A Sheriff's Passion

by Michelle Beattie

  He tied Justice to a low hanging branch and secured his shotgun. He’d be fine with his six-shooter if he needed it, though somehow he doubted he would. Nodding, he accepted the cup of coffee.

  “Everything I own is right here,” the stranger held his arms wide. “I ain’t got nothin’ worth stealing, except Patience there but she’s near as old as I am. I figure if a man wants to shoot me for a few picks and shovels I don’t reckon I can stop him.” He settled onto the ground, picked up his own cup. “You got a name, Sheriff?”

  “Shane McCall. I’m the sheriff in Marietta.”

  “I’m Jeb. Jeb Higgins.” He squinted. “Marietta, you say? Don’t think I’ve ever been there. Is it far from here?”

  Shane eyed him closely. “Not terribly.”

  “Is it a nice town?”

  He took a sip of his coffee, nearly spat it out. It was thicker than mud in the spring. Looking down, he saw it was near the same color.

  He forced himself to swallow before answering, “It is.”

  “Well, I ain’t much for towns, even nice ones. I prefer the peace and quiet of the mountains.”

  “For prospecting.”

  “Yep.”

  “Any luck?”

  Jeb choked on his coffee. When he finished sputtering he said, “Does it look like I’ve had any?”

  Shane took in the man’s worn clothing, the grime coating his hat and pants. Even the tent looked like it needed a bath.

  “Not especially.”

  “That’s cause I haven’t. But”—he pointed to Marietta Mountain—“I’m hoping to have better luck with that one. I’ve got a feeling about that one.”

  “I wish you luck then.”

  “Thank you.” He tossed in another few pieces of wood, watched the sparks spiral upward then fixed his eyes on Shane. “You here looking for anything specific?”

  “There was some trouble down by Chico a couple of weeks ago. Stagecoach robbery. The shotgun rider was killed. I’d like to think those responsible are long gone by now but, just in case, I’ve been keeping a eye out.”

  “A cautious man, are you?”

  “I am.” Shane forced himself to take another sip of the coffee.

  “That’s the sign of a good sheriff.” Jeb stretched out his legs. The movement must have hurt because he winced. But as he resettled himself he got a far off look to his eye. “You know,” he said, “come to think of it, I saw some men a few days back.”

  “More prospectors?” Shane asked.

  “Can’t say for sure. They were quite a ways ahead of me and after I stopped for lunch and a nap, I never saw them again.”

  Shane set his cup down, leaned forward. “How many were there?”

  “Four, as I recall.”

  Shane’s senses sharpened. Katie had said it had been four men who’d robbed her coach.

  “Which way were they headed?”

  To Shane’s consternation old Jeb pointed over Shane’s shoulder.

  Straight toward Marietta.

  Chapter Four

  It was late by the time Shane had ridden back into Marietta last night. While anxious to talk to his brother one-on-one, it wasn’t so urgent he needed to stomp over to the boardinghouse and wake everyone up. And without it being an emergency, prickly Mrs. Hollingsworth who ran the boardinghouse would pitch a fit loud enough to wake the town.

  So, he’d taken his time brushing Justice and settling him into the stable. Then he’d stepped into his office and written down his conversation with Jeb. He’d share what he’d learned with Owen, his deputy, come morning. With the chore done, he’d locked his office and climbed the outside stairs that led to his room above the jail.

  It had taken hours of tossing and turning before his mind had finally stopped thinking about robbers, brothers, and saloon owners long enough for him to fall asleep. He’d dreamt of Silver wrapped in Mitch’s arms, of Silver kissing Mitch the way she’d kissed Shane, of Silver carrying his brother’s child. He’d woken tired, ornery, and in a tangle of sheets.

  It surely wasn’t the best time to confront his brother but Shane didn’t see his mood improving anytime soon where Mitch was concerned and he figured seven thirty in the morning a respectable enough hour to call on him. Donning one of the starched white shirts he paid the widow Sawyer to clean and press, Shane then pulled on his black vest. The silver star pinned prominently was sure to bring a smirk to Mitch’s lips. But then, most things did.

