The Accidental Lawman (13 page)

She scanned the room, certain no one would notice if she slipped out the side door. She was about to make her move when she saw Hank Larson heading for her with a determined stride. His every step set off a terrible ruckus.

He stopped when he reached her, but the cans and bottles dangling from pieces of twine attached to his person continued to sway and rattle a moment longer.

“Miss Peep,” he said in all seriousness.

“Mr. Larson.” She found herself unable to look away from his intense eyes.

He seemed at a loss for words and said absolutely nothing for so long she wondered if he’d been rendered mute. She wasn’t in much better form.

Finally, she forced herself to ask, “Who are you supposed to be, Mr. Larson?”

He mumbled something she couldn’t hear. Amelia leaned closer.

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

“Not who. What,” he said.

“Oh.
What
are you supposed to be, then?”

“A wind chime.”

For the first time in days, she found herself laughing. She drew back a step, looked him up and down, took in all the hanging tin cans and bottles.

“A wind chime?”

“That’s right,” he said.

“That’s ingenious.”

“I was desperate. The reverend thought I was a rubbish heap.”

“I hope you won’t have to sneak up on anyone tonight.”

She laughed, then quickly sobered. There still loomed the very great possibility Hank might be called upon to arrest Evan. She didn’t know whether to hope that was the case—since he might show her brother some mercy out of courtesy to her—or to pray that Evan turned himself in on his own and Hank would have no part in his arrest.

“I hope I don’t, either. In fact, the only reason I came tonight was to try and talk someone else into taking over as sheriff.”

He glanced around the room and then she found herself staring up into his eyes again.

“What do you think of Joe Ellenberg?” he asked.

“He’d make a wonderful sheriff.” She couldn’t imagine a better candidate. Especially since Joe had known Evan for years. “If he lived in town,” she added.

“That’s what I thought, too. Residing in Glory is certainly a requirement.”

“Perhaps you should move out of town and disqualify yourself,” she suggested.

“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind, but I can’t afford two places.”

Though Evan was never far from her mind, while talking to Hank, Amelia found herself feeling lighter than she had in days.

“By the way,” she began, “I was asked to tell you that Rebekah Ellenberg is interested in speaking with you. She would like to relate the story of her experience living with the Comanche.”

She watched a transformation come over him, saw the
curiosity and excitement that filled his eyes. His work meant a great deal to him, that much was evident.

“Is she here?”

“I haven’t seen them.”

They both gazed slowly around the room. Not far away, three cowhands without costumes ogled Laura Foster. The boardinghouse proprietress was decked out in a long white robe with flowing sleeves, a gilt cord belt that appeared to be a curtain swag, and white angel wings fashioned out of ostrich feathers. She’d piled her thick blond hair atop her head. One cowboy was particularly flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright. Amelia suspected it wasn’t only from staring at Laura but from the bottle of spirits the cowboys made a poor attempt at hiding.

“When did you last see Rebekah?” Hank asked.

She answered honestly. “The beginning of last week. I…probably should have come by to tell you she was interested in talking with you but I…I’ve been very busy.” She had been busy, she decided. Busy avoiding him.

“There’s Charity.” When Amelia saw her across the room, her heart sank of its own accord. The urge to slip out the side door and head home came over her again. She waited for Hank to excuse himself and join the preacher’s sister.

But he didn’t even look Charity’s way. In fact, Amelia found herself growing heated with embarrassment at the way he continued to stare at her instead.

“May I be completely honest with you, Amelia?”

“Of course.”

“I have no interest in being with Charity—not in a romantic way, that is. She is a nice enough person, a fine young woman, but I’m just not—” He stopped abruptly
and tugged on the hem of his jacket. One of his cans hit the floor. He ignored it. “I don’t harbor any romantic feeling for her. I told her as much.” He added, “And as gently as I could.”

“Oh, my.”

“Yeah, well…”

“How did she take it?” Amelia suspected Charity had been so very smitten.

