Mail Order Bride: Summer (Bride For All Seasons 2)

When he returned, she was poring over the pages of a heavy medical textbook, staring in awe at a series of illustrations, puzzling about the words used and what they meant. Clearly she had helped herself from the numerous tomes stacked or splayed upon an accessible shelf, taking advantage of his absence, and was absorbing whatever indelicate information she could.

“Thinkin’ to become another Florence Nightingale?” he asked mildly, waggling his brows.

“No. I’m thinking to become Letitia Burton.” Her response was crisp, cool, and to the point. “Will you teach me what you know?”

“Nope. But I’ll teach you enough to act as my nurse, providin’ you don’t fall over at the sight of blood or some disgustin’ suppuratin’ wound. At least you’d be able to take over care for some of the less complicated ailments, if I don’t happen to be around.”

“On those occasions when the cards are likely to come calling.”

He tilted his head slightly. The pose, with his red hair standing up in a crest, reminded her of a curious cardinal, eyeing her with beady consideration. “Why here, Letty?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why here? Why not a nice, safe schoolmarm job?”

“It’s summer, for one thing, with the session being closed, and I need work now. Even if there were an opening for classes this fall. Which I doubt. Besides,” she finished off, returning to a book page she had marked with one finger, “that would be boring.”

Plopping once more into his chair to slurp down a large mouthful of hours-old coffee, he carefully studied his visitor. “Ain’t no flies on you, are there?”

“It’s a family failing, I’m afraid. This chapter, here—”

“—is far too advanced for you right now. Let’s start out with the easy stuff, whatddya say?” Another sip; the stuff was ferociously bad, lukewarm and thick enough to float a spoon in. “Tell me the first thing you’d do if a man walked through that front door with his arm bleedin’.”

“Well, I’d—”

“Letty,” he interrupted. “How’s that sister of yours gettin’ along?”

It was the sheriff’s habit, on those days when one or both of his deputies manned the office, to stroll through town every hour or so. Crime has a smaller chance to flourish if its potential is witnessed and immediately nipped in the bud. Paul figured he had managed to prevent any numb

er of shop windows from being shattered by young boys with a slingshot, and quite a few serious injuries from being inflicted when he had busted up a bar fight, and the breakout of a fire from some forgotten candle or kerosene lamp left accidentally (or intentionally) burning away.

He had even, upon one auspicious occasion of pausing near the bank during his rounds, stopped a robbery in its tracks. Merely because the eagle eye of the law had caught sight of an unknown character taking a few furtive looks around the street before pushing inside the building. Paul had immediately reacted to something seeming suspicious. Sliding his enormous 1860 Colt smoothly from its holster, he slipped through the double doors, moved just behind the man standing nervously at the teller’s window, and stuck the cold, businesslike end of a gun barrel into the would-be desperado’s ribs.

Today’s route around town held no such excitement.

He had stopped in Forrester’s for a fresh cup of coffee, strolled past Norton’s Livery, poked his head inside the barber shop, greeted Mr. and Mrs. Thorson with a tip of the hat, taken a gander behind the Prairie Lot and the Firewater (both Blue Law closed) just to ensure that nothing untoward was going on, and righted a little boy who had tripped off a boardwalk step and fallen.

All routine, everyday, accepted occurrences.

Until, stepping across the Drinkwater’s raised threshold, he happened to spy Quinn Hennessey sitting in solo splendor at one of the dining room tables.

“Good day to you,” Paul said quietly, approaching.

Surprised, Quinn looked up. “And to you, as well, Sheriff. Fine weather we’re having.”

“Tolerable. Tolerable. Mind if I join you?”

As the sweep of one arm indicated assent, Paul pulled out a chair. For a few minutes he made small talk, while Quinn continued sipping from his coffee cup and sawing into a steak cooked almost to cinders. Paul asked casually about job prospects; Quinn as casually shrugged off the question. Nothing much doing on Sunday, the shrug implied; may as well wait another day or two. Or more.

“You and the new Mrs. all settled in, out to the old Rutledge place?”

“Oh, just getting a start, thanks. Think it’ll take us a good while.”

“Ah. Things left in bad shape, were they? Kinda figured. Rutledge died a year or so ago, and his son hasn’t taken real good care of the property left to him.”

“It’s in bad shape, all right. I need to get hold of some tools and dig in out there. I wonder...” Quinn paused, seeming to think aloud in between bites, “...wonder if my brother-in-law might be persuaded to lend me what I require.”

Paul felt a little riff of distaste. “Dunno. Reckon that’s somethin’ you’ll have to take up with Ben. So Mrs. Hennessey, she’s over visitin’ her sister, then?”