Laurie Grant - Lawman

He looked away. “I know…but I just keep thinkin’ about how I might’ve done it differently…if I’d taken time to think. But I was so angry at seem’ that old man gunned down—he was just tryin’ to do his job…”

That was what Olin Watts had said to her, Olivia thought, after he’d read her Dan’s suicide note. I’m just doin’ my job, Miz Gillespie. But that had nothing to do with the event that was tormenting Cat’s soul now, so she resolutely pushed it aside.

“Look at it this way, Cal. If the robbers had been captured instead, probably both of them would have been hanged for killing the sheriff and for the bank robbery. I’d wager they would rather have died quickly, the way they did, instead of at the end of a rope.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, but his expression remained bleak.

“You’ll be a good sheriff,” she assured him. “Gillespie Springs is lucky you came along.” But how was she going to stay away from him if he lived in the same town? They’d never managed to stay away from each other when they’d been growing up, when her family’s plantation and the horse farm he’d been raised on had been so temptingly close. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d awakened to the rattle of pebbles on her window and had gone out to meet him in the moonlight. They’d never done anything that might have ended in disgrace, but they’d come close sometimes…

He sighed. “I hope so. I’d like to be able to uphold the law here without killing anyone ever again. I’m going to try not to, anyway.”

“I know if there’s a way you can avoid it, you will,” Olivia said. “But you be careful, won’t you?” She hoped he wasn’t going to be so wary of drawing his gun again that he’d be an easy target for the next troublemaker that came through.

His face lightened. “Don’t worry, Livy, I will. Well…maybe I’d better be goin’. I don’t want to tire you out.” He glanced at the sheet she had pulled up to cover most of her shoulders. “Would it be okay if I came back when you were feeling better—when you’re up and around?”

Now was the time, she knew. This was when she had to end it.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze. “That won’t be necessary, Cal,” she said, keeping her tone brisk. “I’m sure you’ll have a great many things to do, settling in as the sheriff, and I—”

He stiffened. “I know it isn’t ‘necessary,’ Livy,” he said, his face taking on a wary look. “I asked if I could come back because I wanted to.”

She couldn’t look at him any longer. She couldn’t tell him the truth, for she knew Cal, knew him to be chivalrous to a fault. If he thought she was refusing to see him for his own good, he’d be that much more determined to come.

“Cal, I appreciate all you’ve done, and I thank you, but I think perhaps that better be the end of it,” she said. “We’ve each done the other a favor. Perhaps we should just leave it at that.”

His face seemed suddenly set in stone. “So now we’re even, is that it?”

She looked away, unable to meet his eye. “I don’t mean to be unkind. It’s just that…well, I’m a widow, after all. It hasn’t even been that long, you know.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s the reason.”

Oh, Lord, why was he making it so hard to do the right thing, to send him away for his own good?

She took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said, “you want the truth, and that is that I’ve learned to live without depending on a man, and I find I like it that way.”

If her words hurt him, it was difficult to tell. The only change she could detect in Cal was a certain stillness, as if he were bracing for the next blow. She waited, her face turned away from him, listening for the sounds of his boot heels thudding down the steps.

The chair creaked, but the only other sound she heard was his intake of breath. She turned back to see him standing by the chair.

“Livy, I…maybe you’re readin’ somethin’ I didn’t mean into my wantin’ to visit. I know you’re recently, uh, bereaved. I—I didn’t mean…”

She looked away again. “Oh, I think you did. But don’t worry about it, Sheriff. I’m used to men assuming too much about me. They assume that since I had a Mexican lover, I’m fair game for any man. Well, I’m not.”

“Now it’s you who’s assuming, Mrs. Gillespie,” he said, his voice cold as a Texas norther. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your mourning, no matter who it is you’re mourning for.”

A second later, she heard the door close and the sound of his boots retreating down the steps.

I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your mourning, no matter who it is you‘re mourning for.

Oh, Lord, she had gotten carried away in her defiant pose, and it had succeeded too well. The way she had worded it, it sounded as if she were admitting that the stories about Francisco and her were true. Now Cal believed the gossip—if he hadn’t already—and he would despise her for being a treacherous, faithless woman.

It was for the best, she told herself, even as she sank back into the pillows, scalding tears flooding her eyes.

Cal marched back down the road into the heart of town, head erect, but not really seeing anything or anyone he passed. Her words still stung. How could Livy, the woman who had been his sweetheart years ago, praise him as a hero and compliment his mustache, then turn on him again? As if she hated him, as if she suspected him of—of assuming she was a woman of easy virtue, and wanting to sample her favors!

He hadn’t given much credence to the story of the supposed Mexican lover, until he’d found her standing by his rose-decorated grave. And now she had come right out and admitted it was true! They assume that since I had a Mexican lover, I’m fair game for any man…

Then he thought about what she’d said last— I’ve learned to live without depending on a man, and I find I like it that way…

Well, that was just fine. He was going to be busy being the best sheriff Gillespie Springs ever had. He wasn’t going to have time to be paying courtesy calls on an ill-tempered widow, even if she didn’t have any other friends. She’d made her choice. He’d found Jovita for her, so she wouldn’t be alone and helpless while she regained her strength.

Now, come on, Cal, tell the truth, at least to yourself. Could he honestly say there wasn’t a shred of truth in her accusations? Could he put a hand on his worn, wellthumbed Bible and say he didn’t still want her, that somewhere deep inside he hadn’t been hoping that after a decent interval, she and he might begin again what his going off to war had ended?

No, he couldn’t, but as God was his witness, he hadn’t intended anything dishonorable, anything that would hurt her. But she hadn’t hesitated to hurt him— again.

He let himself remember that other time, back in 1861, when he’d ridden over to Childress Hall, her father’s cotton plantation, to tell her of his decision and to ask her to wait for him.

She’d been wearing a dress of some sort of flimsy, light blue material sprigged with dark blue flowers, over a hoopskirt that swayed when she’d walked across the veranda to meet him, giving him glimpses of her lacetrimmed pantalettes and neat ankles above kid slippers.

“Cal, you must be reading my mind! I was just about to send a note asking you to supper! Delilah’s cooking chicken and dumplings, and strawberry pie, and…” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “But you look so serious! You aren’t still thinking about that silly quarrel we had the other night after the church picnic, are you?”