The murmur, laughter and sound of clinking glasses inside the saloon ceased abruptly. Everyone's eyes moved to the door of the saloon, and there, his hat dipped low, shadowing his face, stood Sheriff William Gallagher.
"You know...I just ran into a very interesting little scene outside the saloon."
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The metallic sound echoed as he strode into the saloon.
"I just arrived yesterday in this lovely little shithole of a town to take up my post. This fine morning, I take a stroll down the main street to check on my new territory, and what do I find?"
Silence. Absolute silence.
"I find four guys running down the street in nothing but their butt wrappers!"
Clink. Clink. Clink.
"Now, I'm a liberal sort of man, usually. But when someone forces me to look at hairy, half-naked men at ten in the morning, before I've even had my morning whiskey, I'm gonna be pissed."
"Yeah?" one of the thugs drinking whiskey at the bar shouted. "And why should we give a shit whether you'd be pissed or no—"
Bam!
Smoke rose into the air from the revolver's muzzle. All the layabouts and crooks in the saloon stared at the splintered half of the whiskey bottle in the drunken thug's hand.
"That's why," Sheriff Gallagher informed the thug, striding past him without even glancing in his direction. Reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, he flipped a coin onto the counter. "Whiskey. No soda."
"Y-yes, Sir!"
The lawman received his drink and, taking a sip, let his gaze sweep across the room. "Do you know what else I found on my stroll through town?"
To judge by the looks on people's faces, they hoped, whatever it might be, it didn't involve them.
"I found the east wall of my prison—in pieces, scattered all over main street. Do any of you want to explain to me how exactly that happened?"
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The jingling of the spurs sounded again as the sheriff stalked through the saloon, glancing this way and that, sending shivers down the back of every man present. Every man but one, that is.
"...three hundred, three hundred and ten, three hundred and twenty..."
Apparently, Mr Rikkard Ambrose enjoyed counting poker winnings just as much as I. Ah, we were truly meant for each other!
"You there!" Gallagher's eyes narrowed as he whirled around. "Yes, you in the tattered old tailcoat! What's your name?"
"...three hundred and twenty-five dollars and seventy-six cents." Slowly, very slowly, Mr Rikkard Ambrose looked up from his money to meet the sheriff's eyes. "My name is Ambrose. Mister Rikkard Ambrose."
The sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Now, why does that sound familiar?"
I smirked. Probably from your worst nightmares?
"What are you smirking at, young lady? Who are you, anyway?"
"Oh, me?" I blinked up at the lawman innocently. "I'm just a visitor to this lovely little town. No one special."
"Hm..." Narrowing his eyes, the man stared at me. Behind him, I could see a poster with the words "Wanted: Dead or Alive" visible in big, bold letters. "Where have I seen you before?"
"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.
"What is it?"
Mr Ambrose stopped as well, his gaze following mine to the shop window that had caught my interest. His reaction was instant and implacable.
"No."
"But—"
"No."
"Listen, I don't like them myself," I told him, frowning at the bulbous, skeletal constructions behind the window glass. "In fact, I despise those things. They're ridiculous, a hindrance to every woman and maybe even harmful! But in certain social situations, they're pretty much mandatory. Even if I don't want to, I'll probably have to wear them to—"
"No." The single syllable was cold, hard and irrefutable. Capturing my face in his hand, he forced me to look straight into his eyes. "No corsets. Not now, and not in the foreseeable future. Not as long as I have anything to say about it."
I felt a tug at my heart. He...was this what I thought?
Yes!
Yes!
For my sake, Mr Rikkard Ambrose was becoming a feminist!
Beaming broadly, I threw my arms around his neck, hugging him close. "I love you!"
He blinked. "I...feel positive feelings toward you as well."
"Oh, shut up and kiss me!"
"Mrs Ambrose! We are in pub—mmph!"
"Yes," I told him, pulling back just enough to whisper against his lips. "We are."
Grabbing hold of his lapels, I pushed him back against the wall. Not that his feet actually moved so much as an inch, but, heck, that wasn't the point! I bloody loved this man! And he wasn't going to escape me before I'd shown him!
"Thank you," I whispered against his lips. "Thank you for understanding me."
"Ehem...you are welcome?"
Warmth flooded my heart at the uncertainty in his voice. Did he, even after this, still feel unsure of my feelings? Wrapping my arms even more tightly around him, I pulled him so close not even a scrap of silk would fit between us. We stayed like that for a long while, ignoring everything around us. When we finally parted a little, I didn't let go. Instead, shifting my lips towards his ears, I whispered, "So...new sheriff? When are you going to let me in on what's happening?"
He stiffened.
"Don't move. Just pretend we're still snuggling." Placing a kiss behind his ear, I felt him jerk against me. "Shouldn't be particularly hard, should it?"
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Mr Ambrose's eyes studied me carefully—then, finally, he began to speak.
"Apparently, I wasn't the only one to make preparations for this conflict. That tub of lard which called himself a sheriff might have been easy to bribe, but competent?"
"Probably not," I agreed, glancing to where smoke was still rising from the remnants of the prison.
"Indeed. He's a stupid fool. Gallagher, however..." Mr Ambrose's stone-hard face darkened. "He's an entirely different matter."
I raised an eyebrow, making clear that, in this case, silence was not golden. After another moment of silence, he proceeded to explain.
