A Sheriff’s Oath to the Widow (Preview)

Chapter One

Everton, Arizona Territory – 1882

“Shh, baby,” Lisa Black whispered to her son, cradling him against her shoulder.
She pushed open the door to the doctor’s office with one hand while the other held her feverish two-year-old against her. The room was small, dusty from the desert winds that snuck in through the aging wooden shutters, and boasted little more than two chairs, a table for record-keeping, and a worn rug that had long lost its color beneath countless boots.

“Mama,” Will whimpered, wriggling in miserable protest, his dark curls plastered against a sweaty forehead.The moment Lisa stepped into the doctor’s office, the air seemed heavier, laced with the faint tang of antiseptic and old wood. Will’s flushed cheeks felt hot against her shoulder, his tiny fingers clutching at her blouse.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. We’ll get you feeling better,” she whispered, her voice soft and steady though fear coiled tight in her chest.

Her words felt as much for herself as for him. Memories clawed their way to the surface—rows of sickbeds crammed into the orphanage, the groans of fevered children, and the cold indifference of overworked caretakers. She shook her head to banish the image, clutching Will tighter. She couldn’t let fear win.

The low murmur of voices stopped Lisa short.

Across the room, near the only window, sat Jack Holden with his mother. Everton’s sheriff turned his head at her arrival, his broad frame shifting slightly in the chair. His duster, streaked with dust from the road, hung open to reveal an old leather vest beneath.

Beside him, Mrs. Sarah Holden sat hunched, knitting needles in her lap and a blanket draped over her frail shoulders.

Lisa’s heart sank.

“Afternoon, Miss Lisa,” Jack said, his tone neutral but edged, as always, with a wariness that made her skin prickle. His hat rested on his knee, the silver sheriff’s badge glinting faintly on his chest. Those sharp blue eyes, colder than a river in January, pinned her in place.

“Sheriff,” she replied, her voice even, though she felt a flush creeping up her neck.
Will stirred again, and she adjusted him with a bounce, using the motion to break eye contact with the sheriff. Jack’s gaze followed her every move as if waiting for her to make some mistake he could pounce on.

“Who’s taken ill?” Mrs. Holden’s voice was soft, but her question cut through the silence like a scalpel. She set her knitting aside, tilting her head to peer at Will.

“It’s my boy,” Lisa said, brushing a strand of hair from Will’s damp forehead. “Just a fever, but—”
“But it brought you here,” Jack interrupted, leaning back in his chair with a creak.
“Yes, it did,” she said, almost defensively.

Jack didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened, and she could feel him staring at her. The scar along his jawline, just visible in the lamplight, seemed to deepen with his expression.

He stood abruptly, holding his hat in his hands, and gestured for Lisa to take his place.
“The doctor in?” Lisa asked before Jack or his mother could say anything else.

Lisa sat down next to Jack’s mother, who offered her a gentle, sympathetic smile. Though looking frail, the older woman had an unmistakable grace—back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Even from across the room, Lisa could see her breathing was labored, and a thin film of sweat dampened her brow. She was clearly unwell and, as Lisa had heard, Mrs. Holden now came for regular check-ups to manage her failing memory and frail constitution.

“Oh, he’ll be right back,” Mrs. Holden replied.

Lisa nodded again, letting her gaze flick to Jack to confirm the older woman’s statement.

“He just stepped out back to grab something from his wagon,” Jack explained.

The moment their eyes met, he held her stare. She caught a flash of disdain in his eyes: the old resentment that never quite faded. However, there seemed also to be a hint of discomfort, as though he didn’t like seeing her in distress. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar chill. He turned away, clearing his throat and looking at his mother.

“You all right?” he asked, voice low.

Mrs. Holden patted his hand, giving him a fondly exasperated look.

“Yes, Jack. Stop fussin’.” Her voice, though gentle, carried a quiet scold. “You’d think I was on my deathbed the way you hover.”

“I’m not hoverin’,” Jack muttered defensively.

However, the whiteness of his knuckles holding his hat suggested to Lisa that he was worried. He glanced at Lisa from the corner of his eye, then looked away as though ashamed that she’d overheard. When Mrs. Holden tugged on his sleeve he shifted uncomfortably, dipped his head in contrition, and went silent.

An uneasy hush filled the waiting area. Lisa settled into a chair, rubbing Will’s back gently. Will let out another weak cry, and her chest constricted in concern.

As uncomfortable as it was to stand opposite the sheriff who despised her late husband, her greater fear was for her child. He was too hot, and his breathing came in shallow gasps. But she wasn’t about to waste breath explaining anything to Jack Holden.

