer to his dilemma. Then he firmly put aside any thoughts about why the first face that came into his mind had a tempting dimple right at the corner of lips it would be improper to kiss.
When Sheriff Moore turned into the long drive between two rows of white oak, a few windows of the Kotchkis farmhouse still glowed with yellow lamplight. A couple of dogs barked a greeting. He reined in Dancer at the front porch. Carefully hoisting Miss Amanda up against his shoulder, he slid out of the saddle. He spoke softly to his horse as he looped the reins over the hitching post.
“This won’t take but a minute, Dancer.”
His boots clomped on the wooden steps, and the door opened before he had a chance to knock.
Mel Kotchkis walked out onto the porch and clapped Jake on the shoulder as if this were not only an expected visit but one with nothing unusual about it, not the hour of the night, nor the pudgy, miniature proper miss draped over the sheriff’s shoulder.
“She wouldn’t sleep at Maggie’s,” said Jake.
“Hmm? Gave you some trouble?” Kotchkis grinned amiably. “Little girls are like that. Pamela will know what to do.”
Pamela, in a robe thrown over her nightgown, came rushing down the stairs.
She’d heard the exchange at the door.
“Carry her on up the stairs, Sheriff Moore,” she spoke softly. “We’ll try to put her down without waking her.”
Jake followed, but Mel went to the kitchen table. His big Bible lay open to the book of Matthew, and he patted the pages as he sat down.
“Yes, Jesus,” he breathed the words with a grateful sigh. “Just the right suitor for our gal.”
“In here, Sheriff.” Pamela pushed the door wide open as she scurried into a room ahead of him. A lantern sat on a bedside table. A book lay open, facedown beside it. The covers were turned back and pillows were stacked against the headboard.
Pamela grabbed the top pillow and pushed it to the other side of the double bed. She smoothed the sheet and pulled the covers back a bit more then stood aside for Sheriff Moore to gently put down his burden.
Amanda groaned, and he patted her back, speaking soothing words. When she settled, he stepped away. Pamela tucked the little girl in and turned down the lamp.
Pamela’s tawny curls caught the glimmer of the soft light and surrounded her face like a halo. Jake smelled the clean fragrance of soap and rosewater on her skin. The soul-shaking thought that he was in Pamela’s bedroom, next to the bed she must have hopped out of when she heard him at the door, enjoying the sight, the smell of her, and even relishing the sound of her breathing, nearly sent him racing from the house in panic.
He stopped in the hall, trying to think of a time when his heart had last raced like that. When Tommy Blake holed up in the livery, and he had to talk the outlaw out so he could arrest him without bloodshed? No, this was different. This was a whole lot different.
“Sheriff Moore?” Pamela came out into the upstairs hallway and closed the door softly behind her. “Where are her clothes?” “What?”
“Her clothes.”
“Maggie has them.” He turned to look at her—which was his first mistake. She was close and sweet and looking up at him with puzzlement in her eyes. The little furrow across her brow was just at the right height for him to kiss. If she tilted her chin just a mite, her lips… He couldn’t kiss her! You don’t kiss a woman in her nightgown and robe unless you’re married to her. Where was Mel Kotchkis? His daughter was up here with a…a…
Jake stumbled on the first step but caught himself and hurried down the stairs. About halfway down he remembered he was supposed to be quiet or he’d wake Amanda. At the bottom, in the foyer’s bright light, he felt like a fool for running from her. Pamela’s slow and steady footsteps descended the stairs he’d just plummeted down.
“Thank you, Miss Pamela,” he croaked. Jake cleared his throat and beganagain. “Thank you, Miss Pamela. Her train leaves at noon. If you don’t mind, I’ll come by at eleven to pick her up. I’ll bring her clothes with me then.”
“That will be fine, Sheriff.”
“Evening.” Staring at her radiance, he reached for the doorknob, missed, dragged his gaze away from that angel face surrounded by the halo of soft gold hair, and focused on the cold, round doorknob.
“Much obliged,” he muttered.
Sheriff Jake Moore strode out the door, flew down the steps, and vaulted into the saddle. A kid’s trick, but he wasn’t trying to impress the woman. He was trying to escape.
Chapter 4
Nothing pressing came up to keep Sheriff Moore in town. He’d swept out his jail cells, strolled
down Main Street, and checked with Widow Harper on whether Daniel Frigby had turned up to do the work the judge had sentenced him to do as punishment for public drunkenness. Going out to collect Miss Amanda happened to be next on his list of things to do. The clock said nine instead of eleven, but there was no reason to put off a chore just because the night before he’d thought he wouldn’t get around to it until later in the morning.
Jake whistled “All Creatures of Our God and King,” and when he got to the alleluias, he lifted his baritone voice to fill the gloomy, heavy morning air with his praise. As Jake turned his horse down the lane to the Kotchkis farm, he noted the sky’s angry countenance. Black clouds churned overhead and fits of wind spurted across his path, swirling the dust across the road in hectic dust devils.
Jake looked over the vast field of corn. The crops needed rain. A gentle, all-day rain would do.
Miss Pamela sat on the front porch in a rocker, a sewing basket beside her, and something pink in her hands. Miss Amanda scurried around the yard, dressed more like a young girl than the day before. She raised a hand to wave at him and went back to her present interest, chasing the chickens. She had a small bag Jake guessed was feed. Instead of standing still and throwing out the grain, the city girl cornered the hens and gave them their breakfast. From the saddle, Jake watched Amanda as she tried to force-feed the hens. With a chuckle, Jake dismounted and looped his reins over the hitching rail. Digging in his saddlebag, he produced the tightly wadded bundle containing Amanda’s dress, shift, stockings, shoes, and bonnet. He walked up the wooden porch steps and presented it to Miss Pamela.
She shook her head over the compressed and crumpled clothing. Glancing at Jake with laughter bubbling in her voice, she proclaimed, “She won’t wear these clothes in this wrinkled condition, you know.”
Jake plunked down in the opposite rocker and removed his hat. None of the previous night’s awkwardness remained. He gazed over the white railing surrounding the porch, watching Amanda’s fruitless endeavors to corner a hen.
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