New Storm Rising

13. Rikkard Ambrose, the Feminist

"I couldn't say."

"And I," an ice-cold voice cut in, "would not suggest saying anything more to my wife. Not unless your tone of voice becomes a whole lot more polite, at least, sheriff."

The two men's eyes clashed in a contest of wills. On the one side, a gunman whose eyes were as deadly as his hands. On the other, a business mogul who needed no hands, or even eyes, to kill. All he needed was the victim's name, whispered in the right ear.

I felt heat surge to my face as I watched him.

Heck, why is that so sexy?

It had to be the Wild West air. Or...I was just naturally attracted to merciless megalomaniacs.

Yep, it definitely had to be the Wild West air. Absolutely.

The two men were still locked in a staring contest. I smiled. Three guesses who'll win?

Clenching his teeth, the sheriff averted his eyes.

Yep. Called it!

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr Ambrose. My apologies, Madam."

"No worries." Waving the man's words away, I smiled. "I lived with my aunt for a long while, so I'm used to ignoring annoying people."

The man's eyebrows twitched. "As you say, Madam."

"Come on, darling." Linking arms with Mr Rikkard Ambrose, I rose to my feet. "You promised to give me a tour of the town, remember?"

"I suddenly do seem to remember a pledge of the sort."

"Fabulous! Come, let's have some fun, Dicky Darling!"

He sent me a death-glare, and I gave him back a broad smile. Ah, how fun it was to be with my husband in a public place with lots of witnesses where I couldn't be murdered! Marriage really did suit me.

Humming and twirling my parasol, I walked out onto the street, snuggling up against my arm candy.

"Mrs. Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

"Do keep a respectable distance, will you?"

"Oh, but I am, Dicky Darling." I snuggled even closer. "We're married, remember?"

"Regardless of how hard I try, I am currently unable to forget the matter."

"Aww...you're cute when you're being all stuffy."

"Mrs Ambrose?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Do not ever use the c-word in relation to me."

"Don't worry." I patted his hand. "I won't ever call you a chipmunk. Well...unless I really want to."

Thus my dear husband and I strolled through the town. I oooed and awwwed when we passed impressive local landmarks, such as the stagecoach station, the mayor's office, the dried-up fountain, the gallows, and the jailhou—oh my. How come that was blown up? Whoever could have done such a thing?

Reaching out, I tapped the wall. Or what was left of it. A piece of brick crumbled off and fell onto the ground.

"Still, you have to admit," I whispered to Mr Ambrose, "it makes for a picturesque ruin, doesn't it?"

"Indeed. Now, let's leave before one of the new sheriff's men overhears you, recognizes you and decides to put you in the part that is still standing!"

And he dragged me off, the spoilsport.

Our tour went on and on. Strolling down the main street, we passed shop after shop until, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something and froze.