The Reluctant Hero (4 page)

Four

Andrea had never started her day off with a warmed can of beans and black coffee so strong that even now she feared what it might be doing to her stomach. He'd apologized for not having sugar or milk to lessen its harshness. Or eggs. Or biscuit makings. Or flapjacks. Or syrup. Or jam. Or a second plate.

He'd been gentlemanly enough to give her the solitary plate, chipped on one side, after scooping some beans onto it. He spooned his breakfast straight from the can.

He was leaning back in his chair, his booted feet crossed on the corner of the desk, his spoon scraping the sides of the can. He placed what had to be the last of the contents into his mouth and closed his eyes as though he were in heaven.

“Now, that's the way to start the day,” he murmured, opening his eyes and tossing the can into a nearby empty box. He reached for his cup and took a long, slow swallow of the bitter brew, not grimacing once.

She wondered what his stomach was made of. Iron maybe?

He released a contented sigh, placed the cup on his stomach, and wrapped his hands around it. After a few moments, he sighed, took another sip, then went back to doing nothing.

Andrea stood. “Where can I wash the plate?”

He peered over at her as though he'd forgotten she was there. “Just put it on the stove. I'll wipe it down later.”

“Wipe it down,” she muttered.

“Feel free to pour yourself more coffee,” he offered.

“Thank you, but I don't drink much in the morning.” She set her plate on the stove and proceeded to walk around the outskirts of the room. The more interesting items—the wanted posters—were tacked to the wall behind his desk. She walked to the cabinet that housed the rifles—locked up and secure.

“Why do you need so many rifles?” she asked.

“If I ever had a need to deputize any of the menfolk, I'd want to be able to provide rifles to those who needed 'em.”

She peered over at him and arched a brow. “Menfolk? Why not deputize some ladies?”

He scowled. “That doesn't even deserve an answer.”

“I've heard they have a woman serving on the police force in Denver.”

His scowl deepened. “They're just asking for trouble.”

She scoffed. “You can't be serious. Women have worked just as hard as men in settling the West.”

“Do you know how to use a gun?”

“No, but I'm sure I could learn if I set my mind to it.”

He shook his head and went back to staring at the empty cell on the other side of the room.

“Do you know how to use a typewriter?” she asked.

He snapped his head around. “A what?”

“A typewriter. It's a machine that allows you to press a button and a letter appears on a piece of paper.”

He just gave her that intimidating stare.

She sighed. “It's supposed to make it easier on those who do a good deal of writing.”

“Stop them from getting that bump on their finger?”

Self-consciously she glanced down at her hands. She'd always been embarrassed that her fingers weren't quite straight and that she did indeed have a raised place on the finger where she'd been pressing a pencil since she was five years old and had first been taught the magic of creating letters.

“I brought it with me,” she said to change the subject.

“Don't see how you could leave the bump behind.”

She scowled. “The typewriter. It's in my room at the hotel if you have an interest in seeing it.”

His eyes narrowed. “They have a name for ladies who invite men to their hotel room.”

“I wasn't inviting you to my room. I was inviting you to see a typewriter.”

He took another slow sip of coffee. “Is that the reason you looked so skittish yesterday when they were hauling your trunk into the hotel?”

“I wasn't skittish, but yes, I did have concerns. The machine was an investment, and I'm not in a position to replace it if it's mishandled.”

“Don't see why you need a machine. I can accomplish the same thing by pressing pencil to paper.”

“But is your handwriting legible? Is every letter perfect?”

“I can read it. That's all that matters.”

She crossed the room back to his desk. “Well, unfortunately, in my profession, others have to be able to read what I write. Although my point was that I'm sure you could learn to use a typewriter and I could learn to use a gun.”

“Well, teaching you isn't part of my job.”

“Why are you so ornery?” she asked, sitting back down in her chair.

“You're disturbing my peace.”

There it was again. That word “peace.” He was cantankerous. And had gone back to staring at the cell.

She sighed. “When do you actually start to work, Sheriff?”

“I'm at work now.”

“You're in your office, but I don't see you working.”

“I'm waiting.”

“For what?”

“For trouble to come calling.”

She glanced around. “Surely, you must do something more than sit there all day . . . waiting.”

He slowly shook his head. “No, ma'am.”

“How will you know when trouble arrives?”

“I'll know.” He took another leisurely sip of that disgusting coffee. He turned his head to the side so he could see her. “Reckon there's really no reason for you to stay.”

“On the contrary. I see no reason to leave.”

She noticed that a muscle in his jaw twitched.

“My day would make for mighty boring reading, Miss Jackson.”

She scooted up to the edge of her chair so she could rest her elbows on the desk. “It might, Sheriff, if I didn't have such a vivid imagination. Besides, my job is to embellish the mundane.”

He narrowed his eyes, and that muscle twitched again. “I don't see that there's really anything for you to write about.”

Oh, but there was. Simply because he didn't want her here was reason enough to be here. It was her stubborn nature that had allowed her to get published to begin with. Several of her works had been rejected by the publisher before she'd found a story that an editor had thought was worth telling.

She had a feeling that Matthew Knight had a story worth telling. Why else would he so desperately guard it?

“Where are you from, Sheriff?”

“Around.”

“Is that a town in Texas? I'm not familiar with it. Whereabouts is it located?”

She wasn't certain, but she thought a corner of his mouth quirked up. Rather than answer her, he took another sip of his coffee.

Her stomach growled like a dog that had spied the sheriff's undercooked tossed-out meat. She pressed her hand below her ribs, embarrassed by the noise.

