The Accidental Lawman (2 page)

“Who’s going to arrest and hold this man? Don’t you have a mayor, either?” Hank Larson’s brow knitted as he stared at the faces in the crowd.

Amelia noticed a quickly purpling spot on his left cheekbone beneath his eye and a small cut there, as well.

“Closest thing we’ve got to a mayor is the preacher. We haven’t had a mayor since old Emmert Harroway, the town founder, kicked the bucket,” Harrison said.

When he puffed out his chest, Amelia thought Harrison was about to volunteer to run the town when he surprised them all by announcing, “I move we make Mr. Larson here sheriff of Glory.”

Resounding shouts of “Here, here!” and “Huzzah!” filled the bank.

As if she were his port in a storm, Hank Larson’s gaze whipped to Amelia.

“Have they all lost their senses?” he asked softly.

“Some of them didn’t have many to begin with.” Amelia had leaned close so that only he could hear. She look around at the cowpunchers, bartender and patrons of the Silver Slipper, the one and only saloon in town.

Amelia sighed.

It’s no wonder I’m still a spinster.

There were a few upright folks present, as well, she reminded herself—the preacher, business owners, married ranchers and their wives. Glory and the surrounding land had been settled by new immigrants and sturdy
pioneer stock who had braved Indian attacks and killer storms the likes of which only the plains and prairies could whip up.

Right now, everyone in the room stared speculatively at Hank Larson.

At the mention of appointing a sheriff, Reverend Brand McCormick nodded in agreement.

“That’s not a bad idea. Are you willing, Mr. Larson?”

The gent looked shocked. “Of course not. I’m a writer. I’m not a lawman.”

“Not much to it,” Harrison decided on the spot. “This is a small town. All you’d have to do is keep the peace. Kinda like what you did this morning.”

“Keep the peace?” Hank Lawson blinked. Then turned to Amelia. “Keep the peace?”

“That’s what he said.” She shrugged.

With his dark hair flattened by his now missing bowler and his starched collar twisted to the left, he looked dumbfounded and completely incompetent. Certainly not prospective sheriff material. Amelia bit her lips together to hide a smile until her nagging suspicion about the armed figure she may have seen lingering outside in the sandstorm dispelled her lightheartedness. She was anxious to get home.

“He’s a writer,” she repeated to the crowd. “He doesn’t want to be sheriff.”

“He single-handedly captured our first armed robber,” Harrison reminded, as if she hadn’t been there on the floor when the outlaw walked in waving a loaded gun. As if she hadn’t been there when the gun went off right beside her. Amelia shivered.

“Couldn’t you agree to it temporarily, Mr. Larson?” Preacher McCormick asked.

“You’d be doing us all such a favor.”

“I should really look at that cut on your cheek.” Amelia wasn’t actually addressing the man, but thinking aloud.

Hank Larson heard her, though, and turned. “Cut on my face?” He paled.

“It’s really little more than a scratch.” She noted he was quite handsome. His eyes were as blue as a clear morning sky and full of intelligence. It would be a shame if the cut left a scar.

He reached up and gently probed his cheek with his fingertips. She saw the ink again. A writer, he’d said.
That explains the stains
.

Why,
Hank Larson wondered as he stared at the disheveled young woman beside him,
does nothing in my life turn out the way I plan?

A month ago he’d spent nearly his last nickel on a used Hoe revolving printing press and made plans to travel west to set up a newspaper in a town that he hoped was hungry for news. He’d closed his eyes, stabbed his finger on a map of Texas and landed on Comanche County.

He asked around and narrowed his search to the town of Glory.

It had all seemed so simple once he’d made up his mind to act, but he should have known that the cards were stacked against him. For the past year, nothing in his life had gone right. He’d been a fool to think things were going to change overnight and that simply putting distance between himself and his past would make life worth living again.

He’d barely moved his last box into the small empty building he’d purchased sight unseen in the middle of Main Street. This morning he had kept an appointment regarding a loan with Mr. Cutter and now here he stood,
surrounded by strangers, caught up in the middle of a scene worthy of the Wild West novel he’d planned to pen in his spare time.

The folks crowded around staring in admiration, completely unaware that his knees threatened to go weak if he allowed himself to think about what had just happened here. Somehow he’d actually jumped a gunman and pummeled him into submission. He reached up to scratch his head and realized again he had no idea where his hat had ended up.

To make matters worse, the young woman beside him with a mop of thick, auburn hair falling into her green eyes and a smattering of bright freckles across the bridge of her nose kept staring at what she claimed was “little more than a scratch” on his cheek.

