Anne Avery - The Lawman Takes A Wife

On the other hand, he didn’t seem any smaller, either.

“I’m Dickie,” her brother announced, drawing the sheriff’s attention back to him. “Richard James Calhan. Named after my dad and granddad. My mother—”

“Our mother,” Bonnie snapped. She was happy to leave the talking to Dickie, but she didn’t care to be left out altogether.

“Our mother, then,” Dickie conceded, annoyed. He wasn’t willing to interrupt his recital to argue with her about it, though. “She runs Calhan’s General Store. Guaranteed best store in town! If we don’t have it, we’ll get it, no extra charge.”

The sheriff mulled over that bit of information, too. “If your ma runs the store,” he asked at last, “what’s your pa do?”

Dickie’s face fell. Over four years had passed since their father had died in a coal mine cave-in and he still had nightmares at times. For that matter, so did Bonnie, though she would never admit it. Mother already had enough to worry her.

“Da’s dead,” Dickie admitted reluctantly.

That admission was usually enough to launch a dozen questions about how he’d died and when, and how they were getting along without him. At the very least it got an “I’m sorry to hear that” kind of response, regardless if the person was sorry or not. But this man mountain neither asked rude questions nor offered false sympathy. He accepted the statement with the quiet composure that seemed as much a part of him as his broad shoulders or big feet. Bonnie found his calmness strangely reassuring.

With one smooth motion, he squatted on his heels in front of them. The change in position brought him to eye level with her.

“So,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Bonnie looked at him, then she looked at Dickie. This was all Dickie’s idea, not hers. She’d only agreed to come with him because, if he was right, she didn’t want to be left out of the excitement. But that didn’t mean she wanted to take the blame if he got into trouble, instead.

“Dickie’ll tell you. This was his idea, not mine.”

Dickie, ever the showman, swelled with importance. “It’s this,” he said, pulling a rolled-up newspaper out of his back pocket and holding it out to the sheriff. “We wanna report a bank robbery.”

Calhan’s General Store was filled near to bursting with ladies who had gathered to inspect the new collection of winter dress goods. Since it was unthinkable that any self-respecting woman in Elk City would let the other ladies get a jump on her in the matter of selection, each of them had made a point of arriving early, only to find that everyone else had been possessed of the exact same thought. By the time Molly opened the door at 9:00 a.m. precisely, the boardwalk in front was jammed. It was eleven now, and while the lengths of cloth and ribbon and lace had shrunk, the crowd appeared to have grown.

As she always did, Molly had gotten up early so she could arrange the new bolts of cloth and boxes of buttons and trim in an attractive display on top of the broad oak counter that ran the length of the store.

It took her hours to set up the display, and hours more to straighten up after, but the ladies only needed a couple of minutes to create chaos out of her carefully constructed order. Molly suspected that was part of the attraction of this novel method of selling and the main reason she always sold three times more sewing notions and more yards of cloth than any other dry goods store this side of Denver.

Dealing with the ladies was never easy, however. Not only did she have to cope with their often heated competition for the more popular fabrics and notions, she had to sort their questions and requests out of the confusing babble of conversation and gossip that always reigned at these events. At the end of the day, she inevitably emerged with a headache and a satisfyingly well-stuffed till.

As long as the till was full, she never begrudged the headache. The store was Bonnie’s and Dickie’s future, after all.

And hers, of course. She tried not to forget that.

At the moment, though, she didn’t have time to think about the future. It was all she could do to deal with the present—measuring and cutting and tallying orders while answering the dozens of questions being flung at her from all sides. The gossip and chatter she ignored, as much out of habit as out of necessity. No merchant could afford the luxury of gossip or of choosing sides, and her position as a widow and Elk City’s only female store proprietor made her more careful than most.

That didn’t stop the ladies, however—the latest rumors had been flying thick and fast all morning. At the moment, a recent arrival held undisputed center stage.

“The new sheriff’s in town,” Coreyanne Campbell said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The announcement caused a gratifying stir. Even Molly put aside her scissors for a moment, intrigued.

“Arrived last night on the train,” Coreyanne added, her vast bosom swelling with satisfaction at being the first with the latest news. “From what I hear, he was packing a saddle and a rifle and a bedroll and not much else.”

“The sheriff’s here already?” The large silk daisies on Emmy Lou Trainer’s hat bobbed dangerously. “I’d heard he wasn’t coming for a couple of weeks, yet.”

“Wouldn’t you know! And no one expecting him so we could give him a proper welcome.”

Molly couldn’t tell who had spoken.

“Probably Josiah Andersen’s fault,” the widow Thompson snapped. “He may be mayor, but he never could get anything right.” Her sharp, narrow little face looked extra pinched with disapproval. “High time that man got here, though. Must be a month or more since the town council offered him the job.”

As the crowd murmured agreement, she took advantage of the diversion to grab a length of blue-and-white Sheppard plaid she’d been eyeing for the past twenty minutes. She fingered it, judging the weight and feel of it, then brought it to within three inches of her pointy little nose and squinted.

“Weave’s off. Be a tough job to get that straightened out.” Without letting go of the cloth, she craned forward across the counter so Molly couldn’t ignore her. “How much you asking for this, Molly?”

“Fifteen and a half cents a yard,” Molly said, and braced for what came next. It didn’t matter what price she quoted, Thelma Thompson would say it was too dear, and then she’d start to haggle.

“Fifteen and a half!” gasped the widow, scandalized. Her thin face flushed. “Ridiculous! It’s not worth a penny over ten.”

Molly ignored the protest and unrolled a bolt of a silk-and-wool blend for another of the ladies. “I remember you were talking about making yourself a new suit, Ida, so the minute I saw this, I thought of you. The green’s just your color. Go with your eyes, you know.”

“That’s nice, Molly,” Ida Walker said, smiling. “Trust you to remember. Though I don’t know…” She slid her work-worn hand over the fine cloth doubtfully. “What with young Will growing out of his britches faster than I can think, and big Will talking about buying some land up Oh-Be-Joyful Creek…well…”

“Did you hear me, Molly Calhan?” Thelma sniffed and tightened her grip on the plaid. “Not a penny over ten. It’s scandalous, the price of things these days. Absolutely scandalous!”

“You could probably get it for twelve and a half or thirteen cents a yard in Denver, Thelma, but then you’d have to pay for the train and your meals, you know. Don’t forget, I can’t buy things in quantity like the big Denver stores can, and that’s besides having to pay for the freight. And you know how high freight charges are getting to be!”

“I still say it was wrong to bring in someone from outside,” said Emmy Lou Trainer, dragging the conversation back to the new sheriff. The daisies quivered with her indignation. “Especially when we had perfectly good candidates for the job right here in Elk City.”