The manager raised both hands, palms up, and backed away. “Sorry.” He turned to Julia. “Miss Benson is there a problem?”
She pulled up the neckline of her dress and smoothed the skirt. “No. Everything is fine.” She glared at Fletcher. “The sheriff was just leaving.”
Fletcher backed up. “This isn’t over.” Turning on his heel, he strode across the floor, the pounding of his boots on the wooden planks marking his exit.
How dare she take a job in the saloon? Was she out of her mind? Was being ogled by every man in town and being on her feet for hours on end preferable to being his wife? If he lived to a hundred years of age, he’d never understand women.
Well, he’d done his best as far as Miss Julia Benson was concerned. If she wanted to work at the saloon, what did it matter to him? He couldn’t care less. He had a job to do. As she’d pointed out a number of times, she was not his responsibility.
Several hours later Fletcher pushed opened the wooden batwing doors. He told himself it was merely a coincidence that the last stop of his evening rounds was the Full Bucket saloon. Ignoring Julia, once he determined she was still working, he took a seat at a table in the rear of the saloon.
Millie, one of the saloon girls, sashayed over to him. “You want a drink, Sheriff?”
“Yeah. Get me a whiskey, but ask the new girl to bring it over.”
The waitress raised her eyebrows, but wandered back to the bar. Once she had the drink in hand, she brought it to Julia and gestured with her chin toward him.
Julia narrowed her eyes and marched in his direction. He watched her expression as she moved across the floor, not sure if she would dump the liquid on his head. Even with her slight limp, she was graceful, making her body sway in a tempting manner. The outfit she wore had his blood pumping and heading south.
“Your drink, Sheriff.” She slowly bent from the waist, her eyes daring him to look lower. Carefully laying the glass in front of him, she smiled, and his mouth dried up.
“Thanks.” Not taking his eyes off hers, he raised the glass to his lips and sipped. If she thought he was going to ogle her like every other man in the room, she was sadly mistaken. He was a gentleman. The liquid burned going down, the heat jolting him. “When do you get off work?”
Julia straightened and tugged on the neckline of her dress. “When we close.”
“You’ve already been here for hours. You shouldn’t have to work until Mac closes the place.” He pushed his chair back and made to stand up. “I’ll talk to him.”
Julia slammed her hand on the table, making his glass jump, some of the liquid spilling over the side. “You will do no such thing!”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Julia, what are you trying to prove?”
“What makes you think I’m trying to prove anything? I need to work. I have to pay for my room and food. There are no free rides, Sheriff.”
“All right. If you don’t want to marry me, that’s fine, but please come back to work at the jail.” At least there he could keep his eye on her and make sure that all too tempting body was fully covered.
“You know that was a made-up job. Now please let me be. I appreciate all you’ve done for me since I arrived. Truly, I do. But now it’s time for me to stand on my own two feet.”
He knew she was right. He’d offered her marriage four times. The last time he thought she would accept, then, for no reason he could tell, she turned him down again. He needed to admit defeat and let her go. “All right. I won’t interfere with your job again.” Throwing a few coins on the table, he downed the rest of his drink and left the saloon.
Julia watched Fletcher push the batwing doors open and leave the saloon. She sighed and picked up his empty glass. Truth be known, she hated working in the saloon, but two days of trudging up and down the boardwalk, stopping in every store, asking for work had produced nothing.
There were times when her feet ached or when she’d been forced to duck a man’s hands on her bottom that she wished she hadn’t turned down the sheriff’s marriage proposal. In fact, her heart ached a little bit more every time she saw him. But she wouldn’t be bullied into marrying him, and she wouldn’t put her heart at risk by becoming wife to a man who would never give her his heart.
“Miss Benson, will you bring me a drink, please?” Mr. Johnson waved at her from across the room.
Good Lord, why did the man continue to haunt her? Each time she saw him she was once again glad he’d rejected her. How miserable her life would have been had she married the man. She shuddered as she smiled at several men and dodged their wandering hands.
