The Lone Sheriff

“Of course. 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. 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 gutshot. “Uh, yeah. I mean, no, I’m not ill. Just…surprised.”

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

Hell, no, it won’t.

AUTHOR NOTE

During my research for this book I was pleased to discover there were a number of women Pinkerton agents; in fact Allan Pinkerton stated that some of his most valuable operatives, particularly during the Civil War, were women.

So I thought a female agent in the Old West deserved her own story.

The Lone Sheriff

Lynna Banning

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Joe Walsh, with love

With grateful thanks to:

Suzanne Barrett

Carolyn Comings

Kathleen Dougherty

Tricia Adams

Brenda Preston

Susan Renison

Ann Shankland

Austin Sugai

David Woolston

LYNNA BANNING has combined a lifelong love of history and literature into a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she has lived in Northern California most of her life. After graduating from Scripps College she embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher.

An amateur pianist and harpsichordist, Lynna performs on psaltery and harp in a medieval music ensemble and coaches in her spare time. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, email her at carowoolston@att.net or visit Lynna’s website at www.lynnabanning.com

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

TO: SHERIFF JERICHO SILVER, LAKE COUNTY, OREGON

SENDING TOP AGENT MADISON O’DONNELL TO ASSIST CAPTURE OF ARMED GANG STEALING WELLS FARGO GOLD SHIPMENTS

ALLAN PINKERTON

PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY,

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Chapter 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 woman’s travel bag. “Allow me, ma’am.”

“Why, aren’t you sweet! At least some of you men out here in the West have nice manners.”

Sandy blushed crimson and spoke to Jericho under his breath. “I moved the extra cot into the jail like you said, Sheriff, but maybe... I mean, where’s she gonna sleep?”

“I expect you have a hotel of some sort in this town, do you not? I will be staying there.”

Jericho pointed down the main street to the white-painted Smoke River Hotel. Sandy took off at a jog, the travel bag bumping against his shin every other step.

“And, Sheriff Silver, I hope there is a dining room nearby? I ate a ham sandwich back in Nebraska and a day later I had an apple in Pocatello. Believe me, I am quite famished.”

Famished, huh? She looked plenty well fed to him. Not for the first time, Jericho noted the swell of her breasts and the plain-as-day curve of her hips. Even without the bustle ladies wore these days, her backside was nicely rounded.

He stepped off the station platform and tipped his head after his deputy. “That way. Restaurant’s near to the hotel.” He gestured for her to precede him and they started single file down the main street.

Following her was pure misery. Her behind twitched enticingly and every male within fifty feet stopped dead and stared as she passed. Every last one of them pinned him with a you-lucky-son-of-a-gun look.

He caught up with her on the boardwalk and they walked in silence for exactly four steps. He noticed that her gaze kept moving from side to side, taking in everything, the dusty main street, the barbershop, the mercantile, even the honeysuckle along the fences. Her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“I am simply starving,” she stated.

“You said that already. Dinner’s up ahead.” He pointed to the restaurant close to the hotel.

“First I shall register and check for any messages.”

“Messages!” Jericho snorted. “Nobody’s supposed to know you’re here in Smoke River.”

“Mr. Pinkerton knows. He will want a report every twenty-four hours.”

Jericho snapped his jaw shut. Jupiter, he had a damn amateur on his hands. “A telegram can be intercepted—you ever think of that?”

“Why, of course. That is why I always send messages in code.”

He clamped his teeth together and rolled his eyes. Code. That was a fancy back-east way of doing things. Out here in the West, you just plain said things.

Sandy waited at the hotel entrance, a dazed look in his eyes. Jericho gestured him inside. “She’s gonna register. Tend to her bag, Sandy. I’ll wait in the dining room.”

“Gosh, thanks, Sheriff.”

Detective O’Donnell breezed past them both, through the hotel entrance and up to the reception desk. Sandy glued his eyes to the lady detective’s hip-swaying steps and Jericho swore under his breath. Clearly his deputy was already smitten. Young men were damn foolish.

He turned away, strode out onto the boardwalk and into the restaurant. “Bring me a cup of coffee, Rita. And add a shot of brandy to it.”

The plump waitress eyed him. “Something wrong, Johnny?”

Without answering, Jericho headed for his favorite table by the window. “Make it a lot of brandy,” he called over his shoulder. He had a bad feeling about this; the train back to Chicago didn’t leave until noon the following day.

