The Lone Sheriff

“She sure is pretty.”

“Who?”

“Miss O’Donnell. Sheriff, didn’t cha even notice?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, son. It’s Mrs. O’Donnell. And she’s leaving on the noon train.”

Sunshine poured through the front windows of the restaurant like the eye-stabbing beam of a lighthouse. God help him, he could barely see through his slitted lids.

He spotted Mrs. Detective perched primly at the corner table, spooning sugar into her coffee.

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

He winced. Did she have to sound so cheerful?

“Mmm-hmm,” he grumbled. He took the chair across from her, facing away from the glare. Rita appeared at his elbow.

“Coffee,” he managed.

Maddie looked up. “I will have three eggs over easy, bacon cooked very crisp, fried potatoes and some ketchup, please.”

Jericho’s stomach heaved at the description. “Just coffee, Rita,” he repeated. “And could you please bring it in the next sixty seconds?”

The plump waitress must have sensed his desperation because an entire pot immediately appeared before him, along with an oversize mug.

Jericho eyed Mrs. Detective through the steam rising from his cup. There was something annoying about a woman who looked this trim and tidy at breakfast. And this pretty. She sent him a wide smile and, without thinking, he nodded.

Big mistake. Any motion made his vision blurry and his head... He groaned. His head felt like a railroad crew was laying track between his temples.

She pulled out her notepad and pencil and plopped them onto the tablecloth beside her. “Well, Sheriff, would you care to hear my observations thus far?”

Jericho blinked. “Observations? You mean what you’ve learned so far about the Tucker gang?”

“Oh, no. I mean in general. It’s always wise to gather background information, don’t you agree?”

He gulped down another mouthful of the scalding coffee. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

She flipped open the small leather-covered book. “First, your deputy—Sandy, is it?—is too sensitive to be much help on this mission.”

Too sensitive? Exactly what did that mean? Did she think he was going to feel sorry for the outlaws? He gripped the coffee pot handle in a stranglehold and refilled his mug.

“Second, Mr. Ness, at the mercantile, does not like you.”

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. Carl doesn’t like anybody much. Even his wife.”

“Has there been trouble in the past between you and Mr. Ness?”

“Yeah. Small stuff, mostly. He sold me a sack of moldy potatoes once, and I confiscated a shipment of some Chinese herb he ordered because it was half opium.”

Mrs. Detective nodded and went on. “Third, the hotel manager is cheating the Mexican couple who brought up my morning bath. Fourth—” She broke off and looked him over so thoroughly he wondered if his hair had gone curly overnight.

“You look awful, Sheriff.”

“Didn’t sleep much.” And he’d drunk more last night than he had in a dozen years.

“It appears to me you are not yet awake.”

Jericho snorted. He was awake enough to notice she smelled good, like lavender. “Is that your fifth observation?”

“My fourth, actually. My fifth observation is that there won’t be another Wells Fargo gold shipment until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” he repeated. He already knew that, but he was impressed that she’d talked to the bank manager already this morning. He wondered if she’d also visited the dressmaker.

That thought led to a consideration of her underclothes. Were they brand spanking new? Or maybe she wasn’t wearing any? Don’t go there, you damn fool.

“Yes, Tuesday,” she said. “That is tomorrow.”

Thank goodness, the coffee was kicking in. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Mrs. O’Donnell. You’ll be on the train going the other direction. Back to Chicago.”

And then he could get back to the plan he’d already laid out.

“I most certainly will not be.” She twiddled her fork until Rita laid a plate heaped with food in front of her. The smell of cooked bacon replaced the lavender fragrance and Jericho began to feel nauseated. He poured another mug full of coffee.

“I’ve got good reasons for sending you back, Mrs. O’Donnell. Care to hear ’em?”

“Certainly,” she retorted. She grasped a thick slice of bacon between a delicate thumb and forefinger and crunched it up in two mouthfuls.

Jericho tried not to watch. “First, you’re a woman. And being female and pretty fine-looking, that means you’re gonna draw attention wherever you go.”

“Pish-posh.” She stabbed her fork into the yolk of one fried egg. “I know how to disguise myself.”

Jericho had to look away from her plate. He’d sure like to see a disguise that would cover those curves. Even wearing a feed sack, she’d still look awful damned attractive.

“Second, you’re a woman. That means you’re not as strong as either me or my deputy, no matter what kind of fancy Chinese wrestling you can do.”

“Japanese. Judo is a Japanese art.” She stuffed a forkful of fried potatoes into her mouth.

“Third...” Jericho held up three fingers on his left hand—at least he hoped it was three. “You’re a woman, like I said, and that means you don’t think logically. Also you jump to conclusions.”

Her fork clanked onto her plate. “You are either misinformed about the capabilities of the female members of the species or you are just plain prejudiced.”

“I’m prejudiced,” he growled. “Fourth, I’m the sheriff here, not you. And on top of everything else, you don’t take orders well.”

An odd expression flared in her green eyes and Jericho unconsciously held his breath. After a tense silence, she folded her hands in her lap and her lips opened. “I have been told that over and over since I was three years old, and it is true. I do not take orders well. But I do take orders, provided they make sense and are halfway reasonable. However, I warn you those are big ifs.”

Jericho pressed on. “Fifth, you talk too damn much.”

She looked up from her breakfast, her eyes wide. “What?”