The Reluctant Hero (2 page)

She smiled at him, a dangerous thing. A man could start to think about doing whatever was necessary to keep that smile visible.

“And being paid for the writing doesn't hurt either,” she continued. “You deserved the reward money for those outlaws, and you shouldn't feel guilty that you hauled them to the courthouse so you could get paid.”

So they were back to the outlaws now, were they?

Something must have shown on his face, because she shook her head. “I'm just explaining my situation in a manner that would make sense to someone who isn't intimately familiar with the muse. If you can't understand the creative side, you can at least understand the practical side. I need the money . . . desperately. I thought if I came here and spent a few days observing you, experiencing the various duties that are involved in doing your job, then inspiration might strike; my muse would return. The words would once again flow. I know my request may sound frivolous, but trust me, Sheriff, I truly need your help. Be my hero. Please.”

Damnation. He averted his gaze because he found himself staring too deeply into her eyes, mesmerized, actually considering the pleasant ramifications of having her near, until he almost forgot what the end result would be: the destruction of a life he'd worked so hard to build.

“I'm not a hero,” he said quietly. “I don't want to be seen as one or portrayed as one.”

“As I said, Sheriff, I can use another name for your character.”

He dared to look back at her. “You're looking for a hero. I'm not him. You're gonna have to look elsewhere.”

He heard hurried footsteps on the boardwalk. Turning his head, he saw a woman rushing toward him, two small boys in tow. He came to his feet.

Andrea Jackson did as well. “Is that trouble coming, do you think?” she asked, and he heard the excitement laced in her voice at the prospect of witnessing him doing his job.

He ignored her.

The woman who was approaching him smiled. Lanetta Logan. Her husband had been a teller in the bank before the Ace in the Hole Gang arrived. Now he was merely a marker in the cemetery.

Matt removed his hat as Lanetta stopped in front of him, still clutching the hands of her sons. Matt had been the one who'd had the unenviable task of telling her that her husband was dead and she was now a widow.

“The stagecoach will be leaving soon,” she said. “The boys and I are getting on it. I'm going to my parents' house for a while.” She released her sons, who immediately wrapped their arms around her legs. One was three, the other five. Matt had never noticed before how much they resembled their father, even at their young ages. It was the eyes, he thought. The shape of the chin.

Lanetta handed him a piece of paper. “Here is where we'll be staying if you need me for anything. I don't know how long we'll be away, but I was hoping you'd keep an eye on the house, maybe tend the livestock. There's just the cow and a few chickens. I've boarded the horses.”

“I'll be happy to do that for you. If you decide you don't want to come back, send me a letter. I'll load all your things onto a wagon and bring them to you.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “You've been so good to me. I can never repay you.”

He thought he might double over from the pain of her words slamming into him. “You don't owe me anything, darlin'. You just take care of yourself and the boys.”

“That'll be easier to do, since you gave me the reward money that you collected on those outlaws. You didn't have to do that, Matt. You earned that money.”

He shook his head, his stomach knotting up. “We've already discussed this.”

“I know. I just wish you'd kept some of it.”

“I don't need it.” Then because he didn't want to discuss the topic any longer, he hunkered down in front of her sons. “So your ma's taking you on a trip.”

They bobbed their heads.

“You ever been on a stagecoach before?”

They shook their heads.

“It's an adventure. I want you to be real good for your ma now, ya hear?”

They bobbed their heads again.

He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a quarter. He pressed it into the pudgy hand of the older boy, closing the youngster's fingers around it. “Have your ma take you to the general store before you leave, and you use this two bits to get some sarsaparilla sticks to eat on the journey.”

The boy smiled.

“Gotta share them with your brother,” Matt said.

“I will.” The boy looked down at his boots, then lifted his gaze back to Matt. “Pa ain't coming with us.”

Matt's heart tightened. “I know, son.”

“Wish he could come, but Ma says he had to go to heaven.”

He thought the boys were too young to understand that their father was gone forever. It was something that he'd never forget.

“Yeah, he did,” Matt said quietly. “He was a good man, your father.”

The boy opened his hand, looked at the quarter, and closed his fist around it. He peered at Matt. “Can I get me some licorice instead?”