* * *

The dining room was crowded. Ranch owners and their wives, townspeople with their kids in tow—the room buzzed like a hive of bees. He settled in the corner facing the entrance and waited.

Rita brought his spiked-up coffee, and he waited some more. What took a woman so long to unpack a little bitty travel case? Or maybe she was upstairs decoding her messages. He swallowed a gulp of the black brew in his cup.

Sandy crossed the room, grinning like a Halloween pumpkin, and took the chair opposite him. “Got her all squared away, Sheriff.” He tried to curb his smile. “She sure is somethin’, isn’t she?”

She was something, all right. She could be a lot of things, but one thing she was not was a Pinkerton detective. He could hardly wait to muscle her back onto the train.

Sandy stood up abruptly. “Here she comes.”

“Right. Sandy, go on back to the jail.”

Her entrance into the dining room caused a flurry of activity. When Detective O’Donnell glided into the room, every single male in the establishment rose to his feet, just like their mommas had taught them.

Jericho’s momma hadn’t taught him a damn thing. Jericho’s momma had dumped him at the Sisters of Hope orphanage in Portland and forgot he even existed. He never knew whether she was white, Indian, or Mexican, though his bronzy skin suggested one of his parents was something other than white.

Miss O’Donnell darted over to him. He rose automatically because that’s what the nuns had taught him. She grabbed his hand and yanked hard.

“What the—”

“Never, never sit by a window, Sheriff. Surely you know that?”

“Well, sure I know that, but I’m not exactly on duty.”

He lifted his trussed-up right arm. “Got shot up.”

“Of course you are on duty. A good sheriff is always on duty.” She tugged him to an empty table in the far corner of the room. “Sit with your back to the wall,” she whispered. “Always.”

“Oh, for crying out— Look, Miss O’Donnell, you fight your war your way and I’ll fight mine like I’ve always done.” He dropped into the closest chair.

“It’s Mrs. O’Donnell,” she shot back, sinking into the opposite chair. Her eyes snapped. For the first time he noticed the color, a green so clear and luminous it looked like two big emeralds floating under a cold, clear stream.

“Sorry. Didn’t know you were married.” Somehow that had never occurred to him.

“I am not married, Mr. Silver. I am a widow.”

He blinked. “Sorry,” he said again.

“Do not be sorry,” she sighed. “I was never so bored in all my life as when I was married.”

Bored? She was bored doing what all women dreamed about from the time they were in pigtails? Before he could pursue the subject, Rita appeared and quietly slipped Jericho’s forgotten cup of coffee onto the table near his left elbow. Detective O’Donnell peered at it with an avid look.

“Please, would you bring me what he’s having?”

Rita frowned, then caught Jericho’s eye. “You don’t mean exactly like his, do you, Miss?”

“Of course I do.”

“Just make it plain coffee, Rita,” he directed.

Mrs. O’Donnell’s green, green eyes flicked to his cup and then up to meet his. “Make it exactly like his, please.”

Rita raised her graying eyebrows and darted another glance at Jericho. “Exactly like yours, Johnny?” she murmured.

Jericho tried not to smile. “Yeah, exactly.” He’d teach Miss—Mrs.—City-bred Detective not to make assumptions about things in the West.

Mrs. O’Donnell’s coffee came almost immediately. Rita hovered near the table, and Jericho knew why. The detective’s coffee had to be at least half brandy, and Rita wanted to watch the lady swallow a mouthful.

So did Jericho. He followed the lady detective’s every move as she picked up the cup with a small white hand and blew across the top. Then she downed a hefty swallow.

He waited.

Nothing. No choking. No coughing. No watery eyes. Instead, she dabbed at her lips with a dainty pink handkerchief and took another mouthful.

Still nothing. He couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Taste okay?”

“Certainly. That is surprisingly good brandy. Made from cherries, is it not?”

Chapter Two

Rita rolled her eyes, slipped away and returned with dinner menus. Before she could get her notepad out of her apron pocket, Mrs. Detective started talking. “I’d like a big, juicy steak, rare, and lots and lots of fried potatoes. Extra crisp.”

Maddie watched the sheriff seated across from her. His frown brought his dark eyebrows close to touching across the bridge of his nose.

“Same for me, Rita.” He folded both menus with his left hand and handed them back.