Just then, the door at the back of the room opened, and Dr. Samuels’s voice beckoned.
“Mrs. Holden? Sheriff? Come on back.”

Sarah Holden rose slowly. Jack was at her side in an instant, one steady hand cupping her elbow. Lisa turned her body slightly, wanting to give them room to pass. She felt his presence loom beside her for just a moment; the brush of his coat near her arm sent a tremor through her. She half-expected a snide remark or a scornful look, but he avoided her gaze, guiding his mother into the examination room.
The door shut behind them, leaving Lisa and Will alone in the waiting area.

The child whimpered, and she rocked him gently on her lap. Any other time, Will would be climbing all over the room, getting into all the jars and drawers, despite any attempt to restrain him. The fact that he laid so still against her worried Lisa.

“Shh, sweetheart,” she whispered. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the medicinal scent of the office, and focused on Will’s slight weight in her arms. His eyelids fluttered with feverish exhaustion, and he leaned heavily against her shoulder.

“Almost there,” she murmured, hoping her voice could calm them both.

Minutes dragged. She heard faint voices from behind the examination room door. Dr. Samuels spoke in a calm, measured tone, Mrs. Holden responded in soft murmurs, and Jack interjected with short, clipped remarks. Time seemed to stretch until the door opened again.

Mrs. Holden emerged first, leaning on her son’s arm. She wore a small smile, although her face was drawn and tired. Dr. Samuels followed, nodding.

“Sarah, you just keep taking it easy,” he said, “and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks if everything holds steady.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the older woman replied. Then she turned to Lisa, her expression kind but fatigued. “You go right on in, dear.”

Lisa stood, adjusting Will in her arms. His sweaty cheek pressed against her neck, and she felt the heat of his fever like a brand on her skin.

“Thank you, Mrs. Holden,” she managed politely. Jack remained behind his mother, face guarded. For an instant, his gaze flicked to Will, a wrinkle of concern between his brows, but it vanished into that same stony neutrality as he caught Lisa watching him.

“Take care,” was all he said, a courteous murmur. Then he shifted his attention to Sarah, escorting her toward the door.

“In you go,” Dr. Samuels prodded gently, ushering her into the examination room.

As Lisa followed Dr. Samuels, Sarah Holden hesitated in the doorway. The older woman’s brow creased, and she murmured something to Jack before settling herself onto a nearby chair with a soft sigh.

The inner office was a modest space lined with shelves of glass jars, herbal remedies, and a single large trunk for supplies. A battered wood table took center stage, with a single stool beside it for the patient. The walls were plain, except for one pinned chart of the human body. A faint breeze from the open back window provided the only respite from the sweltering day.

After setting Will on the table, Lisa took a moment to brush her skirt free of dust. Dr. Samuels pulled up the stool, peering at the boy’s flushed face.

“Hmm,” he murmured, feeling Will’s forehead. “He’s got a high fever, that’s certain.”

Lisa’s heart squeezed. “Is it serious?”

Dr. Samuels’s kind eyes flicked to her.

“Difficult to say until I’ve examined him further. But let’s not panic yet.” His tone was calm and reassuring. He turned back to Will, pressing a stethoscope to the child’s chest. “Deep breaths if you can, little man,” he said softly. Will coughed, his tiny hands grasping for Lisa.

“He’s been like this since last night,” Lisa explained, trying to comfort her son by rubbing his arm. “I gave him some water and tried cool compresses on his forehead, but it hasn’t helped as much as I’d hoped.”

The doctor nodded, moving his hand to check Will’s pulse.

“Any other symptoms? Rash? Stomach upset?”

“Not that I noticed,” Lisa answered, swallowing. She felt self-conscious, aware that her knowledge was limited. Despite living in town for two years, she rarely trusted anyone to advise her on caring for her child. “He was playful yesterday morning. By supper, he was fussing…and by bedtime, he was burning up. I—” She hesitated, glancing at the gray floorboards. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m just…worried.”
Dr. Samuels met her gaze with a gentle smile.

“Don’t apologize. You’re a devoted mother, Lisa. That’s clear to everyone.” He turned his attention back to Will, who was trying in vain to tug the stethoscope away from his chest. “Shh, easy, friend. We’re almost done.” He guided Will’s hand aside and listened a moment longer. Afterward, he set the stethoscope around his neck.

“So?” Lisa ventured, heart thudding.

