Read Online Last Lawman (9781101611456) by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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slid her swivel chair back away from her desk and lowered her hazel gaze to the floor. She’d dropped a pencil a few minutes ago but had been too immersed in the futile attempt at balancing her accounts, trying to keep her business running smoothly in these months after the death of her husband, to bother retrieving it. She’d simply picked up another one.
Now the pencil that was still on the floor quivered and bounced ever so slightly, turning a slow circle on the scarred floorboards. She could feel the vibration through the soles of her low-heeled leather boots.
Riders coming hard toward Sweetwater. A good many of them, too.
Erin’s heart quickened slightly. More business, perhaps? She could certainly use it. She had more credit customers than those who paid, and, as more than one of her fellow businessmen had told her, her generous heart would not continue indefinitely to provide food for herself and her young son, Jim. Maybe the thuds she began hearing now were the hoofbeats of ranch riders heading to town for supplies.
If so, they’d better have more in their pockets than lint and tobacco flakes.
Erin—a tall, slender, clear-eyed woman of twenty-six—rose from her chair and strode to the window overlooking the street. She wore a brown-and-cream-plaid Mother Hubbard dress to conceal the lush curves of her body and to forestall the advances of the men of Sweetwater, whom she sensed were waiting for the proper amount of time to pass after Daniel’s death from cancer to begin knocking on her door after business hours.
She was only half consciously aware that the dress did little to scuttle the lusty glances directed her way. And she had no idea that many of the single as well as the married men of the town were covertly licking their proverbial chops and fantasizing about how the widow of Daniel Wilde would look with her clothes scattered about their bedroom floors.
Erin was lushly pretty. Her full hips and bust, olive-hued skin, passionate eyes, and thick chestnut hair, which often defied her attempts at containing it in a conservative bun atop her head—all betrayed the heritage of her Irish mother. Her pragmatic, hardworking nature hailed from her Norwegian father. It was those practical, ever-hopeful eyes that she directed out the sashed window and into the wide, dusty street of Sweetwater just as the riders appeared on her right.
Led by a tall man in a top hat and cream duster riding a mouse-brown gelding and with a short, stout shotgun dangling against his belly, the group slowed their mounts and then walked them along the street toward the mercantile.They were a hard-looking, dusty, unshaven lot. The leader appeared to have grease or something—possibly tattoos—on his broad, ruddy cheeks above a thick, scraggly beard.
Something about the gang made Erin uneasy. But she was a businesswoman, and that part of her hoped they patronized her store. Turning away from the window and nervously pressing her dress tight across her thighs with her hands, she left the office that still smelled of her late husband’s cigar smoke and descended the stairs to the main store below. She walked between the aisles of dry goods to the front of the store and looked through the glass upper panel of the door on which WILDE MERCANTILE—DRY GOODS AND SUNDRIES was stenciled in gold-leaf lettering.
The gang had stopped in the street fronting the store. They milled now, holding their sweat-lathered horses on tight reins as they looked around. Their dust was catching up to them, and the sunlight touched it, making it glow an ethereal gold-brown.
Several townsfolk had stopped on both sides of the street to regard the strangers with wary curiosity. One of the gang members (and that’s what they looked like, Erin decided now, as well-armed as they were—a gang) rode double with a young, sour-faced woman with long blond hair and very little on her body save for a skimpy, torn dress that revealed nearly all of her heavy breasts.
Now the pencil that was still on the floor quivered and bounced ever so slightly, turning a slow circle on the scarred floorboards. She could feel the vibration through the soles of her low-heeled leather boots.
Riders coming hard toward Sweetwater. A good many of them, too.
Erin’s heart quickened slightly. More business, perhaps? She could certainly use it. She had more credit customers than those who paid, and, as more than one of her fellow businessmen had told her, her generous heart would not continue indefinitely to provide food for herself and her young son, Jim. Maybe the thuds she began hearing now were the hoofbeats of ranch riders heading to town for supplies.
If so, they’d better have more in their pockets than lint and tobacco flakes.
Erin—a tall, slender, clear-eyed woman of twenty-six—rose from her chair and strode to the window overlooking the street. She wore a brown-and-cream-plaid Mother Hubbard dress to conceal the lush curves of her body and to forestall the advances of the men of Sweetwater, whom she sensed were waiting for the proper amount of time to pass after Daniel’s death from cancer to begin knocking on her door after business hours.
She was only half consciously aware that the dress did little to scuttle the lusty glances directed her way. And she had no idea that many of the single as well as the married men of the town were covertly licking their proverbial chops and fantasizing about how the widow of Daniel Wilde would look with her clothes scattered about their bedroom floors.
Erin was lushly pretty. Her full hips and bust, olive-hued skin, passionate eyes, and thick chestnut hair, which often defied her attempts at containing it in a conservative bun atop her head—all betrayed the heritage of her Irish mother. Her pragmatic, hardworking nature hailed from her Norwegian father. It was those practical, ever-hopeful eyes that she directed out the sashed window and into the wide, dusty street of Sweetwater just as the riders appeared on her right.
Led by a tall man in a top hat and cream duster riding a mouse-brown gelding and with a short, stout shotgun dangling against his belly, the group slowed their mounts and then walked them along the street toward the mercantile.They were a hard-looking, dusty, unshaven lot. The leader appeared to have grease or something—possibly tattoos—on his broad, ruddy cheeks above a thick, scraggly beard.
Something about the gang made Erin uneasy. But she was a businesswoman, and that part of her hoped they patronized her store. Turning away from the window and nervously pressing her dress tight across her thighs with her hands, she left the office that still smelled of her late husband’s cigar smoke and descended the stairs to the main store below. She walked between the aisles of dry goods to the front of the store and looked through the glass upper panel of the door on which WILDE MERCANTILE—DRY GOODS AND SUNDRIES was stenciled in gold-leaf lettering.
The gang had stopped in the street fronting the store. They milled now, holding their sweat-lathered horses on tight reins as they looked around. Their dust was catching up to them, and the sunlight touched it, making it glow an ethereal gold-brown.
Several townsfolk had stopped on both sides of the street to regard the strangers with wary curiosity. One of the gang members (and that’s what they looked like, Erin decided now, as well-armed as they were—a gang) rode double with a young, sour-faced woman with long blond hair and very little on her body save for a skimpy, torn dress that revealed nearly all of her heavy breasts.
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