A Sheriff's Passion

by Michelle Beattie

  It hurt her to think of him with another woman, of him kissing anyone but her yet she couldn’t stop it. And she wouldn’t beg for his affections either, though she hated that the kiss she’d given him earlier had come close to doing exactly that. Therefore, as far as Silver was concerned, they needed to accept what was and move forward. Perhaps he didn’t like the idea of her being with another man any more than she liked him with another woman, but, as he wasn’t willing to claim her as his own, he had better learn to get used to it.

  No time like the present.

  “Does that mean you’re ready for another picnic?” Silver asked Mitch.

  “That’s actually why I came tonight, to ask which day is best for you.”

  “I don’t open the saloon until two in the afternoon so any day would work so long as I was back by half past one.”

  “Does Wednesday morning work? I can call around eleven, if that’s not too early for you?”

  A muscle ticked in Shane’s jaw. “She stays up late working, Mitch. Let Silver get some sleep.”

  “Eleven is perfect. I’ll be ready.”

  “And I promise to have you back in time.” Mitch finished his drink, dug some coins from his pocket as he rose. “I think I’ll turn in early.” Then, grey eyes full of mischief he said to Silver, “Don’t let this one talk you out of it.”

  Both she and Shane watched Mitch stroll through the saloon and out the doors into the night.

  “I’d better see to my customers,” Silver said.

  She set her palms on the table, prepared to stand. Shane stopped her by placing one of his large, tanned hands over hers.

  “I know you think I’m getting in your business, Silver—”

  “Well, aren’t you?” she countered.

  Shane drew a deep breath, had the decency to look contrite. “Yeah, but because I care about you and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  Aware they weren’t alone, Silver leaned closer, kept her voice down. Butterflies skittered through her chest but she forced herself to ask, to look Shane in the eye when she did.

  “Besides the fact that you don’t trust your brother’s intentions, can you give me another reason not to go with Mitch?”

  She thought she saw the reasons clouding his gray eyes. She curled her toes as she waited, hoped, now that she’d given him an opening, he’d walk through it. Silence stretched between them. His jaw worked as he ruminated on his answer. Say it. For once, finally, say it.

  But after a lengthy silence, he shook his head, retracted his hand. “I’m sorry, Silver, I can’t.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Rejected, again, she forced some starch into her spine. “Then I don’t want to hear any more about your brother. Are we clear?”

  Shane nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Silver!” One of her patrons called from a table in front of the darkened windows. “Can we get some more bourbon here?”

  “Coming,” she called back and pushed to her feet. Her limbs felt as heavy as her heart.

  She wondered if she’d ever be able to love another man as much as she loved Shane.

  Shane wasn’t ready to go back home. If he went back now the walls would close in on him and he’d dwell on his and Silver’s conversation. It wasn’t that he’d change his words if he could, but he hated having said them at all. Somehow saying aloud what he’d always felt—that he couldn’t give her any reason to wait for him—put a finality to it. He was still convinced Mitch wasn’t the man for her but seeing his brother’s interest brought home the fact that it was only a matter of time until a more suitable suitor came around.

  It was hardly a comforting thought.

  With most of Marietta asleep, or at least tucked neatly inside their homes, Shane didn’t have many options if he didn’t want to go home. He wouldn’t risk Justice by riding in the dark without cause. That left Grey’s. Well, he’d had his drink for the day and he had no intention of seeking distraction with a whore, but he hadn’t been into Grey’s for a few days and he tried to get in at least twice a week, just to keep a presence.

  The balcony above Grey’s front door was surprisingly sparse. Two painted ladies leaned against the balustrade. The moonlight glowed on the pale globes of their breasts.

  “Looking for some excitement, handsome?” one called down.

  “Not tonight, ladies.”

  “We could make it worth your while.” She promised.

  “I’m sure you could; maybe another time.”