“His lungs sound mostly clear, and I don’t see any alarming signs besides the fever. Could be a passing infection—perhaps mild miasma or a reaction to the heat,” Samuels said with a sigh. “I’ll prepare a cooling tincture to help bring that fever down. Keep him hydrated with water and weak chamomile tea if you can manage it. Cool cloths on his forehead, and watch for any sign that he’s breathing too hard or if he develops any rash.”

“I can do that.,” Lisa assured him. She cupped Will’s head, gazing at his flushed cheeks. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Samuels reached into a tall cabinet, plucking out a small vial of amber liquid and handing it to her.
“Add three drops to a cup of water, three times a day. If the fever doesn’t improve in two days or so, come on back and we’ll take another look at him.”

“Yes, sir,” Lisa said, tucking the vial into a small pouch tied at her waist.

Two days. She could handle that. Will let out a small whine, and she bent to scoop him into her arms again. “Shh, baby,” she whispered, rubbing small circles on his back.

A tender silence spread as she settled him on her hip. Dr. Samuels folded his arms, studying her with subdued concern.

“Truth told, you look about as worn out as he does, Lisa. How are you holding up? Running your seamstress shop alone, raising this boy without any real…support.”

She wanted to laugh it off, but the tears burning at the corners of her eyes warned her not to.
“Just tired,” she admitted. “It’s been a lot, trying to keep the shop running, and taking care of Will.” She paused, voice wavering. “Without—”

She didn’t finish. Didn’t say Ian. Didn’t say husband. That ache lingered deep in her chest.

Dr. Samuels gave a compassionate nod. He knew enough to understand.

“It’s never easy for a single mother out here. Not to mention carrying the weight of…uncertainty about Ian.”

“I suppose,” she said carefully. “Though in some ways, I wish he would’ve stayed gone long before…” Immediately, she felt a flash of guilt—until she reminded herself just how frightening life had been with Ian.

“I know not having a proper goodbye, no body to bury, leaves things half-finished. Must be hard to come to terms with.” The doctor paused, scrutinizing her.

“Hard, yes. But truthfully, Dr. Samuels… I’m glad he’s gone.” She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. Her throat felt dry, but she forced the words out. “Better that than living in fear every time he came home drunk.”

She half-expected the doctor to look scandalized, but he simply nodded, empathy in his gaze.

“I won’t keep you. Go on home, and get him some rest. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Lisa mustered a grateful smile, blinking away any hint of tears. “Thank you, Doctor.” She gently adjusted Will, who was drifting off again. Stepping around the table, she paused at the door. “I’ll come right back if there’s any sign he’s getting worse.”

“Please do,” Samuels said with genuine warmth. “You both take care.”

Gathering Will into her arms, Lisa turned to the door. Her pulse jolted when she saw Jack Holden and his mother still in the waiting area. Mrs. Holden sat on one of the chairs, leaning slightly forward with her hand to her brow. Jack stood beside her, a crease of concern on his forehead. Both turned their heads sharply at Lisa’s reappearance.

Heat flooded Lisa’s cheeks. From their expressions—somber and a little guarded—she realized they must have overheard at least a portion of her conversation with Dr. Samuels.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Jack set his jaw, adjusting his hold on his mother’s elbow.
“Ma, you ready?” he asked in a low, polite tone, not meeting Lisa’s gaze.

Mrs. Holden looked up at her son, then back at Lisa. A glimmer of understanding—perhaps even compassion—crossed her face. She pressed her lips together and gave a faint nod.

“Yes, Jack. Let’s go.” She managed a small smile at Lisa. “Take good care of that precious boy.”

“Thank you,” Lisa replied, her voice tightening.

Jack helped his mother to her feet, and without another word, guided her out the door into the bright glare of midday.

Pressing Will close, Lisa inhaled the scorching air and started for home herself. She’d done all she could—for now. Even if Jack Holden had overheard the worst of her candid remarks about Ian, there was no taking it back. As far as Lisa was concerned, the only man who truly mattered in her world was the small child slumbering in her arms.

Chapter Two

Jack guided his mother through the front door of the house with a gentleness he’d honed over the years—ever since his father passed and he’d had to look after her. Afternoons like these when the desert sun blazed fiercely seemed to drain what little energy she clung to.

Sarah’s breath hitched as she scanned the small sitting room, her gaze snagging on the wilting wildflowers in a vase by the window.

“Ah, it’s good to be home,” she said, though her voice quavered. She gripped the back of a wooden chair, knuckles whitening. “That was quite an outing, wasn’t it?”

“Ma, let’s get you seated. I’ll fetch you some water.” Jack set his hat on a hook, worry settling in his heart. His mother had been strong and resilient raising him, but over the past few years her health had taken a sharp decline. He couldn’t help but fret over every cough and stumble.

