Page 5

A few minutes later, he stepped up on the raised sidewalk outside the Marshal’s Office on the other side of the town square and let himself in.

Instantly, he felt at home. Perhaps the layout was different than his last post, but still, it was all familiar.

The Wanted Posters hanging on the wall, a small Ben Franklin stove to heat the place in winter, the cabinet filled with guns and rifles of every sort.

He didn’t see a coffeepot on the stove, but he smelled coffee, the rich brew filling his nostrils.

The jail cells, two of them, were directly in front of him, the doors open as they were both unoccupied, their keys on a heavy metal ring hanging from a hook between them.

He noticed a door to his right, which was wide open, and saw the corner of a table, the arm of one chair, and part of a window, but nothing else, though the smell of coffee seemed to be coming from there. Perhaps it was a small kitchen, though he couldn’t be certain.

He turned his attention to the main room, which was organized and very neat, exactly how he thought a Marshal’s Office should be—clutter made him anxious.

There were four desks, two on each side of an aisle, facing each other, only one of which was occupied by a completely bald-headed man studiously writing in a ledger, the pen scratching the paper.

The deputy looked up from the record book on his desk and gave him a friendly, welcoming smile, the edges of his bushy horseshoe mustache lifting as he did so. “Can I help you?”

He stepped through the small gate that separated the office proper from the entry way. “I’m Devlin Goodrich.”

The man stood up immediately, pen still in his hand, his smile widening, making his horseshoe mustache lift even further. He extended his hand over his desk. “Merrill Shotton. A pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well.”

“Rafael is out walking the town,” Merrill continued as he checked the clock on the wall.

“He should be back in about ten minutes or so.” He gestured to the chair beside the desk.

“Please, sit. We weren’t expecting you quite this soon, otherwise I would have arranged for everyone to come in and meet you. ”

Devlin did as he was asked, seating himself in a chair beside Deputy Shotton’s desk. “I actually wasn’t expecting to have time today, but things worked out differently than I had planned.”

“I assume you’ve already seen Lucy Hart. She give you the key to the house?”

“She did. And arranged for ice and milk to be delivered.”

The big man nodded. “That’s our Lucy. There’s a reason she’s the head of the welcoming committee—no detail goes unnoticed, no matter how small.

” He paused, his eyes narrowing just a bit as Devlin found himself on the receiving end of a very thorough scrutiny.

He didn’t mind. In fact, he’d be suspicious if the man hadn’t studied him.

After a moment, as if he’d passed inspection, the man gave a short nod. “What about your horse?”

“Challenger is still at the hotel stables, for now. Mrs. Gonzales said I could keep him there until I was settled.”

“You can bring him here. We have a small stable behind the building. Pete Mackinaw’s son comes twice a day to feed, water, and clean the stalls.”

Devlin took in the information, a little surprised but extremely grateful. Everyone he’d met so far had been friendly and generous. He and Avery could be happy here. At least, that’s what he hoped. “Thank you. I’ll bring him over later.”

“And the house? Everything good?” Merrill asked.

“It’s a nice house. Avery and I will be fine.”

“That’s right. You have a daughter. Lucy mentioned that. So did Marshal Kimball when he told us you were coming. How old is she?”

He couldn’t help the smile that twitched his lips. “She’s almost five and as stubborn as the day is long.”

The big man smiled and nodded again but didn’t make a comment regarding Avery. Instead, he asked, “Coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“Yes, please.”

“Black? Or cream and sugar?”

“Black, please.”

First impressions meant a lot. They could be the difference between living and dying in this business, and Devlin liked what he saw, as he watched the man stride across the room before he disappeared into the open doorway to his right.

He had an innate grace and an awareness of what was around him—a man he’d definitely want in his corner when and if it came down to business.

He returned in moments, a cup of the steaming brew in his hand.

He jerked his head toward the doorway he’d just exited.

“We have a small kitchen. Just a stove, sink, small ice box, and a table with three chairs.” He handed him the coffee.

“A back door, too, because you never know when one might need to leave quickly—or sneak in on someone.”

“Thank you.” He took a sip, appreciating the taste of the rich, dark liquid, his eyes darting toward the kitchen though he could only see the corner of the table. “Good coffee.” He put his cup down. “It’s just you and Rafael during the day?”