  Some of the horses at the hitching post lifted their heads and looked at him as he stepped onto the boardwalk. Shane paused. Considering the number of horses—near a dozen—he’d have expected more of a ruckus coming from Grey’s but the noise drifting over the doors was surprisingly subdued. He supposed the giggling he and Silver had heard earlier had progressed to quieter, more private endeavors.

  Shane tried not to think on that as he pushed open the swinging doors.

  A few heads turned to see who’d come in. Ephraim Grey, used to Shane’s regular visits, went back to dealing cards. He was sitting at a table with two other men Shane recognized from nearby farms. There were more men scattered around the saloon but most didn’t bother lifting their heads from their drinking. The man at the last occupied table had his face buried in a mountain of bosom and more than likely hadn’t even noticed when Shane came in.

  Movement on the staircase leading up to the rooms caught Shane’s attention and he looked up at the couple halfway up the stairs. The man was dressed in dark clothes, his hat tugged low. Shane didn’t care for the guns riding on his hip. Though he didn’t forbid guns in town, there weren’t many that carried them and the few that did, he knew.

  He didn’t know the man climbing the staircase.

  Though lamps lit the saloon, the man’s back remained to Shane making it impossible to recognize him. The blond woman with him, however, Shane knew.

  The first time he’d seen Charlotte had been in the middle of Main Street a few weeks ago. Katie and Scott, the ink barely dry on their marriage certificate, had come to town. Shane had spotted them and together they were walking up to see Silver when the doors to Grey’s had opened and Charlotte stepped out. Scott, the more quiet and affable of his friends, had suddenly just walked toward the whore, leaving a hurt bride and a stunned friend. Shane had since learned the part Charlotte had played in Scott’s life growing up, how she’d saved him from a brothel in Colorado when he’d been nothing but a boy.

  Shane respected the woman she was, if not her profession.

  She turned, recognized Shane and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. He tipped his head in greeting and watched as she and her customer disappeared down a short hallway at the top of the stairs. She wasn’t especially young for a whore but it didn’t appear the man with her cared.

  Taking advantage of Ephraim’s return to the bar for a bottle, and remembering the prospector he’d met in the hills yesterday and old Jeb’s words about the men he’d seen heading toward Marietta, Shane sidled over.

  “You recognize that man who went up with Charlotte?” he asked.

  “Nope,” came the terse reply.

  “Did he come alone?”

  Ephraim tipped the bottle over three glasses. “Yep.”

  “You’re sure? He wasn’t with three others?”

  “Nope.”

  Ephraim wasn’t much of a talker.

  “Did he say where he was from or where he was headed?”

  Hard eyes met his. “Didn’t ask.”

  No, he never did.

  “You want anything or not?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  Ephraim grunted and went back to the table. Despite not drinking, Shane sat at the bar a spell. Every once in a while he’d cast his gaze toward the top of the stairs.

  Strangers came and went in Marietta all the time and it wasn’t unusual for them to hunker down for a few days of drinking and whoring. He couldn’t say why he felt differently about the man he’d
seen with Charlotte, he only knew he did. When he’d seen that pistol, a cold dread had moved over him.

  While he sensed Mitch’s arrival would bring annoyances and headaches, what he’d sensed watching that man’s back, seeing the low pulled hat and the gun...

  He’d felt trouble.

  Dangerous trouble.

  Chapter Six

  It didn’t happen often, but every once in a while Silver closed her saloon early. Usually those times were in the winter when Marietta was being blasted by a winter storm and folks were smart enough to stay home. Tonight, though it was barely midnight, Silver locked her doors, drew the heavy drapery over the windows. Because it was early yet and she wasn’t tired, she decided to clean the saloon then rather than leave the chore for morning.

  Carrying her basin full of dirty glasses, Silver elbowed open the door that led to her kitchen. After stoking the fire in the stove, she pumped water into a large kettle and set it on to warm. While she waited, she strolled back into her saloon.