She began to protest—she always did—but when she tried to move without support, her knees threatened to buckle. “Yes, perhaps,” she allowed in a whisper. Easing onto the old armchair, she let out a shaky sigh. “My legs feel weaker by the day.”

Jack crossed the cramped kitchen, pulled a tin cup from the chipped cabinet, and filled it at the water pitcher. Handing it to her, he knelt at her side. “Drink slow.”

Sarah sipped, eyes drifting shut a moment. “Thank you, son.” She cleared her throat, forcing a smile. “You treat me like I’m about to break.”

He studied the frailty in her face. “I’m just being careful,” he said, tone guarded.
She pressed her lips together, setting the cup down.

“Jack, ever since your father passed you’ve shouldered more than most men your age. I love you for it, but—” She fixed him with a sharp look. “I’m not your job.”

He opened his mouth to respond, heat crawling across his cheeks. “Ma—”

“Don’t dodge me.” Despite her frailty, a sternness crept into her voice. “I saw how you looked at that young woman in the doctor’s office.”

His jaw tensed. He tried to act as though he didn’t catch her meaning. “Lisa Black?”

“She’s quite something, that girl. But I know the hurt in your heart since Ian’s betrayal. And you see him every time you look at her.”

Jack shot to his feet, tension prickling the back of his neck.

“Let’s not talk about Ian.” He remembered the old nights when he and Ian would go out riding, or tell stories over a drink. Until everything crashed down in a swirl of betrayal. “She’s…she’s just another townsfolk to look out for. That’s all.”

“Son, you’ve taken on some burdens far too long.” Sarah eased forward, worry and affection mingling on her features. “A man can only carry so much before he’s half-broken.”

“I manage,” he said stiffly, gaze dropping to the scuffed floorboards.

“Should you have to manage alone?” She lowered her voice, beckoning him nearer. “Ian’s gone. But that doesn’t mean you must keep punishing yourself—or her—for his failings. Letting go might ease that bitterness.”

Jack swallowed hard.

“I’m not lonely,” he insisted, but the words rang hollow, even to him. “I’ve got plenty to do, being sheriff.”

“Hmph! Duty isn’t all there is to life. Look at me,” she said, gesturing at her trembling legs. “Time slips away, and I’d rather see you fill yours with more than old resentments.”

He stood in silence, wrestling with the knot in his chest.

Finally, his mother sagged back, exhaustion lining her face again.

“I’m going to rest,” she murmured. “But you remember what I said. Oh…and a cushion, please, my back is aching.”

“Yes, Ma,” he replied, voice softer now. Jack found a pillow on the sofa and gently tucked it behind her.

She closed her eyes, sinking into the chair. “Take care of yourself, Jack.”

He leaned in and brushed a light kiss atop her gray hair.

“I’ll try,” he said, half-smiling despite the weight in his chest. “There’s water on the table if you need it, Ma.”

Her only answer was a faint wave of her hand.

Jack left quietly, stepping onto the porch and closing the door behind him. Outside, the dusty Arizona heat slammed into him.

Let go of the past? he mused, blinking in the sunlight.

The memory of Lisa’s tired green eyes sprang unbidden to his mind, and for once, he didn’t shove it away.

He strode down the porch steps, boots stirring up swirls of dust. The main street sprawled ahead, townsfolk and travelers passing by. A woman in a sun-bleached dress hurried from the general store, arms laden with supplies. A wiry boy chased after an escaping dog. Life moved on, unconcerned with Jack’s personal dilemmas.

His steps carried him past the saloon, where raucous laughter and the faint notes of a piano spilled into the street. He gave the batwing doors a brief glance, ensuring no sign of trouble, then continued.
It only took a short walk to reach the sheriff’s office, a modest wooden building with peeling paint and a single, dusty window.

Stepping inside, Jack had barely taken off his duster when Deputy Steve Cooper’s voice rang out. “Sheriff! I was about to come fetch you if you didn’t show soon.”

Jack paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. The office was cramped: two holding cells to the left, rarely occupied unless someone got too deep in their cups at the saloon, and a battered desk with a handful of chairs in the center.

A row of wanted posters hung crookedly on the wall. The old clock, inherited from the previous sheriff, ticked erratically—a constant reminder that time was never quite on their side.

“What’s so urgent, Steve?” Jack asked, tossing his duster over a hook by the door. Heat still clung to his skin, but the oppressive sun was marginally less punishing inside.

Steve, a lean man with sandy hair and an earnest face, straightened. He held a stack of papers. “More thefts, sir. This time at Sam and Betty Hargrove’s inn.”

