Lucky Penny (3 page)

David scratched beside his nose. “That isn’t fair. It’s different with a woman.”

“How so?”

David scuffed his heel on a plank. “Well, when a man breaks the law, I can go to fisticuffs with him if it becomes necessary—or shoot him if all else fails. It’s a whole different story with a lady.”

“Marcy May Jones is
not
a lady!” Bess ran a molten gaze from the top of David’s head to the toes of his dusty boots. “Not that I’m certain you’d recognize the difference anymore. You used to be a fine, upstanding marshal. Now just
look
at you! A saddle tramp has better personal hygiene.” She jabbed a dainty finger at his duster. “That
thing
is absolutely filthy! And just look at your face. I’ll bet you haven’t shaved for the better part of a week.”

David put a blade to his jaw every three days now, usually right before bedtime so he could sprout a new crop of whiskers before sunrise. “My duster isn’t dirty. I just greased it up to make it look that way.”

Bess held up a staying hand. “I’ve heard all about your reasons for changing your appearance, and it’s a bunch of stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Looking mean and disreputable to keep the peace? Ha. There’s more to the job than just dispensing with the riffraff. A marshal should represent our community in fine fashion and set a good example for our children! He should be clean shaven and keep his hair cropped short. He should change clothes every single day! He should—”

“Hold on just one minute,” David protested. “I change clothes every blessed morning. And just because I look dirty doesn’t mean I am. I bathe regular, and I brush my teeth morning and night.” He gestured at his duster, which Ace’s wife, Caitlin, had designed and made from soft leather purchased at the cobbler’s shop. “You have to admit that there’s been no trouble around here for almost four months now. Say what you want about how I look, but it scares off the rowdies.”

Bess rolled her eyes. “You have become a disgrace! Your poor mother must be embarrassed half to death.”

In truth, David’s mother slept better at night now that no upstarts were calling him out. That said, she tolerated no slovenliness in anyone, so she did try to sneak up behind
David with her scissors now and again to trim his hair. But he wasn’t about to mention that to Bess. “How my mother feels about my changed appearance is none of your business, Mrs. Thompson.”

“My husband and I help pay your wages, Marshal Paxton! I guess I have some say.”

Bess waddled back across the street.
Damn.
He’d heard tell that pregnancy made women emotional, but this particular female had become downright ornery. Normally Bess was mild tempered. Didn’t she realize that Miss Marcy was no threat? Brad wouldn’t look at another woman if he was paid to do it, not willingly, anyhow. He’d been taken by surprise this morning, but that didn’t mean he’d liked what he saw. Not enough to be unfaithful to Bess, anyhow.

Sam whined again. David glanced down and saw that the dog had finally uncovered his eyes. “Coward. You kill rattlers without blinking, yet you quake and hide from a pregnant female? Explain that to me.”

Sam groaned and rolled over on his back, legs sprawled for a belly rub. David gave him a scratch with the toe of his boot. “You worthless mutt. Bess wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s just out of sorts right now. While carrying Dory Sue, Caitlin took offense at every imagined slight and cried all during her last month. Remember that? Everybody had to carry an extra handkerchief to help mop her up.”

David had lost his yen for whiling away the morning, but as he started into the office to catch up on paperwork, someone shouted his name. He turned to see a man riding up Main on a sorrel gelding.

“Yes?” David called.

The man guided his horse over to the boardwalk. “You the marshal?”

“That’s right.” David tucked the left side of his duster behind the butt of his Colt .45 to expose his badge and softly shushed Sam, who growled in warning because the fellow was a stranger. “What can I do for you?”

“If your name’s David Paxton, I brung you a heap of mail.”

“That’s my moniker, but I get all my mail here at the No Name post office.”

“Not all of it, I reckon.” The fellow had a canvas tote on the saddle in front of him. He tossed it at David’s feet. “The Denver postmaster’s been holdin’ these here letters for goin’ on six years. He returned a few of ’em, but mostly he just tucked ’em away, hopin’ David Paxton would show up someday to get his mail.”

David’s brows snapped together in bewilderment. Who would send him letters in Denver? He visited the larger town every now and then, mostly by train to get his cattle to market, but he had never lived there.

“Anyhow,” the man continued, inclining his head at the bag, “as you can see, the amount of unclaimed mail is substantial and was takin’ up a lot of needed space. Postmaster was about to dispose of it when the sheriff told him the marshal down here goes by the name of David Paxton.”

“There must be a mistake,” David replied. “You sure there’s not another man with the same name up that way?”

“Not so far as I know. And if there is, he ain’t never gone to the post office to collect his mail.” He nodded at the bag again. “The sender must think you live there. All the letters is addressed to you, general delivery.”

David had to admit, if only to himself, that he’d never met anyone outside his family with the surname Paxton, let alone another Paxton with the same first name. “Strange.”

“Yeah, well.” The other man shrugged. “If you figure the letters ain’t meant for you, throw ’em out.”

David watched the fellow turn his horse and ride away. Then, after tossing the dregs of his coffee into the street, he bent to pick up the bag, which was weighty with mail. Whistling for Sam to follow him, he carried it inside and emptied the contents on his desk. The letters had been grouped in small bundles and bound together with twine. The return address on one of them sported the name of a gal named Brianna Paxton who lived in Glory Ridge, Colorado, a place David believed was southeast of No Name.