“I have another can of beans,” he offered.

“Thank you, but I'm not really hungry.” If anything, she was feeling nauseous. She wondered if the only restaurant in town was open yet. She should probably go and have some decent breakfast, but she was certain that as soon as she left, the excitement would begin.

Settling back in her chair, she studied the posters on the wall. Men wanted for breaking the law. Rewards offered. Only a few had a likeness of the man printed on them. Most were descriptions only.

“Do you suppose outlaws take pride in the amount of their reward?”

“I doubt they take pride in anything.”

“Why would a man steal?” she asked. “Why would he kill?”

The muscle in his jaw jerked, and she remembered that he had killed. Was he haunted by his actions? How could he not be?

“Do you know the time?” she asked, refraining from asking him how it had felt, how he had dealt with it. If he wouldn't tell her where he was from, he certainly wouldn't share with her the doubts that might plague him.

He stretched back and pulled a pocket watch out of his trousers watch pocket. “Twelve minutes after seven.”

That was all? She'd thought it had to be at least ten. She got up, went to the window, and looked out on the town. She could see people moving about, sweeping the boardwalk, unloading wagons. “Shouldn't you be out walking around?” she asked.

“Better to stay put in one place so people can find me if they need me.”

She spun around. “Don't you get bored?”

He tipped his head back so he could see her. “I tried to tell you. Nothin' exciting about my life.”

She released another sigh and returned to her chair. She wasn't going to leave. “It would be a mite less boring if you'd at least answer my questions with some enthusiasm.”

“You wanted to follow my footsteps. I granted permission. I never said I'd answer questions.”

“It's a little difficult to follow your footsteps when your boots seem to be permanently at rest.”

She was certain this time. His mustache moved; a corner of his mouth did shift up.

“This is my life, lady,” he said flatly.

“Fine. I can do this the hard way.” She picked up her paper and pencil. He said that he'd been around long enough, and she thought she might be able to gauge his age, but based on the deep lines fanning out from the visible corner of his eye, she didn't think he was referring to years with his cryptic statement. The lines were many and deep. No doubt a result of squinting at the sun or carrying heavy burdens. Ruggedly handsome, he wasn't at all hard on the eyes. Before he'd shaved this morning, she'd noted how thick his morning beard was. Probably one of the reasons he grew the mustache. He probably looked like a desperado by the end of the day. She wondered if that mustache would tickle if he kissed her. She supposed she could ask for research purposes. In her stories she always had a damsel in distress, and her hero always received a kiss at the end.

But she'd never had a hero with a mustache.

Her stomach rumbled again.

“Why don't you mosey over to McGoldrick's?” he suggested. “I'll go over and get you if there's any excitement.”

She presented what she hoped was her sweetest smile. “Why would I even contemplate exchanging the pleasure of your company for food?”

The door opened, and he grimaced. His booted feet hit the floor with a resounding thud as he sat up. “Not now, Doc,” he fairly growled.

“What do you mean not now?” asked the man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a white shirt with a black jacket. Over his arm dangled a wicker basket. “I have no plans to eat a cold breakfast.”

Breakfast?

She could smell enticing aromas wafting out of the basket as the man walked farther into the room.

“I didn't know we'd have such lovely company for our morning ritual,” he said, setting the basket on the table.

“Morning ritual?” she asked, coming to her feet.

He removed his hat. His blond hair was shaggy, his light blue eyes twinkling. She thought he was close to the age of the sheriff, whatever age that might be.

“Why, yes, ma'am. The owner of the boardinghouse where I live cooks a hearty breakfast for the sheriff and me each morning. Since my cantankerous friend isn't one to make introductions, allow me. I'm John Martin, and I'm assuming that you're the writer everyone is whispering about this morning.”

She didn't know whether to be glad that food had arrived or to throw something at Matthew Knight for feeding her horrid beans when he'd known food was coming. Warring against her instincts, she fought back her anger and decided to be pleasant. This man could no doubt provide her with information.

“I find it difficult to believe the sheriff has a friend,” she said sweetly.

“Not cooperating, is he?” He glanced at her cup on the desk. “Don't tell me he gave you his awful coffee to drink.”

“Nothing wrong with my coffee,” Knight said.

John Martin shuddered. “As long as you were born without the ability to taste. Matt, why don't you start setting the food out, while I fix us something proper to drink?”

He walked over to the stove, and Andrea leaned over the desk until her nose was almost touching the sheriff's. While he'd offered beans, he'd known something better was coming.

“Don't think I haven't figured out your game. You promised me today, and I'm not about to walk out without a fight.”

 

 

“ ‘Sadly, his aim failed to equal his courage.' One of your more memorable lines,” John told Andrea. “Although I was saddened that the poor man was done in by the outlaws.”

Matt sat behind his desk, watching with disgust as John poured on the charm and Andrea—Andi—lap-ped it up.

“I can't believe that you'd remember the exact words,” she said. “I'm not sure the sheriff has even read one of my stories.”

“I'm not even sure he can read,” John said with a chuckle.

“I can read,” Matt muttered.

She looked at him now, a pinch of strawberry jam nestled at the corner of her mouth. His gut clenched with the thought of what it might be like to taste the jam and her mouth at the same time, just dip his tongue into that corner and . . .

“Have you ever read any of my novels?” she asked.

He wanted to lie, wanted her sparkling gaze directed at him instead of John, but his friend was a more likely hero. After all, he saved lives; he didn't take them. “Not that I can recall.”