Jack’s brow furrowed as he moved toward the deputy’s desk in two long strides. “Again?”

They’d had a string of thefts a while back—small valuables disappearing overnight. Jack had tried to chase down leads, but the culprit vanished as if into thin air. “I thought that was resolved.”

Steve blew out a breath, the pages in his hand rustling. “So did they. After that last incident, we never managed to catch anyone but it went quiet. Now, Sam says two travelers reported missing money. Betty also noticed silverware gone from the dining area. Seems the thief’s picked up again.”

Jack ran a hand through his hair, frustration biting at him. “Any sign someone broke in?”

“Not a one,” Steve said. “No damaged locks or busted windows. Both travelers swore they locked their doors, but come morning, valuables were gone. Sam says nobody else has that key.”

Frowning, Jack grabbed the top sheet from Steve’s hand and skimmed the notes. They were jotted in Steve’s neat handwriting: statements about lost items, times, possible suspects. The details were sparse, but they painted a pattern of cunning.

His jaw tightened. “So, either the thieves are pickin’ locks or they got themselves a spare. Could be someone who works at the inn; could be a slick operator with a knack for infiltration.”
Steve nodded. “Exactly my thought. I told Sam and Betty to keep quiet, but they’re worried. They’ve been running that inn for years without trouble. Now, these last few months…”

Jack set the paper down, eyes narrowing at a name scrawled in passing—some traveler who left town in a hurry. “We’ll start by speaking to Sam and Betty again, see if anyone’s been acting suspicious or if there’s a new face around. Could be someone they took in who’s more than they appear.”

Steve’s tense shoulders eased a bit in relief that Jack was taking decisive action. “I reckon we can manage that. When do you want to head over?”
Jack tugged the brim of his hat back into place. “Right away. Don’t want folks thinkin’ the law’s asleep.”
He started toward the door, but Steve’s voice stopped him. “Sheriff?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Steve hesitated, lowering his voice. “Sam also mentioned they had a few single women passing ’through—sometimes folks get suspicious of travelers who don’t stay long.” He shrugged. “Reckon we need to check them out, too?”

Jack considered. “We’ll question anyone new, man or woman. Thieves come in all forms.”

“Right,” Steve said. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Jack gave a curt nod. He reminded himself that diligence was everything. This was the kind of case that needed a firm hand—someone who wouldn’t let personal feelings interfere.

Yet, he couldn’t resist a fleeting thought: Lisa Black was new once. She came as a mail-order bride, if the rumors are true.

Shaking off the distraction, he opened the door and stepped onto the boardwalk outside. The sun had shifted slightly, shadows growing longer. Steve followed, papers still clutched in his hand.

“When we’re done at the inn,” Jack said, scanning the street for any sign of rowdiness, “we might want to swing by the general store and see if Henderson’s heard any rumors.”

“Good idea,” Steve replied. He glanced at Jack with a hint of concern. “You all right? You seem…tense.”
Jack forced a neutral expression. “Just the heat,” he said. “And the trouble at the inn.”

The deputy studied him for a beat, as though deciding whether to press the issue. But finally, Steve nodded. “All right, Sheriff. Let’s get going.”

Their boots thudded against the wooden walkway, passing by a handful of loitering townsfolk. Mrs. Bailey, known for her gossip, gave them a wave but pursed her lips in curiosity. Jack ignored her inquisitive stare. He’d learned long ago that direct answers only stoked the rumor fires.

As they made their way to the edge of town, Jack replayed his mother’s parting words in his head: Duty isn’t all there is to life.

She had a habit of cutting to the core of him. He found himself recalling the flicker of vulnerability on Lisa’s face, the tight, anxious set of her shoulders. That look had stirred something in him, a quiet ache of sympathy he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

His father’s death had taught Jack that attachment often led to pain. He had seen it again when Ian betrayed him. Love, friendship—any of it could be ripped away in a flash. So he’d donned the mantle of sheriff, letting the badge and the town’s problems occupy every corner of his mind. That method had worked, more or less.

Until now, a small voice teased at the back of his mind.

He pushed it aside. The stolen valuables at Sam and Betty’s inn required his immediate attention, and personal matters could wait.

The heat of the afternoon sun baked his broad shoulders as they strode along. Steve tugged at his collar, sweat glistening at his temples. Neither man spoke much.

But for Jack, one thought refused to leave him in peace: Maybe Ma is right? Maybe it’s time to let go, to stop letting the past define everything.