"Before his elevation to sheriff, Mr Gallagher pursued the profession of bounty hunter. Selling people he captures to the highest bidder is much easier with a shiny star pinned to one's chest—but that doesn't mean his methods or efficiency have changed. We shall have to be on guard."
"Hm..." Frowning, I bit my lower lip. "So, what do you think he will do?"
The crack of gunfire cut through the air from somewhere to the south. Abruptly, Mr Ambrose pulled back, his eyes hardening. "Apparently, we're about to find out."
Leaping back, I looked around. "Where did that come from?"
"Where do you think?" Reaching out, he pointed down the road. Above the rooftops, a cloud of smoke was rising. Was it just my imagination, or did it come from the direction of the mine?
Once again, a gunshot rang through the air.
Nope. No imagination.
I met his eyes, my own full of determination. "Shall we go?"
He grabbed my hand. "We shall."
Ten minutes later, we arrived at the entrance to the mine. Or what used to be the entrance to the mine. Now, it looked more like the favourite meeting place for mobs in town. Almost a hundred people were gathered around the house and hut, waving guns and pitchforks.
"Interesting question..." I enquired, leaning towards Mr Ambrose, "Who the heck has pitchforks in a place where there isn't a single bale of hay?"
"A philosophical problem that can be discussed later," he told me. "Stay behind me."
"Ooh." I nodded, and smiled like the dutiful wife I was. "I see. Gender-bender doggy style."
Amy was truly an amazing source for saucy comebacks.
"Mrs Ambrose?"
"Yes, Dicky Darling?"
"Be silent and keep your head down!"
"Yes, Darling."
The two of us approached the mob—and the sheriff, who just so happened to be present as well. Had he come to restore order and make certain the unruly crowd dispersed?
Ha! Yeah, right.
"Rikkard Ambrose!" Henchman at his back, Gallagher stepped towards us. "You are suspected of aiding and abetting a prison escape."
"Indeed?" Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "On what grounds?"
In a flash, the sheriff's revolver was out. With a bam, dust spewed up as a bullet slammed into the dirt.
"On those grounds. And if you don't cooperate, I'll put you six feet under them!"
There was a pause, then...
Mr Ambrose smiled.
Oh boy. Gallagher was a dead man.
"How can I possibly dispute such a logical argument?" Stepping forward, he gestured. "Please follow me."
"Oh, no need for that." Smirking, Gallagher moved towards a certain shed.
I stiffened as the significance of that sank in. They knew! They knew where the entrance of the mine was hidden. And that part of the mine was directly connected to the main one up on the mountain. If they managed to get in, they'd find—
Creak...
The sound of old hinges tore me from my thoughts. Crap! Gallagher was already inside! Cursing, I rushed after both the sheriff and Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who had already followed the lawman into the shed. What the hell were we going to do now?
Shoving my way through the crowd that was milling around the hut, I rushed inside and slid down the ladder, not bothering to use the rungs. Down in the tunnel, darkness awaited me. Only far ahead could I make out a flicker of light.
Crap, crap, crap!
Seems like the sheriff was already busy at work. And, knowing Mr Ambrose, those workers I'd freed yesterday were already busy at work somewhere ahead.
Crap!
Reaching out to feel the wall, I started moving forwards into the shadows. Luckily, the floor was rather smooth and—
Thud!
"Ow! Son of a b—"
Clutching my foot, I muttered curses as I hobbled down the tunnel. Behind me, the crowd started coming down the ladder. Pressing my lips together tightly, I slid into the shadows, hiding from everyone. After the mob had trampled by, I slowly followed, making sure to stay out of sight. By now, I could see the sheriff ahead, holding aloft a flickering torch.
"Pray, what exactly are you looking for?" Mr Ambrose enquired, stepping up behind the man. Close enough for the lawman to be within reach. My oh my.
"There's been a breakout at the local jail. We are searching for the escaped prisoners."
"Oh, and you believe they are hiding here?" Mr Ambrose glanced around demonstratively. Somewhere in the empty tunnel, a drop of water fell from the ceiling.
Gallagher sent a glare his way. "Don't you think I don't know who is really behind the matter at the jail! I'll find them. And once I do, you'll receive a nice cell in my freshly renovated hoosegow!"
"Is that so?" Mr Ambrose cocked his head, extending his hand to point at the black emptiness of the tunnel. "Best of luck with that."
Growling, Gallagher rushed farther ahead, as determined as a bloodhound on the hunt. Heart pounding, I dashed around the crowd and followed on his heels. Not too far ahead was the place where Mr Ambrose and I had last stopped—yet the sheriff seemed to have no intention of stopping! Glancing at Mr Ambrose, I saw the minute shifts in his posture, the clenching of his hands...
Oh hell! If this went on, any moment now, he'd realize this tunnel went on for longer than it should. Or worse...
"Ah-ha! I knew it! You there, up ahead! Hands up or I'll shoot!"
Oh shit!
Cursing inwardly, I watched as, up ahead, a cowering figure straightened and raised its hands.
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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
Misunderstandings are so fun to write ;-) I hope you enjoyed the chapter as much as I enjoyed coming up with it. Oh, and in case anyone is wondering what a "hoosegow" is - apparently, an American English slang word for jail. Even I didn't know that before someone suggested the term.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob