20

The instant the door clicked shut, Jeremiah looked up at Hazel and weakly pushed the glass aside.

When he didn't say anything right away, Hazel quietly asked, "What is it?"

Jeremiah shook his head and sighed. "From the look on both your faces, I'd be tempted to think I almost had one foot in the grave."

"We were worried," Hazel nodded, resting her hand on his right shoulder, "you've been insensible with fever the last five days."

Jeremiah gave her hand a soft, fatherly pat and closed his eyes. "Well, then... I thank you both for fussing over me, Miss Hazel. Heaven knows my Bertie would never forgive me for up and dying without her by my side."

"How is Bertie?" Hazel asked with a smile as a picture of the short, plump woman came to mind. Kind to a fault and blessed with a bubbly, no-nonsense personality, Hazel had instantly taken a liking to her when they first met.

"Keeping Deputy Turner on his toes, I imagine," Jeremiah chuckled. He covered a slight cough and accepted the glass of water Hazel offered, draining it in one long guzzle. "Ain't nothing happens in San Luis she doesn't know about or have an opinion on how to improve. Thought about deputizing her before I left, but she wouldn't hear of it... she's one hell of a woman. Don't know what I'd do without her."

"And your boys?"

Jeremiah sleepily nodded, a smile curling his lips as his eyes slid closed. "Everyone's doing mighty fine. Gordon sent word last month the lot of 'em were still in Kansas but are returning home in a couple weeks at the end of May with a surprise." He chuckled and shook his head, "There was a time those words meant he most likely had a toad stuffed in his pocket. Nowadays, it means one of 'em is either getting hitched, or Albert's wife Molly is sprouting offspring."

Hazel grinned and watched him in silence, "How are you feeling?"

"Tired enough to sleep the next two days away, and a little hungry, I suppose... but better, I think," he mumbled, adjusting his position in bed. A soft snore escaped his parted lips a few moments later and brought a smile to Hazel's face when the sound jerked him awake.

He glanced around the room as though searching for the source of the noise, then blushed when he met Hazel's gaze. "Must've nodded off for a spell."

"That's quite all right, Jeremiah," she grinned. "If you'd rather sleep, I'll-"

The door swung open, stopping her mid-sentence. Her heart kicked, and her stomach lurched in trepidation until Shepard walked into the room, carrying a steaming bowl of soup, a basket of rolls, and a spoon.

"Sorry it took so long," Shepard whispered, focusing on not spilling the soup as he closed the door with his boot heel. "That blonde fella from our first night here was picking a fight with Thomas."

"Davin?" Hazel asked with a frown as she took the soup from Shepard. "Did anyone get hurt?"

"No," Shepard grumbled and helped Jeremiah sit up in bed. He propped the pillows behind his back, then offered him the roll basket. "More's the pity; Harris broke it up before Davin landed a punch."

Jeremiah smacked his lips and grinned as he grabbed a buttered roll, "I was hoping you'd bring some of these."

"Do you know what they were fighting about?" Hazel asked.

"Preference in hair pomade would be my guess," Shepard drawled. "I don't think I've seen two hairier men in all my life."

Hazel laughed and leaned against the window frame, wanting to give Jeremiah space to eat while remaining close enough if he needed help.

They fell into quiet conversation while Jeremiah finished his soup and three of the rolls, regaling the tale of Thomas falling through the wall until Jeremiah was wiping tears of laughter from his face.

"Sure wish I'd seen that," he yawned with a chuckle. When the clock chimed the hour, he sighed and snuggled into his pillow and covers, "I don't know about you two, but I'm plum tuckered out."

Shepard stood, "You need anything before we go?"

Jeremiah mumbled unintelligibly and shook his head without opening his eyes. Within the next several seconds, he was fast asleep and snoring.

After ensuring there was a glass of water nearby should he need it, Hazel quietly tidied up while Shepard added a couple of logs to the fire to keep away the chilled night air. But once their tasks were complete, nervousness set in, making Hazel's stomach flutter and her hands sweat and shake.

Shepard stood by the door, holding the empty basket and bowl, and watched Hazel press a soft kiss to Jeremiah's brow before blowing out the lamp on the bedside table.

She tiptoed over to him, clutching her skirt in both hands and cringing with every creaking floorboard she stepped on.

He couldn't help but smile.

"What?" She whispered once she was at his side, reaching for the doorknob, "What's so funny?"

Leaning in close, he whispered with a chuckle, "You are terrible at being sneaky."

Hazel grunted and bit back a laugh as she followed him out into the hallway. They quietly walked to Shepard's room and stood staring at one another, neither moving to open the door. The droning hum of chatter and piano music filled the air, seeming to magnify the sudden awkwardness falling between them.

Clearing his throat, Shepard took a step away as he cradled the basket and bowl to his chest, drumming his fingers against the sides. "Well,... I'll take these down and be right back."

Hazel nodded and opened the door.

"Don't forget to-" he began.

"Lock it," she softly finished with a grin. "I won't."

Shepard smiled and headed for the stairs, glancing over his shoulder to watch her close and lock the door before continuing down to the saloon. He nodded in greeting to several men he passed on his way to the bar and murmured his thanks as he handed the bowl and basket to Harris.

The curled ends of the cantankerous bar keeper's handlebar mustache twitched, and Harris' eyes narrowed in a look of suspicion before he inclined his head and scooped the items up with a grunt.

"Evening, Devereaux," Sheriff Douglas drawled from behind Shepard, blocking him from leaving the bar. "Mind if I have a word with you?"

He didn't allow Shepard to answer but instead locked his meaty right hand around Shepard's right elbow and prodded him in the back with his left, attempting to usher Shepard outside.

However, Shepard shook off the Sheriff's hold and stalked through the batwing doors onto the boardwalk.

Standing several inches shorter than Shepard and on the portly side of brawny, Sheriff Douglas had the appearance of a weathered, middle-aged bruiser.

Long brown hair, shot through with strands of gray, reached past his shoulders in uneven, greasy ringlets. He was not a handsome man; in fact, there was something about his broad face that was distinctly off-putting, which added to his brutish manner in speaking and the hard glint in his pale green eyes.

Shepard turned to face Douglas the instant they were outside, crossing his arms over his chest and bracing his feet wide. His palm itched to settle atop his revolver, but by the feral look in the Sheriff's eyes, Shepard didn't dare.

"I understand that Marshal you're with has been somewhat sickly the past several days," Douglas murmured, brushing his coat aside and hooking his thumbs in his suspenders.

It was the sort of pose meant to appear non-threatening and put a person at ease while talking with someone in authority. And it might have worked, Shepard silently conceded, if it didn't place the Sheriff's hands directly over his holstered weapons.

Shepard nodded but kept his face expressionless, sensing it wouldn't take much to incite the Sheriff's ire and find himself in trouble.

Douglas hmm'd and rocked back on his heels. "Sorry as I am to hear that," he said, a complete lie if ever there was one, "I'm going to have to insist the two of you clear on out of here as soon as he's able to sit a horse."

"Any particular reason?" Shepard couldn't help but ask, careful to keep his tone even.

"Because I'm the law in this town, and what I say goes," Douglas growled, taking a slow, menacing step forward. "I'll not stand for you and that Marshal to think you can waltz in here and throw us into chaos."

Shepard arched a brow and fought to keep his temper reined in. "Are you suggesting we're somehow responsible for what happened to Miss Jones a week ago?"

"Damn straight," Douglas grunted, "I hear the three of you are old friends. And I find it mighty suspicious that within a couple hours of you arriving, she's abducted, you were seen brawling in the street with a man my deputies later found dead, another man was shot all to hell, half my town was on fire, and people were falling from the sky."

Shepard rolled his eyes at the exaggeration and clenched his jaw tight, digging his fingers into the swells of his biceps to keep from planting a fist in Douglas' face. "I'd be more worried about the outlaw responsible for attacking Miss Jones still being on the loose. Me and Marshal Strickland are on your side; I'd think you'd be grateful for our help in rescuing her. "

Fury flared to life within the Sheriff's eyes and hardened his pockmarked jaw. "I don't need or want your help, Devil," Douglas seethed, standing toe to toe with Shepard and leaning in so close the smell of rancid grease and onions about knocked him over and made him gag. "So, you and that condescending Marshal had better get gone; sooner the better. Do I make myself clear?"

Shepard's heart pounded with anger as he met the Sheriff's hateful glare. "You threatening me?"

Douglas smiled, revealing crooked and chipped teeth. "Damn straight, I am." He lifted his right hand and bent his first two fingers. Three men wearing deputy badges stepped from the shadows with weapons drawn and malice in their eyes. "Better watch your back while you're in my town, Devil Devereaux, or you and that Marshal will find yourselves in a pine box six feet under."

Grunting, Shepard ignored the three deputized brutes wearing shiny metal badges behind Douglas and walked towards the saloon doors, "Good to see what side of the line you're on, Sheriff."

Anger boiled beneath Shepard's skin as he stormed into the saloon. A few cautious looks followed his progress to the stairs before glancing away when Shepard looked over his shoulder.

He caught sight of Sheriff Douglas and his henchmen swaggering inside as though they owned the place. Shepard scoffed and took the stairs two at a time. Maybe they did, considering it was evident Douglas believed he owned the town.

A low growl escaped his throat as Shepard stomped onto the landing and marched past his room. If it weren't for Jeremiah being unfit to ride, he'd be more than happy to pack up and leave tonight.

But there was still the threat of Dynamite, and after what Hazel said a few days ago, he wasn't so sure she would abandon her life here. Regardless of not belonging in a town like this, under the tyrannical thumb of Sheriff Douglas.

He raked a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp to relieve some tension, and heaved a sigh. What a mess this had turned into. Rapping his knuckles against Jeremiah's door, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

"Jeremiah," Shepard whispered as he closed the door and walked to the bed, "you awake?"

Jeremiah coughed, and the bed squeaked as he rose onto an elbow, "Something wrong?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Shepard sat in the chair, perching his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. "We've got trouble."

