The Sheriffs of Savage Wells

by Sarah M. Eden

  “You have lived in so many places,” Miss Dunkle said. “You must have fascinating stories to tell.”

  “Ain’t nothing fascinating about death and dying, Miss Dunkle. And that’s all a war is. Too often, it’s an inescapable part of sheriffing too. You’re fortunate to live in a town peaceful enough to not know that harsh truth.”

  Silence descended on the gathering. Miss Dunkle and Mrs. Endicott exchanged shocked glances. Even the preacher looked up from his plate. Cade ought to have kept his mouth shut. People didn’t care to know the price paid for their peace. It made them uncomfortable. Paisley’s gaze was unsettling. Hers was a studying glance, as though with those few words he’d offered her a look into his soul.

  “I wonder that you would want a job such as that, Paisley,” Miss Dunkle said. “It seems a terrible thing to me.”

  “Those things Cade mentioned aren’t all there is to it,” she said. “There’s getting little boys out of trees. And locking up chickens.”

  “And dusting shelves of ribbons,” Cade added. “Don’t forget the ribbons.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve written them down, Cade. They’re official.”

  “You do realize they’ll have to go.”

  “We’ll just have to see who’s around to make that decision, won’t we?” She took a bite of potatoes, her eyes gleaming with a challenge. He appreciated the lighter tone she’d struck. He’d needed it.

  “How will the decision be made in the end?” Miss Dunkle asked. “Do the citizens get to vote?”

  “The town council votes,” Cade answered. “In another week.”

  “What’s all this about sheriffs?” Mr. Bell looked from Paisley to Cade and back again. “Abilene has a marshal not a sheriff.”

  “I know, Papa. Don’t fret over it.”

  Miss Dunkle seized control of the conversation. “I know who I would choose if the choice were mine.”

  “I know who you’d choose as well,” Paisley muttered.

  Cade acknowledged the truth with a quick nod of his head. “What do you say we give the council a little push?”

  Paisley’s gaze narrowed. “What did you have in mind?”

  “A head-to-head show of skills.”

  “Such as?”

  He thought for a moment. “Maybe a race to see who can disassemble, clean, and reassemble their weapon the fastest.”

  She didn’t look the least intimidated by that challenge. Very intriguing.

  “Or,” she said, “a quiz over the most recent fugitive reports and wanted posters.”

  She would most certainly win that challenge; the woman seemed to enjoy the paperwork.

  He tapped his fingers on the table as he thought. The promise of an honest-to-goodness competition had him excited.

  “Tests of horsemanship,” Mr. Endicott suggested. “A sheriff needs to be good in the saddle.”

  “Agreed.” Paisley said. Did she ride as well, then?

  “A test of everyone’s knowledge of the townspeople and their particular needs and oddities,” Gideon suggested.

  Of course Gideon picked something Paisley would win.

  “What else?” Paisley asked.

  “Quickest draw and truest aim.” He’d win that one blindfolded.

  The entire gathering got into the spirit of the competition. “Best arrangements for a bank delivery,” Mrs. Endicott said.

  That one could actually be close. Cade had the brawn and the advantage of being intimidating and quick with his weapon. Paisley had a knack for strategizing.

  “Lifting heavy items,” Cade said. “Heaviest item hefted wins.”

  “What in heaven’s name does that have to do with being a sheriff?” Paisley demanded.

  He shrugged. “I’ve needed brute strength many times over the past decade.”

  “Do you honestly believe I could ever best you in that challenge?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. She took a drink of water.

  “If you feel yourself unequal to—”

  She swallowed quickly. “I accept.” The stubborn set of her shoulders told him she knew she would lose but refused to shy away from the challenge.

  “What about sewing?” Mrs. Endicott suggested.

  “Sewing?” Paisley and Cade scoffed back in perfect unison.

  Mrs. Endicott blushed in slight embarrassment. “I suppose that is an odd challenge for a sheriff.”

  A sewing competition among lawmen? What utter nonsense.

  “I’ll take it on if you will,” Paisley said to him.

  She couldn’t be serious. Could she? “What has sewing to do with anything? It’s absurd.”

  “I’m certain I’d need my sewing skills many times over the next decade.” She mimicked the exact inflection he’d used when explaining his strength challenge.

  Saints, she kept a man guessing. “I ain’t having a sewing contest, and I doubt Rice or Thackery’ll agree to it either, so you can set your mind to thinking of a different challenge.”

  Her expression turned mulish, and he knew she was digging in her heels. “Afraid, O’Brien?”

  “Hardly. I’m simply not interested in wasting m’ time.”

  She shrugged. “I could see how public humiliation would be deemed a waste of your time.”

  “Supposing you did win,” he asked, “what would that prove?”

  “Supposing you were too yellow to even try?” Paisley tossed back. “What would that prove?”

  Chicken, was he? Backing down from a challenge wasn’t at all his style. “What shall we sew, assuming we can convince our comrades to join in?”

  “A dress.”

  “Have you been breathin’ in turpentine fumes, woman? My sewing a dress ain’t gonna prove nothing.”