  Shane strapped on his gun belt and double-checked all six chambers of his gun were loaded before walking out the door.

  Letty Daniels was just crossing the street, her skirt stirring up dust, when he stepped from his stairway onto the boardwalk. As he always had time when it came to her, he sauntered closer to the mercantile.

  “Well, good morning, handsome,” she said.

  Though it was an easy step up from the dirt road, Shane offered the woman a hand up.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Daniels.” And because he knew it would bring a flush to her face, and a lightness to his heart, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Well”—she grinned with a blush on her cheeks and a twinkle in her eyes—“that’s a greeting I never tire of.”

  Though it wasn’t unusual that they meet on the boardwalk in the morning she nonetheless asked him, “Where are you off to so early?”

  He jutted his chin toward the short side street she’d come from. It led to the other, often called Church Street, which ran parallel with Main Street. The boardinghouse sat on the corner where Church met the shorter avenue.

  “I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to Mitch yesterday, thought I’d go on over this morning while I have some time.”

  Her blue eyes went wide. “Oh, that’s right! I didn’t know who that was until I was commenting to Eileen about how lucky Silver was to have two handsome men fighting for her basket. Then Eileen told me the stranger was your brother.” Her grin turned sly. “He seemed quite taken with Silver.”

  “Yeah,” Shane muttered. Which was just one of the reasons he was anxious to talk to his brother.

  Mrs. Daniels dug into her reticule and came out with a key. “Well, I think that’s wonderful for Silver.” Turning, she slid the key in the lock. It clicked open. “It’s about time a man took notice of her.” She peered at Shane over her shoulder. “Don’t you think?”

  No, no he didn’t. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else spending time with her, holding her hand, taking her for long walks. Kissing her. Not that he wanted her lonely, but he didn’t want her with anybody either. It didn’t make a lick of sense and wasn’t fair but he couldn’t help the way he felt.

  “Shane?”

  His gaze snapped into focus. Letty was staring at him, her left brow a questioning arch.

  “Yes,” he lied as he’d just as soon shoot himself in the foot than admit seeing Silver with anyone, especially Mitch, turned him in knots. “Yes, it’s good for her.”

  She gave him a long stare, then sighed. “Well, you be sure to tell that brother of yours to come introduce himself. Eileen remembers him fondly and I’d like to meet him.”

  “I will, Mrs. Daniels. You have a good day.”

  “You too, Shane,” she said and let herself into the mercantile.

  Somehow he felt he’d let her down. Shaking his head, he crossed the street, strode toward the boardinghouse. He suspected Mitch was still asleep and admitted he wouldn’t be sorry to wake him. It was Monday and there was work to be done. Even though Mitch could sleep away the mornings, that didn’t mean regular folks kept the same hours.

  The boardinghouse was governed—and he did mean governed—by Mrs. Hollingsworth. Unyielding as Marietta Mountain, she ruled her establishment with a granite fist. Meals were served at seven, twelve, and six and not a minute before or after. If a boarder missed one, they went hungry until the next. Loud noises and disturbances were not tolerated and no man was to bring a woman inside unless she was his wife. There was no drinking, smoking, or gambli
ng inside her walls either.

  Shane grinned. Mitch would find the rules stifling.

  He was reaching for the handle when the front door swung inward and he came face-to-face with his brother.

  “You’re awake,” Shane stated.

  “Imagine that,” Mitch drawled. “And it isn’t yet noon.”

  He’d expected to have to knock on Mitch’s door and wait while his brother grumbled, rolled out of bed, and put some clothes on. He’d never anticipated Mitch would be at the door, dressed much as he’d been yesterday in pressed trousers and shirt. Was he hightailing it out already?

  While not surprised Mitch would blow out of town as fast as he’d blown in, Shane couldn’t help feeling irritated. Had Mitch not planned on talking to him at all?

  “Are you leaving?”

  Mitch’s eyes locked onto his and, for a few moments, it was like looking into a mirror. He thought he saw the same wariness and frustration he was feeling.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Mitch said moving forward, forcing Shane to step back. “I’m only going for a ride.” He reached behind his back, closed the door to the boardinghouse.