"Seems to be a daily occurrence with the two of us," Jeremiah drawled as he struggled to sit up. He punched his pillows and covered another cough before settling against the headboard. "It between you and that Thomas fella, or has Dynamite slunk out of his cave?"

"Neither," Shepard muttered. "Sheriff Douglas wants you and me gone on pain of death if we don't comply in a timely enough fashion."

Jeremiah's brows rose to his hairline, "What'd you go and do to stir up trouble with that manure heap?"

Shepard scoffed and lifted his shoulders in a shrug, "To hear Delores tell it, you and I ushered in the apocalypse."

"That's a bit of a stretch," Jeremiah chuckled with a tired sigh, "but the man might have a small point... how long do we have before he runs us out of town?"

Shepard hesitated, "Only until you're able to ride a horse."

"Hmmm... who's Delores?" Jeremiah asked after a minute.

"Sheriff Douglas."

Jeremiah snorted a laugh. "Care to explain why I've heard you call grown men women's names on multiple occasions?"

Averting his gaze, Shepard blushed and quietly admitted, "It's just a way to show my contempt for men of the Sheriff's ilk."

"I see," Jeremiah softly chuckled.

Shepard grunted.

They fell silent, listening to the muffled chatter and music punctuated by the clock's mechanical tick-tock. Shepard buried his face in his hands and rubbed his forehead to ease the ache setting in. A knot of frustration and anxiety lodged in his chest, expanding with every breath he took until it threatened to suffocate him.

How the hell was he going to keep Hazel safe now?

It seemed an overwhelming feat that steadily got more precarious with each passing second. And to make matters worse, he doubted Hazel understood the magnitude of the danger she was in now that they had Sheriff Douglas and his deputized thugs to worry about as well.

Several minutes passed before Jeremiah cleared his throat and turned to Shepard. "The way I see it, we've got two options."

Shepard hung his head.

Jeremiah's tone didn't bode well. It was the sort all lawmen—and his mama—used when trying to sound reasonable and helpful in trying situations. Most likely to discombobulate before crushing your soul with a cold dose of reality because, in the end, you had to choose which fate was the lesser of two evils and hope you survived the outcome.

Two options, one of which would most certainly be worse than the other, but not by much. Beets or turnips, both were supposedly good for you, and yet they equally tasted like death and despair no matter how they were prepared. The only difference now was one of Jeremiah's two options would most likely end with someone getting hurt or both of them dying horrible deaths.

"Option one—we leave town," Jeremiah stated, "and take Miss Hazel with us. She'll put up a bit of a fight, but eventually, I believe she'd see reason. It'd be a satisfactory way to keep her safe and maybe even draw Dynamite out of his hole."

Shepard stared at him as though he'd lost his mind and shook his head, "Too dangerous. What's option two?"

"My lungs are awful tight," Jeremiah dramatically rasped, sinking into his pillows as he held one hand to his chest and covered a cough with the other.

"Maybe your fever's returned," Shepard stood with a worried frown and felt Jeremiah's forehead, then muttered, "you don't feel too warm, but I oughta let you rest." He blew out a breath and stood as he rubbed his neck. "Sorry I woke you. It was unfair of me to bother you with this mess when you're unwell. Sleep, I'll figure something out."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. He straightened and smoothed the covers over his lap, "That, son, is option two. If we have till I'm able to sit a horse, then maybe this illness of mine needs to take a turn for the worse over the next few days and buy us some time in tracking down Dynamite." He covered a yawn and settled against his pillows, "As much as I hate to put it all on your shoulders, it might be our best option."

Shepard thought on the matter before asking, "What about Hazel?"

"I'll keep an eye on her."

Shepard hesitated, "Do we tell her the plan?"

"Not yet," Jeremiah said, slowly shaking his head as though weighing the merit of his answer. After a slight pause, he added with more conviction, "The fewer people who know the truth of the matter, the better. If anything, her being unaware of my trickery will help sell it to the Sheriff."

"All right," Shepard reluctantly agreed after a moment's thought. "Maybe fussing over you will help keep her out of harm's way."

"I should hope so," Jeremiah murmured with a nod. "Once we've dealt with Dynamite, I'll make a miraculous recovery, and Sheriff Douglas will be singing your praise."

Shepard scoffed and settled his hands on his hips, "I doubt that. He told me to my face he doesn't need or want..." his words dwindled into silence, replaced by a muttered curse.

Brawling in the street with a man later found dead, another man shot all to hell.

The Sheriff's voice echoed in Shepard's brain over and over until the words spilled from his mouth on a stunned whisper. "That's what he said; another man shot all to hell."

"Who?"

Shepard raked a hand through his hair and started pacing. "Douglas, when he listed off all the calamity you and I caused within our first hour of being here." He shook his head and groaned, "He said I was seen brawling in the street with a man they later found dead, and another man was shot all to hell."

Jeremiah stared at him in silence, and his brow lowered in a heavy frown, "You think he meant Dynamite by that comment?"

"It'd be one hell of a coincidence if he was referring to someone else," Shepard muttered, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. "Oso had to have been who they found dead since he's the only one I brawled with."

"If the other one is Dynamite, the question we need to be asking is how'd Sheriff Douglas know he's been shot to hell?"