He was inclined to sit down and lower his head between his knees, before he blacked out, but how could he with everyone in the room congratulating him on a job well-done?

For the life of him, Hank barely remembered the details of what had happened.

Not a very promising start for the town’s only editor in chief.

“We don’t have a badge.” The storekeeper introduced himself as Harrison Barker and added, “But I’ll order one.”

“Badge?” Hank was fairly certain he’d just told them he had no interest in becoming the town sheriff. The young woman beside him was gently poking at the swelling on his cheek.

“We should have an official swearing in. Hold it at the church hall.” This from a tall, clean-cut man of the cloth. If his white collar, black suit coat and radiant calm wasn’t enough of a clue, he quickly introduced himself as Reverend Brand McCormick and warmly welcomed Hank to Glory.

“We’re in your debt, Mr. Larson,” the reverend said. “Why, if anything had happened to Mary Margaret or Timothy, the whole town would have been shattered.”

“Not to mention broke. The contents of the safe would have been gone had you not intervened,” Harrison added.

“You’re our hero,” a middle-aged woman in a simple poke bonnet said.

Hank shook his head. He was no one’s hero. “It was all more of an accident than anything,” he said.

“Why wait?” Harrison Barker surveyed the crowd. “Why not swear him in here and now? Never know what else might happen between now and the time it’ll take to organize a fancy to-do over at the church hall. We could hold a town picnic in celebration later, but I’m all for swearing him in right now.”

Shouts of approval went up all around. Hank felt as if he were mired in quicksand and sinking fast.

“Listen, I’m not…”

Apparently, no one cared what he was or wasn’t. Timothy Cutter was summoned with a bellow. The frizzy-white-haired banker came blinking to the forefront of the group. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes a faded blue behind his spectacles.

“Do you keep a Bible here, Mr. Cutter?” the minister asked.

“Why, nothing happened to anyone but Mary Margaret!” Timothy Cutter’s eyes blinked faster as he scanned the crowd and shouted, “How can I be libel?”

The minister leaned close to the man’s ear and shouted. “Not libel. Do you have a Bible here?”

Cutter visibly relaxed. “Of course. In the office. Like to browse through it after lunch.” Muttering to himself, he hurried toward the back again.

Hank ran his finger around the edge of his suddenly too-tight collar. The young woman beside him didn’t look any more comfortable than he.

“I really should get home,” she said, thinking aloud.

“I really should have
stayed
home,” Hank responded.

Life might have become unbearable in Missouri, but at least folks there had learned to give him a wide berth. Now the good citizens of Glory, Texas, were intent upon railroading him into becoming the official sheriff.

“Have you seen my hat?” he whispered to the young woman, suddenly remembering someone had called her Amelia.

“Planning an escape?” she whispered back.

“One can always hope.”

“Too late. Here comes Mr. Cutter.”

Indeed, Timothy Cutter was back, moving with remarkable speed for someone of his age, a weather-beaten Bible clutched in his hands. “Here you go, Reverend.”

Brand McCormick accepted the Bible and turned to Hank. For the first time, the preacher seemed to notice Hank was anything but pleased.

“You
are
willing to take an oath and help us out, aren’t you, Mr. Larson?”

“Actually, I…” Hank met the man’s eyes. There was a tranquility about Brand McCormick, a calm knowingness no doubt nourished by his faith. The man appeared to be in his late thirties—around Hank’s age. He’d entered the bank with a woman.

Hank found himself wondering if Brand McCormick’s faith had ever been tried? Had it ever faltered under an unbearable load of pain and sorrow?

“Mr. Larson?” The preacher’s voice called him back.

“I can’t do this,” Hank said.

“Can’t or won’t?” the preacher asked softly.

“I’m not qualified.”

“The outlaw tied up in the corner would beg to differ.”

“I’m just a writer,” Hank insisted.

“A very courageous one, I might add,” McCormick said.

Hank looked into the expectant faces of those around him. He avoided looking at the woman beside him.

“I’m not your man. Sorry.”

“Sometimes God has plans for us other than the ones we’ve chosen for ourselves. Why not agree to serve on a temporary basis? Today’s event was an aberration. This is a nice town filled with nice people.”

“Try it, just for a month or two.” The storekeeper’s head bobbed like a chicken’s.

Hank knew all about how much God could forever alter a man’s future. Hadn’t God done enough to him in that regard already?

“What I still don’t understand is, if this is such a safe town, why do you need a sheriff? And why me?”