  She twisted her mouth to one side as she pondered. It wasn’t quite the saucy look she’d sent him a few days earlier, but he was enjoyin’ it just the same.

  “You can sew a shirt, then,” she said. “It’ll show you have a knack for self-sufficiency.”

  He could accept that challenge, ridiculous as it was. “Agreed.”

  Mrs. Endicott and Miss Dunkle shared a look of confused surprise. Mr. Endicott had returned to his meal.

  Gideon, true to form, simply grinned, his eyes dancing with mirth. “I can’t guarantee the council will make any decisions based on sewing, but it might be interesting, just the same.”

  “The sewing competition could be judged at the social,” Miss Dunkle suggested with loud enthusiasm. “You can each come wearing your creations.”

  “A social?” Mr. Bell’s eyes locked with Paisley’s. “You should wear your purple dress. You look pretty in that one.”

  You look pretty in that one. As if she didn’t look mighty fine in anything she chose to wear. He’d wager Paisley hadn’t looked merely “pretty” a day in her life.

  “I no longer have the purple dress, Father, so I’m of a mind to take up Miss Dunkle’s suggestion.” Her gaze met Cade’s. “What do you say? Shall we wear our wares to the social?”

  “I’m game if you are.” His willingness clearly surprised her. Perfect.

  “The social is going to be lovely,” Miss Dunkle said. “Everyone will want to see how your sewing turns out.”

  As dinner continued, Paisley ate quietly, not reacting at all to the discussion around her. Her occasional smiles were quick and often forced. She didn’t look up at any of them for any length of time. What was stuck in her craw now?

  “I hope you will not choose to spend the entire social in the role of lawman, Sheriff O’Brien,” Mrs. Endicott said, coyly. “I know quite a few young ladies will be disappointed if you do.”

  Miss Dunkle colored up immediately.

  “I might spare a moment here or there,” he conceded. “Our bachelor doctor’ll be around, I’d wager.”

 
“I never feel quite so loved as I do at the sociables,” Gideon said. “It’s nearly the only time people are pleased to be seeing a doctor.”

  The dinner guests spent the remainder of the meal swapping stories of social disasters from younger years. Even Mr. Bell joined in the reminiscing. Only Paisley remained aloof.

  As the guests finished their meal, she began clearing the table. Gideon offered his farewells to his guests. After a moment, only he and Cade remained in the entry.

  Cade let his gaze wander to the closed door of the kitchen, where Paisley had gone to finish her work. “Paisley doesn’t try very hard to defend her ambitions to the town.”

  “She’s not as self-confident as she seems. Not remotely.” There was a surprising weariness to Gideon’s words. “Underneath that tough exterior is an awful lot of doubt.”

  Cade had seen hints of that in her himself. “And getting this job’ll help? Seems it might only put more walls between her and the town.”

  Gideon pulled off his fashionably-cut coat and tossed it onto the back of a chair in his parlor. “Her doubts aren’t in the town, but in herself.” He dropped into the chair himself. “I worry less about her getting the job than I do about her not getting it.”

  “Why’s that?” Cade sat on the sofa nearby.

  “She’s had a tough few years. Though she’s holding up admirably, she looks burdened every time I see her. Another blow might very well break her.”

  Cade rubbed the back of his neck, not liking the picture Gideon painted. “Do you think the council would ever hire a female sheriff, provided she made a good showing and such?”

  Gideon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “No. I honestly don’t think they will. It took an exhausting amount of convincing on my part just to let her try.”

  Cade had never intended to lose the competition, but he didn’t like that it was rigged against her. “So it doesn’t matter how well she does?”

  “I think it matters to her.”

  The evening of the social arrived quicker than Paisley would have liked. Fortunately, she’d been working on a dress already and had only needed, over the past three nights, to add the finishing touches. If she hadn’t had something very nearly done already, she never would have completed the project in time.

  This ridiculous sewing challenge. How did this become part of the sheriff competition?

  The answer, of course, was that she’d let her pride get the best of her. She’d wanted to best Cade at something as handily as he would best her at the “feats of strength” challenge and, though it pained her to admit it, likely at the speedy weapon-cleaning challenge.

  Still, the task meant she had a new dress to wear. It wasn’t perfectly pieced together, but it would certainly pass muster. The forest green fabric she’d chosen added a richness to her eyes and hair. She’d styled her dress with the waist a touch higher than was fashionable. That cut flattered her best. From an older dress, no longer in prime condition, she’d pulled a lovely bit of lace to trim the collar and cuffs. After a long and detailed consultation with Mrs. Wilhite, she’d settled on a length of reddish-brown ribbon to tie about the waistline with a smaller matching bow for her hair, though that adornment had cost her a few precious coins.

  Paisley smoothed and tugged and adjusted her dress. It had turned out well, if she did say so herself. Rice and Thackery had bowed out of this particular challenge, no surprise, but Cade had insisted he meant to give it his best. His shirt ought to be an entertaining sight. Beyond her desire to win their competition, she wanted to look her best that night.

  She wasn’t foolish enough to read more into Cade’s flirtations than a bit of fun, an attempt at slipping her up in her bid for sheriff, and yet her heart flipped at the memory of his hand holding hers, his breath on her lips. She had committed to memory the way he sometimes called her “love,” though it was never meant as a true endearment.