“What would you like, Mr. Johnson?”
He tried what he must have thought was a welcoming smile. “Now why can’t you at least smile? You were supposed to marry me, you know. Why, by now you could have a baby in your belly.”
Julia fought the nausea that rose up the back of her throat. Not at the idea of a sweet little baby, but at the image of what would have happened to put that baby there. Just the thought of the man’s hands on her was repulsive.
“What do you want to drink, Mr. Johnson?”
He scowled as she sidestepped his question. “Just get me a whiskey.”
She made quick work of getting his drink and dropping it off. The man sat there for over an hour, nursing the one drink, never taking his eyes off her.
It would be another long night. This truly was a difficult job. The only good part of her employment was the comfortable room she’d secured at the boarding house, so she was no longer at the hotel. Mrs. Sylvia Beamer, the owner of the lovely home on the corner of Birch and Memory Streets, offered room and board to single ladies.
Although the woman had been reluctant at first to allow her a room because she worked at the saloon, once Julia told her she had worked for the sheriff for a while, Mrs. Beamer gladly offered her space.
Each evening Julia put part of her nightly wages aside so she could pay back the town for the meals and hotel they’d provided. Maybe one day she could save enough to buy herself a small house. How wonderful it would be to have a sense of belonging. Especially in this little town that she’d grown to love. She would no longer yearn for a man to ride up on his white horse and take care of her.
If she couldn’t have love, she’d have a cat.
“Good night, Mac,” Julia called out to the manager as she opened the back door of the saloon and stepped into the alley. Raising the collar on her coat, she lowered her head and hurried to the front of the building. This was the part of her job she hated the most. It was only a two and a half block walk to her boarding house, but it might as well have been miles for as panic-stricken and out of breath she was when she arrived safely at her door.
She carried a lantern with her to help light the way, the circle of light providing some sense of safety. About a block from the saloon, she stopped to listen to what she thought was the sound of footsteps behind her. Difficult to hear anything with her heart beating so loudly, she turned slowly, but saw no one. Her imagination was getting the best of her.
Continuing on her way, she found herself tiptoeing, trying to see if there was someone behind her. No footsteps. Certain she was alone on the boardwalk, she hurried her steps, breathing a sigh of relief when lights from the boarding house came into view.
Once more she was gulping air as she raced up the steps, almost tripping in her eagerness to reach the front door. Mrs. Beamer had provided her with a key since she was the last one in every night. Fumbling in her coat pocket, she pulled the key out and let herself in.
She took a deep breath when she closed the door behind her and turned the lock. Another night over. Weary now, she unbuttoned her coat as she climbed the stairs and entered her room. It was a lovely space, and if it wasn’t for the awful job she had to do to keep the rent paid, she would really love it.
From behind a large maple tree, Fletcher watched Julia hurry up the steps to the boarding house and let herself in with a key. He’d followed her home every night since he’d l
earned she was working at the Full Bucket. At least she had the sense to watch her surroundings and carry a lantern with her.
He lit a cigarette and began his walk home. Why couldn’t he get the woman out of his mind? From the time he’d seen her standing, all alone, at the train station, he felt a connection to Miss Julia Benson. She was pretty, smart, funny, and had guts and honor not always seen in some men.
If only he could figure out why she’d turned him down. Better yet, why couldn’t he accept that she’d rejected him and just forget about her? Because somehow his brain was not connected to his body. In all honesty—he wanted her. But even if they married, he vowed not to allow another wife of his to suffer through childbirth.
A true dilemma. Somehow he knew if he and Julia did marry, he would be hard-pressed not to take her to bed and make her his. The woman had him going in circles.
The next morning Fletcher sat in his office, sipping coffee and writing up his weekly report when the door to the jail opened. The woman who was constantly on his mind stood in the doorway. Julia’s shiny hair was swept back from her face, fastened at the nape with a hair clip, leaving a few curls near her ears. She unbuttoned her coat to reveal a dark brown wool skirt and white shirtwaist that clung to all her curves.
