The Sheriffs of Savage Wells Page 3

  Cade studied the buildings, committing their location to memory. A small, noticeably plain building sat next to the barber shop. “What’s that?”

  “The land office,” Gideon said. “It is only open a couple of times a month.”

  That was good to know. If he saw activity there, it’d be reason for suspicion.

  “On the other side of the land office is the millinery, run by Mrs. Carol,” Gideon said. “She’ll regularly and eagerly attempt to sell you feathers and flowers and other adornments for your hat.” He gave Cade a pointed look of warning. “She is convinced there is nothing so depressing as an unadorned hat, no matter who is wearing it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hers is the last business on that side of Main Street. If you follow the road beyond town, you’ll pass farms and ranches. On a lucky day, you might even spot our resident attorney, Mr. Larsen. He hardly ever makes an appearance. Some people in town are convinced he doesn’t actually live here, simply comes to visit once in a while. Still others think he’s nothing more than a specter.”

  “Is he?” Cade didn’t truly believe in specters, but it would be good to know whether Mr. Larsen was an actual person or merely a town legend.

  “He is quite real and quite alive,” Gideon said. “But you’ll be lucky if you see him more than once or twice a year.”

  “Seems the peace keeps itself around here.” Cade liked that.

  “We have our moments.” Something in Gideon’s tone sounded a warning.

  Here was more of the mysterious hinting he’d first heard from the mayor. Something was rumbling beneath the surface of this small town, and Cade fully intended to find out what.

  “The Holmes family runs the mercantile.” Gideon motioned them forward, leaving behind the bank and passing in front of the tall windows of the storefront. “They’re good, honest folks. Next is the jailhouse, but you know that. On the other side is the home of one Dr. MacNamara, a likable enough fellow, and handsome as all get out. A sheriff couldn’t ask for better neighbors.”

  “Why’s the jail covered in ribbons?” Cade had been pondering that oddity and hadn’t yet formulated any kind of explanation. “I asked your friend, but she wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

  “They belong to Mrs. Wilhite,” Gideon said. “A sweet, kindhearted, older woman with an inordinate fondness for ribbons.”

  “She stores them at the jail?”

  Gideon waved to a family across the way while continuing their conversation. “She sells them at the jail. Calls it her ‘Ribbon Emporium.’ She’s there three days a week.”

  “At the jail?” Cade couldn’t quite wrap his thoughts around that.

  Gideon nodded.

  “Sellin’ ribbons?”

  Another nod.

  “This here’s a strange ol’ town, friend,” Cade muttered.

  “Ah, but it’s quiet. That’s worth a great deal.”

  After years spent in bloody, lawless places, a quiet town was worth its weight in gold. “What about the town doctor? Is he as odd as the rest of ’em?”

  “Indeed. He’s too young and not nearly somber enough for most ­people’s tastes,” Gideon said. “And he refuses to bow to the apparent expertise of one Mr. Wagner, who feels himself far more qualified to be doctoring, by virtue of his vast knowledge of the healing powers of alcohol. Much to Wagner’s dismay, however, I don’t prescribe a life of drunkenness as a cure for all that ails us.”

  “How very unScottish of you, MacNamara.”

  “Says the man whose ancestors no doubt hail from the land of Guinness and whiskey.”

  “You’ll find I’m the soberest Irishman in America,” Cade answered. Getting liquored up hardly helped one keep the peace.

  “That’s wise,” Gideon said. “You’ll need your wits about you if you mean to take on Paisley.”

  “She ain’t likely to simply step aside, then?”

  “Not a chance in Hades. She’ll fight you tooth and nail for this.”

  Cade stood on the wooden walkway, thumbs hooked over his belt, thinking. He almost felt sorry for Miss Paisley Bell. He could win their competition with one eye closed and one hand tied behind his back.

  She didn’t stand a chance.

  Who ties a blasted bow on the door of a jailhouse? Cade yanked the enormous green ribbon from the doorknob. It wasn’t the most promising beginning to his day as sheriff.