  He was teasing her, and she wasn’t falling for it. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his attention. She’d enjoyed dancing at the socials with the bachelors in town and being walked home from church now and then.

  “Cade will dance with me,” she told herself. “I’d wager he’s a good dancer, too.” She smiled at the prospect. It had been a while.

  She stepped out of her bedroom and into the hallway. Papa had just emerged from his bedroom, wearing his black, nip-waist jacket and pin-striped trousers. His black necktie hung untied, the ends dangling over his gray-and-black plaid vest. He planned to attend the social, it seemed. She only hoped that didn’t prove disastrous.

  “How are you this evening, Papa?”

  He flipped one end of his necktie in the air, allowing it to fall limply against his chest. “I can’t seem to tie this. It looks worse with every attempt.”

  Paisley took a good look at him; his eyes generally told her the most about his state of mind. There was an inarguable vagueness there, but without the argumentative frustration that too often tiptoed in. Her father had always been even-tempered before his mind began to slip. She hated that the illness was changing that integral part of him.

  “Let me help with the necktie,” she said.

  He raised his chin and allowed her to work.

  “Are you looking forward to the social?” she asked as she tied.

  “I certainly am. Your mother enjoys dancing.”

  He’d said enjoys, not enjoyed.

  Paisley adjusted his tie and smoothed his lapels. His expression wandered, unfocused and unsure. How she missed the sharp man he’d once been. She hugged him, holding tight.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked, his arms wrapped lightly around her.

  “I’m just excited about the social.” With a forced lightness in her smile, she suggested they be on their way.

  It seemed that the whole town had spilled into the restaurant when Paisley and her father arrived. This was likely to be the last large social before winter arrived. The brutal Wyoming winters kept ranchers and homesteaders from making the long trek into town unless it was absolutely necessary.

  She greeted those she passed, and they returned the pleasantries. Papa, despite his wandering thoughts, had enough presence of mind to civilly interact with the others. His manners were beyond reproach. He was friendly and happy. Perhaps it would be a better night than she’d feared.

  Paisley linked her arm with her father’s, relief settling on her heart. Too many days had been spent in worry over him. She cherished those times when caring for him was easier. He would never be the man he’d once been, but there were nice moments now and then.

  “Shall we see if Mrs. Carol brought her famous punch?”

  He looked intrigued. “Does she make punch?”

  “She does,” Paisley said. “Come try a cup.”

  Papa looked at her sidelong as they wove through the crowd toward the refreshment table. “Is this punch made with spirits?”

  “No, thank the heavens.” Having the entire town three sheets to the wind would be a nightmare.

  “Well, now, Paisley, is this your ‘sheriffing competition’ dress?” Gideon stood just ahead of them.

  “It is, indeed.” Paisley slipped her arm from Papa’s and motioned to her new dress with a flourish. “Is it enough to win the competition, do you think?”

  “I think it might be.” He nodded his approval. “You really do look lovely.”

  “And you really do look surprised.” She pulled him aside and lowered her voice. “Did it truly turn out well? I think it did, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “Pais.” That was his “You are needlessly worrying” voice. She knew it all too well.

  “I realize this won’t have any actual bearing on the council’s decision, I simply want to make a good showing.” She glanced down at her dress one more time. “I think it did turn out well.”

  He pressed his h
and to her back and nudged her toward the other people gathered around. “There are a number of social-goers waiting to see your entry in the first round of competition. Shall we go satisfy their curiosity?”

  “What competition is this, Paisley?” Papa’s silver eyebrows pulled sharply down.

  Paisley set a calming hand on his arm. “Nothing of significance. Simply a sewing project.”

  “Oh.” But he still looked confused.

  “The punch is just there on the table. Why don’t you have a glass and take a seat?”

  “Will your mother be arriving soon?” He searched the crowd earnestly. “She isn’t usually late.”

  Your mother. Pain seared through her at those two words. He would spend the entire night watching for her, asking where she was, worrying about her absence. Nothing Paisley ever said seemed to ease his concern. He simply could not comprehend the situation. So she pretended, again and again, that her mother was still alive. And it hurt more every time.

  “I am sure she will be here directly.” Paisley knew she would be telling him that for hours to come.

  Gideon’s gaze was empathetic. He had some idea of the pain Papa’s illness caused her; they’d spoke of it often enough. “Of course she will be,” he said to Papa. “She’s likely fussing over her hair, wanting it to look just perfect.”

  Papa smiled fondly. “Mary-Catherine always looks perfect to me.” He took a glass of punch and sat in a chair offering a full view of the door. He was waiting for Mama. Papa was always waiting for her.

  Paisley swallowed down a thick lump of emotion. If only Mama truly could walk through that door. There had been so many times Paisley had needed her mother’s advice, her encouragement, even just a hug. Oh, how she needed a hug!

  “I am going to assume explaining things to your father doesn’t help,” Gideon said as he led her away.

  “Lately, trying to make him understand only makes things worse. The more confused he gets, the angrier he becomes.” She glanced back at Papa. “It’s easier just to pretend.”