“Like a lady.” Hank grabbed the tin off the floor. “Would you care for some punch, Amelia? Or should I call you Miss Peep?” He tried to smile, but his own embarrassment was evident.

“That would be nice,” she said, then realized that perhaps he was looking for an excuse to walk away. She quickly added, “You really don’t have to wait on me.”

“No trouble at all. I’ll be right back.”

He’d no sooner stepped away than two of the cowhands who’d been staring at Laura came striding over. Their clothes were worn but clean. They were both tall and lean, their skin tanned the color of caramel hides.

“Looks like you lost your sheep, little lady,” the tallest of the two said. He chucked her under the chin. “Maybe I can help you find them.”

“I’d thank you to keep your hands to yourself.” She rapped him on the hand with her staff, narrowed her eyes and glared, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

“You look mighty tempting. Like a buttercup. My friend and I was wondering if you’d like to take a little walk outside.” He was nothing if not persistent.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said.

“That gent what was here? The one you was talking to? He ain’t worth waiting for.”

The second cowhand spoke up. His boots were so
worn at the heels that his ankles were bowed out. “I hear tell your brother’s riding with the Perkins Gang.”

Amelia nearly dropped her staff. She’d never seen these men in her life. For all she knew, they could be part of the Perkins Gang themselves.

“Do you…” She could barely whisper, so great was her shame. “Do you know my brother?”

“Seen his name on them posters around town. Heard some lady point you out earlier. We figured you prob’ly aren’t as straitlaced as you look. In fact—” he reached for one of her braids and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger “—I’m bettin’ there’s some real fire brewing under that yellow apron.”

Amelia was so mortified she failed to hear the clank and clunk that accompanied Hank across the room. The cowhands weren’t distracted by it, either, not until Hank nudged the taller man aside and handed Amelia two punch cups.

“May I help you two?” Hank turned on the men, taller than both of them.

Somehow he’d smoothly ended up between her and the cowboys.

“We’re doing just fine,” the shorter man said.

“I believe I smell whiskey, gentlemen. Which means you’ll have to leave the premises immediately.”

The taller cowhand spread his arms. “What whiskey? Prove it.”

“This is a church social, mister. I’m asking you politely to take your friend out of here and leave.”

“Who’s doing the asking?”

“Hank Larson, sheriff.” Hank didn’t smile. “Now, are you going peaceably? Or am I going to have to throw you out?”

Amelia stared at Hank in awe.
Throw them out?
She peered around his shoulder at the two men. Neither of them looked interested in leaving. Hank was taller, sturdier of build than either of them, but the cowhands were whipcord thin and looked as tough as nails. They weren’t threatened by him in the least.

“How come you ain’t tossed her out if this here sociable is just for the goody-goods? Her brother runs with the Perkins Gang and she—”

Amelia didn’t see who threw the first blow, but later on, folks claimed it was Hank. All she knew was that one minute the three men were standing in front of her, and the next fists were flying. A cup of punch flipped upward and stained her apron before she was nearly knocked to the ground in the melee. She kept her footing and tossed the second cup in the shorter cowhand’s face as he reached for Hank’s collar. Blinded, he reeled backward and Harrison Barker—dressed as George Washington with a tricorn hat atop his powdered hair—hit the man on the head with a chair.

The taller cowhand and Hank exchanged blows accompanied by the terrible smack of fists against flesh and the rattle and clank of tin and glass. The circle around them widened, apparently no one was willing to risk injury to break them up.

Amelia was pressed back against the edge of the stage.

Surprisingly, Hank Larson gave as good as he got. Finally he landed a punch to the cowhand’s jaw and the man toppled backward like felled timber.

Hank ignored the man on the floor and immediately turned to Amelia. He grabbed her by the shoulders, searched her face.

“Are you all right, Miss Peep?” He was smiling, though his left eye was already purpling.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “But your nose is bleeding pretty bad.”

He reached up to cup his nose, then pulled his hand away and stared down at his bloody fingers.