  He stepped inside and saw Paisley at the desk. Did the woman ever leave? He held up the ribbon. “Why don’t you toss out a welcome sign and hang some lace curtains? Maybe you could serve tea in the afternoons.”

  “I hope you are as good at tying bows as you are at untying them,” Paisley said calmly. “Mrs. Wilhite spent a great deal of time on that and you’ve ruined it.”

  Wilhite? That was the ribbon lady Gideon had mentioned yesterday. “Ribbons don’t belong in a jailhouse.” That would be one of his first changes.

  “One could argue that jail cells don’t belong in a Ribbon Emporium.” Paisley glanced up at him momentarily. “The last sheriff managed to make it work the past few years. And I easily put up with it since his departure.”

  “The ribbons need to go.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “How about you go and the ribbons can stay?”

  “You shyin’ away from a fight?”

  “Just giving you a chance to avoid your inevitable defeat.” She spun a pencil around in her fingers, amusement tipping one corner of her mouth.

  “Mighty big words there, Paisley,” Cade said.

  “You want me to use smaller ones so you can understand?”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or throttle her. “No more ribbons,” he said firmly.

  Paisley tapped the pencil’s eraser against her lips. “I’m not the one you have to tell that to.” She pointed behind him. “Consider this your first ‘Sheriffing in Savage Wells’ challenge.”

  Cade turned around. Across the room, behind a tall table, stood a woman he’d not noticed until then. Somewhere approaching seventy years old, he’d wager. Bright yellow dress covered in lace and ribbons. Bow in her hair. Tears in her eyes. Tears?

  “You don’t like my ribbons?” she asked, her voice shaky. “Everyone likes my ribbons.”

  Mrs. Wilhite, no doubt. This could get sticky. “Ribbons and jails don’t go together,” he said.

  She blinked a few times. “But my ribbons make it so lovely.”

  “Again. ‘Lovely’ and jails don’t go together.”

  Mrs. Wilhite’s pleading gaze turned to Paisley. “Those Grantland boys liked the ribbons in the cells. They told me so.”

  “The Grantland Gang?” Cade asked under his breath, following Mrs. Wilhite’s gaze.

  Paisley nodded. “They were rustling cattle out at the Jones’s place. I invited them to spend a couple of weeks in here.”

  “Invited?” He knew enough of the Grantlands to not believe that at all.

  “I delivered the invitation with something of a bang.” That pencil was swinging around her fingers again.

  “Dr. MacNamara spent an entire afternoon digging bullets out of them all,” Mrs. Wilhite added.

  But Cade hadn’t looked away from Paisley. “You shot them?” He’d read the report on that roundup, and there’d been no mention of a woman being involved.

  “I tried asking nicely, but they refused,” Paisley said sweetly. “And since Sheriff Garrison couldn’t be bothered with gathering them up, I brought them in. He locked the cells and received the congratulatory telegrams.”

  She had brought in the Grantlands? He had no evidence of what she was saying, but no reason to doubt her. Indeed, every instinct he had told him she was telling the truth.

  “They liked my ribbons.” Mrs. Wilhite apparently had no time for other topics. “They said the colors distracted them from the pa
in of their wounds. And the town likes my ribbons. They’re so accustomed to coming here to buy them.” She looked to Paisley. “Can he really make me leave?”

  “I can—”

  Paisley spoke across him. “Not for at least the next two weeks. He’s not officially the sheriff.”

  Mrs. Wilhite breathed a loud sigh of relief. “I don’t know what I’d do if he closed down my Ribbon Emporium.”

  This was getting out of hand. He stepped closer to Mrs. Wilhite. “You’ll do just as well in another building as you do here.”

  Her chin quivered. “But I like it here.”

  “Ah, saints,” he muttered. He’d rather not make enemies on his first day. “We’ll sort it out in time.”

  “There are two other men vying for the position,” Paisley said. “They might need just as much convincing.”

  “Ah, but they aren’t going to be getting the job in the end,” Cade tossed out, letting her see and hear how sure he was of his chances.

