Tresia just stared at him, a little surprised though she shouldn’t have been. Devlin Goodrich was a good man in so many ways—understanding, kind, thoughtful, and right now, he was making a lot of sense. In fact, he was going out of his way to show her that she could manage all of it, if she so chose. She could have a successful marriage as well as a successful store. Other women had done it and were still doing it.
“You could also hire one or two people to help, but aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself? Has Arnold or Willetta said anything to you when you pick up the books? Are they willing to give up Sullivan’s?”
“No, they haven’t said anything, but they haven’t done what needs to be done either.” She let out a sigh, disappointment rifling through her. “The last time I went in there, no one had dusted or swept the floor. And the books are a mess even though I clean them up every time I take them. They’re not paying theirbills, either, probably because they’re driving their customers away and they’re not making any money.”
“Let’s just wait and see what happens. Who knows? There could be a different opportunity. Another building up for sale that you could purchase and make your own.” His gaze held hers steadily, a different kind of light dancing in his eyes now. “I don’t want to play chess,” he finally admitted.
“You don’t?”
He shook his head. “Why don’t we go upstairs and celebrate our upcoming marriage.”
Tresia didn’t need a second invitation. She rose from her seat, reached out her hand to grasp his and led him upstairs to his bedroom on the second floor.
CHAPTER 17
He liked this part of his job—walking the streets of Serenity, exchanging greetings with the people of the town, making sure everything was as it should be, except now it seemed to be a little different. The decision to come here remained a good one though. He’d met and fell in love with Tresia Morgan here. They would be married as soon as the Justice of the Peace came to Serenity, which was just a week from now. Finding Tresia, loving her, was more than he could have hoped for. After losing Hannah, he hadn’t thought himself capable of loving anyone ever again. She made him realize that he could.
Avery was doing well, too, a regular little chatterbox once again. She was happy—he saw it every day in her smile and loved listening to her laugh. She loved Tresia almost as much as he did.
They would be a family, and the world seemed a little brighter, a little better.
The reporters were still here, swarming into town from all over, some as far away as San Francisco, like locusts, all of them looking to talk to him about Ned Delany and the circumstances of his death, looking to write the story that would make them—and him—famous.
A week after the outlaw had been buried in the cemetery at the edge of town, the reporters were still coming. Mrs. Gonzalez at the hotel told him just yesterday that all her rooms were filled. Elsie at the Wagon Wheel said she was busier than ever. He heard the same from several other shopkeepers.
Killing Ned Delany, it seemed, had been good for business, though it wasn’t for his frame of mind.
Devlin didn’t want any part of it. He had more to lose than Merrill or anyone else. He wondered how long it would be before Frances saw his name and showed up on his doorstep.
“Marshal Goodrich?”
He turned toward a man sitting on a bench along one of the pathways in the town square. Another person he didn’t recognize. There were so many of them. “Yes?”
“May I have a moment of your time?”
He eyed the man, suspicion making him stiffen. “Who are you?”
“Sebastian Jones with The Albuquerque Journal.”
It was just as he feared. Another reporter, but at least this one seemed to know the boundaries. He was polite. Respectful. He hadn’t camped out in front of his house, waiting for a moment with him, like the two he’d run off this morning. He was grateful, though, that none dared to approach Tresia or Avery again.
“I have nothing to say, Mr. Jones. Please just leave me alone.”
The man smiled, white teeth gleaming. “I can’t do that, Marshal. Like you, I have a job to do, and my job, at this moment, is to get an interview with you.”
Mr. Jones was persistent; he’d give him that. And he remained respectful. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. I have nothing to say to you.” He started walking away, but the newspaperman wouldn’t give up.
He rose from the bench and followed, almost on his heels, making the hair on the back of Devlin’s neck stand straight up.So this is what outlaws feel when I’m pursuing them. Hunted. No peace. No rest.If it weren’t so sad, he’d laugh, though he wasn’t in a laughing mood.
“Just one quote, Marshal.”
Devlin stopped in the middle of the street in front of the Marshal’s Office, pulled in his breath and let it out slowly. “All right. You may have one quote.”
Mr. Jones pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket, then flipped the book open to a blank page.
“Are you ready to take this down?” he asked and the reporter nodded eagerly. Devlin smiled. “Here’s your quote: No comment.”
He walked away then stepped up on the raised sidewalk and let himself into the Marshal’s Office. He closed the door—firmly—behind him. If there had been a lock on the door, he would have used it, but the Marshal’s Office was never closed.
