Sheriff Micah Benson prided himself on protecting all the citizens within the surrounding areas of the community of Round Rock, Texas. He did so by making himself visible in town, as well as travelling to the outlying ranches and homesteads at least once a week just to check in and see if there had been any problems during the six days he hadn’t visited. Most often he also got invited in for suppers or desserts; a bonus that Micah took advantage of and which probably figured into his carefully scheduled calls around family meal times.
Micah Benson wasn’t a bad sort of man. He didn’t swear to excess, or drink himself under the table, and he was known to reason with people before resorting to firepower. But being ex-military, the sheriff displayed a much disciplined demeanor. Everything had its place in his world. Which belief made him a narrow-minded person.
He liked his life to run in an orderly fashion, and likewise preferred it if his town did, too. He didn’t suffer drunks and he kept the soiled doves from plying their trade on the streets of Round Rock as well. But most of all, Sheriff Benson didn’t cotton to outlaws. Especially gun-toting hombres such as one Sonny McQuade. That man’s existence simply stuck in his craw. The outlaw had to go.
Granted, McQuade moved himself out to Marge’s boarding house on the outskirts of town within the first few days of his visit; but the gunfighter managed to come back to town daily, as if he were taunting Benson with his continued presence. And since he maintained a law-abiding image, there wasn’t a Sam Hill thing the sheriff could do about it!
Add to that the fact that the gunfighter seemed to gravitate toward the lovely widow Callie West whenever their paths crossed and Micah Benson found himself doing a slow burn. Hadn’t he been patiently waiting for the proper mourning period to pass before setting his hat into the arena of vying for her hand? Hadn’t he waited tolerantly before pressing his case for their bonding?
And then here came the gunslinger on the Fourth of July, all swagger and tall good looks, buying the widow’s pie for the obscene amount of a whole dollar and rescuing her runaway horse while flashing those silver eyes in her direction! It made the sheriff want to hit something.
Or someone.
So that was why on this particularly hot July afternoon Sheriff Benson purposely made his way towards the West ranch just in time for the afternoon respite he hoped Ms. Callie West would offer.
That woman could bake the best damn peach desserts in the whole county! Add to that her sweetly tart lemonade as well as her bright smile and curvy silhouette and the good sheriff clucked his horse to a canter just to speed up their imminent get-together!
Turning his horse down the peach-tree lined lane leading to the West homestead, Sheriff Benson straightened in his saddle, smoothing his shirt front and running a hand through his thick hair before returning his hat to his head. His timing was just right for a midafternoon break on the porch of his old friend’s ranch house. In the company of his old friend’s widow…
Obadiah West had always told Micah he was like the son he’d never had. He had even commented on several occasions that the younger man reminded him of himself in his youth. So it stood to reason that Micah would like his old friend’s wife, didn’t it?
With the afternoon heat simmering under his horse's hoofs, Sheriff Benson guided his mount upin to the stable yard, nodding at the youth watering the peach trees along the road. Then he glanced into the corral where he caught activity.
And pulled up his horse sharply, staring at what he was witnessing.
“Well, I’ll be…” The sheriff swallowed his words, glaring at the back of none other than gunfighter Sonny McQuade as he flicked a whip in the dirt around the feet of Callie West’s fancy new horse.
What the hell was that man doing here? The sheriff asked himself while he watched the gunfighter guide the stallion around the pen with only the whip snaking lazily at the animal’s hooves. A detached part of Micah’s brain noted how the animal’s muscles rippled under its dark bay skin, and how it tossed its head in reply to each crack of the whip. Beauty in motion.
Not one to shirk his duty, the sheriff reluctantly turned his horse toward the corral and the gunfighter within. His courting of the Widow West would have to be postponed momentarily. He had bigger fish to fry currently.
Micah knew when his presence became known to the gunslinger; just by the way that man cocked his head down and to the left, as if spying the sheriff’s shadow on the ground. Yet the man didn’t turn around; continued with his exercises. He was going to force the lawman to speak first.
“What are you doin’ here, McQuade?”
Benson saw the gunman stiffen slightly before pivoting slowly on his left heel, his whip hand dropping to his side as he raised his head, face shadowed under the brim of the black Stetson. The stallion immediately paused in its crossing of the pen, shaking its head and stamping a hoof at the sheriff’s voice.