  Mrs. Wilhite either ignored the rivalry or simply didn’t notice it. “I think you might grow fond of the ribbons, Mr. O’Brien, once you’ve been here for a while.”

  That wasn’t likely. “If you make a crotchety ol’ cuss like me fond of ribbons, you’ll be a regular miracle worker.”

  “Challenge accepted.” She grinned broadly. “I have a shipment of silver ribbon due by the end of the month. That’ll convince you.”

  “Silver ribbon.” He turned back to the desk. “Dream come true.”

  Paisley made a very deliberate tally mark on a sheet of paper in front of her.

  “What have you there?” he asked.

  She held the paper up, facing him. She’d written “Sheriff Bell” on one side and “Cade” on the other with a line dividing the paper in half. Sheriff Bell and Cade. The woman had gumption, he’d give her that. The tally mark she’d made was under her own name.

  “Keepin’ score?” he said.

  “Ten minutes into your very first day here and I’m winning.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her. She wore flowery dresses and lace alongside her gun belt. She wore her black hair up in a feminine bun, but her dark eyes snapped in a way that was anything but soft. She moved with grace, yet commanded attention when she arrived anywhere.

  “How long’ve you lived in Savage Wells?”

  “Four years,” she answered without hesitation.

  “And what brought you here?”

  “A wagon.”

  A pill, for sure and certain.

  The other two candidates—Rice with his blue kerchief and Thackery in the sweaty hat; Cade had made a point of learning their names—­arrived in quick succession. He’d wondered if they had come to keep an eye on his efforts. He didn’t blame them. He fully intended to watch them on their sheriffing days. Know your enemy, and all that.

  Rice kept to himself, an abrasive smugness to his attitude. While Cade wasn’t eager to spend his free time with the man, it wasn’t a mark against him making a fine sheriff. Being sure of himself could warn away criminals.

  Thackery was cut from a different cloth. He was quieter, more unassuming. But he also kept an eye on everything and everyone. Cade would wager he didn’t miss a single detail. That was a good quality in a sheriff as well.

  They’d not even had a moment to settle in when the merchant’s little boy hurried inside. “Papa says to come right away.”

  Trouble at the mercantile. Paisley reached the door just as he did.

  “Coming to see how it’s done?” Cade drawled.

  “I’m coming so I can bail you out when you get in over your head,” she said.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Thackery chuckled lightly, but smothered the laugh the moment Cade looked at him. Rice just shook his head and followed along silently.

  Cade stepped into the mercantile behind little Billy Holmes. He kept his shooting hand at the ready as he swept the entire shop with his gaze. No one looked shady. Nothing was in disarray. Not a drop of blood anywhere to be seen.

  Cade moved directly to the counter. “You sent for the sheriff?”

  The merchant didn’t look unnerved or worried, but smiled pleasantly like everyone else in this town seemed to. “It’s Wednesday.”

  Mr. Holmes watched him expectantly. Cade watched Mr. Holmes expectantly.

  “Wednesday,” Mr. Holmes repeated. That clearly was supposed to mean something.

  “Wednesday?”

  The merchant nodded.

  The place seemed calm enough. Why had he been summoned so urgently? “Have you a problem, Mr. Holmes?”

  “No problem at all.”

  They were all watching Cade now—little Billy, Mrs. Holmes, Rice, Thackery, the gathered customers. But “Wednesday” didn’t explain anything. His eyes met Paisley’s; she was standing not more than a few paces off, leaning against the counter. Blasted woman was laughing at him.

  “It’s Wednesday, Cade,” she said, her voice far too innocent. “Wednesday.”

  “I know how to read a calendar,” Cade said.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it,” Mr. Holmes said. He wandered off to see to a customer.

  Mrs. Holmes stepped up beside Paisley. “I heard from Mrs. Endicott who heard from Miss Dunkle that you are trying for the job of sheriff. Is it true?”

  “It is.” Paisley’s very patient tone sounded a bit strained.

  “But Mrs. Abbott said she’d thought you meant to hang up your temporary badge once the new candidates arrived. Mr. Irving nodded quite emphatically when I asked him.” Mrs. Holmes eyed her more closely. “Do you mean to continue on with this odd hitch in your getup?”