  It struck her, as it sometimes did, how much her pa would have loved Silver’s. He’d been saving toward owning his own saloon when her ma had gotten sick. It hadn’t taken more than a year for the medicine and doctor visits to cost him his savings. He’d never complained and Silver knew one of the reasons was that he’d thought of the Stardust Saloon as his own. Mr. Hendricks, the aging owner of the Stardust, had left most of the managing and tending bar to her father.

  When her ma was having a good morning, Silver would accompany her pa to the saloon to help clean. She’d never minded sweeping, washing glasses, and cleaning out spittoons. Mostly because her pa was there with her, whistling as he stocked the shelves and mopped the floors. While they worked, he told stories of cowboys, businessmen, and lawmen that came in, spun tales she knew held only an ounce of truth to them.

  Despite knowing that, Silver had begun to dream. One day they’d find a way to own their own and they’d work day and night, her and her pa, and their place would shine.

  “If you had the chance,” she’d once asked, “to build your own saloon. What would it look like?”

  His eyes had shone and for a few moments they weren’t clouded with worry over his wife and the limited money they had to live on. As he’d described his perfect saloon, Silver had committed every detail to memory and his dream had become hers. One day, one way or another, she’d find a way to give it to them. There were other things she knew she could have built, other things that would have made her life easier, made it so she had more friends, more respectability.

  And she’d never for a moment considered any one of them.

  When she’d stopped in Marietta, when she’d seen the old barn, her father’s descriptions had rang in her head and she’d known, to the bottom of her soul, she could make that barn into everything he’d, they’d, ever wanted.

  “You never got the chance to see it happen,” she murmured, feeling the familiar sadness creep in.

  But while her pa might have never seen it, there were times she felt him beside her. And feeling him, she felt a little less alone.

  Silver tucked the chairs neatly around the tables, and swept the polished floors. Once the tables were wiped clean and all the glasses were washed and put back on the shelves, she turned down the wick on her oil lamps until all but one was extinguished. Even though she’d already checked it, Silver ensured both the back and front doors were locked before she climbed the curving staircase to her rooms upstairs.

  Not the least bit tired, she veered into the room she used as an office. She set the lamp on the corner of her desk and pulled out her heavy leather ledger from a drawer. Her pa had taught her about figuring and he’d shown her how to fill in the columns. Silver had been intrigued by the rows and columns and making sense of the numbers. She’d peppered him with questions and he’d patiently explained about debt, income, paying bills, and profit.

  He’d told her of other saloons that watered down their whiskey, or those that sold mostly rotgut. He’d explained that while the cost was higher for quality, it always repaid itself in loyalty. A patron who felt he was getting his money’s worth would always come back. It was a practice Silver had always abided by.

  As she wasn’t one to put off work when it needed doing, there weren’t many receipts to enter into the ledger. Still, she looked it over, added the receipts with the others she kept in a large envelope, then tucked ledger and envelope into the drawer and locked it.

  With the profits in her pocket she went into her bedroom, pushed aside the dresser. She took her sturdiest hatpin and pried it against a loose floorboard. Lifting the wood, she set it aside and removed two more planks. There were two cigar boxes in the space she’d revealed. She took the top one, added a few dollars to it. While she kept some money in the bank, her pa had taught her never to keep all her money in one place. Why he’d said that when there’d never been any money to hide, Silver didn’t know.

  Staring at the other box her heart was, as always, conflicted. The box was full and she knew to the penny how much was in it. And every penny, ever dollar, weighed on her.

  “Ma, you need to eat.”

  She held the spoon to her ma’s lips, but the woman merely shook her head and started another bout of that god-awful coughing. Setting down the bowl, she moved behind her ma, eased her up while her frail body was wracked by coughs. Reaching to the side, she grasped a rag off the floor, pushed it into her mother’s hands. When the worst of the cough had passed, she tucked the thin blankets around her ma. Tears choked her throat when she saw the bloodied rag clutched in her mother’s hand.

