“Sheriff Gavin seemed quite respectable when he stopped in my store,” Molly said, more sharply than she’d intended.
“Looks are one thing,” said Elizabeth Andersen primly. “Respectable’s quite another.”
“And you should know,” Thelma Thompson said.
One of the women at the far end of the room tittered.
“Respectable or not, he didn’t look so bad to me,” Coreyanne interjected quickly. She smiled dreamily, remembering. “Even if he is big enough to make two normal-size men. Those eyes, you know, and that deep voice, and that big, broad chest.”
Even Emmy Lou paused respectfully a moment, thinking of his chest. Thelma reached for the second plate of biscuits.
Molly remembered all too clearly how big Sheriff Gavin had seemed, standing there in the sunlit doorway, remembered how the floor had bounced beneath his weight. She knew the rumors about his past, yet what she’d thought about all afternoon was not his size or his disreputable past, but how strong and safe he’d seemed, and how gentle his voice had been, and how he’d looked, blushing. And though she’d tried to forget, she could remember, all too clearly, just how warm his hand had been when it had closed so securely around hers.
The memories had been playing havoc with her good sense all afternoon. If she wasn’t careful, they’d be wandering through her dreams, as well.
“Would anyone like more tea?” she said, picking up her cup.
Witt had rather liked the song, “Clementine.” He could have sat through it without a word of complaint three, or even four times running, if he’d had to.
After a half hour spent listening to it being played, over and over and over, and badly at that, he was debating whether to shoot the piano or the piano player. Neither one would be considered a great loss, so far as he could tell, though the miners might miss the piano.
“He gets this way every now and then.”
“What? Who?” Witt wrenched his gaze from the burly piano player.
“Crazy Mike.” Fred hooked a thumb in the piano player’s direction. “He gets this way every now and then. Decent sort when he’s sober, and the best miner in five counties, but he’s got a temper like a sore-footed mule when he’s drunk and a kick to match when he starts throwing those fists around.”
“Does he get drunk often?”
“Couple times a year, maybe. Maybe three.”
“It’s the melancholy, shee,” said Billie Jenkins, leaning across the table confidingly. He was having a hard time keeping his head up. Jackson’s whiskey wasn’t half the quality of the Grand’s, but it was a whole lot cheaper, and Billie had been enthusiastically saving money ever since he’d walked in the door.
“Ol’ Mike, he had a girl, onct,” he added by way of explanation. “Pretty girl. He was gonna marry her.”
Fred grinned. “Named Clementine, if you haven’t figured it out.”
“She left ’im.” Billie pooched out his lips in drunken frown. “Broke his heart, poor bashtard.”
“Women’ll do that to you,” said Bert Potter, blinking and nodding sagely over his half-filled glass. “Every time, women’ll do that to you.”
“Only if you’re damn fool enough to get hitched to ’em,” said Josiah Andersen heartily. He winked at Witt. “Or if you can’t get rid of ’em once you do.”
Witt’s jaw tightened. He shoved his chair back.
He’d shoot himself before he’d sit through another round of that damned song, and he wasn’t about to try pushing his authority to convince the miner to stop.
“You’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “Work to do.”
Whatever objections his companions might have made were cut short by a furious bellow from the direction of the piano.
“Gol durn it! Don’t you go tellin’ me what t’play!
”Crazy Mike surged to his feet like an angry buffalo, all snorts and dangerous, threatening bulk. The crash of his chair falling echoed loudly in the sudden silence.
One of his companions gave him a queasy grin. “Ah, now, Mike, you know we didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Mike glared at the cringing men in front of him. “You told me t’quit playin’.”
“Didn’t tell yuh t’quit! Just t’play somethin’ differnt.”
Mike advanced a step. The miners retreated two.
“You din’t like my song.”
“Not t’say we didn’t like it,” said one of his hapless friends.
“‘Clementine’s’ a fine song, Mike, just fine,” the other hastily assured him. “But dammit! You been playin’ it fer God knows how long an’—”
“Don’t cuss!” Mike roared. “You know I don’t approve uv cussin’!”
Three steps in retreat. “Sure, Mike. Sorry about that. Din’t mean t’—That is—”
“Ah, hell,” said the man beside Witt. “That’ll about do it for tonight, I’m thinking.”
The patrons nearest the door abandoned their drinks without a backward glance and escaped into the night. The freckle-faced boy, who’d been collecting empty glasses at another table, slowly set the ones he held back down, then sidled closer, eager for a better view.
The sharp crack of a pistol made even Witt jump. Crazy Mike wasn’t wearing a gun belt—most men didn’t even own a gun—so he must have carried it shoved in the waistband of his pants. Right now the weapon was pointing at the floor, which had a new hole in it and a number of fresh wood chips scattered across the surface.
Witt quietly got to his feet.
“Ain’t nobody tellin’ me what to play,” Crazy Mike insisted, swinging around to confront the saloon’s wary patrons.
“Put the gun down.” Witt didn’t raise his voice, but in the silence, his words carried clearly.
The miner’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who’re you?”
“I’m the new sheriff, and I’d appreciate it if you’d put the gun down.”
Mike grunted. “Make me.”
Witt studied him for a moment, then slowly unbuckled his own gun belt. He set it on the table, much to the consternation of his drinking companions, then held up his hands, palms out.
“Put the gun down, Mike.”
Mike shot a hole through the painted tin ceiling.
“Watch the damned chandelier!” warned the outraged proprietor.
This time, Mike deliberately aimed at that battered brass fixture. His shot sent bits of paint flying from a new hole in the ceiling a good four feet to the right of the first.
“God dammit!” Jackson roared.
Mike swung toward him, the gun wobbling in his unsteady hand. “Don’t cuss. Ain’t right t’cuss.”
A warning gesture from Witt stopped Jackson from fishing beneath the bar for the gun that was undoubtedly hidden there.
“Sure, Mike. Sorry,” Jackson said through gritted teeth.
“Whyn’t you come back and play fer us, Mike?” one of the miner’s friends suggested.
Mike shot the piano. Twice.
He