Maddie studied his hand—long, tanned, capable-looking fingers and a muscular wrist. An odd little twang of something jumped in her chest. She always made it a point to notice hands; this man’s said a great deal about him. For one thing, he used them a lot outdoors. And for another, he didn’t fidget like so many men did in her company.

When their steaks came, Sheriff Silver took one look at her heaping plate and his eyebrows went up. “You eat like this all the time?”

“Oh, no. But I do love steak. My mother’s French cook served nothing but chicken breasts drowning in fancy sauces. Now I eat steak every chance I get, pan fried, broiled, even baked. I never grow tired of the taste.”

The sheriff said nothing, but she noticed he managed a surreptitious glance at her waistline. He did not believe her. Probably he did not believe she was a Pinkerton agent, either. She calmly cut into her steak and forked a bite past her lips.

She chewed and swallowed while he stared at her. “Are you not hungry, Sheriff Silver?”

He looked down at his untouched plate. “Guess not. Guess I’m feeling a bit off with you here.”

“But you knew I was coming.” Maddie’s arrival on an assignment for Mr. Pinkerton often elicited such a response. She had learned to disregard it and get on with the job she was hired to do.

“There’s ‘knowing’ and ‘knowing,’ Mrs. O’Donnell. I sure as h—sure as hens lay eggs wasn’t expecting anything like you.”

“Mr. Pinkerton selected me especially for this assignment. It will be easier to disguise my purpose in Smoke River. Being a woman, I mean.”

He fanned his gaze over her body again. “There’s not a way in hell to disguise that fact, Mrs. O’Donnell. Seems Pinkerton didn’t think this all the way through.”

She watched him study her face. Oh, my. The sheriff’s eyes were such a dark blue they looked almost black. And tired. And mysterious in a way that made her knife hand tremble.

She laid her shaking hand in her lap. “Mr. Pinkerton always thinks things through. A woman can be in plain sight and still be in disguise. No one will question a female being in your company.”

“Yes, they will,” he said. “I’m pretty much known as a loner around these parts. A woman in my company, especially one like you, will have tongues wagging all the way to Gillette Springs.”

“Not if I am your sister, on a visit.” She picked up her knife.

“Not possible.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I was raised in an orphanage. I’ve no idea who my parents were, save that they were in a hurry to get rid of me. So I don’t have any sister, and the whole town knows it.”

Maddie thought for a long moment. “Your cousin, then. We will tell people I am your cousin.”

“My cousin!” His left hand jerked and his fork skittered off the table.

“Once removed,” she purred.

Rita appeared, rescued the sheriff’s fork and supplied another. “Want me to cut up your steak for you, Johnny?”

He grunted. The waitress made quick work of the sheriff’s meat and retreated to the kitchen. He speared a bite left-handed, then swigged down a gulp of coffee.

Again she noticed something unusual about him—the way he handled his coffee cup. He turned the handle away from him and picked it up by covering the top with his fingers and lifting up by the rim. He slurped in the liquid between his thumb and forefinger. But he never took his eyes off her face.

“If you are my cousin,” she admonished, “you should stop looking at me like that.”

He clanked the cup onto its saucer. “Like what?”

“Like you have never laid eyes on me before.”

He stared at her. “Shoot, lady, I haven’t laid eyes on you before.”

Maddie swallowed. She had never encountered anyone like this man. He was tall and he moved quietly, like a big cat she’d seen in the zoo once. He was short-spoken to the point of rudeness. He was amusing in a backhanded sort of way. He was...fascinating.

“Well, Cousin...Jericho, should we not get acquainted?”

“Acquainted?” He frowned.

“Of course. To start with, my given name is Madison. Maddie for short.”

“Maddie.”

She watched his mouth when he said her name. She liked it best when his lips opened for the “mah” and she glimpsed straight teeth so white they looked like fine fired china from England.

“Cousin or not, Mrs. O’Donnell, I don’t need you.”

“Oh, but you do. I have observed that you have been wounded and cannot use your right hand. I am here not only to cover your back but to serve as your gun hand.”

“No, you’re not,” he grumbled. “Tomorrow you’re getting on the train back to Chicago.”

“But you cannot—”

“Try me.”

His lips were not as attractive pressed in the thin straight line they were in now.

Rita popped up to take their plates. “Like some dessert tonight? Got some fresh rhubarb pie, Johnny.”

“No, thanks.”

“Rhubarb!” Maddie’s mouth watered. “My mother’s cook made rhubarb pies every summer. I would simply love a piece of pie. A big one.”