The Sheriffs of Savage Wells

by Sarah M. Eden

  Ned nodded enthusiastically. He gave himself the once over, adding a slouch to his posture. “Ready,” he said.

  Paisley stepped inside. Mrs. Wilhite was helping a ribbon customer. Cade sat in the sheriff’s chair with his boots up on the desk, ankles crossed. His hands were folded on his stomach, the chair tipped backward.

  “Did Rice and Thackery call it a day?” Paisley asked.

  “Mm-hmm. Seems they figure they’ve seen all they need to.”

  “You have a visitor,” Paisley told him.

  He moved nothing but his eyebrow.

  “Cade, this is Ned—”

  “Use the name,” he insisted under his breath.

  “I am not calling you that,” Paisley said.

  Ned turned away from Cade and loudly whispered, “You wrote it down. That makes it official. You have to call me it.”

  She really needed to stop writing things down. Paisley met Cade’s intrigued gaze. “Cade, this is ‘Dead Ned, the Wyoming Kid.’”

  Cade didn’t even blink. “If those persuaders are loaded, I’ll have your head before you’ve a chance to so much as look at them.”

  Ned’s eyes pulled wide. His hands dropped from their position above his holsters.

  Cade stood in one fluid motion and slowly crossed to where Ned stood. The purposeful sound of his footfalls couldn’t have been more different from the shuffling noise Ned made when he walked about.

  Cade stopped directly in front of Ned. Everything about Cade shouted his authority and control of the situation no matter that he stood completely silent and still. Then he reached out and pulled both of Ned’s pistols from their holsters. He spun the barrels one at a time.

  “Unloaded.” He eyed Ned unflinchingly.

  Ned cleared his throat, staring at the wholly intimidating man. Paisley had warned Ned for years that walking about as though he were a loose cannon, armed to the teeth, was bound to cause trouble for him. Embarrassment if he was lucky, far worse if he wasn’t.

  “I—er—” Ned’s swallow was audible, even from several feet away. “I wasn’t—”

  Paisley felt bad for him. He put such store in his imagined reputation as a swaggering villain. Cade had pulled that out from under him in an instant.

  “Why do they call you Dead Ned?” Cade asked.

  Ned swallowed loudly. “’Cause I’m…dangerous?”

  Cade nodded, then dropped Ned’s impotent weapons back in their holsters. “Leave the ‘dangerous’ outside this jail. Understood?”

  Ned nodded. “No loaded weapons in here. Understood, Sheriff.”

  “Good.”

  Ned made to spit another mouthful of tobacco.

  “Spit on my floor and I’ll shoot you myself,” Cade warned.

  Ned’s mouth closed on the instant.

  Cade motioned toward the door. “Off with you. And don’t let me hear you’ve been causing trouble.”

  Ned hurried outside, but only after one last look at Cade. There was no mistaking the eagerness in Ned’s eyes. His imagined outlaw persona had longed for a sheriff just like Cade. It seemed half the town was falling all over themselves with gratitude for Cade’s arrival.

  “Please tell me you’ve more like him scattered about town.”

  She leaned against the wall near the desk. “There is no one like Dead Ned.”

  “‘The Wyoming Kid.’ Don’t forget that part.” The rare bit of humor helped her resent him a little less in that moment. A very little.

  “Savage Wells is unique, and so are the people who live here,” she answered.

  He sat on the edge of the desk, facing her. “Who do I get to meet next? Have you a soothsayer or a resident ghost?”

  “A valiant effort, Cade, but I’m not spilling all of our secrets.”

  “Is that so?” He slid off the desk, standing at his full height not far in front of her. He was taller than she was, but he didn’t tower over her. There were a few advantages to being an uncommonly tall woman. “Not even one secret? One little, tiny clue?”

  “About the town?”

  He tipped his head a bit, his mouth turning in contemplation. “About you.”

  “Me?” She hadn’t been expecting that.

  “You have at least one secret, I’m assuming.”