“The Comanche were our major threat and they have settled down some over the past couple of years. We’ve never had an attempted bank robbery here before—so in that respect, this is a safe town. As far as why you? You’ve already proved yourself. Besides, it would be a good way for you to get to know everyone in Glory. There will be plenty of time to establish your newspaper,” the good reverend finished.

“Why today? Why the rush?” Hank wanted to know.

The preacher looked thoughtful. “I believe God brought you here, to this spot, this very morning, to do what you did. And you served His purpose well. I believe you are the right man for the job.”

Hank sighed. He turned to the woman beside him and
found her watching him with a dubious expression. Only she knew that he wasn’t the hero the crowd made him out to be. Only she knew the robber had tripped over them on his way into the bank. All Hank had to do was pin him to the floor and keep him there.

At the moment, the young woman was trying to finger comb the tangles out of her hair—without much success.

When their eyes met, she leaned close and whispered, “Why don’t you just say yes and get it over with?”

“But…”

“Give it a week or two and then resign. Just do
something
. I need to get home.”

He thought about what the preacher had just said. He didn’t for one minute believe he was brought here by some divine notion to save the day, but he did know how easily God could upset a man’s plans. Glory was a one-horse town at best. Taking on the job of sheriff would, no doubt, be something he’d do in name only—unless the good reverend was trying to deceive him—which seemed highly unlikely.

Today’s event was an aberration. This is a nice town filled with nice people.

As he looked into the guileless eyes of the preacher, he trusted that the man wasn’t intentionally lying. Reverend Brand McCormick truly believed Glory was a peaceful place.

“All right,” Hank said, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“But only for a couple of weeks. Just until you find a replacement.”

T
he wind had died down by the time the crowd inside the bank broke up and Amelia walked back home. Surrounded by a split-rail fence, the small log-and-stone house set off by itself on the far end of town, was the first real home she had ever known.

Nine years had passed since she’d finally convinced her father to put down roots. They’d settled in, looking forward to living a good life, if not a wealthy one. The citizens of Glory were thrilled to have a doctor in their midst. Everyone sought out Doc Hawthorne for what ailed them.

Amelia planted a medicinal herb garden and honed her apothecary and homeopathic skills. Her knowledge of herbal remedies was a gift from God that she never took for granted. She assisted her father whenever he needed a nurse. They were not rich, but finally they were settled and life was good.

Two years later, shortly after her twentieth birthday, she’d lost her father to a bout of fever. Though she had no formal medical training, she knew far more than most newly turned-out physicians. She thought she would as
sume her father’s place as Glory’s unofficial doctor. Though the townsfolk turned to her for herbal remedies, nursing and midwifery skills, there were many, most of them men, who would never allow her to touch them, many who would never see her as qualified as a male.

The herb garden she carefully tended behind the house thrived, though it required hours devoted to toting water and pulling weeds. A mulberry sapling she planted had survived the elements and now shaded the front yard. In the dappled shade and full sun she planted her precious spring and summer garden. It wasn’t large, but it was always beautiful.

She learned from tending plants and patients that only the strong survived and flourished on the Texas plains.

As she made her way toward the back of the house, she caught a glimpse of the sorrel mare tied up by the barn. It was Evan’s horse.

All the anxiety she’d felt earlier instantly returned. She’d always done the best she could caring for her nineteen-year-old brother, Evan, but lately she seemed to have lost all influence over him.

She hadn’t laid eyes on him for just over a week. Why, today of all days, had he shown up? Her relief was mingled with newfound dread. Was he the second man she’d seen outside the bank? The man who had disappeared into the dust?

She stopped where she stood, closed her eyes and whispered a hasty prayer.

“Lord, help me hold my temper. Give me the right words to say.”

Forcing herself to be calm and confident in the Lord, she marched around the house. Sure enough, she spotted Evan stuffing a handful of shirts into his saddlebag.

“Evan?”

He turned, obviously startled, but relaxed when he saw it was her.

“Hey, Amy.” His voice sounded calm, but his expression gave his impatience away. Tall and lean, he had their father’s light brown hair and blue eyes.

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in days.” The words sounded accusatory and she immediately tried to make up for her tone. “I’m sorry, Evan. It’s just that I worry when you disappear for days at a time without warning.”

“I’m nineteen. A man grown. You don’t have to mother me anymore.”

Easy for him to say. She’d “mothered” him since the day he was born. He’d been
her
baby since she was eight years old and their mother died giving him birth. When her father lay dying it hadn’t been hard to promise that she’d take care of Evan. It was second nature to her.

But watching out for him proved to be nigh impossible lately.

“I’m sorry that’s how you see it. No matter how old you are, you’ll always be my little brother.”