Matt ruffled the boy's hair. “Get yourself anything you and your brother want.”

He was suddenly afraid the boy was going to say he wanted his father back and would use the two bits for that, but in the way of children, the boy had moved on to other things. “Sammy runned away.”

Matt lifted his gaze to Lanetta.

“The dog,” she said. “We haven't seen him since . . .”

He could see her struggling with the words. “Since that awful day?” he finished for her.

She nodded.

“If he shows up, I'll see he's taken care of.”

“When something like this happens, I guess everybody feels like running away,” she said.

That was a fact. Sometimes the hardest part was staying.

He unfolded his body and met her gaze. “You're not running away. There's just nothing here for you now.”

Reaching out, she squeezed his hand and gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you, Matt. Thank you for everything.”

“You take care now, Lanetta.”

She grabbed her boys' hands, spun on her heel, and rushed toward the stagecoach.

“Why, Sheriff, you're a liar.”

Matt grimaced. He'd forgotten the dang dime novel writer was standing behind him.

“You didn't go to get that reward money for yourself. You went to get it for her. You
are
a hero.”

He spun around, disgusted with the pleased expression on her face, as though she thought she had him all figured out.

“If I was a hero, her husband would still be alive.”

With that he retreated into his office, slamming the door in his wake.

Two

Pacing within her hotel room, Andrea Jackson could barely contain her excitement.

She'd found him at long last. Her hero.

Reluctant though he may be, she had no doubt that he was the one. The one she'd been searching for. He stood tall and straight, and she could envision him sitting just as tall and straight in the saddle. His black pants hugged thighs that no doubt spent a good deal of time guiding a horse. He wore a black jacket over his white shirt, leaving his gun barely visible, but his hand had been at his side, curled slightly as though with the slightest provocation, it could grab the gun and have it accurately aimed, possibly even fired, before she had time to blink.

When he'd removed his hat, his midnight black hair had fallen across his brow, landing just above his incredibly deep brown eyes. Smoldering eyes. Without compunction or embarrassment, he seemed to assess every aspect of her being, as though cataloging her features to memory. She thought any desperado caught by his intimidating stare would surrender on the spot, without hesitation, without a gun being drawn or a bullet being fired.

The Ace in the Hole Gang being a notable exception.

She'd certainly thought twice about staying in front of him, and it had taken every ounce of courage she possessed not to back up and off the boardwalk, not to head for the street and the hotel when he'd tipped back his hat and pinned her with his hard glare.

But she'd reminded herself that he was the good guy. Not that the features of his face revealed even a hint of goodness.

His thick mustache had framed a mouth that didn't seem prone to smiling, but she had little doubt that it did its fair share of kissing. He had an animal magnetism that drew her in even as it held her at bay. Dark, feral, dangerous.

Her heart was only just now stopping its rapid thudding. He'd unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. She hadn't been this flustered since the founders of the bank where her father had served as president had knocked on her door to announce that following his death, they'd discovered he'd been swindling funds. They'd threatened to take her house, everything she owned, put her and her aging mother on the street, and smear her family's good name unless Andrea was willing to repay what he had taken. She was willing. Only too willing. She didn't want his epitaph to read, “Here lies a swindler.” Besides, she'd known why he'd done it. He'd spent a fortune trying to find a cure for her mother's frail health—to no avail. Andrea had signed an agreement promising to pay back the bank with steady payments. She'd only have to write two hundred and fifty dime novels.

She thought that looming task was probably what had caused her muse to flee. But she could feel the tickling of its return.

She walked over to the table that the hotel owner, with the help of the stagecoach driver, had moved up to her room. When she'd arrived, the room had only a bed, dresser, washstand, and chair. She'd desperately needed a desk. So Lester Anderson had accommodated her request as much as he was able, taking the table from his office. Probably because, as far as she could tell, she was his only guest and source of business, and he would do whatever it took to keep her happy, to keep the coins coming in. She sometimes wondered if money, the root of all evil, was the root of all goodness as well.

Once the desk was placed in front of the window, she'd opened her trunk, and the men had lifted out her most recent and most precious purchase, heaved it across the room, and set it on the table for her.

