The Lone Sheriff. Lynna Banning

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      She laid her fork down with deliberate care. “I said, is it a deal?”

      “Deal,” he bit out.

      She scooped up the last mouthful of rhubarb-flavored ice cream and folded her napkin beside the plate. “Seeing me to the hotel won’t be necessary, Sheriff.”

      “Don’t argue,” Jericho shot back. “We’re not in Chicago, ma’am. In this town at night it’s necessary.”

      Once outside the dining room, she marched along beside him, talking a mile a minute while Jericho clenched his teeth.

      “What a pretty little town this is.” She gestured across the street. “Just look at all those lovely green trees.”

      He grunted. She might talk a lot, but again he noted her gaze was always moving, taking in everything from the street to the boardwalk to the storefronts.

      Jericho only half listened to her chatter. “...in Philadelphia, where I was raised...and then Papa...I guess you could say that I ended up in a fancy cage with a rich, very dull banker. Just when I couldn’t stand it one more minute, he caught pneumonia on a sleigh ride and made me a widow.”

      She paused for breath. “My goodness, what smells so sweet?”

      “Honeysuckle. Along the boardinghouse fence.” He gestured with his sling arm, then winced.

      “Do you think the owner would mind if I picked some for my room? What heaven, to smell that delicious fragrance all night long.”

      “The owner is Mrs. Sarah Rose. Lost her husband at Antietam. She won’t mind, she picks it herself when somebody’s ailing or havin’ a baby.”

      She stepped off the boardwalk and darted across the street to the white picket fence. From somewhere she pulled out a tiny pair of scissors. After a few delicate snips, she returned to his side clutching a straggly bouquet in her gloved hand.

      “Oh, look, there’s the mercantile. I must visit the mercantile, and I must find a dressmaker, as well.”

      Jericho groaned. A woman could spend hours in the mercantile choosing flower seeds or fabric or...whatever women bought. He followed the lady detective inside, where the proprietor, Carl Ness, slouched behind the counter reading a newspaper. At the sight of Maddie, he straightened up, ramrod stiff.

      Jericho didn’t like the way Carl was staring at her, but Maddie seemed unperturbed. Her gaze scanned each shelf.

      “Have you any scented bath soap?”

      Carl sent Jericho a puzzled look. “What kinda scent?”

      “This is Mrs. O’Donnell, Carl. She’s my...”

      Maddie turned her attention to the proprietor. “Gardenia is my favorite. Have you any gardenia-scented soap?”

      “Nope.”

      “What about carnation?”

      “Nope.”

      She bit her lip. “Heliotrope? Rose?”

      “All I got is lavender, ma’am. Take it or leave it.”

      “I will take half a dozen cakes. Large ones.”

      Jericho bit back a laugh. Half a dozen! She’d be the cleanest person in Smoke River.

      Carl wrapped up her purchase in brown paper and tied it with string. “Anything else?”

      The answer was immediate, and for a moment Jericho thought he hadn’t heard right.

      “Yes. Three boxes of thirty-two-caliber cartridges.”

      Carl stared at her, then turned his widened eyes on Jericho. “That all right with you, Sheriff?”

      Hell, no, it wasn’t all right. Damned fool woman, what did she think she’d do with bullets, hold up the hold-up gang?

      Maddie didn’t wait for his answer. “Double-wrap them, please. So they won’t get wet.”

      “Wet?” Jericho exploded. “You gonna go swimming on your way back to Chicago, cousin?”

      “Of course not. But it might rain while I—”

      “Hold it!” Jericho had had enough for one night. “We’re goin’ back to the hotel. Now.”

      “But what about the dressmaker?”

      “What about her? Name’s Verena Forester and she opens up at eight o’clock every morning. Your train back to Chicago leaves at noon.”

      Jericho smiled. Maddie practically spit sparks when she was mad. Before he knew it, she’d latched on to his good arm and drawn him off to one side.

      “I absolutely must see the dressmaker,” she whispered. “Tonight, if possible. I am, well...out of...some things.”

      “Huh?”

      She rolled her eyes. “I...um, I have no extrasmall clothes,” she intoned. She waited a beat. “You know, camisoles and bloomers and...things.”

      He stonewalled.

      “Lingerie,” she muttered.

      He enjoyed baiting her. He also enjoyed imagining what her lingerie looked like. Silky, with lace? “How come you’ve got no underthings?” he asked blandly.

      “My valise was lost when I changed trains in St. Louis. All I have with me is a very small travel case, and it carries only the minimum garments. So you see—”

      “Tough.”

      “Really, Sher—Cousin Jericho,” she murmured. “What would Aunt Bessie say about that?”

      “Bad luck, I guess. Who’s Aunt Bessie?”

      “My mother.”

      Jericho almost laughed out loud. “Aunt Bessie would probably say ‘plan ahead.’” He looked up at the ceiling and noted the avid interest of the mercantile owner.

      “Come on, let’s vamoose.” He pulled her toward the door.

      “Hey,” Carl yelled. “What about my money?”

      “Put it on my tab, Carl. Cousin Maddie always pays me back.”

      Outside the heat had diminished, though the night air was still warm and soft. Jericho drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, looking up at the stars. Hell, he’d like a drink. Talking Mrs. O’Donnell out of something was like pushing a pig into a pillowcase. She was nosy and outspoken and attention-getting, and he’d be glad when she was gone.

      In silence they started back to the hotel. Up ahead, Jericho spotted Lefty Dorran in the alley between the mercantile and the barber shop. Lefty was a big overgrown almost-man, and Jericho had arrested him twice this summer СКАЧАТЬ