He pressed his lips into a firm line, focusing on the inn just ahead, its sign swinging gently in a parched breeze. The building was a squat, two-story affair with a wide porch. Usually, the place exuded warmth—a beacon to weary travelers. Today, though, Jack sensed the tension that clung to the inn like a second skin.

Stepping up onto the porch, he glanced at Steve, who offered a faint nod of encouragement. They were here to do a job. Solve the theft, protect the town’s peace.

And if, in the process, Jack allowed himself to consider that maybe his mother had a point about the weight he carried, well—he’d do that quietly, on his own terms. Right now, he was the sheriff, and folks needed him to be exactly that.

“Let’s get to work,” he murmured, pushing open the door. Sam and Betty Hargrove would be waiting inside, counting on him to restore order.

And Jack Holden was determined not to let them down.

Chapter Three

Lisa chewed her lower lip as she paced the floorboards in her kitchen. Even from upstairs, she could hear the occasional creak of the storefront below, beckoning customers who might be knocking or peering through the windows for signs of life.

“Annie,” she muttered, glancing at the clock on the mantle. “Where on earth are you?”

Will tugged on her skirt.

“Mama, apple?” he asked.

“One minute, baby,” she assured him, peering out the window again.

Will was still a touch warm from the previous day’s fever, but thanks to Dr. Samuels’s advice, he seemed to be perking up well enough to fuss and tug at her whenever she paused. Lisa ran a soothing hand over his curls.

“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” she whispered, though her anxiety about Annie’s lateness overshadowed her relief.

Normally, Annie would help the Hargraves do morning cleaning, hurry home, and watch Will while Lisa went downstairs to open the shop. Yet, the sun had already climbed well above the rooftops, and Annie was nowhere in sight.

Lisa’s stomach churned. She could almost imagine the door below, locked tight, while prospective clients eyed it in frustration. Everton might be a small, dusty frontier town, but gossip traveled fast—there was always some chatter about whether Lisa was managing her business properly or if she was struggling more than she let on.

She grabbed an apple from the cupboard and handed it to her son.

“Come on, Will, let’s wait by the stairs,” Lisa said softly, hefting him onto her hip. She maneuvered past the cramped sitting area, just a table, two chairs, and a small stove where Lisa had left a pot of tea to cool.

Creaking open the door that led from their small living quarters onto the top landing, she peered down the narrow wooden staircase. Nothing. Just the echo of her own impatient breathing.

“Annie go?” he asked. She let out a sigh, bouncing Will gently.

“I swear, I don’t know what’s keeping her!” Lisa breathed out another frustrated sigh, wondering if she should just bring Will down to the shop with her.

She winced. Customers demanded her attention—fittings, gossip, the occasional last-minute hem—and a fussy child underfoot might not be the best idea. Especially a child with a lingering cough and the occasional feverish whimper.

A burst of footsteps on the boardwalk outside made her perk up.

“Annie?” she called, turning to descend a few steps. The shop’s front door squeaked open below.
“I’m here!” Annie called back, stepping through the door, slightly out of breath.

Relief coursed through Lisa so strongly that she nearly sagged. Hastily, she turned back into the main room, placing Will on a small cushion.

“Sweetheart, wait here for Mama.” He let out a soft wail as she set him down, but she had to trust Annie to take over.

Bounding down the stairs, she intercepted her younger sister on the stairs, even as she heard Will opening and shutting cabinet doors in the kitchen behind her.

“Annie Miller, do you realize how late it is?” Lisa demanded, trying to keep her voice low despite her frustration.

Annie, cheeks flushed and hair askew, was gasping for breath.

“I’m sorry, Lisa. Truly! Things ran a little long at the inn, and Mr. Hargrove asked me to—”

“Mr. Hargrove asked you to what?” Lisa pressed, arms folded. “Scrub all the floors by yourself? You know I rely on you to watch Will so I can keep the shop open.”

Annie’s eyes flicked away, and a stubborn pink rose in her cheeks.
“It’s not just that. I…”

“And what?” Lisa asked with a raised a brow, letting the sentence hang in the air. “Let me guess, that merchant was back in town.”

I “t’s not like that,” Annie huffed, but Lisa was thankful she didn’t try to hide the truth. “We were just talking. He had some interesting stories about traveling across the territory. Time must’ve gotten away from me,”

A pointed silence stretched, broken only by a muffled cough from upstairs. Lisa pursed her lips.
“You should know better. Will’s not even fully recovered, and I couldn’t leave him alone. If I want customers to keep coming, I can’t keep my door shut half the morning.”

