A Kiss in the Sunlight

by Marie Patrick

  Chapter Twelve

  Ryleigh started out her day as she usually did with coffee and one of Krissa’s excellent muffins―blueberry this morning―in the dining room, but today was a little different than all the others. She’d hardly slept a wink last night after Teague brought her back to the hotel . . . and stayed until the wee hours of the morning. Yet, she wasn’t tired at all, and contrary to what Teague had told her, she wasn’t sore, either. In fact, she never felt better. Excitement bubbled in her veins as what she’d done with him skittered through her brain, bringing a fresh rush of heat to her cheeks and a grin to her face.

  “Someone looks happy. Quite a change from the other day when you were sitting here like a lovesick puppy,” Krissa remarked as she swung by her table, her arms weighed down by a stack of newspapers. “Here ya go.” She laid a copy on the table. “Hot off the press.”

  “What’s this?”

  The woman chuckled. “Your complimentary issue of the Paradise Falls Guardian. Enjoy.” She started to walk away, then came right back. “I’ll send Samuel over with fresh coffee. I just made a new pot.”

  Ryleigh picked up the paper as Krissa went off to the next table and read the headline―a story about a train robbery outside Durango―then unfolded the newspaper and read the entire story. Intrigued by the straightforward style and concise reporting, she read the next story, and the next, hardly noticing when Samuel refilled her coffee cup, until she finished the entire issue.

  Like her father’s newspapers, there were notices of impending marriages, recent births, and deaths. What she found different from the San Francisco Tribune as well as other newspapers was the more humorous, tongue-in-cheek stories. She especially liked the article about the recent crime spree.

  Someone had been stealing pies from window sills where they were cooling all around town. The culprit was found when he showed up at Doc Finch’s with a bellyache, and he admitted to stealing and eating the pies under the direct interrogation of one Teague MacDermott. The thief’s punishment included cleaning the schoolhouse and church and mucking out the stalls at Jake’s Livery every day for a month. The article did not report what the boy’s parents’ punishment would be, but she could only imagine.

  She folded the newspaper and tucked it beneath her plate, then glanced at it again. And groaned at her own stupidity.

  Now, why didn’t I think of it before?

  She finished her coffee, which had gone cold again, then dabbed at her mouth and rose from her seat. She stuffed the newspaper in her satchel and slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for the door leading to the hotel lobby.

  Krissa stood behind the registration desk working on a ledger.

  She approached the woman and grinned. “Thank you.”

  Krissa’s mouth quirked up in a smile as she stuck her pen into the inkwell. “For what?”

  “The newspaper.” Ryleigh laid the satchel on the counter and fitted her new hat to her head, tying the sheer ribbon beneath her chin. “It gave me a fabulous idea.”

  “I thought it might.” A knowing glow shined from Krissa’s eyes. “You’ll like Mr. Bronson. He’s a good man. And very informative. His office is right across from the sheriff’s office.”

  A few minutes later, Ryleigh strode down the sidewalk and stopped in front of a storefront across from Teague’s office. There was nothing on the window to denote that this was the office of the Guardian, which was probably why she’d never stopped here before, but she saw a small printing press when she glanced through the glass and a man cleaning the machine. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he wore a leather apron to protect himself from the ink, which she knew from experience, could get on everything.

  A little bell jingled as she let herself into the shop.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said as he cleaned the individual words and letters from the press with an old, inky rag and placed them in their appropriate slots in a large, wooden box. He turned finally and gave her his full attention. A warm glow lit his pale blue eyes behind his glasses, and a smile widened the thick mustache on his upper lip as he removed his leather apron and hung it up. “Well, now, this is a pleasant surprise.” He came forward, his hand outstretched. “Wesley Bronson at your service.”

  “Ryleigh Steele.” She shook the offered hand. “Krissa Prentice at the hotel gave me a copy of your newspaper, Mr. Bronson. You have a nice style. Concise and informative. Easy to read. I especially like your more humorous pieces.”

  The man beamed as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Thank you. I do try. Sometimes the news is so dismal. We all need a bit of humor.”

