Her Sheriff Bodyguard. Lynna Banning
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about her low, melodious voice curled around his gut like smoke on a hot summer night. The women hung on every word, their faces rapt, while the men roared their disapproval and heckled when she stopped to draw breath.
“Go back to Boston, girlie!”
“Our women don’t want the vote.”
“Oh, yes we do!” a woman screeched. She leaped to her feet and pounded the tip of her parasol on the wooden floor.
“Siddown and shut up,” a male voice yelled.
To her credit the speaker waited for the tumult to die down before continuing. But she did continue. Hawk rolled his eyes at the inflammatory stuff she was saying, but he had to admit she had courage. A smart person would edge on out the back door.
“Gentlemen,” she called, after a particularly ugly outburst of catcalls. “Gentlemen, let me ask you a question.”
“Save it, honey!” someone yelled from the back of the room.
“No, I will not ‘save it,’ sir. Hear me out. Did you know that here in Oregon a married woman cannot—?”
“Sure we know all about that, lady. Keeps our women right where we want ’em.”
“And where is that, sir?”
“Underneath a man with her legs spread, where else?”
The men guffawed while screams of outrage erupted from the women, and the shouting match resumed.
Hawk heaved a tired sigh. Enough was enough. He didn’t favor women’s right to vote, but he did support law and order. He strode forward down the aisle separating the warring parties, counting on his presence and the revolver he wore on his hip to calm things down. Deliberately he moved toward the woman behind the apple crates and the noise of the crowd dropped.
He drew close enough to her to note that she had very, very rosy lips, and then suddenly a gun went off somewhere behind him. A bullet thunked into one of the crates.
Hawk dove forward and threw himself on top of her, toppling her to the floor under him. A second shot whined past his head.
Pandemonium erupted. Women screamed, men yelled and somewhere outside a dog began to bark.
“Don’t move,” he ordered the woman pinned beneath him. “Lie still.”
Her body twitched, but she said nothing.
He heard the dog yelp and go quiet. Gradually the noise inside the meeting hall faded to an uneasy buzz, and he rolled off her and onto his feet, revolver drawn.
A sea of stunned faces stared back at him.
“She okay?” a male voice asked.
“I—I am quite well, thank you,” the woman spoke at his back. He heard a rustle of petticoats and he guessed she was getting to her feet. He kept his weapon trained on the crowd, but no one moved or spoke.
He holstered his sidearm. “Meeting’s over, folks. Go on home unless you want to spend the night in jail.”
The hall emptied like a beer keg on Saturday night and Hawk turned to the woman. Damn suffragettes. Stirred up trouble everywhere they went.
Her fancy hat was mashed flat and her hair was straggling out of her bun. A plump Mexican woman darted from the crowd and began brushing the dust off the now-rumpled dark blue dress.
“Stop, Fernanda,” the woman urged, batting at her hands. “We will take care of this later.”
“I’ll see you to your hotel, ma’am.”
She trained the bluest eyes he’d ever seen on him and did not smile. “Thank you, Sheriff, but that will not be necessary. I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“Might be capable all right, but unless you’re carrying a pistol in your skirt pocket, you’re not armed. Come on.”
He grasped her elbow. She wrenched free, but he grabbed her arm again and moved her toward the entrance. The Mexican woman followed them out the door and down the street to the hotel.
“What’s her room number, Ed?” he growled as he marched her past the front desk.
The balding desk clerk gulped. “Two-ten. Top of the—”
“Right.” He snagged the key from the rack, guided both women up the stairs, and shooed them into the safety of their room. “Throw the bolt,” he ordered.
Then he tipped his hat and stalked back down the staircase. Before he returned to the jail he scouted the town from the livery stable at one end to the church at the other, nosed around the saloon and spent the better part of an hour studying fresh hoofprints in the road.
Nothing. Whoever had fired those shots was long gone.
Or the bastard was still in town. It was then he began to taste fear in the back of his throat. Someone was gunning for her.
Before Hawk could pour himself another shot of whiskey, the jail door banged open and the Mexican woman barreled into his office. Her long braid of black hair was sliced with silver and her large dark eyes snapped with impatience.
“Ah, señor, I am glad to have find you.”
Hawk removed his boots from his desk, planted them on the floor and stood up. “You found me, all right, señora. Question is why?” He motioned for her to take the straight-back chair beside his desk.
“You are Señor Anderson Rivera, are you not? The one they call Hawk?”
“Yeah, I’m sometimes called that. Who are you?”
“I am Fernanda Elena Maria Sobrano. From Tejas. I knew your mother.”
Hawk narrowed his eyes. “What part of Texas?”
“Butte City. Your mother was Marguerite Anderson, no? You look much like her, señor. Your eyes. Green, like hers.”
Hawk could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d thought of his mother in the past twelve years. He topped up his drink, then lifted the bottle toward the woman. “Whiskey?”
At her nod, he pulled a clean shot glass from his desk drawer and filled it.
“Salud!” She took a small sip. Hawk lifted his own glass and downed a hefty gulp.
“Salud. Señora Sobrano, what—?”
“We need your help, Miss MacFarlane and I.” She sipped again.
“What for?”
“Is dangerous, this speaking. You see what happen tonight, no?”
“I saw it. I stopped it. What more do you want?”
Señora Sobrano tapped one finger against her glass. “Someone shoot at her last week, also, in the city of Salt Lake. But she do not give up, Señor Hawk. Tomorrow after tomorrow, Miss Caroline, she make speech in Gillette Springs.”
“Not my problem, señora. They’ve got a sheriff up there, name of Davis. Good man.”
“Is not a sheriff we need, I think. I think this someone follows us to kill Miss Caroline.”
“You mean someone is stalking her? Because she’s making speeches?”
“Si.”
“Then maybe she should stop making speeches.”
The woman gave him a long, considering look. “Miss Caroline, she will not stop. She cannot.”
“Then she’s not as smart as she looks.”
“Is not a matter of smart, Señor Hawk. Is a matter of pride. Her mother makes speeches before