  “Well.” She let her eyes dart about as if making certain no one could overhear. “I do have a secret, one that isn’t common knowledge.” She had several, truth be told.

  “Do you, now?” He made the same show of looking about for eavesdroppers. “I hope it’s somethin’ shocking.”

  “You sound like Mrs. Endicott. She stopped me just today to tell me ‘something shocking.’”

  He stepped closer, almost touching her. Her pulse pounded warmth all through her. No matter that he drove her mad at times and had set himself up as her rival, her mind didn’t seem to have fully received that message. Still, there was some much needed relief from her worries in their bit of banter.

  “There’s no one else around to overhear,” he whispered. He set an arm against the wall beside her and leaned in closer. “Spill it.”

  The man could flirt, she’d give him that. Further still, she enjoyed it.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, filling her words with intrigue and mystery, “but—now, brace yourself—Sheriff Garrison didn’t actually capture the Grantland Gang.”

  A sly grin slowly spread across his face. “You know, I think I heard that somewhere before.”

  “Are you going to tell me a secret now?” she pressed. “I think you owe me one, Cade.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You want a secret? Very well. My name is not actually Cade.”

  “It’s not?” She didn’t believe him.

  But he shook his head and looked entirely sincere. “And before you ask, I’ve no plans to tell you what my given name is.”

  “I’ll be the sheriff again in two days,” she reminded him playfully. “You’ll have to tell me then.” She tapped the badge he wore pinned to his black leather vest.

  He threaded his fingers through hers and lowered her hand from his badge, keeping their fingers entwined. “I’m finding myself in a charitable mood so I’ll share another secret.”

  Her pulse pounded in her neck. It wasn’t the first time he’d stood so close to her or held her hand in his, but there was an intensity to the moment. His gaze was fervid. His breathing was nearly as unsteady as hers.

  His free hand slipped behind her neck and pulled her the last inch to him. His breath danced on her lips. All lucid thoughts fled.

  “My secret—” His lips brushed past hers as he spoke.

  “Yes?” The word spilled out as a breathy whisper.

  “My secret is—”

  He lifted their clasped hands to his chest.

  “—I never—”

  Heavens, he was torturing her!

  “—kiss a fellow lawman.” He stepped back immediately. A hint of a smile shone in his blue eyes. “Personal rule of mine.”

  Disappointment surged through her. He’d been teasing her the whole time. And, lonely fool that she was, she’d fallen for the ruse. Still, it didn’t seem like a mean-spirited trick.

  But she didn’t mean to let him have the last laugh. She slipped past him, summoning her most feminine smile. “Just so you know, Cade—or whatever your name actually is—”

  He looked intrigued.

  “I don’t have the same rule about kissing lawmen.” She mimed an air kiss.

  His eyes widened.

  Oh, yes. Two could play at this game.

  Gideon had invited Cade to a dinner party of sorts a week after his arrival in town. Parties weren’t his cup of tea, but if Savage Wells was to be his home, he’d best make connections where he could.

  He looked over the spread of dishes on Gideon’s
table. “You didn’t make this.”

  “Are you implying that I can’t cook?”

  “I ain’t implying anything. I’m stating a fact.”

  Gideon tossed himself casually into a chair. “When have I ever disappointed you? Culinarily speaking?”

  “Soggy toast yesterday afternoon. Lunch a few days back that put the ‘sand’ in sandwich.”

  “Even a master has a few bad days.” Gideon was far too amused to be serious. “Actually, Paisley cooked tonight’s dinner.”

  “Paisley?” Did Gideon never give a serious answer? “Gun-toting, sharp-tongued Paisley?”

  “The very same,” Gideon said. “She’s a woman of many talents, though she’s hardly ever applauded for them. And she’s not one to shirk her responsibilities.” A knock sounded from the front door. Gideon rose to answer it. “We’ve done this off and on the past few years, ever since her father stopped working at the bank. She cooks an enormous amount of food—always the same menu since her repertoire is fairly limited—and I invite a few people over. It allows her to pay me for whatever medical expenses she and her father incur, and it helps me come to know the town. She’s been my biggest supporter since I arrived.”