  Shane had been so quick to assume the worst he hadn’t noticed Mitch wasn’t carrying anything but a canteen. A knot in his stomach loosened.

  “Where are you off to?”

  Mitch’s arm paused midway to putting his hat on. “Do you interrogate everyone that comes to town or am I just lucky?” He settled his hat on his head then walked around Shane without bothering to wait for an answer.

  Shane was right on his heels. “It’s hardly an interrogation. I just can’t imagine where you’d be going that would be of interest to you after ten years.”

  Mitch shot him a challenging look. “Why don’t you come with me and find out.”

  A man could grow up in Montana and never tire of the endless blue. It was how Shane felt every time he looked up, squinted against the piercing brightness of the sky. Amid the striking beauty of it, fists of clouds coasted along the gentle wind while others stretched out thin as a spider’s web to wrap around the mountain peaks where spring had yet to melt the snowy caps.

  Why would Mitch move away from such beauty? Was the thrill of the game, the chance at a prize, worth it? Surely drifting from town to town, rootless as a tumbleweed, and never calling one place home got tiring? If it did, if Mitch felt it, there weren’t any signs Shane could see.

  Though Mitch was in his thirty-second year, there weren’t any grey hairs along his temples or sideburns. His face had chiseled over time, however, and he had a few more lines around his mouth and eyes than he’d had when’d he’d left. But then so did Shane. Funny how some things changed and some didn’t. He wondered what else about Mitch had changed in the past ten years.

  Despite wanting answers it surprised Shane that, at the moment, he was no longer in a hurry for them. They’d stopped at Owen’s small spread and Shane had let his deputy know he’d be gone for a few hours. Owen had agreed to go in until Shane returned. Knowing the town was in good hands, Shane leaned back in the saddle, enjoyed the view.

  The valley spread out around them as their horses plodded along. The wind danced through the leaves of the cottonwoods, rustled the long grasses. Saddles creaked. Overhead, small birds nipped and chased the hawks and crows that dared get too close to their nests. In a lazy rhythm, their horse’s tails swished at the flies and mosquitoes that weren’t deterred by the breeze.

  “Wade looks happy,” Mitch commented.

  “He is. He had it hard when his pa died. Then to lose Amy not long after.”

  “I remember Amy. Wade was just starting to court her when I left. She was a sweet girl. How the hell she came from that woman I have yet to understand.”

  That woman, of course, being Mrs. Hollingsworth.

  Shane laughed. “I think she took after her father. Mrs. Hollingsworth never did think too much of Wade and when Jillian first came to town.” Shane shook his head. “She was fit to be tied. Didn’t want a woman vet in town, let alone one her former son-in-law was interested in.”

  Mitch looked over. “Has she come around?”

  “Yeah. And though little Katherine isn’t her blood, she fusses over her the same way she does Annabelle.”

  “That’s good. Wade deserves a second chance at happiness without that miserable, old sourpuss ruining it for him,” Mitch grumbled.

  Shane couldn’t help but grin. “She cornered you already?”

  Mitch shook his head. “It was worse than Miss Guthrie in school. She read a list of rules as though they were the Ten Commandments, all the while looking at me as though I was a rat who dared enter her kitchen.”

  It wasn’t hard to imagine, as he’d been the target of that exact look more than once growing up. And more recently, when she happened to see him anywhere near Silver.

  “Don’t tell me you still let her get under your skin,” Mitch taunted.

  Shane rolled his shoulders, hating that his brother could read him so easily. And it wasn’t that he let her, she just seemed to whether he wanted her to or not.

  “I don’t.”

  “You always were a poor liar,” Mitch laughed.

  “I take that as a compliment, despite how you meant it.”

  Mitch quieted, looked at Shane. “How do you know how I meant it?”

  “Because I know you. You don’t take anything seriously. You never did.”

  Mitch’s gaze pierced Shane’s. “And if I would have, would it have changed anything? Would it have kept ma alive? Would it have stopped pa from drinking. From hitting?”

