He walked them back to the room, like returning errant children to a nursery and handed them to the boy. “At least, Mr. Walker, it is always easy to locate you. Wait long enough and the debris will tell.”
He looked at Amanda with a brief nod and returned as silent as he’d arrived.
“You sure he’s a legal fella?” Amanda asked the boy in a whisper. “Cause I swear, he has the same look about him as old man Sedgwick.”
“Who’s old man Sedgwick?” Joseph whispered back, shooting her a look that was pure confusion.
“He’s the local undertaker,” Amanda said with a conspiratorial smile. “Smiles about as much too.”
Joseph’s hand flew up to cover his mouth, and Amanda smiled, happy she could make the boy laugh. It was also true. On the other hand, Old man Sedgwick often complained, though half-jokingly that her father was bad for his business. He claimed that since the sheriff stopped people from killing each other, his revenue had fallen considerably.
Amanda had secretly figured that being around dead people so much had soured him, but then there was Summit. Might just be that some people were born with all the cares of the world on their shoulders.
Joseph restacked the papers and began re-sorting them. Amanda sighed and continued with her efforts.
The file room once served as the bank vault. It was placed so that the manager would have a constant eye on the place. The manager’s office was directly across the building in a straight line. This gave Amanda a clear view of one Mr. Richman.
He was sorting through papers and supplies in his office, setting up different areas of his new office. He moved like a horseman, all confidence in his stride, little movements of his back that broadcast turns, his shoulders angled just ever so slightly when he changed direction. He was never not on a horse.
Amanda grinned, watching him. He seemed so strong, so powerful. She could feel her body responding to the view. It was disconcerting and strange. She hadn’t felt that way before about a man. She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to the sort of calm she used when approaching a jittery horse.
The front door opened, and a young woman Amanda didn’t recognize walked in and greeted Mr. Summit. He said a few words and gestured to the office where Mr. Richman was leaning against the edge of his desk, ankles crossed, engrossed in some paperwork. The girl smiled and curtsied to Summit who only nodded once and returned to the books he was piling on his desk.
The girl wore a light, powder blue dress and a bonnet of flowers and baby’s breath. She carried a parasol on one arm and seemed to be a captured ray of sunlight crammed into the body of a girl. Amanda decided she hated her with every fiber of her being and wondered who she was.
The girl flounced to Richman’s office and gave a cheery “hello” so loud and chipper that Amanda could hear it from across the building. Richman looked up and smiled, inviting her in. She closed the door behind her.
“Miss Addams?” Joseph was saying. Amanda started and looked down at him trying to take the papers from her hand. “Miss Addams, please, you’re wrinkling three years of court cases.”
“Oh,” she let go of the papers and tried to smooth them with her hands. “Nothing torn anyway…” she smiled and lifted her hands away before she caused more damage.
“Who was that?” She asked, pointing at the closed door across the way.
“Who was who?” Joseph looked around the room, as though in search of some person he might have missed.
Amanda rolled her eyes. “That… woman who walked into Phil… Mr. Richman’s office just now. Who was she?”
“I don’t… oh, you must mean Miss Davis.”
“Davis?” Amanda echoed. “I don’t know any Davis, and I’ve lived here all my life. Well, the last twelve years of it. But those were the important years,” she amended. “I thought I knew everybody.”
“She’s part of the army,” Joseph said and blinked as if he’d just heard what he’d said. “I mean, her father is an officer in the new fort and she and a sister and, I think two brothers, all came out here with him. He’s supposed to be some sort of big wheel.” He shrugged and returned to sorting.
“So, she’s rich?”
“Far as I know.” Joseph glanced uneasily at the door, and the motioned to her to lean in, to be sure they weren’t overheard. “I hear that her father is planning to run for Governor when his enlistment is up.”
Rich, pretty, bubbly.
Everything she wasn’t. And she had Mr. Richman’s attention.
I wonder if I can accidentally shoot her.
Amanda sighed and smoothed out some random papers, noting for the first time how rough and calloused her chapped hands were. These were the working hands of a rancher. Hands that helped birth cows, hands that strung barbed wire fence. Hands that built campfires. She felt… huge. Huge and clumsy and…
…and most decidedly not the hands of a lady.
“Suddenly I kinda wish I could help out old man Sedgwick,” she said under her breath.
Joseph looked a question at her, but when no further explanation was forthcoming, returned to his sorting.
Amanda focused on being calm. It wasn’t good to cry in front of horses either. It confused them.
Calm.
In her mind, she could feel the soft nose of a horse in her hand, the tangled mane, the sleek neck under the curry comb. It was with a start she suddenly realized that in her mind she’d groomed Oliver. Not Champion.
Chapter 6
Sarah sighed and put down her fork. “Alright, let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?” Amanda looked up from her plate where she’d been pushing beans around for the last ten minutes, making a design around the biscuit which took the place of honor in the center of the plate. She frowned, puzzled, now quite sure what she’d done wrong this time, though she was pretty sure Sarah was about to tell her.