  “I know a little about the newspaper business.” When he said nothing, she rushed on. “I’m a journalist.”

  “I know. I’ve been out of town, but I’ve been waiting for you to come by since I got back.” His grin widened, the white hair above his upper lip stretching. “It’s a small town, and your presence has not been missed. What paper do you write for?”

  He, at least, didn’t seem surprised. In fact, he seemed quite interested.

  “The San Francisco Tribune.”

  He whistled. “The Tribune. Excellent paper.” He glanced around the room, his gaze, behind his glasses, alighting on several piles of old newspapers. “I have a few copies here somewhere.”

  “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m doing a story.”

  “I heard about that, too.” He removed a stack of papers from a chair and placed them on the floor. “There isn’t much of anything that happens in Paradise Falls that I don’t know, Miss Steele.”

  “Ryleigh, please.”

  He nodded as he rolled the sleeves of his white shirt down to his wrists and buttoned them. “Wesley. What do you need?”

  “I’d like to see everything you wrote about the day the Logan Gang came to town and what happened afterward.”

  He tsked several times as he shook his head. “Bad business, that, but I don’t need to pull back issues. I remember it all like it was yesterday. Saw the whole thing.” He gestured to the chair he’d just cleaned off. Ryleigh sat and pulled her notebook and pencil from her satchel.

  He poured her a cup of coffee from the pot on the small Ben Franklin stove, even though he hadn’t offered, and she hadn’t accepted. “The Logans didn’t discriminate when they rode through town that afternoon. They shot everyone and anything they could, the bullets flying everywhere. One shattered my window. Flew right past my head. If I had been sitting where you are right now, I wouldn’t be here telling you this. It was that close.” He squeezed thumb and forefinger together, leaving no space between as he walked over to the potbellied stove again.

  “Lodged right here.” He pointed to a hole in the wall beside the stovepipe. “It’s still there. Never had it removed or repaired. It’s a souvenir of sorts. Reminds me that I’m lucky to be alive when so many aren’t.” He shrugged, then pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.

  “But I digress. Sheriff MacDermott came out of his office, guns drawn, like he was invincible. Took down three outlaws without batting an eye. Never saw anything like it.” He used his finger, the same one he used to demonstrate how close the bullet had come to his head, to imitate shooting a gun. “Bang. Bang. Bang. All while those outlaws were shooting at him. It was both amazing and scary as hell―” He turned bright red, making his white hair seem whiter. “Excuse me . . . heck.” He pulled another chair close to her and sat, then immediately jumped up again, unable to sit still as he spoke, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor beneath him as he paced in front of her.

  “Dal shot two others, and Lucky got the last one. After it was over and all the outlaws were dead, I saw Teague. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He’d been hit, but his pain wasn’t from the bullet wound. It was the loss of life that made him hurt, not only the townspeople, but the outlaws, too. Teague MacDermott is a peaceful man. The killing of so many was almost more than he could bear.” He sighed as he stopped in front of her, then settle
d in the chair. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, hands hanging loosely between his knees.

  “I’ve known Teague a long time. He welcomed me to this community when I first came here and introduced me to the town council as well as everyone else, but I’d never seen him so . . . so―I don’t know, the only word I can think of is heartbroken. He took no pleasure in killing those outlaws, Ryleigh. No pleasure at all. It sickened him. Hurt him. There was this firm set to his jaw―you’ve seen it, I’m sure―as he, along with the rest of us, started to help the injured and do what we could for the dead. He didn’t even care he’d been shot. I’m not even sure he noticed the blood or the fact that the bullet went straight through the upper part of his arm.” He sighed as he rose to his feet, then spoke over his shoulder.

  “Not once did he lose his composure though. And then he found her.” He grabbed the coffee pot and set it on the desk, then sat, his light blue eyes watering behind the lenses of his glasses. “Her name was Sally. Sally Hanlon. She and Teague had always been close, even after she married. She was killed as she was coming out of Bethany’s Fine Fashions. The bullet went right through her heart. Thankfully, her children weren’t with her.”

