Jodi Thomas - Rustler's Moon

“Miss Harold?” Dan Brigman’s voice sounded from the hallway. “May I come in?”

She turned toward the office door. Since the sheriff’s head was already in her office, she figured the rest of his body might as well be. “Of course.” She motioned to the chair in front of her desk, but he walked around to stand at the floor-to-ceiling window.

Brigman looked exactly like what she imagined a county sheriff would look like. They should cast him in a series. He was tall, but not too tall. Brown hair in need of a cut. Boots well-worn and polished, and a weapon strapped to his leg as if it were simply a part of him and nothing more. She’d known the moment she saw him that he was a man she could trust.

“If I had this great a view in my office, I’d never leave.” Leaning against the edge of the glass, Dan added, “The town gave you a nice welcome, I thought.”

“It was wonderful! The president of the museum board—Staten Kirkland?—said if there is anything I want around the place to just tell one of the volunteers and it will get back to his grandmother, who’ll pester him until he gets it done. Strange chain of command, but maybe it works.”

Dan smiled. “That sounds about right. Staten can move mountains it seems. The Kirklands are about as close to royalty in these parts as it comes. Legend is Staten’s great-great-grandfather bought his wife at kind of a swap meet the outlaws used to have down in this very canyon. The Kirklands come from rough stock, but they’re solid.”

“Rough stock?”

“Sorry, I forget you’re not from around here. Rough stock is mostly a rodeo term these days. Bulls and horses that have never been tamed or broke to ride.”

“What about the Wagners? Are they rough stock, too?” She could still feel the tingle of Wilkes Wagner’s lips on hers. No man had ever kissed her like that—all out and wild.

“No. The Wagners come from a German family who were carpenters. Very civilized. The first Mrs. Wagner was a midwife who delivered half the babies born in the county back in the late 1800s. Somewhere along the way, a few of the sons or grandsons started farming. The Wagner you met owns the Devil’s Fork Ranch. Farms mostly to raise crops for winter as feed. Supplies several of the ranches around.

“Wilkes runs a few head of cattle along with farming over eight hundred acres, but nothing like the Collins and Kirkland spreads. I’ve never seen a Wagner who couldn’t fix anything that broke. They’re good with their hands.”

Angela blushed. She could still feel the imprint of Wilkes’s hand at her side.

The sheriff pushed away from the window. He seemed to have stretched his skills at conversation to the max. “Well, I’d better get back to work. Call me if you need anything.”

He was halfway to the door when she asked, “Where’s my staff?”

“Staff?” Dan asked.

“You know, the people who work here?” She’d hoped to meet them first, not last.

“Oh, I thought you understood. You’re it. That’s why we had to close the place when the old curator left.”

“You’re kidding.” She could not run the entire place by herself.

Brigman must have seen her panic. “Of course. You got help. Nigel Walls comes in twice a week to clean the floors and bathrooms. He also works at the courthouse, so if you need him, I can send him over early.

“The ladies auxiliary holds a brunch here the first of every month and their president assigns two members to the front desk every hour you’re open. I think they work in two-hour shifts, but sometimes the ladies get to talking and there will be four to six women at the desk. The county keeps up with donations and bills. We don’t charge for our time, but the volunteers keep a count of attendance and give tours. The building is open from nine to five, six days a week. If you take a day off, all you have to do is call one of the board members to step in.”

“That’s it? That’s all the staff?” Angela listed in her mind all the duties that didn’t include greeting or cleaning. Kirkland had probably explained it to her during the phone interview but she’d been so excited and tired she must have missed the details.

“Of course we have others. Anyone doing community service is sent here to do yard work. The judge tends to make the hours longer around mid-November to help put up Christmas lights. But don’t worry about the Christmas party, it’s still two months away and the school tours don’t get packed back-to-back until spring.”

Angela was glad she was sitting down. She did her best to understand what the sheriff was saying, but invisible boulders kept falling on her head. She was the only employee.

“Anything else I should know about?”

Dan looked out the window. “There is Carter Mayes. You’ll see his little RV parked out here on the museum lot now and then. He comes every spring and stays till late fall, has for years. Folks say he’s looking for something he lost in the canyon when he was a kid, but I think he just loves walking the back trails. Don’t worry about him. He’s a good guy.”

She saw a lean figure far down in the canyon moving slowly toward the bottom. Carter Mayes.

“Anything else?” the sheriff asked with his hand on the door.

“Yes,” she said. “I think I’ll go back to my maiden name.” It seemed like a good idea, since she’d never really been engaged to the man named Jones, who never really existed. “When I talked to Mr. Kirkland, I thought I’d be married, but it didn’t happen.”

Dan grinned. “Who knows, Miss Harold, that might have been for the best. I’ve been trying to recover from a wedding for fifteen years. But no regrets. I got my Lauren away at college. If I brag about her too much, stop me.”

“I will.” She smiled, wondering if her father had ever talked so proudly about her. Maybe he had.

“Makes sense to clear up the name. Folks would get confused.” Dan nodded. “A few started calling you Harold the minute they heard the bastard didn’t move to Texas with you.”

She stared at the sheriff. “What makes you think he was a bastard?”

Dan smiled and stepped through the threshold. “He’d have to be, Angie, if he left a find like you.”

As his footsteps echoed down the stairs, Angela fought back a giggle. That was the nicest thing she could remember anyone ever saying to her.

But her head was spinning. Maybe she had made a mistake changing back to her real last name, but despite her father’s warning, why would anyone come after her? The people in Crossroads already knew her real name. She hadn’t said anything when she’d signed Harold on the lease for the cabin made out to Angela Jones. Now the fake name on the lease would keep her safe. If she was careful, she could leave little record of her real name.

But then, what did it matter if the people called her Harold now that she was here? They weren’t likely to run into any of her relatives half a continent away.

Time to stop worrying about her family and dive into work. This was her new life, her new beginning. She had been so unimportant in her father’s family they’d probably forgotten her by now anyway.

Angela grinned, remembering how last Thanksgiving Uncle Anthony’s latest wife had moved the family’s big dinner and forgotten to mention it to her or her father. Now, if any of them dropped by the beach house on Anna Marie Island, they probably wouldn’t be worried enough to ask where she’d gone.

She picked up her notepad and went downstairs. One of the volunteers was giving a tour this afternoon, and she planned to learn as much as possible.

* * *

OVER THE REST of the week, the museum drew her in like a magic time machine to a period in history that she’d loved since she’d discovered Little House on the Prairie as a girl. Yet somehow, she felt she belonged in this place. To her knowledge no one in her family had ever come west. She was the first pioneer, even if she was over a hundred years late.