Texas in the 1880s is a wild and lawless land, where a woman fending for herself is a rare breed. Andrea Jackson is just that. A woman who went against the grain by writing bestselling novels instead of marrying and staying at home. But with her muse, and her money dried up, she’s in desperate need of a hero. And Sheriff Matthew Knight has just the right material.
Only He Can Give . . .
Matthew doesn’t know what to make of the sassy, bright-eyed, temptress who insists on following him around. He’s nobody’s hero, and he doesn’t believe in fairy tales. What he is, is a man. With a man’s needs. And there’s something about the feisty, determined, vixen, he just can’t seem to shake . . . Previously published in My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys
Release date:
May 12, 2015
Publisher:
Lyrical Press
Print pages:
90
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With his thumb, Matthew Knight slowly tipped up the brim of his black Stetson and stared at the lady standing before him. Her unexpected pronouncement had awakened him from a pleasant afternoon nap. As a rule he didn’t tolerate rudeness well, but he thought for her, he might make an exception.
He recognized her only because he’d seen her arrive on the noon stage. He’d been sitting right there, on the worn wooden bench outside his office, watching the comin’s and goin’s, thinking it was a fine day to be alive, praying nothing would happen to change his opinion on the matter.
The warmer weather was still a month or two away. He hadn’t even been bothered by the spiraling clouds of dust stirred along Main Street by all the wagons, horses, and people going about their business. Then the stagecoach had barreled in, causing the dust to thicken. The coach had rolled to a stop in front of the only hotel in town. Its owner, Lester Anderson, sadly lacking in imagination, had named the place Hotel, which to Matt’s way of thinking was as bad as calling your horse “Horse” or your dog “Dog.” With a poorly painted sign, Lester proudly boasted that his hotel had twenty-eight rooms—which seemed to be twenty-seven rooms too many. Matt had never noticed the vacancy sign come down, and he tended to notice everything. It was his job to notice.
The woman had caught his eye the second she’d stepped out of the stagecoach, like some princess arriving at her castle, expecting her minions to see to her bidding, her dark green outfit clearly belonging to a woman who’d never done without.
She had city gal written all over her, from her fancy, frilly hat to her polished black button-up shoes. Spoiled city gal, at that.
He’d watched as the driver and the guard who rode shotgun had struggled to get her trunk down from the roof of the stagecoach, then carried it into the hotel. She’d been issuing directions he couldn’t hear, moving her hands wildly toward them and back again as though she thought they were going to drop her precious petticoats; she wanted to be ready to catch the trunk if need be.
As soon as she’d disappeared into the hotel and the entertainment was over, Matt had tugged his hat down lower, settled back, and drifted off to sleep.
And now she was standing before him, disturbing his peace, as though she thought he’d be only too glad to jump up and do her bidding as well, do whatever she demanded of him. Be the hero that she claimed to need so desperately.
He didn’t jump, but he did extend his manners, unfolding his body until he reached his full height. Some people found his height imposing, but she didn’t seem to. Maybe because she was tall for a woman; the top of her head would tuck up neatly beneath his chin. The green of her hat with its bows, ribbons, and lace matched the green of the dress that matched the green of her eyes. Eyes the color of summer clover and hair the shade of golden wheat. He wondered what it would take to get her to unpin that hair for him, so he could fill his hands with it. She was slender, with soft, lily-white hands. No, not soft. Smooth. Except for that little bump on the side of the middle finger of her right hand, as though she’d spent a lifetime pressing something up against it until it had formed a callus to protect itself.
He swept his hat from his head in a gallant gesture he seldom used, because women were a rarity in these parts. “Ma’am, if you’re looking for a hero, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
She angled her chin as though that small action was needed to ignite her courage. Her steadfast gaze dipped to his chest, and he refrained from taking a deep breath to make it appear broader, stronger. What did he care if she found him lacking?
“You’re wearing the tin star, so you must be the sheriff,” she said.
Now that he was fully awake, he found her voice to be the sort that a man carried with him into his dreams—where he could be a hero, even if only until the sun came up.
“You’re observant,” he responded dryly.
“Sheriff Matthew Knight?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he acknowledged warily. It was one thing for her to be searching for the sheriff, another entirely if she was searching for him specifically. Others had searched for him, but been unable to find him, and as far as he knew none had been a woman.
“Then I’m definitely looking in the right place for a hero, Sheriff.” She smiled triumphantly as though she’d accomplished an impossible goal. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. Andrea Jackson?”
Something about the name teased at his memory. He didn’t think he’d find her name on a wanted poster tacked on the wall behind his desk. Outlaws weren’t usually in the habit of introducing themselves to the local law. She was too old to be his kid, too young to be his mother, too slender to be growing his kid in her belly. Although, considering how long he’d gone without the close company of a woman, any kid of his would be walking by now. Not that he truly thought he had any children wandering around. He took what precautions he could to prevent that from happening.
If he’d ever crossed paths with this lady, he would have remembered. Not that she had an unforgettable face, but her spirit intrigued him. Not many women stood before him as boldly as she did. The doc said it was Matt’s perpetual scowl that kept them away. He tended to think it was his reputation for being a man without feelings, emotions, or dreams. It was easier to face dying if a man wasn’t fond of anything he stood to lose.
He slowly shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”
“I’m a writer of di. . .
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