Annie looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Lisa exhaled through her nose. She loved her sister—truly she did. They had gone through so much together, but Annie’s starry-eyed fascination with anyone who offered a sweet word or an adventure unsettled Lisa, especially given all they’d been through with Ian’s false promises.

“Is this merchant the same one you mentioned last week?” Lisa asked, trying to keep her tone gentle but firm. “The ‘nice’ man who’s apparently so interesting?”

Annie nodded miserably, brushing her honey-brown hair back behind her ears.

“His name is Caleb. And he’s not that bad, Lisa. He pays me compliments about my voice, asks about life in Everton—just good conversation is all. Please, don’t worry.”

Lisa stared at her sister’s earnest expression. Part of her wanted to scold Annie for letting her guard down, for risking heartbreak or deception. But the bigger part of her recognized that Annie was nineteen—no longer a child. She deserved to talk to people, to enjoy a harmless flirtation, if that was all it was.

“Fine,” Lisa breathed. “Doesn’t change the fact that I need to open now.”

“Is Will upstairs?” Annie asked, a relieved, embarrassed smile spreading across her lips.

“He’s probably found something to munch on while we’ve been out talking,” Lisa said, shaking her head. “If he gets fussy, try the chamomile tea I left on the stove.”

Annie trotted upstairs without another word.

With a shake of her head, Lisa headed down the rest of the stairs and around to the front of the shop to unlock the door. She stepped inside and breathed a sigh of mingled relief and tension.

Shelves along one wall displayed bolts of cloth: calico, gingham, wool dyed in muted shades of brown and burgundy. Her foot-treadle sewing machine stood near the window, where sunlight provided decent illumination for delicate stitching. A battered mannequin occupied a corner, pinned with half-finished scraps of lace.

Not more than two minutes later, the bell on the door tinkled again and three young women filed in.

“Finally!” exclaimed Maryanne Cross, who was perhaps a year younger than Lisa. She wore a pastel bonnet and an almost comically puffy white blouse. “We thought you might not be open today.”
Lisa forced a polite smile, smoothing her apron.

“My apologies, Maryanne, ladies. A bit of a family matter.” She wasn’t about to mention Will’s lingering fever or Annie’s tardiness if she could help it—gossip spread like wildfire. “How can I help you all today?”

“I’ve a new dress order and some mending. This old skirt’s gone and ripped at the hem for the third time,” Abigail Hampton said, lifting a basket of fabric. “Think you can fix it up for me by Sunday’s service?”

“And I need a reticule made out of this floral print,” chimed in Clara Thompson, wiggling a piece of chintz. She had a playful smile, always seeming half a step away from bursting into giggles.

Lisa nodded briskly, taking stock of the items they offered.

“All right. Let’s have a look.” She stepped behind her small counter, where a wide spool of measuring tape hung on a peg. “Who’s first?”

Abigail slid her skirt across. “You’ve got magic fingers, Lisa. If you can manage a neat hem by Sunday, I’d be much obliged. Otherwise, my father will fuss that I’m walking around half-dressed.”

Maryanne laughed, then paused mid-laugh to glance out the front window. “Well, that’s the sheriff, isn’t it? Strolling by with Steve in tow.”

At the mention of Everton’s sheriff, Lisa’s stomach knotted. She kept her gaze fixed on the skirt’s torn edge, examining the frayed threads.

“Yes, there he goes,” Clara observed. “When I was a girl I fancied him so much. Shame how time changes people.”

All three of them tittered in agreement. Lisa pretended to be engrossed in measuring the length of Abigail’s skirt. The chatter, however, buzzed around her like flies.

“He certainly was handsomer,” Maryanne said, tapping her chin. “I recall the day he stepped up to be sheriff. So many girls with hearts in their eyes, hoping he’d court them.”

“I wonder why he never did settle down,” Abigail mused, eyes shining with mischief. “Heard his first fiancée ran away. But that might just be a rumor.”

Clara giggled. “It’s no rumor! She moved out to California, didn’t she? To go live with her brother.”
“Well, no matter,” Maryanne declared, leaning closer to the glass. “He’s a recluse now, always brooding or fussing over his mother. Honestly, I wonder if he’s lost his nerve for proper courting.”

Clara stifled a laugh behind her hand. “Must be dull, caring for a frail old lady all day. Maybe that’s why he’s so sour.”

At that, a sudden flicker of heat flared in Lisa’s chest. She set the skirt aside, meeting their curious gazes with a firm tilt of her chin.

“Ladies, if you’ll pardon me, that’s unkind talk.” Her tone was sharper than she intended. “The sheriff cares for his mother because she’s ill. There’s no shame in tending to family. Whether he wishes to settle down or not is his own business.”