Now, she slowly trailed her fingers over the Remington No. 2 typewriter. She'd bought it when her muse had deserted her, hoping it would help her find the stories. She'd heard that other dime novelists were producing a manuscript a week using this newfangled contraption. She'd quickly discovered, however, that the keys had to be pressed in order for them to deliver ink to the paper.

And in order for the keys to be pressed, her fingers had to know what story her mind was conjuring up. Unfortunately, her mind had become a perpetual blank slate. She'd once written purely for the joy of telling a story. Now she desperately needed the two hundred dollars that the next novel would bring her.

Her mother's nurse, Beth, had suggested Andrea turn to real-life heroes for inspiration, but only a few had yet to be claimed, and quite honestly, they didn't interest her. Then the article on Matthew Knight had appeared in the Fort Worth newspaper, and Andrea had begun to feel the first stirrings of excitement.

Now, it was full blown, and she felt her empty well of creativity beginning to fill, at long last, with possibilities.

She dragged the chair over and sat. She wound a piece of paper into the typewriter. She wove her fingers together and bent them backward, as was her usual ritual before writing—because of all the cramping in her hands she'd had in the past—took a deep breath . . .

And looked out the window, inviting the elusive words into her soul.

 

 

“Mind if I join you?”

Matt jerked his head up and stared at the woman who'd spoken. He'd been enjoying his beef at Mc-Goldrick's Family Home Restaurant, alone, in silence. A shame he didn't have the authority to chase a citizen out of town for upsetting a man's digestion.

Suddenly remembering his manners, he came to his feet and announced, “I'm almost finished.”

With a demure smile, she said, “Then you won't have to endure my company for long.”

Before he could respond that he had no plans to endure it at all, she sat in the chair opposite him, not even waiting for him to pull it out for her or to issue an invite. He thought about walking out. That would make his position clear. But he still had a good portion of meat and potatoes remaining, and he was hungry. He took his seat and went to slicing off another bite of beef, ignoring her as much as he was able, considering he'd yet to find any aspect of her worthy of ignoring.

“You cleaned up real nice,” she said.

He stilled, the beef halfway to his mouth. He hoped the sudden heat in his face wasn't visible. On his way over to McGoldrick's, he'd stopped off at the barbershop where a man could get a bath and a shave for two bits. And he hated to admit that he'd done it on the off chance that she
might
come here for supper, since it was the only business in town that served meals, other than the boardinghouse. He'd thought he might have the opportunity to discreetly observe her, but he'd never entertained the notion that she'd join him at his table.

He swore under his breath. He
had
entertained the notion. About a hundred times. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since he'd met her, and it aggravated him. He wanted to ignore her completely, but he didn't have the strength of will to carry through on his wants.

He lifted his gaze and felt as though he'd taken a solid punch to the gut, because her eyes clearly reflected interest as strong as his. Her cheeks turned a faint shade of red. Clearing her throat, she looked away, casually signaling to the serving girl, McGoldrick's eldest daughter, Lucy.

“I'll have what Mr. Knight is having,” the woman said, her voice as soft as a spring rain shower. “Only I prefer that mine be cooked.”

“Mine's cooked,” he growled.

“Barely.”

He felt the heat in his face intensify. He wasn't accustomed to people criticizing his habits. He could just imagine what she might write in her book.
He ate his meat raw, like the barbarian he was.

“You could sit elsewhere,” he said, before eating the slice of beef that had grown cold.

“I could,” she said. “But then how would I get to know you?”

“Look, lady—”

“Andrea,” she interrupted. “Or Andi, if you prefer.”

“I
prefer
to be left in peace.”

“Is that the reason you became a sheriff? So you could ensure the peace that you seem to prefer?”

Refusing to be baited into revealing anything, he sliced off another piece of meat and chewed on it. His reason for becoming a sheriff was his and his alone, none of her concern.

“Excuse me? Miz Jackson?”

Matt and the woman turned their attention to the man standing beside the table, clutching a tattered dime novel to his chest. Matt recognized the skinny cowpoke who worked out at the Triple D ranch, several miles south of town.

“Yes,” she said.

“I'm Joe Sears, ma'am. Are you the writer that come to tell the sheriff's story?” he asked eagerly.

“What?” Matt asked, swinging his gaze from Joe to Andrea—Andi—Satan's bride. “Where did he get that fool notion?”

