Wildwood. Lynna Banning

cracked one eye open, stretched and offered an elaborate yawn. Before he knew it, the animal curled up in his lap.

      The door bumped open a second time, and Jessamyn Whittaker marched into the room. A lacy white blouse that looked crisp enough to stand up by itself bloomed from the waistband of her swirling indigo blue skirt.

      “Sheriff Kearney?” Her voice sounded as if it, too, had been starched.

      “Miss Whittaker?”

      She whipped open a notebook, pulled a pencil from behind one ear and leaned over his desk. “As the new editor of the Wildwood Times, Sheriff, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

      Ben narrowed his eyes. The last thing he needed this morning was a grilling by a nosy Yankee newspaper reporter.

      Jessamyn poised her pencil over the pad. “Who was that Indian girl?”

      Ben stroked the purring animal in his lap. “Her name is Walks Dancing.”

      She scribbled in her notebook. “What is the significance of her visit this afternoon?”

      Ben frowned. “Depends. Significance to whom—you? Me? The town? Herself? Just what do you want to know?”

      Jessamyn tightened her lips in exasperation. Couldn’t the man answer a simple question? “I mean, where did she come from?”

      Ben plopped his hat onto the clutter on his desk and ran his hand through his hair. “She’s a Modoc. The Klamath chief adopted her as his daughter some years back. Black Eagle can’t risk exposing his braves—they’d be captured and sent to the reservation with the others. So he sent Walks Dancing into town with a message.”

      “What message?” Jessamyn said, her words clipped.

      “None of your business,” Ben returned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

      “How was she crippled?” Jessamyn interrupted. “From birth?”

      Ben expelled a long breath. “She was crippled because she’s a Modoc. The Klamath and the Modoc tribes have been enemies for generations. Walks Dancing made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man—a Klamath brave. She left her tribe and went with him. Her people found them the next spring. They killed him. Then they broke both her legs by running their horses over her and left her to die. She didn’t. Black Eagle adopted her.”

      Jessamyn felt the blood drain from her upper torso. Suddenly dizzy, she dropped the pad and grabbed for the edge of Ben’s desk. “How horrible.”

      “Sorry you asked?”

      “Yes,” she murmured. “I mean, no! How else am I going to find out what’s happening?”

      “Know what my father used to tell me? ‘Keep your eyes and ears open—”’ He leaned toward her and lowered his voice “’—and your mouth shut’” He looked as if he especially relished the last part.

      Jessamyn winced. His barb hit home. Very well, she’d do things his way. “Just one more question, Sheriff.” She mustered as steady a tone as she could manage. “What are you finding out about my father’s murderer?”

      Ben studied her for what seemed an endless minute. “Damn little that’s for publication.”

      “But what are you doing?” she persisted.

      Goaded by her tone, Ben answered without thinking. “I’m going to talk to Black Eagle.”

      Jessamyn gasped. “About my father?”

      “Maybe. Don’t know yet.”

      “Where does this Black Eagle live?”

      Again Ben studied her. “In the mountains. Two days’ ride.” He stood, upending the cat, and scooped her notebook up from the floor. “Now, why don’t you go on down and talk to Mrs. Frieder—find out when her baby’s coming.” He thrust the paper pad into her hand.

      “The Frieder baby’s due in July,” Jessamyn retorted. “I’ll go with you to see Black Eagle.”

      “Like hell you will.”

      “But you said… How can I keep my eyes and ears open if I’m not there? No good reporter relies on hearsay.”

      “Can you ride?” His voice rang with impatience.

      “A horse, you mean? N-not really, but I’m sure I could learn.”

      Ben chuckled. “Not damn likely. Not by sunup tomorrow.”

      Jessamyn straightened to her full height and looked Ben Kearney straight in the eye. “Try me.”

      She’d never been on a horse before in her life, but she’d never admit that to Ben. She was a Whittaker. If she had to fly to the moon to get her story, she wouldn’t give up until she felt the green cheese under her feet.

      “I challenge you, Sheriff. I challenge you to try me! Today. This very minute.”

      Ben resisted the urge to laugh out loud at her naive suggestion. Learn to ride in one afternoon? Impossible. She was so green she didn’t even know it was impossible.

      “Mr. Kearney, did you hear me? I said—”

      “I heard you,” he said, his voice quiet. On the other hand, he reasoned, maybe it would shut her up for a while. If she tried it, found how difficult it would be for a greenhorn to master a horse, he’d be rid of her. For a few days, anyway.

      The idea had definite appeal. The more he considered it, the more sense it made.

      “Miss Whittaker, meet me at the livery stable in ten minutes. And better stop by the mercantile on your way. Get yourself a shirt and some denims and a pair of boots. Otherwise, you’re gonna get corral dust all over those fancy starched petticoats of yours.”

      Without another word, he grabbed his hat and strolled out the door, leaving it open behind him. When he reached the planked sidewalk he began to whistle.

       Bet my money on a bobtail nag…oh, doo dah day.

      * * *

      “Mr. Freider,” Jessamyn said when she could catch her breath. “I need a shirt—one of those plaid ones on the shelf will do—a pair of denims and some boots. Small ones.”

      Otto Frieder’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “For yourself?”

      At her nod, the storekeeper’s eyes popped. “Miss Jessamyn, what you going to do?”

      Jessamyn took a deep breath and hoped her voice would sound reasonably steady. “Learn to ride a horse.”

      Otto stared at her. “Anna-Marie!” he shouted. “Come quick! Miss Jessamyn needs—”

      Anna-Marie’s rotund figure appeared beside her husband’s. Obviously she’d been listening from behind the curtained doorway. Jessamyn gave her as much of a smile as she could manage.

      “For you, I think maybe small-size shirt, like for older boy. Trousers…” Anna-Marie turned away and pulled a garment off the shelf. “These. And will need a belt. Men are not built so…” With her hands she traced a shape in the air. “So…in and out.”

      Jessamyn unfolded the blue denim jeans, fingered the metal buttons that closed the front. They looked complicated. How did men ever…?

      Instantly she banished the thought. Heavens, whatever would Miss Bennett say about the direction in which her mind wandered?

      “Come.” Anna-Marie beckoned. “You try on. Otto,” she called into the adjoining room, “find some boots for tiny feet. And, please, a belt.”

      The shirt—a man’s size, since smaller, boys’ sizes were not in stock—hung off Jessamyn’s shoulders and drooped past her wrists. At least it buttoned decently over her chest

      Cinched up with