Slowly McQuade pushed back his hat enough to spear Benson with his silvery stare. The sheriff matched him flat look for flat look.
The gunfighter took his time answering, drawing out the silence insolently before replying easily enough, “Trainin’ this horse, Sheriff.”
No extra information was forthcoming. The two men attempted to stare the other down. But Second Chance broke the contest by approaching the gunslinger and nudging him with his nose, snuffling and head-butting Sonny, searching for the carrot he knew the gunfighter carried for him. The reward came at the end of every session, and since they’d stopped training, Chance naturally assumed it was remuneration time.
Absently reaching around to pat the animal’s nose with a gloved hand, uttering a gentle “Whoa” to the animal, Sonny remained otherwise silent, staring up at the sheriff placidly.
Benson shifted in his saddle momentarily before grinding out, curiosity getting the better of him, “Why would she have you doin’ that, McQuade?—“
Before Micah finished his sentence the gunslinger was shrugging his shoulders, brows rising innocently while replying laconically, “You’ll have to ask Mrs. West, Sheriff. I’m just the hired help.”
He turned back around, effectively dismissing the lawman, the glimpse of an amused smile fleeting over his lips. With his back now squarely toward the sheriff, McQuade gently shouldered Second Chance away from him, leaving the sheriff to his own devices while he fished out the carrot for the large equine.
The burn of embarrassment flowed through Benson, washing his face in a stain of red. No thievin’ outlaw ignored his presence, especially The Fastest Gun in the West. Filled with the desire to get off his horse, vault into that training pen and swing the gunfighter around to face him and not discharge him like someone’s wayward child, Micah quickly glanced around before doing that exact thing, but spied the kid by the peach trees watching him. Dammit! The gunfighter’s comeuppance would have to wait.
Sparing one more hostile look for the gunslinger and promising himself later retribution, the sheriff forced himself to turn his horse around and head toward the widow’s house. It was she for whom he’d come to visit in the first place.
##
“What’d he want?”
Noah asked McQuade, ambling over to the corral fence and dropping the empty water bucket at his feet. He leaned one elbow on the split rails while watching the sheriff tie his horse to a porch post and climb the steps to Miss Callie’s front door.
Sonny, who had returned to the fence after brazenly giving his back to the lawman, trained one eye on the entrance to the widow’s house while carefully removing Second Chance’s training bridle.
“To flex his muscles,” the gunfighter replied briefly to the youth’s question, swinging the apparatus absently while his gaze honed in on the house across the yard. He’d made an enemy of the sheriff with his blatant rudeness, but the lawman had it coming. Just because of his holier-than-thou attitude. But now he would bear more study.
McQuade watched with narrowed eyes as the front door opened and Miz Callie West exclaimed happily at the sheriff’s appearance, obviously inviting the lawman in. Benson made a show of wiping his boots off on her door mat, threw a half glance over his shoulder toward the corral and the men there, and then disappeared into the young widow’s home.
At last Sonny met Noah’s curious look, licking his lips several moments before continuing.
"He’s staking his claim.”
The youth’s eyes flew back to Miz West’s porch, eyes widening in disbelief. Swerving his gaze back to the outlaw he croaked, “The sheriff and Miz Callie? No way!”
His baffled look showed some doubt even as his words proclaimed his skepticism.
Sonny simply shrugged strong shoulders at the young man’s uncertainty. And then he said lowly, “Go on in there, boy.”
Noah’s eyes latched onto the gunfighter’s in bewilderment. Shooting a questioning look toward the house once more he queried, “In there? I don’t usually go in Miz Cal—“
“She doesn’t usually have a man in her house either, does she, son? Just do as I say. Take some wood in, stack it on her hearth, add it to the stove; ask her or the sheriff some questions. Just…linger.”
Noah stared at the gunman, who simply stood placidly, absently stroking Second Chance’s velvety nose while he skewered the youth with a telling look. His words’ meanings remained clear as the boy digested the unspoken import of McQuade’s directive.
And still Noah repudiated the gunslinger’s unexpressed suspicions.
“Sheriff Benson, Sir? I can’t believe that. Naw. He may be a little sweet on Miz Callie, Mr. McQuade, if that’s what you’re thinkin’, but try to harm her? In her own house? No,” and the youth shook his head to emphasize his point.
McQuade heaved a now irritated sigh, nearly snapping in rejoinder, “Ever heard of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, son?”