  Feeling useless and fighting despair, she huddled in a corner, shivered at the cool, fall air that blew through the cracks. With her ma’s consumption worsening, she’d taken on less and less work, afraid to leave her alone for too long. Sometimes her cousin John Paul came and stayed but he was nearly as poor and she didn’t ask him often, as she knew he needed to work as well.

  She pressed her face to her raised knees. Cold, alone, and with hopelessness closing in, she fought not to give up. But since her pa had died, when his heart had given out right there at the supper table, it had been left to her. The little money she did earn paid for the ramshackle cabin they lived in on the edge of town and the food for her ma. For herself, she only ate when she couldn’t stand the gnawing hunger any longer. And she limited herself to a slice of bread or a few mouthfuls of broth. Her ma needed it more than she did.

  But, truthfully, she had no idea how much longer she could keep going. The cough was worsening and more often than not, it wasn’t only spit her ma coughed up. Her mother wasn’t eating and her body was becoming nothing more than skin over bones. It was a battle they were losing.

  She shivered against both the cold and the truth. The tears sliding down her cheeks were the only warmth she felt.

  The tap at the door surprised her. The only person who came these days was her cousin John Paul and he’d just come yesterday so she could work a few hours at the hotel cleaning rooms. She hadn’t asked him to come today.

  But when the door squeaked open there he was.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. She wrapped her arms around herself as a gust of wind blew over her.

  Seeing her tremble, he stepped inside, gently pushed her aside and closed the door. He looked to the pallet on the floor.

  “How is she?”

  “Same as yesterday. She’s coughing up blood again.”

  John Paul sucked in a breath, shook his head. Then he turned his attention back to her. Though they were cousins they looked nothing alike. She was short and blonde, he was tall and lanky. He took after his pa where she favored her mother, his aunt, as their mothers had been sisters. He’d lost his ma years ago.

  Luck didn’t run in their family.

  “I brought you something,” he said and held out his hand.

  She looked down. Her eyes went wide. “What’s this?”

  “Money,” he said. He took her hand dropped a
few silver dollars in it.

  “I can’t take this. You need it as much as I do.” She tried to pass it back but he refused.

  “I can spare this. Go get some medicine for Aunt Janet.”

  “You know nothing’s been working. You may as well keep this.”

  He shook his head. “Then get some food.” His eyes skirted over her from her limp, dirty hair to her father’s jacket that hung long and loose on her petite frame. “And not just for your ma, this time. You need to eat. You ain’t going to be any good to her if you get yourself sick too.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. She wasn’t any good to her ma healthy either. Nothing she did helped. She’d tried cod liver oil, phosphate of lime. She’d tried getting her ma outside. Even the doctor said there was nothing he could do. Of course there was another who claimed he could help, but she didn’t have the money to pay him. She swallowed the tears, dug deep inside for strength.

  “I’m eating,” she argued.

  His eyes narrowed. His gaze went to her ma and the bowl of broth next to her. Marching across the small room he leaned down and picked it up and brought it back.

  “Eat it.”

  She took a step back. “I can’t. That’s ma’s. She’s resting now but she’ll have it when she wakes up.”

  He took the money from her hand, set it on the table then pressed the bowl into her hands. “Eat it. You can go buy what you need to make more with that.” He gestured to the money.

  Even as she denied it, her stomach grumbled. Her mouth watered. It wasn’t anything but broth she’d made from a ham bone she’d bought from the butcher. But as she was partway through her second day without eating, it could have been a leg of lamb for as good as it smelled to her.

  “I ain’t leaving until you eat that.”

  She ate because she needed to keep up her strength and counting the money sitting on the table she knew there was more than enough to buy another bone. Her eyes fluttered closed on the first spoonful. It was a testament to how hungry she was that the broth tasted as good as it did. Ravenous, she finished it in no time and had to admit she felt stronger for it.