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"It's the middle of the day," she said, and opened the door. "The sheriff's office is a place of business. It's not as if I'm going to a man's hotel room, Mrs. Dobson. Why would anyone say anything?"
Before she lost the little courage she had, she stepped out into the afternoon and turned right.
Her ankle-high buttoned shoes clicked on the wooden planking in front of her store. The boardwalk continued to the stage office, then came to an abrupt end ten feet from
the butcher shop. From there it was a wide river of mud until the planking started again in front of the sheriff's office.
Spring was almost here, she thought as she took a firm grip on her skirts and pulled them up several inches. She eyed the moist muck, planning out her path to avoid the worst of the puddles and a still-steaming pile of manure left by the stagecoach horses. With a quick prayer for the state of her shoes, she stepped daintily across to the planking several feet away.
A couple of farmers nodded as she passed them. A lady she knew said hello. Megan smiled and kept on moving, hoping no one would ask where she was off to.
When she reached the safety of the wooden sidewalk, she stamped her feet to get rid of the loose mud, then dropped her skirts to the ground. Her heart thundered loudly. She raised her chin slightly, trying to ignore the fear that fueled the pounding in her chest and made her palms damp against the kid leather of her gloves.
She approached the one-story wooden building. Two windows flanked the door. They hadn't been washed in weeks, so she couldn't just peek inside and find out if the man in question was the Justin Kincaid she had known. Besides, she scolded herself, it wasn't seemly for her to go around spying on others. She would simply open the door and step inside, as any good citizen could. She would see for herself, then leave.
"Afternoon, Megan."
She spun toward the voice. Mrs. Greeley, the butcher's wife, strolled by her.
"Good afternoon." Megan almost choked on the words. She'd forgotten that guilt made her throat dry. "Fine weather we're having."
The older woman hiked up her skirts to almost her knees and waded through the mud. "If you don't mind a little mess," she called over her shoulder.
Megan stared at the front door. Indecision gripped her. Oh, just get it over with, she told herself firmly. She had to do it now before someone else she knew came along. What was the worst that could happen?
She gripped the door handle and turned it. The door swung open silently, and she stepped inside. Until that moment, Megan hadn't realized she'd never been inside the sheriff's office before. She'd had no reason to come here. She'd never sworn out a warrant against another or been accused of a crime. Her father had conducted his business with the sheriff in the small office in the back of the general store.
Standing by the door, she slowly studied the room. The walls hadn't been papered. Posters of wanted men hung on the bare wood. Dappled sunshine highlighted the floor scarred by boot heels, spurs and tobacco burns. Three desks, two smaller ones on each side and a larger one in the center of the room, took up most of the space. There were two doors leading into the back. Both of them were closed. Except for the furniture and herself, the room was empty.
She stepped inside and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one to witness her potential humiliation at the hands of Justin Kincaid. Of course, there wasn't any Justin Kincaid, either.
She moved closer to the large desk. A box sat on top. The cover had been pushed aside and she could see pencils and papers, along with a pair of handcuffs. She saw the edge of a pocketknife at the bottom of the box. Initials had been carved into the side, but she couldn't read them. She didn't have to. Justin had always put his initials on his pocket-knife. No doubt the JK carved on this knife would match the one she kept in the bottom drawer of her jewelry box.
It was him. He'd come back.
"This is a surprise."
She jumped when she heard the man's voice, and her head jerked up. He stood by the back door, beyond the afternoon light filtering through the windows behind her. She had trouble making out his individual features. Even so, she knew the man. She recognized the broadness of his shoulders, the tilt of his head and the easy grace of his stride.
As he walked toward her, he moved in and out of the shadows. For a second, his face was clear to her, then hidden, then clear again. She hadn't realized she was backing up until the desk was between them. It should have made her
