Salvation in the Sheriff's Kiss. Kelly Boyce

grabbed Meredith by the arm, shoving her behind him as the stranger turned around.

      “What do you think you’re do—”

      Hunter held on to her arm to keep her in place, then raised his voice to drown her out. “Who are you? Jenkins!”

      “Out here choppin’ some wood, Sheriff,” Jenkins called out, his voice filtering from around the back of the jailhouse, through the window he kept open a crack to keep the air from getting stale. “There’s a man here to see Bill but I told him he should talk to you first!”

      Hunter shook his head. What his deputy had in brawn he lacked in judgment. It did not bode well for the future of the town once Hunter stepped down. He gave the stranger a hard stare. “What’s your business here?”

      Beneath the stranger’s thin moustache, a painted-on smile plastered itself across his bland face. As it did so, Hunter noticed Yucton sitting on the edge of the bed partially hidden by shadow. The outlaw made a small, swift motion with his hand and, much to Hunter’s surprise, Meredith stopped struggling.

      “Good day. You must be Sheriff Donovan.” The man stepped forward, his hand extended. Hunter didn’t bother taking it. No point makin’ friendly until he knew what the man was about. Though whatever that was, he was already forming the opinion he didn’t like him. Trussed up in a fancy suit, he reminded Hunter of someone you’d see peddling an elixir on the thoroughfare claiming it would cure all your ills. Men like that usually wanted something, and after his setdown from Meredith, he wasn’t in a giving mood.

      “You didn’t answer my question.”

      The stranger’s hand dropped and his smile grew more forced. “Of course, how ill-mannered of me. My name is Wallace Platt.”

      Hunter noted the Southern lilt to the man’s speech. An outsider. “Not familiar. What are you doing in my jail?”

      Yucton’s lazy drawl drifted out from the middle cell. “Says he’s my lawyer.”

      “That’s what he says, huh?” Yucton had been taking up space in the middle jail cell for over two weeks now and not once during that time had he made any kind of move to employ legal counsel. Nor had he bothered curing Hunter’s curiosity as to why that was. It was as if the man was biding his time—but for what? “Didn’t know you’d hired one.”

      “I didn’t.”

      Hunter turned his attention back to Platt. “Care to shed some light?”

      The smile on Platt’s face became pinched and a red stain tinted his pale skin. It didn’t look like the man spent much time out of doors. City type, no doubt. Hunter didn’t necessarily have a stringent dislike for city folk, he just didn’t trust them was all. Especially not the namby-pamby type standing in front of him now.

      “I’m not in the habit of explaining myself, Sheriff.”

      “You could always leave,” Hunter suggested, nodding toward the open door.

      “I’m afraid I can’t. I need to speak to my client.”

      “Your client doesn’t appear to return those feelings. You want to speak to this man, Yucton?”

      “Can’t say that I do, Sheriff.”

      Hunter shrugged. “See.”

      “Think I might represent myself.”

      Platt spun on his well-shod heel to face the cell again. “Mr. Yucton, it is a commonly held belief that a man who represents himself—”

      “Ain’t interested in your beliefs,” Yucton said, cutting him off.

      Frustration colored Platt’s tone. “I didn’t say it was my belief, Mr. Yucton. I said it was—”

      “Then you won’t mind if I ignore it.”

      Hunter’s estimation of his prisoner raised a notch.

      “I get the sense Yucton here isn’t the one who hired you. Which leads me to the question—who did?” Hunter didn’t like this. Yucton was allegedly one of the rustlers who had stolen his father’s cattle all those years ago. Why would anyone care enough about it, or Yucton, to pay for some fancy lawyer from who knows where to represent him? It didn’t sit right. There was a lot of things not sitting right lately. If this kept up, he’d find himself running out of chairs real soon.

      “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment on that. You see, my benefactor—and yours, Mr. Yucton—wishes to remain anonymous. Suffice to say, he is interested in ensuring Mr. Yucton receives a vigorous and skillful defense against the pending charges.”

      Yucton snorted. “And they sent you?”

      Hunter pursed his lips together to keep his smirk in check. Behind him, however, Meredith’s muffled laugh rippled up to tease him. He wished he could turn around and see it. He hadn’t heard her laugh in longer than he could remember, but he hadn’t forgotten the way her eyes danced when she did.

      Dammit. Focus, Donovan.

      Platt cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at Hunter. Irritation flashed in his eyes and the smarmy smile disappeared.

      “I can assure you, Mr. Yucton, I have much experience in these matters and I am certain I can be of great service to you.”

      “Not interested.”

      Platt ignored the rejection. “I will give you the day to think on it and return on the morrow.”

      Yucton grunted in response. “Return on whatever morrow you want. Won’t be changing my mind.”

      Platt turned away from the occupied cell and fixed his snake oil salesman smile back in place. “I expect I will be allowed to see my client tomorrow, Sheriff.”

      Hunter shrugged. “The man isn’t going anywhere.” He wasn’t thrilled about Platt and his pompous attitude gracing his office again, but there was something fishy about the man, and better he keep him in his sights until he figured out what was going on and who this so-called mysterious benefactor was.

       Dig deeper.

      Platt headed toward the door but stopped when he reached Hunter. He looked past him to where Meredith peeked around his shoulder.

      “My apologies, madam. I did not see you standing there or I would have introduced myself to you directly. Mr. Wallace Platt, at your service.” Platt executed a courtly bow. When he straightened, he glanced at Hunter expectantly.

      Hunter ignored him. He couldn’t conjure any good reason to introduce Meredith to the likes of this dandified Southerner. Meredith, unfortunately, did not feel the same. She elbowed past his protective barrier and held out her hand. He watched in disgust as Platt bowed over it. Lucky for him, he didn’t raise it to his lips. If he had, Hunter was more than prepared to plant him into next week. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more—the fact that she didn’t appreciate he was only trying to protect her, or this ridiculous sense of proprietorship he felt toward her. She didn’t belong to him. A fact his head had accepted but failed to relay to his heart. Or other parts of him for that matter.

      “You’ll have to excuse the sheriff, Mr. Platt. Manners were never his strong suit. I suppose those of us who have come from away can appreciate their usefulness a bit more. Miss Meredith Connolly.” She gifted the lawyer with a smile so sweet Hunter’s teeth ached.

      “It is indeed my honor to make your acquaintance, ma’am. And where might away be for you, Miss Connolly, if it is not too impertinent of me to ask?”

      He had yet to let go of her hand. Hunter gritted his teeth against the surge of possessiveness that erupted within him. Planting Platt into next week was beginning to look like a stellar idea. He curled his hand into a tight fist.

      “Boston, Mr. Platt. And you? I assume from your accent you do not hail from these parts?”

      “Alas,