  He drew in his breath and let it out slowly, and his voice grew thick. “Teague took one look at her, and it was like he’d been shot in the heart, too. His composure just deserted him. He dropped to his knees and gathered her into his arms, so gently it brings tears to my eyes even now, and he wept. Never saw anything like it. They say men aren’t supposed to cry, but he did, and he didn’t seem to care who saw him, either.”

  Ryleigh gave up trying to take down his words. His recounting of what happened, much of which wasn’t published, was just too much, and she physically wasn’t able to continue. Her brain just couldn’t force her hand to move, and the pencil remained motionless between her stiff fingers. The lump in her throat grew so tight, she couldn’t even swallow. Sympathy flared deep within her. She was almost afraid to hear more. Actually, didn’t want to, but Wesley wasn’t done. He attempted to pour more coffee into her cup, but she hadn’t touched it at all so he attempted to fill his own, only to realize it was still full. He put the pot down, then leaned back in his chair, his fingers steeple over his chest.

  “As devastating as what the Logans did to the town, it was nothing compared to what Teague, Dal, and Lucky found when they rode out to Whispering Pines. You see, Teague had taken what Jeff, who was sitting in his jail, said seriously and figured that some of the Logans might go to the ranch to take out their revenge on Kieran. It was his horses the Logans were trying to steal when Jeff got caught, so he sent Brock and Eamon out there to take Kieran and his family to a safe place. He was right to worry, but it was too late.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at his eyes behind his glasses. He didn’t put the square of linen away. Instead, he balled it up in his hand. “I was at Doc Finch’s, helping with the injured, when Dal rode back into town, hell bent for leather, and told him they’d found Eamon at the ranch. He was clinging to life, but it didn’t look good. He’d been shot in the chest, the bullet just above his heart. I’m told that an inch lower, and Eamon would no longer be with us. I didn’t learn until later that Kieran, Mary, and Matthew . . . didn’t survive. And Brock almost lost his life, too.”

  Wesley grew blurry as tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheek, unheeded. Her throat constricted even more, making it almost impossible to breathe. This . . . what happened to Teague and his family . . . was so . . . She couldn’t even find the words. She wanted the newspaper man to stop speaking, and yet, he continued on.

  “Mrs. Calvin―have you met Mrs. Calvin? Good woman―she went out to the ranch the next day and pretty much took over, nursing the sheriff’s brothers back to health, and taking care of Desi Lyn, who wasn’t quite two years old. I went out to the ranch a day later. She met me at the door and wouldn’t let me in though we’ve known each other for years. Her exact words—and I quoted her for the newspaper―were ‘the MacDermott boys have a lot of healing and a lot of mourning to do. Best leave them to it.’”

  He took a sip of coffee, then cleared his throat. “I honored her wishes. I never mentioned Kieran, Mary, or Matthew in my follow-up articles and just briefly stated that Eamon and Brock were fighting for their lives. I never gave any details. I couldn’t. Still can’t. No one would talk. Not Doc Finch, not Mrs. Calvin or anyone else at Whispering Pines, least of all Teague, but I’m sure it was Zeb and Tell Logan who did the shooting at the ranch. Aside from Jeff still in his jail cell, they were the only two of the Logans who weren’t among the dead after the gun battle in town.”

  He grunted then and looked out the window instead of at her, the expression on his face one of disgust as well as sadness. “Those facts didn’t seem to matter much to some of the so-called journalists who came, one from your own newspaper, Ryleigh, and everywhere in between. Sensationalists is what they were, looking for all the gory details to sell newspapers, but none of those reporters witnessed the shoot-out in our quiet streets. They didn’t see it or hear it, but that didn’t stop them from writing about it as if they did. In fact, I think a few of them took what I had written and just changed things around a little. And embellished a lot, if you know what I mean.” He frowned, his mustache drooping as the corners of his mouth turned down.