  The fondness in Gideon’s tone couldn’t be mistaken. He had declared earlier that he and Paisley were nothing more than friends, but Cade wasn’t convinced. Paisley’s feelings on the matter weren’t easily sorted. She kept such things rather firmly tucked away.

  Cade hadn’t seen much of Paisley since their flirting banter at the jail. She’d taken the teasing well. Saints, the saucy look she’d tossed at him had more than paid him back for his moment of mischief. It had hovered in his thoughts nearly every moment since. Not exactly the best reaction to a woman one’s closest friend might very well be courting.

  Gideon stepped out of the dining room as a second knock sounded at the front door. Paisley was likely in the kitchen, so Cade headed in that direction. He left the dining room but didn’t get past the front entryway. The preacher and his wife had just come inside.

  “Sheriff O’Brien,” Mrs. Endicott said. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

  He gave a quick nod.

  Before Gideon could close the door, Miss Dunkle, the schoolteacher, arrived as well. “I am not late, I hope,” she said. “I was afraid I might be.”

  “You are right on time,” Gideon said and motioned her inside. “I’ll just step into the kitchen and let Paisley know we’re all here.”

  “Let me,” Cade insisted, before he could stop himself. He probably should’ve let Gideon, but he’d missed Paisley. He hadn’t had a good bit of banter all day.

  Gideon didn’t seem at all bothered by the lost chance to see Paisley. Cade wasn’t quite sure what to make of their connection.

  He stepped down the corridor and pushed open the kitchen door. He’d not come fully inside before voices stopped him. Paisley wasn’t in the kitchen alone.

  “But why are you in here rather than out with the guests?” The man’s voice wasn’t familiar.

  “I will join them when my work is done, Papa,” Paisley answered. “They know to start without me if need be.”

  Cade hadn’t yet met Mr. Bell. He stepped quietly into the kitchen. Paisley stood at the table, gingerly moving hot rolls from a baking dish to a serving bowl. She looked up at him. Her father stood at the kitchen window, dressed in a fine three-piece suit. Paisley’s height, it seemed, came from her father, as did her thick dark hair.

  “Beginning the meal without one of the guests would be rude.” Mr. Bell shook his head forcefully. “I’m certain you’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not truly a guest,” she said. “I’m working. But Dr. MacNamara insists we take our dinner out there.”

  “Working? But you said these people were your friends.”

  These people? Did he not know Gideon or the Endicotts?

  Mr. Bell’s eyes darted about the kitchen, as if searching out an answer. “Why would you be working at your friends’ dinner party?”

  “Please try to understand, Papa.” Strain colored her tone. “I need to work tonight, but I’m also a guest. It’s both.”

  Mr. Bell spied Cade standing in the doorway. He scratched at his temple. “Who’re you?”

  He stuck out his hand. “Cade O’Brien.”

  Mr. Bell didn’t seem to notice his offer to shake hands. “Do you live near Abilene?”

  Cade knew of only one Abilene, a notorious town back in Kansas. Murders rampant on the streets. Shoot-outs left and right. The worst of criminals running the place unchecked. One city marshal assassinated. The next spending his days in the saloon with the criminal element. Blood flowing like water. There were crime-riddled cities that were better known than Abilene, but few were as dangerous.

  “Savage Wells,” Paisley said. “We’re in Savage Wells.”

  Mr. Bell’s lips pursed. He took on a defensive posture. “I think I know my own town, Paisley.”

  Clearly he didn’t.

  “We can discuss this later, Papa. Please.”

  “But you are being nonsensical.” His words were clipped, abrupt.

  Paisley abandoned her rolls and stepped over to her father. She took his hands in hers. “I know I’m not making any sense, and I am sorry for that. But please be patient. I am doing the best I can.”

  Mr. Bell nodded, but the gesture didn’t seem to mean anything in particular. He smoothed the front of his vest. “I’ll greet the other guests. You will only be a moment or so, I hope.”

