Lynna Banning - Wildwood

“With whiskey?”

“Yes, with whiskey. The mercantile had no kerosene. Your deputy here—” She glanced toward Jeremiah and gasped. The solidly built man had vanished out the back door.

“Jeremiah came to my aid at the Red Fox,” she finished lamely.

Ben’s dark eyebrows rose. “The Red Fox,” he echoed. “A saloon is no place for a woman. Miss Whittaker. I thought I made that clear yesterday.” Flinty blue eyes bored into hers as he waited, arms folded across his chest, for her response.

“You did. But, you see, without kerosene, I had no choice but—”

“You had a choice,” the sheriff said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “A choice that didn’t involve my deputy in your difficulties. No doubt Jeremiah ‘came to your aid,’ as you naively put it, because he’s an intelligent man and he saw that your presence at the Red Fox spelled trouble. In the future—”

“Now, just one minute, Sheriff,” Jessamyn interrupted. “You don’t own this town. You’ve no right to come barging in here and tell me how to live my life!”

“I’ve got the right,” Ben said. His tone hardened. “You’re a damn menace traipsing into a saloon in your petticoats and lace. When you Yankees mess with things you know nothing about, mistakes come easy. It’s a wonder you didn’t start a hell-fired hullabaloo.”

A heated silence fell. Jessamyn felt her cheeks flame. She rose to her feet, twitched her apron into place with short, jerky movements and turned her back on the man lounging in her doorway.

“Excuse me, Sheriff. I have work to do.” She snatched up her rag and the bottle of Child’s.

A hand closed like an iron band about her upper arm. “Put that down and listen to me.” He gave her a little shake and pulled her about to face him. The whiskey sloshed back and forth in the container.

Jessamyn sucked in a breath.

His mouth thinned into a fine, straight line with no hint of a smile. “Put that down,” he repeated. “Now.”

His voice, Jessamyn thought irrationally, became oddly quiet when he was angry. The timbre of it sent a current of unease dancing up her spine.

She lowered the bottle to the floor, dipping her knees to settle it with care on the plank surface. “Take your hands off me,” she said evenly, keeping her eyes on his.

A flicker of pain surfaced in the smoky depths of his gaze, masked at once by a careful shuttering. Jessamyn cringed at the unfathomable expression in his eyes.

He lifted his hands, dropped them to his sides. For a long minute their gazes locked.

Across the street the piano plunked out a ragged snatch of “The Blue Tail Fly.” A moth batted against the windowpane, and the slow tick-tock-tick of her father’s clock on the wall contrasted with her heart’s erratic beating beneath the starched white waist.

Ben breathed in, out, in again, the air pulling raggedly through his nostrils. Jessamyn blanched at the carefully expressionless face of the man before her. It was plain as day he was furious at her. She had challenged his professional judgment as sheriff.

When, she moaned inwardly, will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut? What was he thinking? Worse, what was he going to do?

At last his low, quiet voice broke the stillness.

“Let me explain something about life out here in the West, Miss Whittaker.” He held her attention riveted to his face by the sheer force of his steady blue eyes and menacing tone. He enunciated his words in quiet, deliberate syllables, with no outward rancor, yet Jessamyn sensed a volcano of fury just beneath the surface. His demeanor frightened her.

“We live by a code here in Wildwood Valley,” he continued. “Any lady who is a lady stays at home in the evening. She doesn’t come into town after dark unless it’s to attend a dance or a social, and even then she doesn’t go about alone.”

His voice dropped even lower. “And she certainly does not work, alone, late at night, smelling of whiskey and—” he sniffed the air “—some flowery-smelling perfume, even if she owns the whole building! Now, go—”

“I wasn’t alone!” Jessamyn blurted. “Jeremiah was here, helping—”

“Of course he was, you damn fool. Jeremiah’s a good man. He wasn’t going to leave you to your own devices here at night, all by yourself. He did what any deputy worth half his salt would do—he stood guard over a rattlepated woman who doesn’t know which end of the horse to mount.”

Stung, Jessamyn raised her chin and straightened her spine. “This ‘rattlepated woman,’ as you so quaintly put it, is now the owner and publisher of the Wildwood Times. As such, I expect to work late, and alone, many nights. That’s what printing a newspaper requires—hard days gathering information and long nights writing stories and setting type. As a taxpaying citizen—” she bit her tongue at the exaggeration “—I expect support, not criticism. So, if you have nothing constructive to offer, Sheriff Kearney, I will bid you good-night.”

Ben sighed. Arguing wasn’t going to solve the problem. Someone as stubborn as Thad Whittaker’s daughter would have to be shown. God almighty, he’d give his right arm if she’d just climb back on the morning stage and go back to Boston where she belonged.

Ben took a step forward and studied her. To think Jeremiah had wasted an entire evening with this prickly, overstarched Northerner. He must be ready to chew nails by now. His deputy had hit the truth for sure; women were definitely troublous creatures.

He shook his head. “Troublous” didn’t half describe Jessamyn Whittaker. He’d have to find Jeremiah and buy him a drink at the Red Fox. Inflicting this bullheaded Yankee lady on anyone, even for a few hours, was sure to raise a thirst.

“Miss Whittaker, pack up your things,” Ben ordered softly. “I’ll see you home.”

“Thank you, but I’d prefer—”

“Now,” he added in a rough whisper. He snagged the Child’s bottle off the floor, set it on the cabinet against the wall. Folding up the handles of the wicker picnic basket, he lifted it from the desk and bent to blow out the lamp.

“Best take off your apron and get your shawl.” He puffed once, and the room was enveloped in inky blackness.

Oh, my, Jessamyn thought. She’d gone too far. She needed the sheriff’s help, not just to operate the newspaper, but to find her father’s murderer. Much as she disliked Ben Kearney, she couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him. Not yet, anyway. Not until he’d arrested her father’s killer.

In the dark she untied her apron with fumbling fingers, felt around on the desk chair for her blue paisley shawl.

Without a word, Ben moved to her side. He made no sound, but she sensed him draw near in the pitch-black room, felt the warmth radiate from his body. She breathed in his scent, heavy with horses and tobacco smoke. The faint smell of mint lingered on his breath.

Jessamyn choked back a nervous hiccup. She must smell of—what was it he’d said?—stump whiskey and flowery perfume? Without thinking, she reached out to steady herself. Her fingers closed over his bare forearm.

He swore under his breath. His voice was so raw Jessamyn jumped.

“I—I’m sorry,” she blurted. “It’s so dark in here I can’t see.”

“Wait a minute, then. Your eyes will adjust.”

My eyes, Jessamyn thought, will never adjust to the picture presented by an angry Ben Kearney. How could a man be so fine-looking and so unnerving at the same time?

“Maybe you’re thinking you’d be better off back in Boston,” he said close to her ear.

“I was not!”

His hand touched her elbow. “The floorboards are uneven. Don’t stumble.”