The Widow's Little Secret. Judith Stacy

his confession.

      Knowing what a fool she’d been.

      Thinking how disappointed her parents would have been in her.

      Imagining what everyone would say about her, if they found out.

      Pretending, in front of the whole town.

      And now this.

      A lump rose in Mattie’s throat, closing it off, bringing a mist of tears to her eyes. She looked up at Jared and knew she owed him an apology. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry.

      “Mr. McQuaid—” Her voice broke. Mattie gulped down the knot of emotion and tried again. “Mr. McQuaid, I realize you owe me nothing and I have no right to ask anything else of you, but I would appreciate it if you would leave.”

      He didn’t leave. Instead, he studied her for a long moment, then eased closer until she could feel the heat of his body.

      “You’re going to have to figure out a way to deal with your husband’s betrayal, Mattie,” he said. “But don’t be sorry you reached out for help last night. Don’t be sorry you needed somebody.”

      He touched her chin and brought her face around.

      “Don’t be sorry it was me,” he whispered.

      And with that, Jared McQuaid walked out the kitchen door of the Cottonwood Café.

      As he stalked down the boardwalk, people got out of his way. Jared strode into the newspaper office, then went to the jail. The sheriff was there, limping on his makeshift crutch, cursing the pain of his gunshot wound.

      Jared signed the paperwork, took custody of the prisoners and marched them to the train station at gun-point. He loaded them into the baggage car, chained their leg irons to the floor and went back out to the platform.

      The wind snapped his coat around his knees as he stared down Main Street. Prosperous businesses, likable people; this was a good town.

      His gaze landed on the Cottonwood Café, the sign barely visible at the other end of town.

      Mattie Ingram.

      Yeah, he’d made her forget, all right.

      Now, how was he going to manage it?

      Chapter Three

      “Two months? Two months gone by since you were here the last time?” Mayor Rayburn asked.

      “Almost three,” Jared said.

      “Well, if that don’t beat all…”

      Standing with the mayor inside the sheriff’s office, Jared could hardly believe how quickly the time had passed since his first visit to Stanford.

      Or how much had happened.

      “Where does the time go?” the mayor lamented, stroking his gray side whiskers. “Anyway, take it from me and the town council, we’re plum tickled to have you here in Stanford, to stay this time.”

      Jared looked down at the mayor, dressed in his cravat and the rumpled suit that hung loosely on his thin frame. “Too bad about Sheriff Hickert.”

      “Yep. A damn shame, all right. Tricky thing about them gunshot wounds. Don’t heal right, sometimes. He tried to handle his duties, but just couldn’t manage anymore.” The mayor clasped Jared’s arm. “But I know you’re going to do us a fine job in his place. Stanford is a good town, full of good people. We want to keep it that way.”

      The mayor and the men of the town council had said those exact words to Jared shortly after he’d arrived on the train this morning, when they’d sworn him in to office at the mayor’s house. In fact, Jared had heard those words three times now.

      “You can count on it,” he declared.

      “Just what I like to hear.” The mayor rubbed his palms together. “Let me know if there’s anything you’re needing.”

      “I’ll do that,” Jared said, and followed him outside.

      “Me and the missus will have you over for supper some night,” Mayor Rayburn said, and headed off across the street.

      Jared stood on the boardwalk watching the horses, wagons and buggies move along Main Street. Miners, women and children, gentlemen in suits and cowboys wearing guns went about their business.

      Jared’s chest swelled a little.

      Stanford. His town.

      He glanced down his vest. Gone was the U.S. Marshal’s badge he’d worn for nearly ten years. In its place was the tin star declaring him Stanford’s sheriff.

      When last here, he’d signed up for a subscription to the Stanford Gazette on his way out of town. Despite the sporadic mail service and the duties that had kept him on the trail, he’d actually received a few issues. Enough for him to follow the story of Sheriff Hickert, who’d never fully recovered from his gunshot wound. Enough to learn that Stanford needed a new lawman. Jared had telegrammed, asking for the job, and within a few weeks got the answer he’d hoped for.

      It hadn’t taken much for Jared to make the life-changing decision. Hunkered down by a feeble camp-fire one cold night, with the wind biting his ears, Jared had thought about why he’d been so envious of Del Ingram, a dead man.

      Ingram had everything Jared didn’t have—a town, a home, a family, the respect of decent people. In that moment, Jared had realized that’s what he wanted for himself.

      True, he’d had no desire for any of those things for a long time, for a lot of reasons. But that was behind him now. Jared knew where his future lay.

      So here he was.

      Jared rested his thumbs in his gun belt and scanned Main Street one final time before going into the sheriff’s office. His office.

      Not only did he have an office, he had a deputy who, at this very minute, was out keeping an eye on the streets of Stanford. He’d met Drew Tanner at the mayor’s house this morning. Tanner looked a little young and seemed a little green, but he had some experience and he was eager.

      As sheriff’s offices went, this one was as good as any. Jared surveyed his desk, his racks of rifles, Wanted posters nailed to the walls, the little stove in the corner with the rocking chair next to it. Down the hallway were two cells, both empty at the moment.

      Jared’s living quarters were there, too. The room was small, but it held everything he needed: a bunk, a washstand, a bureau. A place he could hang his hat every single night.

      No more meals around a campfire. No more cold nights on the trail. No more hunting down lawbreakers who would knife him in the back or blow his head off given a second’s opportunity. He’d never have a daily dose of those kind of men again.

      Jared smiled in the quiet office. The town of Stanford was peaceful as a Sunday morning, tame as a speckled pony. He could do his sheriff duties in his sleep.

      Jared drew in a deep, satisfied breath. Yep, he was going to like it here in Stanford.

      Pausing at the little mirror beside the stove, Jared straightened his badge and pulled his hat a little lower over one eye. He gave himself a brisk nod, then walked out into the streets of his town.

      Spring had come to Stanford and should have been gone by now, but the pleasant weather hung on. The morning was warm. A hint of a breeze stirred.

      Citizens crowded the boardwalks and the streets, going about their business. Jared strolled along, looking things over, watching for trouble, getting the lay of the place.

      And looking for Mattie Ingram.

      He stopped abruptly outside the Stanford Mercantile, realizing that his first walk-through of the town had taken him directly to the Cottonwood Café.

      Well, why shouldn’t he head here first?