Without another word, he passed out cold.

H
ank opened his eyes and found himself staring up at Amelia. Somehow he’d ended up on the floor with his head cradled in her lap and, for the life of him, couldn’t recall how he’d gotten there. He quickly decided it wasn’t a bad place to be.

He sighed and let his eyes drift closed.

For some reason she insisted on tapping his cheek.

“Hank? Hank. Open your eyes. Are you all right?” Her voice floated to him as if through cotton batting.

Slowly, he forced his eyes open, certain the dream would have faded, but Amelia was still there, her face hovering above him. Her long rust-colored braids trailed over her shoulders. The front of her apron was smeared with blood and punch.

He struggled to sit up, but she held him down.

“What happened? Are you all right?” He realized he wasn’t dreaming, that this was real.

“I’m fine. You fainted at the sight of your own blood.”

“I did not.”

“You did, too. But you knocked out a cowhand first.”

He blinked a couple of times and vaguely remembered arguing with two cowboys. The room finally came completely into focus. They were surrounded by an odd assortment of individuals from clowns to kings and queens, to wild Indians with knives strapped to their thighs. Even George Washington was staring down at him.

Hank’s addled thoughts fell into place and he realized the esteemed first president was really Harrison Barker. Standing behind Amelia, Harrison raised his tricorn hat, exposing his white powdered hair.

“He’s all right, folks,” Harrison called out to the assembly “No need to worry. The sheriff’s fine.”

A round of applause filled the room and everything came back to Hank in a rush. The masquerade social, the cowhands smelling of whiskey, one of them insulting Amelia.

She was tenderly pressing a wet compress to the side of his face, dabbing at his nose. He would have been mortified if he didn’t recall that one of the cowhands had hit the floor—thanks to a well-aimed punch he didn’t know he had in him. That was about the last thing he remembered.

He ignored Harrison and the rest of the crowd and stared into Amelia’s concerned eyes. “I’d like to stand up,” he told her.

“Are you sure?”

He was certain if he stayed there any longer with his head resting in her lap, staring up at her huge green eyes and gold-tipped lashes, that he’d never, ever want to get up again.

“I’m sure.” He made a feeble attempt to sound convincing.

“Please, help him up carefully, Harrison,” she said.

The storekeeper and a clown helped him to his feet. Then Hank extended a hand to Amelia. She hesitated slightly before she accepted, but she did slip her hand into his.

Holding her hand gave him the oddest sensation—as if he were linked to the rest of the world again in a way he hadn’t been since Tricia and the baby died. He’d been existing in the world, but not a part of it. He’d been an observer of life, not a participant.

Observation and the ability to step back from the world was a writer’s gift, but without a heartfelt connection, the work often lacked passion and depth.

Through Amelia, through the warm and gentle touch of her hand, he suddenly had a glimmer of what life used to be, of what living used to feel like.

He pulled her to her feet. She let go and the connection was broken. His head started to throb.

“How is it we always end up on the floor together?” he asked.

He watched her close her eyes and give a slight shake of her head before she said, “I guess some folks just have more luck than others.”

She opened her eyes. “Don’t look down, Mr. Larson. Your nose is bleeding again.” She quickly handed him the compress. “You need some packing.”

“What I need is for somebody to cut all this rubbish off of me.”

Before he would let her tend to his nose, he asked Harrison and a few of the other men to send the drunken cowhands packing. They were kind enough to oblige.

Just then, Charity stepped forward.

“Maybe I can be of some help.” She’d grabbed a knife off the pie table and began to cut the strings of Hank’s cans and bottles.

“Thank you, Miss McCormick,” he mumbled from behind his compress.

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Larson.”

Amelia turned aside, bent down to collect his bowler.

He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Charity. “No hard feelings?” he asked.

“Of course not. No hard feelings.”

Charity quickly relieved him of his burdensome wind chime. Amelia handed him his hat. Hank went out to check on Harrison and the others.

“I’m sorry, Charity,” Amelia said softly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you by telling Hank—”

Charity held up a hand to stop her. “Nothing to apologize for. Really. I don’t know what I was thinking. I have Sam and Janie to worry about. My life is full. If and when the right man comes along, he won’t need prodding.”

Charity made an excuse to round up her charges. Near the dessert table, the preacher started the pie auction.

Hank returned to find Amelia and, together, they left the hall unnoticed and walked in silence to her house. Twilight was gathering, the sky purple as a bruise. A lone star rode the sky, or maybe it was Venus, Hank had no idea.

“Should I come in?”

“You know better than that.” She entered alone, lit the lamps in the front room and left the shades up before she joined him on the porch.

“I can’t very well patch you up out here in the dark,” she said. He heard the indecision in her tone.

“Leave the front door open. With the shades all up and the lights on, folks can see inside.”

She stepped aside, let him in.

“I’ll just go put some water on to boil. Have a seat.” She seemed nervous as a caged butterfly.

He smiled, hoping to put her at ease as he stepped into the front room, a combination parlor and apothecary shop. The entire back wall was lined with shelves. A counter fronted them. The room was impeccably neat. Bottles, jars and beakers filled the shelves. Neat labels separated them into categories. There were confections and electuaries, embrocations and liniments, ointments and cerates.

There were feminine touches here and there, doilies under the lamps, a fringed throw pillow. A century-old candlestick holder on a side table near a leather-bound family Bible. Like his own quarters above the newspaper office, her home was tidy but soaked with silence.

When Amelia came back into the room she’d shed her Bo Peep bow and bloody, ruffled pinafore. She stepped behind the counter. As always, she was no-nonsense and efficient as she gathered what she needed.

He adjusted the wet towel pressed to his nose, afraid to drip blood on her floor. His nosebleed appeared to have slowed to a trickle. He chose a straight-backed chair beside the table in the front window and sat down.

His focus drifted back to Amelia. She appeared lost in concentration as she reached for a small bottle. She unstopped the cork and tapped a few sprinkles onto a small dish. Then she deftly wrapped a plug of gauze. She used an eye dropper to take water from a small beaker, moistened the plug with a few drops of water and then dipped it into the powder.

“What is that?” He wanted to know. “Nothing that stings, I hope.”

“It’s powdered gum arabic,” she said without looking up.

“I’ve seen the apothecary sign outside your door, but I had no idea you had the makings of a first-rate shop in here.”

“We were in a small town in Kansas in our search for a place to live when my father met the widow of an apothecary. She was forced to sell the business and the time was right, so Papa bought everything he could afford, packed it all up in crates and boxes that we hauled all over Texas until we finally settled down here.”

Her voice held a trace of sadness. “His dream was to do the doctoring while I ran an apothecary shop on Main Street. Unfortunately, he passed on before he could see his dream realized. So many dreams died with him,” she said softly.

“You learned a lot from him, obviously.”

She nodded toward a thick book on the end of the counter. “And from
Dr. Chase’s Recipes
. I’ve read it completely through twice already, and keep it handy for reference.”

She crossed the room with a pair of long thin tweezers in one hand, the linen plug tipped with gum of arabic on a saucer in the other. She set the plate on the table beside him and pulled the lamp closer.

Amelia seemed hesitant to draw near. He watched her take a deep breath. He closed his eyes, thinking that might make it easier for her to treat him if he wasn’t staring. Besides, closing his eyes might keep him from passing out at the sight of his own blood again.

“Tip your head back,” she instructed softly.

He did. She took the rag from him.

Hank kept his eyes closed. He sensed her nearness, knew when she was leaning over him. Her hands were on his temples, his cheeks. She gingerly felt along the bridge of his nose. He caught the scent of lavender and sighed. At least the blow to his nose hadn’t ruined his sense of smell.

He heard the clink of metal against china, pictured her
using the long, slim tweezers to pick up the linen plug. Her hands were gentle, though her touch was firm and confident. He found himself remembering how hard he’d been on her the day he drove her out to the Ellenbergs’ ranch. He’d disparaged her midwifery skills though he hadn’t known a thing about her personally, put her in the same category as the shameless woman who had botched his wife’s delivery.

“I’m sorry, Amelia.” The apology slipped out of its own accord.

“For what?” She was standing much closer than he realized.

“For being so rude to you the day I drove you out to the Ellenberg place.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was rude and inconsiderate. I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“A lot of men share your views about female doctors.”

“Narrow-minded lot, eh?”

“Uneducated, perhaps.”

“I didn’t know you then.” He was tempted to open his eyes, certain that she was leaning over him, close enough to kiss. All the more reason to keep his eyes closed, his mind on something else.

“Do you know me now?” she asked.

“I would like to know you better.”

She fell silent. He was tempted to take a peek, gauge her expression. An awkward moment passed. He didn’t look up.

“This might hurt a bit. Sit as still as you can.” She cupped his cheek with her left hand. He felt the lint plug below his nostril and held his breath. He winced when pain shot through his nose, though it wasn’t as bad as he expected. She was fast and proficient. With
the plug in place, she stepped away, taking the scent of lavender with her.

He straightened, cautiously touched the side of his nose.

Amelia was already behind the counter, straightening, wiping off the tweezers, corking the arabic. Generally ignoring him.

Golden lamplight flickered against the walls around them. It was so quiet in the room that the slight sounds of Amelia’s movements were magnified—her heels against the worn but polished floorboards, the hush of her skirt. In the kitchen, the teakettle was hissing.

She balled up the wet compresses and finally met his eyes. He saw the nervousness there. For a few moments he’d forgotten they were all alone.

“Would you care for a cup of tea? We could…” She looked away and then her gaze touched his again. “We could have tea out on the porch.”

Out in the open where she would feel safe. Where they could keep things proper between them. Suddenly, he discovered he didn’t want to do the right thing. The proper thing.

But he wouldn’t hurt Amelia for the world. She’d been hurt and embarrassed enough by her brother.

“Some hot tea sounds good.” Anything not to have to leave and break the spell. “I’ll wait for you out on the porch.”

Relief banked the light in her eyes. “I’ll be right out.”

When she turned and went into the kitchen, he got up and walked across the room. He dug a silver dollar from his vest pocket and set it on the long counter without making sound. Then he headed for the front door.

Amelia took her time in the kitchen, let the tea steep in the pot longer than necessary, using the extra few
minutes to calm herself. Inviting Hank into the house, touching his face, standing close enough to him to be able to see each individual eyelash, listening to the rhythm of his breathing—the perfectly innocent situation took on a raw intimacy of its own.

Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.

Desire.

She closed her eyes. She’d desired things before, certainly. She wanted Evan to walk on the side of the law, wanted him to trust and confide in her. She wanted to heal her friends and neighbors. She wanted to be able to make ends meet. To love and serve the Lord.

But even when she thought she was engaged to marry, she had never, ever felt this intense stirring inside.

I delight to sit in his shade.

She never fully understood those words before, but they came to her now. Just standing close to Hank had given her much delight.

Stop!
She shook herself. Opened her eyes.

She took a deep breath. She poured rich, dark tea into two plain ceramic mugs and carried them out to the front porch.

Hank sat on the top step resting his arms across his knees. She handed him the tea with a warning that it was hot and then sat beside him. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and blew across the steaming surface of the tea in her mug.

“Have you ever been in love, Amelia?”

She nearly dropped the mug in her lap. It took her a moment to recover from the shock.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Mr. Larson.” The nerve of the man. She didn’t know if she
was angry because he’d asked, or because his question pierced the very heart of her wayward thoughts.

“I’ve been a reporter nearly half my life. I ask questions.”

“Blunt questions.”

“That’s the only way to get to the truth.”

“Are you interviewing me for your
Know Your Neighbors
column? If so, my love life is not anyone’s concern.”