This Julia who stood in front of him was so different from the one in the red satin dress that it was hard to reconcile the two. Julia, with her pert little nose and slight freckles, was meant to be some man’s wife, not a saloon girl.
He lowered his feet from the top of his desk and stood. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
Julia pulled on the drawstring of her reticule and stuck her hand in. “I have some money for you.”
Fletcher pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. “What money?”
She held out a few bills. “The money you paid for my meals and the hotel. I know it’s not all there, but I will make payments until it’s all paid up.”
“Honey, I don’t want your money. What I want is for you to marry me.”
She waved her hand. “It appears you will never get it right, so the answer is still no. In any event, I owe for the cost of my keep.” She dropped the bills on his desk. “And don’t call me honey.”
Lord, he didn’t even know that had slipped out. When did he start thinking of her in such intimate terms? And what the hell wasn’t he getting right?
“I told you the town paid for your hotel, and your meals came out of the sheriff’s budget.”
“I always pay my debts, Sheriff.”
“They were not debts, Miss Benson.”
She opened her mouth to retort when the door flew open and Johnson’s employee, Malcolm Dryer, stumbled in. “Sheriff! You have to come quick. Old man Wimbly is fightin’ again with Maynard. Says he’s gonna shoot him this time.”
Fletcher checked his gun belt, then moved around his desk and headed for the door. He turned and pointed a finger at Julia. “Stay here.”
Julia winced as the door slammed, rattling the keys on the hook next to it. What the heck? She wasn’t going to stay here if something interesting was going on. Men always did that. Acted as if women were weak, sniveling creatures. She hurried after him, stepping out onto the boardwalk in time to see Fletcher striding up to two men rolling around in the street, dust billowing up around them.
A circle of people surrounded the men and moved back when Fletcher shouted at the men. “Get up off the ground, you old fools.”
The men ignored him and continued to throw punches at each other. Fletcher reached down and pulled one of the men up by his collar. The other man came up on unsteady feet with a gun pointed at the two men.
Fletcher groaned loud enough for Julia to hear as she hurried toward them “Ah, come on, Wimbly, put that gun down.”
“I’m gonna shoot him, Sheriff.” The old man narrowed his eyes. “This is the last time I’m gonna let him steal my wife’s apple pie right off the windowsill.”
Still holding onto the one man’s collar, Fletcher said, “Now, you know it’s not worth hanging for an apple pie.”
Although the man was waving the gun was a serious matter, Julia couldn’t help but giggle as she walked up to the group surrounding Fletcher and the two opponents. A few of the spectators backed away when Wimbly started gesturing with the gun. Julia moved around the outside of the crowd. If she could get behind the old man, she could bop him on the head with her reticule. She had enough coins in there, along with her key and a small penknife, that it would distract him so Fletcher could wrestle the gun from his hand.
“Wimbly, you know if you don’t give me that gun, I’m gonna have to lock you up for a few days. You won’t get Martha’s apple pie, or any of her cooking, then.” Fletcher released the man he’d been holding and walked slowly to the potential shooter, his hand out. “Just give me the gun, and we’ll all go on home and forget about this.”
Julia was right behind the man now. She looked at Fletcher, trying to give him a signal on what she planned to do, but the sheriff’s eyes were riveted on the gun in Wimbly’s hand. Which shook, making him all the more dangerous.
She swung her reticule up and hit the man on the head just as Fletcher reached him and knocked the gun from his hand. Startled by the smack on his head, Wimbly turned. “What the hell?” He pulled his arm back and punched Julia on the chin. Her arms flailed for a few seconds before she fell backward and landed in the horse trough behind her, water engulfing her and pushing her bonnet over her face.
Chapter Seven
Before Julia even hit the bottom of the horse trough, strong hands grabbed her arms and hauled her up. Her sodden bonnet covered her face, and she coughed out dirty water, her lungs feeling as though they would burst.