“Why your face is longer than your horse’s for one thing.” Sarah dabbed her mouth with her napkin, forever dainty. “Why you’re sighing over your meatloaf and looking at your biscuit like it’s a crystal ball? Give.”
Amanda looked at her little sister and then to Rachel who was busy eating, lost in her own world since she’d been allowed to bring a book to the table. Maybe it wasn’t the best choice for mealtime, but since Father had been working late every night this week, they’d maybe gotten a little lax on what would be considered good parenting skills.
Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing to read. Which was a nice thought until you realized that her sister was going to be less than pleased when she got back from her honeymoon and found her brand new daughter already clearly spoiled and without manners.
Amanda shrugged, eyeing the empty chair where her father should have been sitting. She didn’t like that he’d been working late so much. Even after all these years, when he said he had to work late, his daughters worried. Being a sheriff was dangerous work, and there were still any number of fools out there who got liquored up and shot off their mouths and guns. The night shift was not for the faint of heart.
“Nothin’s wrong,” Amanda said finally, pushing the biscuit in question away, upsetting the bean design and sending them scattered across the untouched slice of meatloaf which was holding back an imminent flood of creamed corn. “I guess I just ain’t all that hungry.” She looked up and tried to smile. “I didn’t do much today, mostly sat around and moved papers from one pile to the next. Not near enough to get much of an appetite going.” She placed her fork on the table and stood uncertainly looking down at her plate.
“I…I think I’ll take this to daddy,” she announced. “I’ll cover it with another plate, I didn’t touch it or nothing, and he might like it…”
“It’s getting late.” Sarah glanced uneasily out the window. The shadows were long across the grass, giving the yard a twilight feel. “You know daddy doesn’t like us out after dark.”
“It’ll be ok.” Amanda smiled. It felt like a heavy smile, as though the muscles in her cheeks w
ere required to lift a great weight. “I’ll be with the Sheriff. I can’t be safer than that, can I?”
Sarah opened her mouth and began to shake her head. But she looked at her older sister for a long moment and rose without a word and produced an empty plate and a checkered cloth. She upended the new plate over Amanda’s food and wrapped the two plates in the cloth, tying the corners to give Amanda a handle to carry them.
Amanda smiled thanks, thinking that maybe her sister wasn’t half bad after all. With a lighter heart than she’d had all afternoon, she lifted her burden, snagging her hat as she walked through the door. Sarah was a fusspot; it was clearly still light out, even if it wouldn’t be for long. Still, she’d have no problem in getting to the jail before the sun sank below the horizon. She just wouldn’t make it home again before night took hold of the sky. She walked a bit faster. It wasn’t like she had any fear of being out after dark, but her father seemed to feel this rule was important, and so she tried to honor his wishes.
Not that it should matter. I’m going to be with him after all, so night or no night, it’s all the same, right?
But deep down she knew the thought to be a lie. There was a certain stillness in the town proper that wasn’t there when the sun graced the sky. It was as if the entire town had been holding its breath all day and only now, as she entered the rows of shops and saloons was it beginning to breathe again. The Busted Flush Saloon was uncharacteristically silent, but as she neared the swinging doors, a tentative chord came from the piano inside and then a ringing rendition of some off-key song erupted into the street. As if waiting for the song to signal that the time had come to let loose in joyful abandon, a swelling of sound chased the notes through the open door, chatter, and laughter, and the clatter of people simply living loud and brash and noisy.
Amanda’s steps faltered a little. She peered in wonder through the open door as she passed, only to jump back in alarm as someone pressed through the door at that moment. A skinny man with a hooked nose brushed by holding a long pole with a candle attached to the end, and lit the oil lamps that soon cast a soft glow over the front of the building.
He looked at Amanda hard as she scrambled around him, the cloth package clutched protectively in front of her. He squinted at her in the gathering darkness before retreating into the light and noise of the bar.
Amanda scurried past, a little more uneasy now by the strangeness of the man’s look, by the bold way that other passersby looked at her. A few last-minute stores were shutting down, the last hope of having one more customer gone for the night. Even the man who locked up the mercantile looked like a stranger to her in the half-light, and she found herself wondering why it was he seemed so threatening when placed out of context. He pocketed the key to the front door of his store, and walked with a jaunty step, whistling, to the saloon across the street. Why it surprised her, she didn’t know.
Maybe we’re all different, presenting a different face to the world depending on where we are. Why should it have to be a bad thing if Mr. Meredith goes to the saloon at night when his store closes? He’s not married. What if we all change when we leave the light?
She wondered where her new boss fit in that scheme of things. Or was it possible that some things were exactly as they seemed to be? Like her father. Or her sisters.
It was a strange feeling, walking the meridian between day and night. Behind her, the town fell into the nighttime rhythm of booze and fear. In front of her, it the world still clung to commerce and enterprise.
Strangely enough, the jail was located precisely between the two worlds, with the bank on one side, and the saloon on the corner opposite.
She heard sounds of a fracas before she even got to the jail. The belligerent shouts of a drunkard, the firm but controlling voice of her father, the exclamation of the deputy, were all clearly heard on the boardwalk outside. The jail cell door clanged shut as she opened the front door. Her father and his deputy were leaning heavily on the wall, a local named Lester watched with disinterest from a corner, and inside one of the six cells an angry young man three sheets to the wind glared at them from his cot.
