The Lone Sheriff. Lynna Banning

One

      Smoke River, Oregon, 1873

      “Sonofa—” Jericho shoved his shot glass of Red Eye around and around in a widening circle. That’s all he needed, some citified armchair detective telling him how to do his job.

      The bartender swept out a meaty hand and rescued the glass. “Got a problem, Johnny?”

      “Nope. Gonna get rid of it soon as it turns up.”

      Jericho tossed off the whiskey and slapped the glass onto the polished wood counter. “No fancy-ass Pinkerton man from the city is gonna sit on his duff at the jailhouse giving me advice while staying out of the line of fire.”

      “Oh, yeah?”

      “Yeah. Fill it up, Jase. Jawing with some city slicker from Chicago’s gonna be easier with this inside me.”

      The bar man looked him over. “Ya keep this up, you’re gonna be pie-eyed. That’s your fourth shot.”

      Jericho grunted an obscenity. Pie-eyed was okay with him. Three weeks of chasing the Tucker gang, and now his arm was in a sling. His gun arm. He swore again and downed his shot.

      The windowless saloon was smoky and dim, but it was over a hundred degrees outside and the Golden Partridge was the coolest place in town. He grinned at the paunchy man on the other side of the counter and slowly pivoted to study the room behind him. A puff of hot air through the swinging double door told him he was no longer alone.

      Hooking his boot heel over the bar rail, he shoved both elbows onto the bar top and watched his still-wet-behind-the-ears deputy sidle up beside him.

      “You gonna meet the train, Sheriff?”

      Jericho nodded. The kid was young. Red-haired and shiny-faced, sharp as a whip and foolishly brave. Sandy had been with him two years, now. Jericho relied on him. Trusted him.

      But Lake County had never faced anything like this before.

      “Whatcha gonna do, Sheriff?”

      Jericho shrugged. He had a plan, all right. At four o’clock this afternoon the big black steam engine would roll into the station and Madison O’Whatsisname would get off. At four-oh-five, Jericho would strong-arm him right back onto the train.

      It’d be easy.

      * * *

      At precisely four o’clock, the Oregon Central chuffed into the station. Jericho adjusted his sling so the sheriff’s badge showed, jammed his left thumb in his belt and waited.

      The first person off the train was Darla Weatherby with her bossy mother-in-law right behind her. Another trip to the St. Louis opera house, he guessed; both women fancied themselves singers. Jericho had heard them once at a church social, warbling a duet in Italian. Lessons in St. Louis weren’t gonna help.

      After them came rancher Thad MacAllister, followed by old Mrs. Hinksley and her sister, Iris DuPont, both dressed in pink-checked gingham with parasols to match. Then came more passengers he didn’t recognize, but none of them looked remotely like a Pinkerton man. A Pinkerton agent would no doubt be wearing a proper suit. But the only male who looked the least bit citified was Ike Bruhn, home from his honeymoon with his new bride.

      Sandy jiggled at his side. “Ya see ’im?”

      “Nope,” Jericho grunted.

      “Maybe he missed the train,” his deputy suggested.

      “Naw, must be here somewhere. Look for a gent in a gray suit.” Pinkerton men always wore gray to blend in with crowds. He scanned the thronged station platform again.

      “Check inside, Sandy. Maybe he slipped past me.”

      His deputy jogged off and Jericho perused the crowd a third time. Nothing. Maybe Mr. Detective had chickened out at the prospect of fingering an elusive outlaw gang that was robbing trains. He narrowed his eyes and was turning to check the station once more when someone stumbled smack into him.

      “Oh, I am terribly sorry.” An extremely pretty young woman carrying a green-striped parasol gazed up at him. Her voice sounded like rich whiskey sliding over smooth river stones, and for a moment Jericho forgot what he was there for. She only came up to his shoulder, and on her dark, piled-up hair sat the most ridiculous concoction of feathers and stuffed birds he’d ever laid eyes on.

      He sucked in a breath to apologize, then wished he hadn’t. Damn, she smelled good. Soap and something flowery.

      Made his head swim.

      He stepped back. “’Scuse me, ma’am.”

      She waved a gloved hand and peered at his chest. “Oh, you are the sheriff.”

      “Yeah, I am.”

      She smiled and his mouth went dry. “You are just the man I want to see.”

      Jericho swallowed. “You have a problem?”

      “Oh, no.” She twirled her parasol. “You have the problem. I have come to help.” She waited, an expectant look on her face.

      “Help?” Jericho echoed.

      “Of course.” The whiskey in her voice was now sliding over some pointy rocks. “I am Madison O’Donnell. The Smoke River Bank hired me to help catch the gang robbing their gold shipments.”

      Jericho stared at her.

      “I believe you were expecting me?”

      He snapped his jaw shut. He sure as hell wasn’t expecting her. The last thing he’d expected was this frilly-looking female with her ridiculous hat. In her green-striped dress and twirling her parasol like that she made him think of a dish of cool mint ice cream.

      “Whatever is the matter, Sheriff? You have gone quite pale. Are you ill?”

      He jerked at the question. Not ill, just gut-shot. “Uh, yeah. I mean no, I’m not ill. Just...surprised.”

      She lowered her voice. “Most Pinkerton clients are surprised when they meet me. It will pass.”

      Hell, no, it won’t.

      Madison O’Donnell picked up her travel bag. “Shall we go?”

      Not on your life. “Uh, my deputy’s inside the station house. ’Scuse me, ma’am.” He strode past her without looking back. Inside, he found Sandy talking to the ticket seller.

      “Charlie says he hasn’t seen anyone who looks like a—”

      “No need. I’ve found him. Her,” he corrected himself.

      Sandy’s rust-colored eyebrows went up. “Huh?”

      “Madison O’Donnell. She’s a ‘she.’”

      The deputy’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah? A female? What kinda female?”

      “A female kind of female,” Jericho snapped. He headed for the doorway. “And don’t spread it around about her being a Pinkerton agent.”

      “Gosh-a-mighty, Sheriff, what’re you gonna do with a lady Pinkerton detective?”

      “I’ll think of something.” He slammed through the entrance, Sandy in his wake, just in time to see the train rattle on down the track.

      “Where is she, Sher—” His deputy’s eyes widened. “Oh, criminy, she’s mighty good-looking for a...” Sandy’s voice trailed off. Jericho guessed young Sandy hadn’t seen a woman like her before. A back-east woman with birds on her head.

      He swallowed a chuckle, then turned it into a cough. Hell, he’d never seen a woman like her before, either.

      “What’re you gonna do with her, Sheriff?” Sandy said again.

      “As little as possible. Close your mouth, Sandy.”

      Without another word, his deputy stepped forward and snagged the