At the young man’s hesitant expression Sonny pressed his point home.
“I’d go in myself, boy, but I’m still a stranger ‘round here. It’s gotta be you. There’s no harm in protectin’ a woman, boy. Or just erring a little on the side of caution. Especially a woman with Miz Callie’s past.”
There.
The implication was now out in the open.
Both males, young and old, met knowing gazes, each recognizing that the other understood their boss’s history. Understood and mutually desired to protect her from any more disharmonies.
At last acquiescing to the older man’s request and giving a somewhat resigned nod, Noah squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest, pivoted, and headed over to the wood pile. Anxiety over his looming subterfuge involving the sheriff took over the youth, yet he felt pressed to shield his young superior from any untoward attacks.
As Noah stepped purposefully away, the gunfighter nodded to himself once and then turned his attention to the thoroughbred nuzzling him from behind. He had done all he could for the moment.
##
“That’s a mighty fine peach tart, Miz Callie. Mighty fine.”
Sheriff Benson wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin from beneath the china dish he had just polished off of peach dessert. Placing the now empty plate carefully on the kitchen table, the sheriff reached for the lemonade Callie West had already placed before him, taking a gulp while studying the comely widow standing across from him.
She was a beauty, that was for sure; a true Texas rose. Long, wavy blonde hair, eyes as green as the reeds along a lazy stream, and the womanly figure a man could sink into and lose himself within. Micah Benson shifted in his chair as he swallowed his beverage quickly, for the first time in a long while unsure of how to go about courting a woman. Lately his courting consisted of the paid companion variety.
Turning from the sink, Callie smiled prettily at the sheriff. Sheriff Benson was a nice man, she reluctantly had to admit. Attractive, steady, and smart. A woman could do a heck of a lot worse than him! Yet still she remained wary. After all, Obadiah had called Micah Benson a friend. And any friend of Obadiah West most likely would not be calling himself a friend of hers. Not until she’d studied him and put him through his paces, as the saying went.
But her smile showed none of this inner trepidation as Callie replied, “Thank you, Sheriff. Would you like me to send another piece home with you? There’s still plenty.”
“That would be mighty nice of you, Miz Callie. I just might like another piece come about sundown.”
Hooking an elbow over the ladder back chair he reposed in, Micah Benson licked his lips and watched Callie turn to the kitchen counter and divvy up another piece of peach tart. Now would be the perfect time to approach the widow about her choice of stable hand, the sheriff grimaced to himself. Fingering his lemonade glass, grown moist from the day’s humidity, Benson chose his words carefully.
“Comin’ up the drive today, I couldn’t help but notice that gunfighter in your corral with that fancy horse of yours, Miz Callie. I feel obligated to warn you about your choice of stable hands. You really sure you can trust him in there with that prime piece of horseflesh? Or, for that matter, anywhere near your ranch?”
Callie twisted around from wrapping the wedge of peach tart for her guest, understanding exactly where this round of questioning was headed.
Heaving a sigh the widow replied, “He’s good with horses, Sheriff. And Lord knows I’m a greenhorn when it comes to training such a fine animal. Mr. McQuade kindly offered to teach Second Chance the basics, as well as me.”
Anger once more burned through the sheriff. Oh, kindness didn’t figure at all into the gunfighter’s thoughts, Benson avowed, judging McQuade by his own motives. Couldn’t this woman see that? Couldn’t she distinguish between McQuade’s nefarious ways, and his, Micah’s, sincere devotion? Was she that dense? Or blinded?
Finished with packaging up the lawman’s snack, Callie decided to end this refreshment break and get on with her afternoon. She really was not in the mood for another lecture about the smarts of keeping a hired gun on her premises. As handsome as the sheriff was, he displayed a dismaying inclination toward superiority that Callie found stifling. At last she was her own woman, capable of making her own decisions, good or bad…
Lost in her thoughts as she was, and trying to figure out how to extricate herself from this suffocating meeting, Callie didn’t hear the scrape of the sheriff’s chair across the rough-hewn wood kitchen floor, nor his approaching footsteps. Therefore she nearly jumped out of her skin when Sheriff Benson spoke directly behind her, the prickling feeling at the nape of her neck coming too late to warn her of his silent approach.