“Don’t try to make me feel guilty, either. I’m not like you, Amy. You’re content to sit and relish being an old maid. I’m getting out of here while I’m still young.”

An old maid?
She might be twenty-seven and unmarried, but she’d come to think of herself as an independent woman, not an old maid. She’d been humiliated by a man once.
That
was never going to happen to her again.

Evan ignored her while he tied the latigo on his saddlebags and then tugged on the saddle cinch. Dropping his stirrup into place, he was ready to mount up.

“I’d hoped you’d be here for a while.” Amelia’s hope
of convincing him to stay was fading fast. “I could sure use some help with repairs around the place.”

The memory of the hazy figure in the bank doorway lay as heavily on her mind as the suspicions in her heart. His turning up unexpectedly this morning didn’t bode well.

If she found out that he had, indeed, been a partner in crime with the robber the men had trussed and locked up in Harrison Barker’s storeroom, how could she ever bring herself to turn him in?

Did she really want to know?

“I can’t stay.” Evan kept his back to her, staring at his saddle, his hands toying with the reins.

“Why not?”

He turned but didn’t meet her eyes. “I hired on at a ranch in Johnson County.”

“Johnson County? Why so far away? Why not go talk to Joe Ellenberg? I’m sure he’d have work for you at the Rocking e.”

Joe was a good man, an honorable man who lived a few miles outside of town with his mother, Hattie, and his wife, Rebekah. Amelia had known the Ellenbergs for years and had delivered Joe’s son. Joe had overcome his own troubles and recently found his faith again. He would set a fine example for Evan.

But Evan shook his head. “I’m making my own way, Amy. I don’t need Joe Ellenberg looking out for me.”

“When will you get back?”

He shrugged and turned to stare out over the open plain. “I’m not sure.”

“How can I reach you? What if I need you?”

“You’ve never needed anyone but yourself and your Bible. Thanks to our father, you’ve always known who you are and where you’re going.”

“Oh, Evan.” She’d never heard him sound so bitter, so jealous. Or so lost.

He turned to her at last. When his eyes met hers, she almost wished they hadn’t. His gaze was raw with emotions that terrified her, and his face mirrored a hunger that bordered on desperation.

“Evan, what’s
wrong?
”

She suddenly knew without his saying a word that he had been outside the bank that morning. If he had walked in as intended, things might not have played out the way they had. Now his accomplice had been caught. It might only be a matter of minutes before the man implicated Evan.

Tongue-tied with fear, she couldn’t voice her suspicions—not unless she was willing to face the raw truth.

“Look, Amy, leave it, will you? I’m not willing to sit in this one-horse town tied to your apron strings. You might be content wiping up sweat and blood and vomit, or doling out weeds for egg money and handouts, but I want more. I’m sick and tired of living hand to mouth. I have bigger plans.”

He might as well have slapped her. She’d worked hard to provide for them both, just as her father always had. A hot rush of anger gave her false courage and she pushed him.

“What kind of
big
plans? Robbing banks?”

Deadly silence fell between them, thick as the dust that had filled the air earlier. An invisible wall went up between her and Evan, a wall that would take years to tear down again. Her heart was beating so hard she barely heard him when he said, “Why would you say that?” His voice was low, menacing.

“That
was
you, wasn’t it? Outside the bank. That was you I saw.”

He shrugged and turned around. She grabbed his sleeve.

“Answer me, Evan. At least tell me the truth.”

And then what? Then what will you do with it?

Suddenly, she didn’t want to know. She wished she could take it all back, the harsh words, the accusations. Wished she’d lingered with the crowd and hadn’t come home to find him here. Watching the newspaperman squirm in his new role as sheriff would be far better than knowing the bitter truth about her little brother.

Without answering, Evan shook her off like a pesky gnat and mounted up in one smooth motion. He kicked his horse into a canter and headed out the gate in the back fence.

“Evan!” she shouted, staring after him, overwhelmed with hopelessness. “Evan Hawthorne, you come back here!”

He hadn’t confirmed or denied her accusation. Hadn’t tried to defend himself with an excuse or alibi, either. Helpless, worried sick, Amelia watched his horse kick up dust as Evan put more and more distance between them. Her brother was pushing the animal far harder than would an innocent man simply headed off to a new job.

Hank found Amelia standing at the split-rail fence behind the house, staring out at endless nothingness. He’d read accounts of settlers who had lost their minds after moving out onto the frontier and having to face the vast emptiness of the open sky and land that rolled on and on like a dry sea, the howling wind that came out of nowhere and lasted for days on end, the lack of neighbors and companionship.