  Suddenly, a very vivid memory of his pa coming after him filled Shane’s vision. It was suppertime and Shane and Mitch hadn’t had any luck fishing. Their snares hadn’t caught anything in days and Logan, the eldest of the McCall boys, had yet to return from hunting. Shane remembered the hollowed out feeling in his stomach. All he’d wanted was to eat. Early spring was always a difficult time for them because whatever vegetables and fruit they’d managed to preserve in the fall were long gone and their diet consisted of dandelions and meat.

  But that day they didn’t even have meat.

  They were sitting outside stuffing what leaves they’d found in their mouths when their father had ridden up. There was no mistaking his drunkenness when he nearly fell from the saddle. Weaving, he stumbled toward them. His eyes narrowed when he saw what they were doing.

  “What are you eating grass for?” he demanded. “You’re not cows.”

  “We didn’t catch any fish and the snares are empty,” Shane answered.

  His father’s mouth hardened. “What about the rabbits? There were three.”

  “That was four days ago,” Mitch reminded him.

  “You shut your mouth, I was talkin’ to your brother.” Then Trevor McCall grabbed Shane’s shirt in a meaty fist and yanked him to his feet. “You ate them all, didn’t you? It’s always you. Poor little baby, everybody takes pity on you.”

  Shane was hardly a baby. He was seven.

  “It wasn’t just me and we were hungry.”

  “Well, I’m hungry now. Where’s my food?” he demanded.

  Shane swallowed. He recognized the look on his pa’s face, felt the fury shaking the fist that still held his threadbare shirt.

  “I’ll pick you some leaves,” Shane volunteered.

  He slapped Shane hard across the face, though he didn’t release his hold. “I don’t want no goddamn rabbit food!” His father roared, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Shane barely heard him through his ringing ears. His cheek stung and he tasted blood where he’d bit himself. Knowing what was coming, he braced himself for another blow while trying not to pee at the same time. The last time he’d peed himself his pa had kicked him.

  But Shane felt the fist loosen and his breath stuttered out of his narrow chest. Looked like he was going to get off easy this time.

  “What’s wrong with rabbit food?” Mitch goaded from behind his pa. “I don’t hear
the rabbits complaining.”

  Trevor tossed Shane aside like a rock, then turned on his middle child. Knowing what was coming and unable to stop it, Shane could only watch horrified as his pa turned on Mitch.

  “You think you’re funny, boy?”

  Mitch shrugged.

  His father’s fist flew and it didn’t stop until Mitch was on the ground.

  “Still think you’re funny now?” He’d bellowed.

  Shane still remembered the bloody smile Mitch had given their father, and the beating that had continued after. Shane had watched, horrified and mad and scared out of his mind. In his seven-year-old mind, he’d been sure his brother would die that day. But Mitch hadn’t died and when it was all over, his brother had limped off to the river, alone, to wash off the blood. When he’d come back, he’d pretended the beating had never happened. But Shane had never forgotten it.

  “Nothing stopped pa when he was into the bottle,” Shane admitted.

  Not crying, not hiding, and not pleading for him to stop. When they’d been old enough, big enough to start fighting back, it had slowed Trevor McCall down, but it hadn’t stopped him. Nothing had until he’d fallen into the river and drowned.

  “But there were times, Mitch, when you made it worse. If only you’d have taken it seriously.”

  Mitch glowered. “Believe me, I took it plenty seriously and I have scars to prove it.” He rolled his shoulders and just like that, the shadow of the past fell off of him. “But the bastard’s gone and I can think of better things to talk about than him.” Mitch’s teeth flashed whiter than the snow capping the distant mountains. “Like Silver, for example.”

  The reins cut into Shane’s palm. “Don’t toy with her, Mitch. She deserves better.”

  Mitch arched a brow. “She deserves better than to be toyed with or she deserves better than me?”

  Shane looked him in the eye. “Both.”

  Despite the insult, Mitch didn’t seem the least offended. With one hand on his hip and the other loosely holding the reins, he leaned back in the saddle.

  “I’m not worthy of her because I’m a gambler?”

  “Partly, and because you have no intention of staying.”