“Woman, didn’t I tell you to stay in my office?” Fletcher tugged the ruined bonnet off her head and glared at her. She bent over and continued to cough, spewing more water out.
“Dammit, I’m arresting all three of you.” He waved at the crowd. “Go on about your business.” He turned to the two men. “Walk yourselves over to the jailhouse. Now.”
Mumbling, the crowd dispersed, and both brawlers continued their argument as they headed to the jail, their arms waving around, and their voices raised.
Fletcher hung onto her arm, thumping her on the back as she continued to cough and tried desperately to get air into her lungs. He tugged her forward. “Let’s go, Miss Benson, you’re under arrest, too.”
She pulled her arm back and gasped. “I can’t walk.”
“Fine.” He bent and leaned into her middle, then wrapped his arm around her knees and hefted her over his shoulder. With a slight shifting of her body, he strode toward the jailhouse.
Dangling over his shoulder, her bottom up in the air, she still coughed and sputtered. Angry, but unable to shout, she used the heel of her hand to pound him on his back. It was like hitting a solid brick wall. Her position didn’t help her lungs at all, and her jaw ached from the wallop the old man had given her. Who would have guessed he had that much strength?
Once they reached the jailhouse, Fletcher dumped her on her feet, grabbing her arm again when she stumbled.
“You can’t arrest me.” Her effort at speech started up her coughing again.
“Yes, I can and I am.” He waved his finger under her nose, which she swatted away like an annoying insect.
“On what charges?”
He counted off on his fingers. “Obstruction of justice; interfering in an official matter; disobeying an officer of the law. I told you to stay here and what did you do? You not only disobeyed an order of a law enforcement official, you inserted yourself into a dangerous situation, and then assaulted Mr. Wimbly.”
Still gasping for air, she said, “Assaulted him? I was protecting you.”
“What!”
She pushed strings of wet hair from her cheek. “I thought—if I hit him over the head—you could grab the gun.”
Fletcher covered his face with his hands and shook his head.
“Wimbly doesn’t know which part of a gun is the serious end. He was in more danger of shooting himself in the foot than hitting me. Besides that, I don’t want help when I’m dealing with a fight.” He looked at her, narrowed his eyes, and cupped her chin, moving her head back and forth. “What happened to your face?”
“He punched me on the chin,” she rasped. “That’s why I fell into the water.”
“Dear God in heaven, Julia.” He let out a deep breath. “Isn’t there any way to keep you out of trouble?”
She drew herself up. “I don’t have to be watched, Sheriff. I can take care of myself.” She bent over and coughed some more.
“Yeah, I can see that.” He sighed. “Come over here by the light so I can take a good look at your injury.”
Apparently just realizing that the two men were still arguing and coming once again close to blows, Fletcher grabbed the cell key from the wall and pointed to the back of the room. “Into the cell.”
Old man Wimbly pulled up the straps on his overalls. “What are we being arrested for?”
Fletcher nudged them into two separate cells. “Disturbing the peace for both of you, and assault for you, Wimbly.”
Wimbly pointed to the other man. “And what about him? He should be arrested for stealing. Every time my wife puts a pie on the windowsill, he takes it.”
“Maybe Martha ought to open a bakery,” Fletcher said, slamming the cell door. “Now both of you settle down. I’ll send word to your wives that you’re spending the night in jail. That ought to give you time to calm down.”
Wimbly fisted his hands on the bars. “And that woman out there assaulted me first. Are you gonna arrest her, too?”
Julia worked her jaw, wincing as the pain shot up her face. What a mess. How was she going to work with a bruised chin? Maybe one of the girls could lend her some face paint to cover the mark she was sure to have by nightfall.
She never used the stuff, even though the other girls had attempted to get her to try it. They assured her it got them better tips from the men. She’d sworn she would never wear the skimpy outfit of a saloon girl either, so maybe she would also have to apply the face paint she never intended to use to get through the night.
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