Free The Accidental Lawman by Jill Marie Landis Page B

rinse out her rag. She’d been trying to talk him out of covering the robbery for the past forty minutes. “Nobody will be interested in reading about that now.”
    “It just happened three days ago. Everyone is still talking about it,” he assured her.
    She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide for a moment before she looked away again. He found himself staring at the braid trailing down her back, knowing without even touching it that her hair would be as soft as silk.
    He watched her climb back up the ladder.
    Hank turned back to the press pieces and tried to ignore her. He took a sniff and wrinkled his nose. The lye and incense smells now mingled with the odor of vinegar.
    Twenty minutes later, she was polishing away at the window glass, but Hank wasn’t doing much of anything except watching her. He reckoned that being so long without a woman’s company, he was bound to begin tonotice all the things he’d taken for granted when he was married; the turn of a woman’s ankle, the merest flash of a petticoat beneath the hem of a full skirt, the softness of cottons, flyaway wisps of fine hair that refused to be tamed by pins or combs.
    Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, Hank forced himself to concentrate on the bolts and screws and nuts lined up like metal soldiers on his desk. He wondered about this fascination with her and reminded himself how very different Amelia Hawthorne was from Tricia.
    Headstrong and determined weren’t words he would have used to describe his late wife. Tricia was cultured, soft-spoken, genteel. Her hands were manicured, her hair always perfectly coiffed. She was never in the sun without a wide-brimmed hat or an umbrella. Not a single freckle marred her perfect ivory skin.
    No, Tricia was nothing like Amelia Hawthorne. It was impossible to imagine that he’d ever take a second glance at a woman like Amelia.
    After Tricia’s death, an old friend in Missouri tried to convince him that life goes on. He said that Hank would never forget Tricia, nor would he ever replace her in his heart, but Hank would surely find love again.
    His friend said people’s hearts healed over time, just like wounded flesh. Scars were left behind but you eventually healed. Hank didn’t believe it.
    Hank picked up a gear that worked the tumbler and found himself wandering closer to the ladder in search of a screwdriver. He shuffled through boxes of books, pausing to look over things in open crates—books he wouldn’t need until everything else was set up.
    He was backing up with a box full of stationery in his arms when he accidentally bumped into the ladder. Thething began to weave, and Amelia gasped and let go of the wet rag. Hank dropped the box, turned to grab the ladder and the rag fell on his face.
    He had overestimated his steps and bashed his shin against the lower rungs. The rag slid off his face. Amelia let out a squeak and Hank glanced up as she came tumbling down.
    He held out his arms and caught her before she hit the ground. She grabbed hold of his shirtfront with one arm and hooked the other around his shoulder.
    In less than an instant she’d gone from wiping down the front window to being cradled in his arms.
     
    Dazed and amazed, Amelia found her face inches from Hank Larson’s. She was so close she could see the small flecks of silver in his blue eyes. She watched those eyes of his widen in the same shock she was feeling.
    “The ladder wobbled.” For some reason she felt the need to explain. She wasn’t in the habit of catapulting into men’s arms.
    “I bumped into it,” he confessed. “I’m sorry.”
    “I think,” she began, “you should put me down now.”
    “Of course, I—”
    Just then, Mary Margaret Cutter came breezing through the open door carrying a covered dish and calling, “Woo-hoo! Mr. Larson!”
    She stopped dead in her tracks the minute she saw Amelia in Hank Larson’s arms.
    “Oh, my.” The woman quickly glanced away, but her gaze ricocheted