The man nodded as he made himself comfortable in his seat.

“Nate Hyler comes in at eight in the evening and stays until eight in the morning, Monday through Saturday. He prefers those hours. I come in at seven then Rafael comes in at eight so there is always someone here.” He gestured toward the ceiling.

“Nate lives upstairs, by the way. I can go up and get him if you want.”

“That’s not necessary. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“Sherm Quincy, Tomas Medrano and Caleb Johnson work mostly Saturday and Sunday, but we’re all available if needed, any time, day or night.

We all live close by. In fact, I live two houses down from you and Tomas lives on the street behind the Emporium.

” He took a sip of his coffee then wiped his mouth, not with his sleeve, but with a creamy white handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.

Devlin noted the embroidery around the edges and the big letter ‘M’ at one corner and concluded this man’s wife or sweetheart had made it for him before he tucked it away.

“And, of course, we have some citizens we rely on if the occasion warrants, though we’ve only had to call on them once or twice to my recollection.

Esteban Silva over on Montana del Trueno is an excellent marksman, if you need that sort of thing.

His brothers, Teddy and Heath, aren’t bad either.

There’re a few others I would trust with my life.

Wyatt MacLean over on Stone Creek Ranch has helped when needed.

So has Alfonso Serrano. The Zepedas, too. ”

He picked up his fancy fountain pen and twirled it between his fingers.

“There isn’t much that happens during the week.

It’s rather quiet—” he laughed, the sound warm and welcoming.

“Which is just the way we like it. Friday and Saturday nights can get a little hectic, though. That’s when all the cowboys from the ranches come into town to blow off a little steam at Connor’s or the Silver Spur.

” He paused, his face taking on a reddish hue. “Or visit Josie’s.”

“Josie’s?”

“That’s our…uh…” His mustache twitched as he tried to find a word that would be appropriate.

“Parlor house,” he finally spit out as his body stiffened, just enough to be noticeable.

“Josie’s a good woman.” He defended her and her business.

“She and her ladies do a lot for the community despite their…uh…occupation—” He narrowed his eyes just a bit though his smile remained in place “—and we have no intention of shutting her down.”

“I see.” He hid his smile. Parlor houses, more commonly known as brothels, were nothing new. Most towns had one or two, some discreet, some not. “As long as she doesn’t break the law, I see no reason to shut her down either.”

The man was visibly relieved, and Devlin concluded he’d paid a visit or two to Josie’s. Might even have a soft spot for the woman. Nothing wrong with that, if the man wasn’t married, but then again, who was he to judge? Live and let live…as long as no laws were broken.

“We haven’t had anyone in the jail—” He gestured toward the iron-barred cells with his thumb “—in a while ’cept Fred Somner when he drinks too much and starts fighting with lampposts.

We send word to his wife, Maura, when he’s here—their house isn’t far.

We usually let him sleep it off. Other than that, Serenity is just like its name implies.

We’re a peaceful community. Oh, every now and then, something bad happens, guns will be drawn and so forth, but for the most part, you’ll probably be bored here after the excitement of Albuquerque. ”

Devlin laughed. “That’s the hope. I could use some peace and quiet.”

The door swung open then, startling him, and Devlin swiveled in his seat to see a young man enter the office with a quick step and a big smile.

He carried a pie tin in one hand. Shorter than Deputy Shotton, but stockier, he hung up his hat on the rack, revealing thick black hair, slipped past the small wooden gate and placed the pie on Merrill’s desk with a little bit of fanfare and a mischievous grin.

When he was done, he turned slightly and extended his hand. “Rafael Zepeda.”

Devlin stood from his seat and shook Zepeda’s hand, noticing it was warm, probably from the pie.

“You must be Marshal Goodrich.”

“I am.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Rafael released his hand, then backed up a step and gestured toward the pie. His smile widened as he addressed Merrill. “A thank you gift from Polly.”

The big man blushed, the redness creeping up from his throat to encompass his entire face. He licked his lips as he looked at the gift. “Is it her famous strawberry rhubarb pie?”

“It is,” Rafael responded with a chuckle. “She just asked that you return the pie tin.” His thick, dark eyebrows wiggled. “Whenever you want.”