The elements and loneliness took their toll on the weak in mind and heart.

Hank stared at the woman who was still unaware of his presence. He noted the rigid set of her shoulders, the
way the breeze tugged at the loose strands that had escaped the thick, uneven braid trailing down her spine. She’d gathered the folds of her skirt in her hands and clung to the fabric as if hanging on for dear life. There was a determination in her stance, a telling pride in the rigid line of her spine. Hers was a spirit not easily broken.

He wished he could see her face. Wished he knew what she was thinking. Facing barren miles of nothingness, she presented a portrait of frontier courage, fortitude, steadfastness.

He watched her shoulders rise and fall on a long, slow sigh and found himself wondering what she might be thinking. Embarrassed at intruding on her solitude, he cleared his throat.

She turned quickly, her shamrock-green eyes wide and shiny as newly minted silver dollars. It wasn’t until she tilted her freckle-dusted nose in the air and rapidly started blinking that he realized the radiance in her eyes was from unshed tears.

“Mr. Larson.” She walked toward him quickly, her stride as efficient as he guessed she did everything. “What brings you here?”

He didn’t know her well enough to be certain, but she appeared far more upset than she had been at the bank in the midst of all the chaos. Why? he wondered.

“Actually, the cut on my cheek. You mentioned infection. I thought maybe you would take a look at it.” He shrugged. “I saw the way you cared for Mrs. Cutter when the crowd broke up and someone mentioned you had some healing skill—that you’re an apothecary.”

“I do what I can. My father was the town doctor.”

He found himself wishing she’d smile.

“Well, I hear you’re good at what you do.”

She studied his cheek. “If you’ll step up to the back porch, I’ll wash that cut and put some salve on it for you.”

“I’d be obliged.”

“I see you found your hat.” She nodded at the crumpled circle of felt in his hand.

He’d forgotten he was carrying it and stared at it mournfully. “Another casualty of the holdup.” He held it out to her as they walked toward the porch. “You think you could save it?”

There was a glimmer of a smile around her lips now, but not enough.

“I’m afraid I’d have to pronounce it beyond help. You’d do better to buy a real hat now that you’re sheriff.”

“I’m already looking for my replacement.”

“For the hat?” she asked.

“For the job,” he said.

“Everybody seems perfectly happy with you.”

“Everyone but me.”

They had reached the porch and she motioned for him to have a seat at a small table near the back door.

“I don’t mind stepping inside,” he told her.

“That wouldn’t be seemly.”

“Seemly?”

She turned beet-red. “I’m a respectable woman, Mr. Larson. I never invite men into my house when I’m here alone.”

He was too stunned to say anything for a moment but she lost no time.

“Have a seat,” she said, pulling out a chair for him. “I’ll get some water and the salve and be right out. Would you like a cup of coffee or some tea?”

There was no one waiting for him back at the storefront, nothing to look forward to but unpacking the press
and cleaning up the second-floor room that was his living quarters. Amelia Hawthorne was an interesting character study, indeed, but he couldn’t afford to linger.

“No, thank you. I’ve got a lot to do today,” he told her.

He set the dented bowler on the table near his elbow. Watching the landscape was compelling, fascinating in a way. Much like his future, it could be viewed as either a blank slate where a man’s destiny could be written, or an endless stretch of barren nothingness too depressing to contemplate.

Amelia appeared, balancing a washbowl that sloshed soapy water against her waist, a rag and a small round jar in her hands. He reached for the bowl and carefully lowered it to the tabletop.

She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes and pulled an empty chair up close to his. Without preamble, she dipped the rag into the water and wrung it out. She paused for a moment and stared at the washrag. Her brow knit for a moment and then the frown was gone. She lifted the washrag to his cheek.

“This might sting.” She leaned closer, intent upon his cheekbone.

“I can take it.”

“That’s right. You’re the sheriff.”

“What’s that got to do with it? Ow!” He jerked back when she touched the warm water to the swollen spot beneath his eye.

“You’re the new town hero and all.”

“You know as well as I what really happened.”

“I heard you try to explain.” She gently patted and dabbed. He could tell she was trying to be as gentle as possible. Looking thoughtful, she paused for a moment and met his gaze. “Do you plan to take this seriously?”

He reared back. “You said it was just a scratch. Should I ask for a mirror?”

“It is a scratch. I was referring to your new position as sheriff. Do you plan to take it seriously?” She seemed very interested in his answer.

“Everyone led me to believe there was nothing to do, that nothing ever happens here in Glory—nothing that requires a full-time sheriff.”