  “Odd is my favorite kind of getup hitch.” A weariness touched Paisley’s expression.

  Mrs. Holmes stepped away excitedly, pulling a customer aside for an immediate, whispered conversation.

  Cade motioned Billy Holmes over with a twitch of his finger. He hunched down, level with the boy. “What is it your pa wanted the sheriff for?” he asked, keeping his voice just between the two of them.

  “I thought he was sending for Miss Paisley,” Billy said.

  Cade kept to the more important topic. “What happens on Wednesdays?”

  “She delivers Mr. Gilbert’s groceries,” Billy replied on a whisper.

  “Delivers groceries? As the sheriff?”

  Billy nodded. “Sheriff Garrison used to do it, then he got distracted by trees and quit coming around like he was supposed to. So she started doing it for him.”

  A sheriff delivering groceries. Of course. No gun battles or showdowns in Savage Wells. Just grocery deliveries and ribbons. He’d wanted blessed boredom, and he’d certainly found it. While the grocery assignment had come as a surprise, he was finding himself looking forward to the task.

  He turned to the other candidates. “I believe I can handle this job on my own.” He tipped his head to them all. “Be back in a shake.”

  A small crate, packed with goods, sat not twelve inches from where Paisley stood. She indicated it with a dramatic wave of her hand.

  Cade sidled right up next to her. He leaned against the countertop. “Good work, there, Paisley. I think you’ve earned yourself another tally mark.”

  “Get these to Mr. Gilbert and I’ll give you a tally for a change,” she said.

  “Last delivery I made as a sheriff was handing a team of bank robbers over to a federal marshal.”

  Her eyes opened wide, and her mouth pulled in a perfect circle. It was too theatrical an expression to be the least bit sincere. “Well, aren’t you a fancy sheriff.” Her look of feigned awe slid away. She pushed the crate closer to him. “Just pretend it’s a notorious outlaw. You can even shoot it if you want.”

  Cade snatched up the crate. He tipped his head to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, nodded a gr
eeting to the customers who had come inside, then stepped out of the mercantile and down the road, the crate under his arm.

  He heard the sound of footsteps and a swishing dress behind him. As he passed in front of the barbershop with its tall windows, he eyed the reflection of the street. Paisley walked not ten strides off his heels.

  He slowed his pace with each step, until they were both stopped in the road, her standing not far behind him. He took his time turning to face her.

  “Were you needing somethin’?” he asked.

  She held a hand over her eyes, blocking the sun. “Just out for a stroll.”

  “You weren’t intendin’ to stroll down to Mr. Gilbert’s house in case the bumbling would-be sheriff ain’t up to the task of delivering a crate of groceries, now were you?”

  “I certainly hope that’s not my destination,” she said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Mr. Gilbert lives”—with a flourish, she pointed over her shoulder in the opposite direction—“that way.”

  “You didn’t mention that.”

  “You said you didn’t need my help.”

  Troublesome woman. “Which house is his?”

  “Turn left at the large elm. The Gilbert place is a bit down the road,” she said. “You’ll recognize it by the rooster-shaped weather vane on the roof and the river-rock chimney, and, of course, the man up in the tree with the shotgun.”

  “The what?”

  She gave a quick, dismissive wave of her hand. “His name is Andrew, and he’s very sweet. Tell him you’ve brought the groceries, and he’ll let you pass without firing.”

  “Firing?” Savage Wells was suddenly a heap more interesting.

  “Don’t fret,” she said. “He’s generally very reasonable, only a touch protective of the house.” She patted his arm in an overdone display of reassurance. “I’ll just be off to the Ribbon Emporium.” She gave him a laughing smile.

  Sure thinks she’s funny.

  Paisley’s directions proved spot-on. Cade turned at the very large elm and, after passing a couple of houses, came upon one with a weather vane and rock chimney. Cade’s gaze slid up the tall tree out front and settled on a young man, likely not yet twenty, perched there with a shotgun at the ready.