The Lawman Takes A Wife

“But what did he look like?” Louisa had a one-track mind when it came to men. “Is he handsome?”

“I’ll give you thirteen,” said Thelma grudgingly.

“Now, Thelma.” Molly passed the pink silk down the counter to Coreyanne. No one paid any attention to Louisa.

“Thirteen cents a yard,” said the widow, pulling the plaid out of Ida Walker’s reach. “That’s my final offer.”

Molly repressed a sigh. “Let me think about it, Thelma.”

She’d give in eventually. Both of them knew it. None of the other women would touch that plaid until they were sure Thelma had either gotten what she wanted or given up the hunt—and Thelma never gave up. The woman could wear down rock with her nagging if she set her mind to it.

“What’s his name? Is it true he’s not married?” Louisa asked of nobody in particular. “I heard he was at least thirty. If not older!” Her face went white at the thought of still being single at the advanced age of thirty.

“His name’s DeWitt Gavin, and he’s thirty-three, Sam says,” Coreyanne informed them with satisfaction. She started to say something else, then bit back the words.

“What else have you heard?” demanded Emmy Lou, leaning closer. “Is he married? I’d heard he was going to be living in that room at the back of the sheriff’s office. There’s not enough space there for a cat to turn around in, let alone a family.”

“Nooo,” said Coreyanne, still uncertain. “He’s not married.”

“Well, then?” said Emmy Lou. All the other ladies stopped breathing so they wouldn’t miss a word of whatever came next.

Coreyanne glanced at them nervously, but it was clear to everyone present that her information was simply too good not to be shared.

“I told Sam I wouldn’t say anything, but I know he didn’t really mean I couldn’t tell you ladies. After all, you’re my friends.”

“That’s right,” said Emmy Lou. “We are. You know you can trust us!”

“Well…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Coreyanne,” Molly said sharply, yanking on a piece of wool felt that had gotten tangled around a bolt of flannel. She tugged the fabric to straighten it and started to roll it back up. “If you promised not to tell—”

“You can tell us!” Thelma interrupted. Even talking Molly down on the price of the plaid took back seat to the pleasurable possibility of scandal.

Coreyanne caved in.

“He’s divorced!” she said in a theatrical whisper loud enough for all to hear.

A collective gasp shook her audience.

“Can you imagine?”

No one said a word. The news was just too thrillingly awful to treat so lightly.

Molly knew the silence wouldn’t last long. “I can imagine, but it’s none of my business to try.” She flipped the bolt over another turn, giving a snap to the fabric as she did so it lay straight and taut.

“No, but—”

“No buts, Coreyanne!” she snapped. She kept her gaze fixed on the bolt. She’d never liked confrontation or conflict, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided, no matter how much she wished it could. “I won’t listen to gossip of that sort! You know that.”

“Well, I will,” Emmy Lou said. Nothing fazed Emmy Lou, especially not Molly’s straitlaced notions of propriety and good manners. Especially not when it came to dirt about the man who’d taken the job that rightfully belonged to her husband.

“What did she do that he’d divorce her? It must have been something pretty bad.”

“Mmm,” said Coreyanne doubtfully. She cast a nervous glance at Molly, then at her friends. There wasn’t a chance she’d get out of the store without sharing whatever juicy tidbit her Sam had shared with her. “Well, according to what my Sam heard, he didn’t divorce his wife. She divorced him!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Well, I never! In all my born days, I never!”

Molly glanced at the avid faces in front of her, every one of them focused on Coreyanne. There was only one way to get the ladies’ attention off the sheriff and his disreputable past and back on the business at hand.

“Tell you what, Thelma,” she said to the widow. “I’ll let you have that plaid for fourteen cents a yard. I can’t do better than that, and neither can you. And Coreyanne, did you want the silk? If you don’t, Sally, here, was interested.”

