The Lone Sheriff. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ lowered her voice. “Most Pinkerton clients are surprised when they meet me. It will pass.”

      Hell, no, it won’t.

      Madison O’Donnell picked up her travel bag. “Shall we go?”

      Not on your life. “Uh, my deputy’s inside the station house. ’Scuse me, ma’am.” He strode past her without looking back. Inside, he found Sandy talking to the ticket seller.

      “Charlie says he hasn’t seen anyone who looks like a—”

      “No need. I’ve found him. Her,” he corrected himself.

      Sandy’s rust-colored eyebrows went up. “Huh?”

      “Madison O’Donnell. She’s a ‘she.’”

      The deputy’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah? A female? What kinda female?”

      “A female kind of female,” Jericho snapped. He headed for the doorway. “And don’t spread it around about her being a Pinkerton agent.”

      “Gosh-a-mighty, Sheriff, what’re you gonna do with a lady Pinkerton detective?”

      “I’ll think of something.” He slammed through the entrance, Sandy in his wake, just in time to see the train rattle on down the track.

      “Where is she, Sher—” His deputy’s eyes widened. “Oh, criminy, she’s mighty good-looking for a...” Sandy’s voice trailed off. Jericho guessed young Sandy hadn’t seen a woman like her before. A back-east woman with birds on her head.

      He swallowed a chuckle, then turned it into a cough. Hell, he’d never seen a woman like her before, either.

      “What’re you gonna do with her, Sheriff?” Sandy said again.

      “As little as possible. Close your mouth, Sandy.”

      Without another word, his deputy stepped forward and snagged the woman’s travel bag. “Allow me, ma’am.”

      “Why, aren’t you sweet! At least some of you men out here in the West have nice manners.”

      Sandy blushed crimson and spoke to Jericho under his breath. “I moved the extra cot into the jail like you said, Sheriff, but maybe... I mean, where’s she gonna sleep?”

      “I expect you have a hotel of some sort in this town, do you not? I will be staying there.”

      Jericho pointed down the main street to the white-painted Smoke River Hotel. Sandy took off at a jog, the travel bag bumping against his shin every other step.

      “And, Sheriff Silver, I hope there is a dining room nearby? I ate a ham sandwich back in Nebraska and a day later I had an apple in Pocatello. Believe me, I am quite famished.”

      Famished, huh? She looked plenty well fed to him. Not for the first time, Jericho noted the swell of her breasts and the plain-as-day curve of her hips. Even without the bustle ladies wore these days, her backside was nicely rounded.

      He stepped off the station platform and tipped his head after his deputy. “That way. Restaurant’s near to the hotel.” He gestured for her to precede him and they started single file down the main street.

      Following her was pure misery. Her behind twitched enticingly and every male within fifty feet stopped dead and stared as she passed. Every last one of them pinned him with a you-lucky-son-of-a-gun look.

      He caught up with her on the boardwalk and they walked in silence for exactly four steps. He noticed that her gaze kept moving from side to side, taking in everything, the dusty main street, the barbershop, the mercantile, even the honeysuckle along the fences. Her sharp eyes missed nothing.

      “I am simply starving,” she stated.

      “You said that already. Dinner’s up ahead.” He pointed to the restaurant close to the hotel.

      “First I shall register and check for any messages.”

      “Messages!” Jericho snorted. “Nobody’s supposed to know you’re here in Smoke River.”

      “Mr. Pinkerton knows. He will want a report every twenty-four hours.”

      Jericho snapped his jaw shut. Jupiter, he had a damn amateur on his hands. “A telegram can be intercepted—you ever think of that?”

      “Why, of course. That is why I always send messages in code.”

      He clamped his teeth together and rolled his eyes. Code. That was a fancy back-east way of doing things. Out here in the West, you just plain said things.

      Sandy waited at the hotel entrance, a dazed look in his eyes. Jericho gestured him inside. “She’s gonna register. Tend to her bag, Sandy. I’ll wait in the dining room.”

      “Gosh, thanks, Sheriff.”

      Detective O’Donnell breezed past them both, through the hotel entrance and up to the reception desk. Sandy glued his eyes to the lady detective’s hip-swaying steps and Jericho swore under his breath. Clearly his deputy was already smitten. Young men were damn foolish.

      He turned away, strode out onto the boardwalk and into the restaurant. “Bring me a cup of coffee, Rita. And add a shot of brandy to it.”

      The plump waitress eyed him. “Something wrong, Johnny?”

      Without answering, Jericho headed for his favorite table by the window. “Make it a lot of brandy,” he called over his shoulder. He had a bad feeling about this; the train back to Chicago didn’t leave until noon the following day.

      * * *

      The dining room was crowded. Ranch owners and their wives, townspeople with their kids in tow—the room buzzed like a hive of bees. He settled in the corner facing the entrance and waited.

      Rita brought his spiked-up coffee, and he waited some more. What took a woman so long to unpack a little bitty travel case? Or maybe she was upstairs decoding her messages. He swallowed a gulp of the black brew in his cup.

      Sandy crossed the room, grinning like a Halloween pumpkin, and took the chair opposite him. “Got her all squared away, Sheriff.” He tried to curb his smile. “She sure is somethin’, isn’t she?”

      She was something, all right. She could be a lot of things, but one thing she was not was a Pinkerton detective. He could hardly wait to muscle her back onto the train.

      Sandy stood up abruptly. “Here she comes.”

      “Right. Sandy, go on back to the jail.”

      Her entrance into the dining room caused a flurry of activity. When Detective O’Donnell glided into the room, every single male in the establishment rose to his feet, just like their mommas had taught them.

      Jericho’s momma hadn’t taught him a damn thing. Jericho’s momma had dumped him at the Sisters of Hope orphanage in Portland and forgot he even existed. He never knew whether she was white, Indian, or Mexican, though his bronzy skin suggested one of his parents was something СКАЧАТЬ