  He stepped past Cade and out of the kitchen. Paisley shook her head, watching her father’s exit. Her pinched mouth and creased forehead told a story of worry.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said quietly. “He is…” She brushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes, still watching the empty doorway where her pa had been standing. “He grows confused very easily.”

  After a moment, she let out a long, anguished breath. She returned to the table, her expression still heavy. She finished placing dinner rolls in the bowl.

  “Smells good.” Cade couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I certainly hope it tastes good as well.” She took up the bowl and handed it to him. “Would you mind carrying these in for me, whatever your name is?”

  “Still trying to sort that out, I see.”

  She eyed him sidelong. “You could just tell me.”

  He shook his head. “Not so long as the puzzle nags at you.”

  “You enjoy my discomfort, do you?”

  “About as much as you enjoy mine, I’d wager.” He pushed open the kitchen door, holding it for her.

  “Do you have any puzzles I can nag you with?” she asked, stepping into the hallway. “Seems only fair.”

  “What’s Dead Ned’s story? He’s not a real criminal. But how far does he go with his pretending?”

  “He swaggers and talks tough but never anything beyond. He’s an annoyance but not a threat. So you don’t need to shoot him,” Paisley added in a tone as dry as Arizona Territory.

  “I think you will find I rarely shoot anyone.”

  “Is that so?” She looked him up and down, stopping just outside the dining room door. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t carry a pistol simply to add color to your appearance.”

  “I’m no cold-blooded killer, Paisley Bell, and I don’t take kindly to being called one.” He’d taken lives in the line of duty, but he was no heartless murderer.

  She was unmoved. “I didn’t say you were a cold-blooded killer.”

  “You hinted at it.”

  “I didn’t, actually.”

  He pointed at her with the bowl of rolls. “Wrap it up in all the fine paper you want, we both know what you were aiming at.”

  “As fascinating as it is watching the two of you come to blows, the rest of us are hungry.”
Gideon’s tease floated over from inside the dining room. “At least set the rolls on the table before you have a shoot-out.”

  Mrs. Endicott’s hand flew to her heart. “Shoot-out?” Her gaze settled on Paisley. “I said you shouldn’t wear that gun.”

  Paisley gestured to her empty hips. No pistol in sight.

  It was an odd sight, her without her gun belt.

  “I do leave off the pistol once in a while.” She shook her head in annoyance, snatching the bowl from his hands. “Do you?”

  With that parting shot, she entered the dining room and set the rolls on the table. She chose the empty chair next to her father. That left one choice for Cade—the empty seat directly across from hers.

  “What if the town becomes more violent?” Mrs. Endicott’s hand hadn’t left her heart, her tone hadn’t lightened. “This sheriff business wouldn’t end well for you, Paisley. I’m so worried.”

  “Are you not worried about Mr. O’Brien?”

  Everyone at the table—everyone except Gideon—looked surprised that Paisley would even hint that the danger would be as much an issue for Cade as it would be for her.

  “Of course you aren’t,” Paisley muttered.

  She pulled his attention throughout dinner. She had fine manners and sat with perfect posture. Everything about her spoke of a genteel upbringing. She might have been vying for a position as a sheriff now, but at some point she’d been a lady of some refinement.

  Paisley’s father had fancy manners as well. The Bells came from money and privilege, Cade would bet his life on it. So what had brought them to this? Paisley working as the sheriff, cooking meals to pay doctor bills?

  “Where are you from originally, Mr. O’Brien?” Mrs. Endicott asked. “I can’t quite place your manner of speaking.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Miss Dunkle jumped in. “Some of your words are more formal, like from back East, but mostly you sound as though you hail from the West.” Miss Dunkle had a way of staring a body down that put one firmly in mind of a coyote keeping its eye on a rabbit.

  “I grew up in Boston,” he said. “But not in any of the finer parts of town. I lived in a rundown tenement and worked long hours in a factory. Then I fought in the war and lost what little refinement I might’ve once had in my words.” He shrugged as he stabbed a steamed carrot with his fork. “A decade out West dirtied it up even more.”