Free Julia: Bride of New York (Amercan Mail-Order Bride 11) by Callie Hutton

stumbled in. “Sheriff! You have to come quick. Old man Wimbly is fightin’ again with Maynard. Says he’s gonna shoot him this time.”
    Fletcher checked his gun belt, then moved around his desk and headed for the door. He turned and pointed a finger at Julia. “Stay here.”
     
     
    Julia winced as the door slammed, rattling the keys on the hook next to it. What the heck? She wasn’t going to stay here if something interesting was going on. Men always did that. Acted as if women were weak, sniveling creatures. She hurried after him, stepping out onto the boardwalk in time to see Fletcher striding up to two men rolling around in the street, dust billowing up around them.
    A circle of people surrounded the men and moved back when Fletcher shouted at the men. “Get up off the ground, you old fools.”
    The men ignored him and continued to throw punches at each other. Fletcher reached down and pulled one of the men up by his collar. The other man came up on unsteady feet with a gun pointed at the two men.
    Fletcher groaned loud enough for Julia to hear as she hurried toward them “Ah, come on, Wimbly, put that gun down.”
    “I’m gonna shoot him, Sheriff.” The old man narrowed his eyes. “This is the last time I’m gonna let him steal my wife’s apple pie right off the windowsill.”
    Still holding onto the one man’s collar, Fletcher said, “Now, you know it’s not worth hanging for an apple pie.”
    Although the man was waving the gun was a serious matter, Julia couldn’t help but giggle as she walked up to the group surrounding Fletcher and the two opponents. A few of the spectators backed away when Wimbly started gesturing with the gun. Julia moved around the outside of the crowd. If she could get behind the old man, she could bop him on the head with her reticule. She had enough coins in there, along with her key and a small penknife, that it would distract him so Fletcher could wrestle the gun from his hand.
    “Wimbly, you know if you don’t give me that gun, I’m gonna have to lock you up for a few days. You won’t get Martha’s apple pie, or any of her cooking, then.” Fletcher released the man he’d been holding and walked slowly to the potential shooter, his hand out. “Just give me the gun, and we’ll all go on home and forget about this.”
    Julia was right behind the man now. She looked at Fletcher, trying to give him a signal on what she planned to do, but the sheriff’s eyes were riveted on the gun in Wimbly’s hand. Which shook, making him all the more dangerous.
    She swung her reticule up and hit the man on the head just as Fletcher reached him and knocked the gun from his hand. Startled by the smack on his head, Wimbly turned. “What the hell?” He pulled his arm back and punched Julia on the chin. Her arms flailed for a few seconds before she fell backward and landed in the horse trough behind her, water engulfing her and pushing her bonnet over her face.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Before Julia even hit the bottom of the horse trough, strong hands grabbed her arms and hauled her up. Her sodden bonnet covered her face, and she coughed out dirty water, her lungs feeling as though they would burst.
    “Woman, didn’t I tell you to stay in my office?” Fletcher tugged the ruined bonnet off her head and glared at her. She bent over and continued to cough, spewing more water out.
    “Dammit, I’m arresting all three of you.” He waved at the crowd. “Go on about your business.” He turned to the two men. “Walk yourselves over to the jailhouse. Now.”
    Mumbling, the crowd dispersed, and both brawlers continued their argument as they headed to the jail, their arms waving around, and their voices raised.
    Fletcher hung onto her arm, thumping her on the back as she continued to cough and tried desperately to get air into her lungs. He tugged her forward. “Let’s go, Miss Benson, you’re under arrest, too.”
    She pulled her arm back and gasped. “I can’t