  “I don’t abide by that, you know. I believe in only writing the truth,” he said, almost to himself before he took a breath and continued, “Those reporters had little regard for what Teague had gone through, was still going through in the days following the shoot-out. They were ruthless, badgering him day and night, standing outside his home or the sheriff’s office at all hours, throwing questions in his face, trying to put words in his mouth. I was ashamed to call them colleagues. One enterprising young man even went out to the ranch and climbed through a window, trying to get pictures of Brock and Eamon. He got nothing for his trouble except the business end of a rifle pointed at him.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. In fact, all she heard was his disgust. What’s more, she shared the sentiment. There were boundaries that one should not cross. It made her realize that she had unwittingly crossed those boundaries, and shame rumbled through her.

  “Teague finally had enough and called all those reporters together at the Prentice a few days after the shoot-out. He gave a short, simple statement, asking for prayers for the injured and expressing his sorrow for those who had passed before he kicked them all out of town.” He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with the handkerchief balled in his hand, then dabbed at his eyes again. As he slid them back on his nose, he said, rather sadly, “Sheriff MacDermott won’t give you an interview, Ryleigh. Believe me. In fact, he won’t say a word about that day. It’s just too painful for him.”

  Yes, she could see how it would be. Her heart ached, not only at Wesley’s retelling, but with what Teague had lived through. Remorse filled her. Guilt, too. What kind of woman was she to barge into his office and demand he relive the most devastating day of his life? If the shoe were on the other foot, she wouldn’t want to, either.

  Teague should hate her for wanting to write this story, and yet, he didn’t.

  He’d been kind in his refusal, and her admiration and respect for him grew. How could someone see all that―indeed, be a part of all that―and still retain his humor, his dignity, his compassion? How could he like her, make love to her, when he knew what an unfeeling, cold-hearted person she was?

  He said he wasn’t a hero, just a man doing his job, but after everything she’d heard and been told, she’d have to argue the point. He truly was a hero, by every definition of the word.

  Her breath hitched in her chest as Wesley opened his mouth and started to speak once again. She held up her hand. “Enough. I can’t . . . Please, don’t tell me any more.”

  Perhaps, she wasn’t cut out to be a journalist and write serious stories, not if this is what she’d have to hear. Her heart wasn�
�t hard enough, despite the fact that she’d boldly demanded Teague tell his story.

  She stuffed her notebook and pencil into her satchel and jumped to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Wesley. I do appreciate it.”

  The man nodded and shook her hand. “I hope I was helpful.”

  “More than you know.”

  She left him standing in the middle of the room, a confused expression on his face, and closed the door softly behind her. And couldn’t move. Her gaze took in the street, knowing what had happened here, how many people had died . . . or were injured, not only physically, but emotionally as well. Reading the account in the newspapers had been much different than hearing it from someone who’d seen it.

  Her thoughts went to Teague, and once more, her heart ached. The pain he must have endured, not only seeing what had been done to his town, but by what he’d found at Whispering Pines. The devastation he’d seen would bring a lesser man to his knees and yet, it hadn’t for Teague. She hadn’t known him before tragedy had struck, though she’d been told plenty by everyone she’d spoken to, but she’d seen, with her own eyes, his humor, his love for his niece, his willingness to continue doing the job that could have cost him his life, and the admiration she felt for him grew beyond her affection for him.

  She dug a handkerchief out of her satchel and pressed it to her eyes, then forced herself to breathe and head back to her room at the Prentice. Heart aching, tears making her vision blurry, she came to a decision―two decisions, actually―the hardest decisions of her life. There would be no interview. She couldn’t put him through that heartache again. It would be cruel. She was many things, but cruel wasn’t one of them.

  And if there was to be no interview, then there wasn’t a reason for her to stay in Paradise Falls.

  Except she didn’t want to leave. Things had changed for her the longer she stayed in town. The thought of leaving, whether she wrote her article or not, struck her heart with pain. She liked it here. She’d made friends, some even closer than those she’d grown up with, and if she were truthful with herself, her feelings for Teague had grown beyond mere affection and admiration. If she left now, she’d never know what could be. And she wanted to know. If there was a chance for happiness, she needed to take it, even if it meant giving up the newspaper position that had once been so important to her, but no longer seemed to be so.