“I’m tellin’ you, Miz Callie. That gunslinger is bad news. You being a woman all alone out here on the outskirts of town is just askin’ for trouble. And that hired gun is just that. Trouble.”
The sheriff loomed over her; dwarfed her.
These thoughts swarmed Callie’s mind as she found herself now backed up against the sink, one hand at her throat, the other across her stomach. His height, his solidness, stood between her and the rest of the room; between her and freedom. The heat from his body, the warmth in his eyes, should have allayed Callie’s fears, but did the opposite. She felt caged in; trapped. Sent tumbling back into the nightmare of her marriage.
With breath hitching and fear boiling through her bloodstream, Callie resisted the urge to shove Micah Benson away from her, forcing herself to meet his steady regard. She swallowed the thump-de-thump of her heartbeat as she stared back into his brown gaze, wrestling with her spontaneous reaction.
“He hasn’t been to me, Sheriff. He’s been—“
A growl of dissent tore from the lawman’s throat as he searched for a rebuttal. Couldn’t she see McQuade’s danger? The jeopardy she was putting herself into? His hands rose to the widow’s elbows, confining her with biting fingers and releasing the fight or flight reaction within her. Against her wishes Callie’s body twisted, frantic to be free from the man’s overpowering, suddenly menacing presence.
And then the knock came on the kitchen door, rattling it right on its hinges.
Callie’s frantic green eyes shot to the sheriff’s; watched his hands dropped from her arms even as the outer door swung inward, allowing a wood-bearing Noah into the anxiety-charged kitchen.
“Sorry for interrupting, Miz Callie, but I know how you love to bake this time of day, so I just thought I’d bring in that load of kindling early-like.”
The youth’s sharp regard took in the scene within the kitchen, noticing the high color riding his boss’ cheekbones, her flashing eyes, her heaving chest. The sheriff stepped away from the widow, hands dropping to his sides from where they’d apparently clasped the widow’s arms.
The young man's eyes widened as he realized in a flash that the lawman had been putting the moves on Miz Callie West, right here in her own kitchen! And from the looks of things, he, Noah Lawson, had interfered just in the nick of time. Damned if McQuade hadn’t been right! was Noah’s first thought. A wave of protection flooded his entire being.
Concerned eyes flicking from one player to the other in this tableau, the teen attempted nonchalance as he lumbered over to the wood stove, intentionally brushing against the sheriff and in the process forcing that man to step aside. Noah’s eyes met Callie’s in an unspoken acknowledgement of her trepidation. As the relief flowed from the woman’s worried expression, the young man had the audacity to wink at his boss before turning to deliver his bundle.
Callie stared in consternation at the back of her would-be savior, even as the youth commented while feeding the stove’s voracious hunger, “So, did you get a chance to taste Miz Callie’s peach tart, Sheriff? Ain’t it the sweetest in the county?”
Concluding his business, Noah turned around to face the lawman, an overly innocent expression remaining on his youthful countenance. A flash of annoyance crossed Benson’s face even as he stepped back over to the table, glancing down at the empty dessert plate where crumbs evidenced his appetite from moments earlier.
“It certainly is, Lawson. Miz Callie, you outdone yourself this time. But seein’ as it’s gettin’ on in the day, I’d best take that care package of yours and be on my way.”
Reaching for his hat across the table, Benson pinned the teen with a narrowed, suspicious gaze, only to be met with calm grey eyes flecked with poorly concealed humor. Shoving his hat roughly onto his head, Benson turned his attention to Callie, grimacing more than smiling at the young widow as he bid her good-bye.
“Thank you for the fine dessert, Miz Callie. It makes the trip out here even more pleasant to have a chance to see you and taste your delicious baked goods. Mind what I said, Ma’am, and I’ll see you next week.”
The sheriff pinned Callie with a telling glance for several seconds before sparing a cursory nod for Noah and then taking himself out the kitchen door. Silence filled the homestead’s kitchen. Callie’s rapid breaths permeated the space.
The door had barely shut behind the lawman before Callie turned her attention fully upon the sixteen-year-old, taking a deep breath and saying lowly, “Thank you for coming in when you did, Noah…”
“Don’t thank me, Ma’am. It was McQuade who didn’t think you should be left alone in here with the sheriff. I didn’t believe him, but dammit, he was right! What was Benson doin’, if you don’t mind me askin’? He was gettin’ awful cozy with you it seemed to me when I came in.”