He seemed about her age, maybe a little older. It was hard to tell when he was doubled over like that. His face twisted in pain, making it hard to recognize him. But there was no mistaking that look he shot them. That was pure hate.
“Amanda?” Her father seemed less than pleased to see her. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought you your dinner,” she said, holding up the bundle with a hopeful glance, that begged him not to scold her for being out so late. “Sorry Pete,” she nodded to the deputy, “I didn’t know you was gonna be here.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” Pete Harman said, smiling even with the missing teeth he’d lost trying to stop a brawl last year. “Maisy’s probably got something warming on the stove for me anyhow.”
“Why don’t you head home, Pete?” The sheriff clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to send the smaller man staggering. “I got it from here. And if I need you, I’ll holler.”
Pete looked from him to the drunk who was clearly not going anywhere tonight and nodded. “Yes, sir! Just let me know if there’s any more trouble.”
Amanda was suddenly aware that the drunk was looking at her. Not that she wasn’t used to that. She’d often been the subject of rude comments. A woman in britches and men’s shirts weren’t all that uncommon out here, it was more practical for the woman who needed to help out at the farm or ranch, but it still occasioned some crude conversation if the man was drunk enough and of the sort to talk when under the influence.
Most often, though, Amanda would find that men stared at her in other ways. The fact that her britches did nothing to hide her figure often put her at the wrong kind of attention. She sometimes wondered if she was enhancing what the good Lord hadn’t meant for a God-fearing woman to show. Maybe the fact that she didn’t dress like a woman made her more of a target. According to Sarah, men didn’t feel they had to treat a woman like her as if she were a lady.
Like she’d ever been a lady in the first place.
Amanda was about to give that man in the cell a drink of water by virtue of tossing it at him without letting go of the cup when he straightened up and a grin spread across his face. Her father was walking Pete out, and for a moment, Amanda was left standing alone in front of the cell.
“Well, well, well. Sheriff’s daughter, huh? Good for you.” It was a sneer, not a compliment.
Amanda knew the last thing she should do was turn around to look at him. It was what he’d wanted after all. But there was something about him that didn’t fit, something that wasn’t right. It wasn’t just that he was a prisoner, or as her father would put it, a “guest” in the jailhouse. There was something else about him she couldn’t quite place.
“That’s right,” she said finally, cocking one hip and facing him down. There was no way a drunkard was going to intimidate her. “So?”
“So…” He smiled, and it seemed almost genuine, though it could have been the smile of a particularly happy devil. “It looks like you didn’t have to work on your back after all. More’s the shame. You’ve grown up right pretty.” His eyebrow rose a touch, and the devil analogy became more and more accurate.
Amanda’s blood got up and she balled her fists, crushing the knot in the checkered cloth she still held. She was about to fire off a scathing and, frankly, profanity-laden response when the wind whooshed from her lungs, and the hot blood froze right there in her veins.
My God, she knew that particularly despicable piece of vermin.
“Jasper?”
Chapter 7
Phillip had been in worse places, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think when. So, while the smelly saloon wasn’t really the best place for a meal, it was his own fault he’d been forced to darken their doors for his evening repast. The hour had gotten away from him, and the boarding house he was staying at had one strict rule about dinner: “If you’re late, you’re
hungry.” Unfortunately, the so-called respectable eating places – he couldn’t bring himself to call them restaurants after having seen the real thing in Chicago and Boston – had closed down as soon as the sun began to set, he was left to choose. Either he could go hungry, or he could go to the saloon.
Surprisingly, the beef they served at the saloon was tender and very good. They served the steak thick, with plenty of fried potatoes and onions. And if the wilted grass stems pretending to be asparagus was less than appealing, the rest of the meal, and the good price made up for it. Any place in Boston or Chicago would have charged up to twenty-five or thirty cents for a cut like that. For a dime, it was a steal.
He ignored the slightly green vegetables and concentrated on the rest. They at least looked like potatoes and had enough onion on them – and even a good bit of garlic - to help get the taste of the asparagus out of his mouth.
Except for one overly celebrant cowboy yelling about ‘being free’ and busting up the place, the saloon was a quiet enough place, or at least wasn’t quite the thing he’d pictured from the dime novel he’d found on the train out. He nodded at the Sheriff and his deputy as they came to collect the drunkard and finished his meal in relative peace.
Odd how things were never what they seemed. This little town was full of surprises. He had to admit that when he’d first arrived and taken Champion off the train, he’d figured he’d seen the entirety of the town from the train station, and there was no reason to explore further.
In a strange way, that still held up. It truly was all easily seen from the station. There was nothing more to it than what met the eye. But when you looked deeper, there were layers. The owner of the general store who liked to put on airs and pretend to be all wise in the ways of the world and came so close to being right. And yet, he was on the town council, and from all reports was an able man at politics.
At First Sight (The Sheriff's Daughters Book 2) Page 4