Blushing, she gave him a smile that he thought might have appeased many a man, and he was having to work dang hard to make sure that it didn't curtail his anger.

“I might have mentioned my purpose in coming to Gallant to the hotel proprietor when I took a room.”

Matt shook his head. Lester Anderson gossiped worse than any woman Matt knew. Town didn't even need a newspaper with Lester living here to announce any and every little thing that happened.

She lifted a delicate shoulder in apology. “I didn't realize he was the town gossip.”

“Oh, he ain't,” Joe said. “He just likes to talk about things that are going on.”

“That are none of his business,” Matt said. “That's what a gossip is.”

“A gossip says mean things,” Joe said, pouting as though Matt had hurt his feelings. “Lester ain't mean.”

Before Matt could respond to that, Joe pulled out a chair and sat down, angling himself so he was facing the lady. Matt wondered if he ought to start selling tickets to seats at his table.

“I gotta tell you, Miz Jackson, that I love Lone Star Lily,” Joe said with so much earnestness that Matt was taken aback, and it appeared that Miss Jackson was as well.

“Thank you, Mr. Sears,” she said.

“She's got so much courage, it humbles me,” Joe said.

Matt could see her cheeks turning pink. She looked at a loss for words. Not that he could blame her, although he imagined not finding words wasn't a good thing for a writer. On second thought, she was apparently accustomed to losing the words. It was the reason she was here.

“I was wondering”—Joe cleared his throat—“I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to tell me where she lives.”

Unable to believe the question, Matt stared at the fella, then turned his attention to Miss Jackson to see how she was going to handle the ridiculous question.

She gave Joe a kind, tender smile, the smile of someone who was trying to break the harshness of bad news. Matt wished she'd been there the day that he'd had to tell Lanetta about her husband. A smile as comforting as hers would have come in handy.

Miss Jackson laid her hand over Joe's. “Mr. Sears—”

“You can call me Joe.”

Her smile somehow grew more tender. “Joe, Lone Star Lily lives only in my imagination.”

Joe's face took on an expression of disbelief. “But Buffalo Bill is real. And Jesse James.” He pointed his thumb at Matt. “And the sheriff here. You're gonna write his story. The stories are about real people—”

“Not all of them, Joe,” she said softly. “Some are based on the daring exploits of actual people, but most are characters that we simply create ourselves. We give them names and personalities and try very hard to make them seem real. But they aren't.”

Joe looked at Matt, a sadness in his eyes that Matt had only ever seen at funerals.

“They're writing lies, Sheriff. Ain't that against the law?”

“It's not against the law to entertain people, Joe. And that's what Miss Jackson does. She writes stories to make you forget that your body's aching from hard work, or you're miserable, or you're sleeping alone. If she writes the story so you believe it's true, well, now that's a testament to her gift for storytelling.”

“I thought Lone Star Lily was real,” Joe said. “Like Buffalo Bill.” He released a bitter laugh. “Don't I feel stupid.”

“You shouldn't feel stupid, Joe,” Miss Jackson said, drawing his attention back to her. “People are always asking me where she lives.”

“You wouldn't be funning with me now, would you?”

“No.”

“Would you mind putting your mark in my book?” Joe asked, pushing his book and a pencil toward Miss Jackson.

She smiled. “Certainly.”

Matt watched as she turned back what remained of the cover and, gripping the pencil, wrote her name. She held the pencil so tightly it was no wonder she had a bump on that middle finger.

When she was finished, Joe took the book from her. “Thank you, ma'am.” He stood and looked over at Matt. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

Matt watched him walk away. “That was a strange encounter.” He shifted his gaze back to Miss Jackson. “And no one else ever asked you where Lone Star Lily lived.”

She grimaced. “Was I not convincing? I didn't want to hurt his feelings.”

“He believed you.”

“Thank goodness.”

Lucy arrived with Miss Jackson's platter of food. Matt couldn't call her Andrea or Andi, not even in his own mind. Either would invite an informality that might lead to other things . . . like piquing his curiosity about how a woman thought she should travel from Fort Worth to Gallant to meet a man she'd read about. Brazen. Bold. He wondered what other things she might be bold about.