Noah noticed how his boss didn’t look directly at him. Her eyes flit from table to stove to sink to window; anywhere but on him. She acted almost…ashamed, if Noah were to pin any kind of word upon her actions. Ashamed! Why would Miz Callie react like that? Good God! What can of worms had he and McQuade opened? Or had it been the sheriff’s doing?...
With that thought staggering his teenaged, male mind, Noah muttered an expletive and swung toward the kitchen door, embarrassed at his anger, and the depth of his concern. These feelings extended far beyond his years, and stunned him at their intensity.
Unsure how to express these deep emotions, and unwilling to face them, Noah did what any other young male would do in this situation: he beat a hasty retreat out the back door, not waiting for her reply.
Gruffly mumbling, “I’m glad I was here to help you, Ma’am. Gotta clean the barn now,” he lurched out the kitchen door, relieved to be away from his suspicions momentarily, and chagrined to feel that way.
Callie stared after her youthful hero in disguise, still surprised at how the sheriff had behaved. Surprised and perturbed. He had never acted anything but courteous and polite in the past! Yet today he’d almost seemed—threatening. Almost as if demanding her to follow his orders. Or else. By towering over her, attempting intimidation and who knew what more, that behavior resembled none other than Callie’s late, ungreat, husband.
The widow shivered in afterthought. What would have happened if Noah hadn’t entered at that exact moment? Would the lawman have forced himself upon her? Would Callie have defended herself? Could she have? Or had her husband’s violent legacy quashed all her self-protective tendencies?
And what had Noah meant that Sonny McQuade hadn’t thought she should be left alone with the sheriff? Had the youth and gunslinger been in cahoots, intent on protecting the poor, defenseless woman all on her own in life?
Wrinkling her nose and smoothing the front of her dress nervously, Callie had to admit she hadn’t acted very independent this afternoon. She’d regressed into that cowering, weak female Obadiah had created with his fists.
Feeling the prick of tears behind her eyes, Callie swiped at them in irritation. Angry with herself, the widow cleared the kitchen table jerkily as self-doubts and recriminations hovered in her mind. Pausing at the wash basin, staring into it unseeingly, Callie entreated an up-to-now-silent God with her anguished plea: Oh when would Obadiah fade from her memory and let loose the strangle hold he had on her independence and inhibitions, and allow her to move forward in her life? When would she ever step out from behind his shadow?
##
“…He was standing real close-like to her, Mr. McQuade. Just like you thought.”
Noah had found the gunfighter in the shadowy entrance to the barn, pulling his calfskin gloves off his hands and staring thoughtfully down the road from whence the sheriff had disappeared. At the youth’s words and approach, the gunfighter switched his attention to the young man, silver eyes drilling into Noah’s with lightning bolt intensity.
Noah fidgeted under the gunslinger’s narrowing gaze, feeling much like a worm right before the bird picks it up in its beak. Paralyzed to do anything but stare.
“Did she seem alright about it? Accepting? Inviting? Or afraid?”
Noah shook his head emphatically, replying decisively, “She looked like a deer in your sights. I’ve never seen her l-look so…helpless.” The youth’s voice cracked, but a quick sidelong glance reassured him the hired gun didn’t care a whit about his emotion charged tone. McQuade was too busy staring along the empty peach tree lined drive as if he could conjure the lawman back into the barnyard.
Visibly rousing himself, McQuade only commented, “You did the right thing, son. And you didn’t need a gun to do so. Sometimes just being in the right place at the right time is all that’s required. Remember that. Now, training is over for today.”
Was he talking about Chance’s lessons, or what he was teaching Noah? The youth wasn’t sure.
The gunfighter continued quietly. “See you tomorrow. And…keep your eyes peeled, boy. That wolf’s gonna keep sniffin’ around this hen house now that he has the scent, and they always get bolder. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
With those words of wisdom the gunfighter thumbed his hat brim with a nod, and then strode toward his own horse tied in the shade of a scraggly tree, his gait purposeful and determined. He’d done all he could today. He’d raised sand and now had to watch where it settled.
The main thought in Sonny’s mind was that the wounded widow, if she didn’t want the sheriff’s favors, was going to have a hard time shaking that man’s unwavering attention. But that was where Sonny McQuade just might have the answer.
He just had to get Miz Callie West to ask the question.