A discount and competition for a coveted fabric! As one, the ladies abandoned the sheriff and plunged back into the fray. The distraction wouldn’t hold for long, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

Distraction or no, as she measured lengths of fabric and rang up sales, Molly couldn’t help wondering—what could the new sheriff possibly have done to make his wife take the scandalous step of divorcing him?

Witt Gavin had no trouble finding the store little Dickie Calhan had mentioned. It was a good-sized clapboard building with a one-and-a-half story false front facing the town’s main street. From the busy cross street running alongside the store, Witt had a clear view of the sign painted in big red letters on the whitewashed siding: Calhan’s General Store. Guaranteed Best Store in Town! If We Don’t Have It, We’ll Get It, No Extra Charge!

At least the boy had gotten that part right.

As for his wild tale about strangers who skulked down alleys and loitered around the town’s main bank whenever the mine payrolls were delivered…

Witt propped his shoulder against the building opposite Calhan’s, crossed his arms across his chest, and studied the scene before him. From where he stood, Main Street stretched north through town, headed straight toward the Elk Mountains that gave the town its name. The street’s unpaved expanse was lined on either side by false-fronted wood buildings and a dozen impressive brick ones. Saddle horses and teams hitched to a variety of buggies and wagons were tied at rails on either side of the thoroughfare. Several blocks up, a covered public well occupied the middle of an intersection, readily accessible to any citizen who lacked the convenience of a private one.

Nearer at hand, catercorner to Calhan’s General Store, stood a substantial brick building with an aura of sober respectability that immediately identified it as Elk City’s main financial institution. The sign over the door said Elk City State Bank in bold gold letters. It was more a concession to convention than an absolute necessity—the place was impossible to miss.

If there’d been any suspicious goings-on, a sharp-eyed, intelligent boy on the boardwalk in front of Calhan’s would have spotted them right off.

And if there weren’t any suspicious strangers, Calhan’s boardwalk was the ideal place for a boy with an overactive imagination and a taste for the lurid tales in dime novels to dream some up.

Elk City was a decent, workaday place that boasted good railroad connections, coal, lumber, water and some of the finest grazing range in the state of Colorado. It was also well off the more traveled roads and rail lines that laced the state. Payroll or no, the town wasn’t the sort of place he’d expect to find a bunch of desperadoes intent on a shoot-’em-up bank heist.

Witt watched as an old woman with a shopping basket over her arm made her way along the opposite side of Main. Every man she passed doffed his hat. Several exchanged a few pleasant words, as well. There was something comfortable about the scene, as if the folks he saw were glad to be right where they were. That wasn’t something you could say about every town he’d ever been through. Not by a long shot.

With hard work and a little luck, Elk City just might be the spot where he could finally put down roots, buy some land, some cattle. Maybe even get married. He was almighty tired of boarding house meals and narrow beds for one.

At the thought, the old, familiar hollowness came back. Witt shoved away from the building, disgusted with himself and his mush-headed daydreams. There wasn’t a woman in her right mind would want him, even if he’d had more than a dream to offer her, which he didn’t. Besides, if Clara hadn’t been able to abide him, it stood to rights nobody else would want to try.

He’d might as well not waste time reminding himself. The mistakes he’d made were well-plowed ground, yet for all the time he’d spent working that field, thinking it over, worrying about it, he’d never yet gotten a crop of anything but weeds out of it.

He’d do better to tend to his work, and right now that meant introducing himself to Mrs. Calhan and finding out if she’d noticed anything to indicate her son really had seen something, no matter how improbable the boy’s tale sounded.

As he crossed the street, Witt was conscious of a number of curious glances directed his way. Word had obviously gotten around that Elk City’s new sheriff was somewhat oversize. He ignored them. Over the years, he’d gotten used to the attention even if he’d never learned to like it.

He’d even gotten used to checking an unfamiliar boardwalk before he stepped on it to make sure it would hold his weight. Calhan’s boardwalk was sturdy enough and neatly swept, which was promising. The broad front windows were so clean they gleamed, which was even better.