“Well, of course,” Maryanne sputtered. “But you’ve got to admit, he’s become a bit… withdrawn. I only see him when he’s chasing outlaws or marching his mother to the doctor.”

Lisa inhaled. She felt a bit of guilt for the twinge of personal interest she had in Jack—and the need to defend him from needless cruelty.

“We’re all entitled to our privacy,” she said, voice controlled. “He’s busy with the town’s affairs, keeping order, and looking after Mrs. Holden. That’s hardly something to gossip about.”

“Didn’t mean no harm, Lisa. We were just talking.” Abigail, sensing the tension, tried to smooth things over with a half-smile.

Lisa glanced down at the cloth in her hands. Her pulse thrummed. Part of her still reeled from the notion that she could defend Jack, a man who openly held contempt for her late husband. But she couldn’t abide hearing them belittle someone for caring for ailing family. She let out a slow breath, forcing a calmer tone.

“I know. It’s just… try to keep your remarks fair, that’s all. The sheriff’s doing his duty.”
“Seems you hold him in high esteem,” Clara teased, arching a brow. “He does still have that handsome look, though, doesn’t he?”

A chorus of giggles erupted. Maryanne’s gaze flicked to Lisa, mischievous. “Perhaps for a woman a bit older, don’t you think so, Lisa?”

Heat rushed to Lisa’s cheeks. She pretended to busy herself with the measuring tape.
“Jack Holden is… well, yes, he’s handsome enough. I wouldn’t think he’s particularly up in years, either, but the sun and heat does take a toll out here, doesn’t it?” She pressed her lips together. “But that’s not the point.”

The women exchanged delighted smiles, as though they’d just discovered her deep, dark secret. Lisa bristled. If only they knew how complicated her feelings were toward Jack. On one hand, she resented the way he seemed to look down on her—guilt by association with Ian. On the other, she couldn’t deny the sliver of admiration she felt for the tenderness she had seen him show his mother over the years. That glimpse of warmth had stayed with Lisa despite her best efforts to forget it.

Grabbing a pair of scissors, she carefully trimmed the loose threads on Abigail’s skirt to redirect the conversation.

“Let’s set that aside. Abigail, you’ll need to come by for a quick fitting if the hem’s to be done by Sunday. Is tomorrow afternoon good for you?”

“Oh, yes, that’s fine,” Abigail replied, though the mischievous lilt in her tone lingered. “And, Lisa, do let us know if the sheriff calls on you for a new coat or something.”

“I doubt that will happen,” Lisa said, mustering a tight smile. She couldn’t help the flicker of bitterness that rose in her chest.

Clara cleared her throat. “So, about my reticule…” She passed over the floral fabric. “I’d like it small, with maybe a little lace trim.”

Lisa nodded, grateful for the change in subject.

“I can manage that. Do you have the lace in mind? Or do you want me to see what scraps I have that match?”

“Oh, I trust your judgment, Lisa,” Clara’s eyes glimmered with excitement. “You always make the prettiest pieces.”

“Thank you.” Lisa forced another polite smile, but her thoughts still churned.

The conversation around her shifted again as Maryanne and Abigail discussed the upcoming town dance, speculating on who might attend. Lisa grabbed her chalk and marked the length of Abigail’s hem, answering their questions about cost.

But her mind drifted to those final days before Ian disappeared.

A jingle at the shop door startled them all. Another young woman poked her head in, hesitating upon seeing the small crowd. Lisa recognized her as one of the ranchers’ daughters from up north, carrying a garment in her hands for mending. The newcomer’s eyes flicked uneasily between the group of chattering friends, probably worried she was interrupting.

“Come on in,” Lisa called, gesturing with a welcoming hand. “These ladies were just finishing up.”
A flurry of skirts followed as Maryanne and Clara gathered their things. Abigail retrieved her skirt, promising to return it soon for Lisa to begin the repairs, and the three friends paid for a few minor purchases—thread, ribbons, a small packet of buttons.

“We’ll see you in a day or two,” Maryanne said with a lingering wave, grinning knowingly. “And who knows, maybe the sheriff will come by for that coat after all?”

Lisa forced a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

As soon as they left, Lisa’s posture sank. She rolled her shoulders, trying to dispel the tension that had built up. She assisted the girl with an order without much discussion, and soon Lisa was alone in the shop again.

With a sigh, she returned to the sewing machine, rummaging for the spool of sturdy gray thread she needed to fix a small tear in a child’s pinafore. The small tasks occupied her hands, and for a while, she lost herself in the comforting whir of the treadle and the soft snip of scissors.