As Sam settled in his favorite spot behind the wood box, David lifted the blue speckled pot simmering on the rusty stove to refill his mug. Then he sat at his battered old desk, drew his knife from his trouser pocket, and sliced the twine on a bundle of envelopes. After cutting the first seal, he
settled in to read a missive picked at random, which was dated only a few weeks ago and written in an elegant feminine hand. He was barely aware of the rumbling snores that vibrated through the wall that separated the cell block from the front office.

David’s frown deepened. Who the hell
was
this lady? He knew no one named Brianna, sure as heck hadn’t married her, and had
not
sired her child. Or had he? Sweat beaded on his brow.

Just then a light tap came at the door and David glanced up to see Hazel Wright stepping into the office. As pretty as a spring morning in a yellow day dress and green shawl, with her honey-colored hair swept up in a fluff of curls atop her head, she smiled brightly as she closed the door, her blue eyes sparkling.

“I just wanted to stop by and say good morning before going to the schoolhouse,” she said, fingering the gold pendant that David had given her the previous evening. “We had such a lovely time last night. At least, I thought so.” A blush stole into her cheeks, telling David she was recalling their farewell kiss, which had been pleasant and stirring. “How is your day starting out?”

It had started off great, but now David was getting a bitch of a headache, and Hazel, the woman he might marry, was the last person he wanted to see. “Fine.”
I just found out I may have sired a daughter out of wedlock, but everything else is just dandy.
Remembering his manners, he pushed erect, swept off his Stetson, and tossed it on the mail, hoping the hat would prevent Hazel from noticing that the sender of all the letters bore his surname. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s fresh, not coffin varnish like Billy Joe always has on hand.”

She shook her head, curls bouncing. “I’d love to, but I need to go. The children will run wild if I’m late.”

“Well.” That was all David could think to say. “I’m pleased you stopped by to say hello.”

She pinned shimmery blue eyes on his, giving David the uncomfortable feeling that she wanted him to kiss her again. It bothered him that he felt no urge to hotfoot it around the desk. Hazel was lovely, a well-educated lady, and perfect for him. Her acceptance of the pendant last night also told him that she would be receptive to a proposal of marriage. It was inappropriate for a woman to welcome such an expensive gift from a gentleman otherwise.

David should have felt jubilant. He wasn’t the only man in No Name who’d tried to win Hazel’s affection. But something—David couldn’t pinpoint precisely what—was missing in his feelings for Hazel. He liked her and enjoyed her company. Practically speaking, he should have been as happy as a cow in a cabbage patch that she’d chosen him when others had tried so hard to gain her favor.

So why was he waffling? Maybe it was because he still harbored fanciful notions about finding his one true love. His older brothers, Ace and Joseph, had found the women of their dreams. Sadly, it hadn’t occurred for David yet. If
he waited around much longer for something magical to happen, he might grow too old to raise a family. He wanted a brood of children. A practical man would tie the knot with Hazel before some other fellow beat him to it.

David circled the desk, grasped Hazel’s shoulders, and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Have a wonderful day. Maybe, if things are quiet around here this evening, I can take you to supper at Roxie’s. She serves roast beef on Mondays. As I recall, that’s one of your favorites.”

Hazel nodded, still searching his gaze as she fingered the pendant. “Last night when you gave me this, I—” She broke off, looked away, and moistened her lips. “Please tell me if I read something more into it than you intended.”

“No, of course you didn’t.” David chucked her gently under the chin. “My intentions are—” David hauled in a deep breath, feeling like he had as a kid when he’d been about to jump into a swimming hole.
Crazy.
He’d been thinking about proposing for weeks. Giving Hazel the pendant had been his way of testing the water. So why did he feel like a bear with its paw caught in a trap? “My intentions are honorable,” he settled for saying. “I, um—just need some time to think things through and do some planning before taking the next step.”

Her timorous expression suddenly grew radiant, her smile as sweet and warm as sorghum on hot flapjacks. Going up on her tiptoes, she kissed David on the mouth. Before he could respond, she drew back to leave.

“Supper at Roxie’s!” she said cheerfully. “I’ll look forward to it all day.”

David stared solemnly at the door after it closed. Was this how it felt when a man was in love? Maybe it didn’t get any better than this. Hazel stirred David physically. He felt confident that he’d enjoy the intimacies of marriage with her. They got along well, shared a few interests, and hadn’t thus far disagreed on any important moral issues. Maybe that combination of things was what constituted love, and he just had his head in the clouds, wishing for earthshaking emotions that would never come to him and possibly didn’t even exist.

David turned back to the letters piled on his desk, most
of which were still unopened.
Brianna.
The name didn’t ring a bell, but there was no denying that he was the addressee on every envelope. He resumed his seat to continue reading. Because Brianna’s more recent letters made little sense—he might forget if he’d bedded a woman, but he sure as hell wouldn’t forget if he’d married one—he searched for letters written four or five years ago. Sadly, the content of those made little sense, either, more or less mirroring the more recent missives except that she failed to mention how much she missed him at night. David was frowning over this when he came across a newer envelope that included a note written by a child, the printing awkward and comprised of a few brief sentences. There were no misspellings or errors in punctuation, which made David suspect that the little girl’s mother had supervised the composition.

David stared thoughtfully at the name.
Daphne?
There it was, definite proof that he wasn’t the child’s father. He’d never in a million years curse a little girl with that name. Rose, Iris, or Violet, maybe, but
Daphne
? Her classmates probably teased her unmercifully.

Sifting through the mountain of mail, David located an envelope that had been addressed to him in that same childish hand. At least the kid had written something halfway interesting in her last note, unlike the mother, who seemed fixated on repeating herself, the recurring theme, “Please come for us.”