One
He rode in from the west, a tin star on his chest, a six-gun at his hip, and the promise of justice smoldering in his dark eyes.
âFrom Tex Knight Tames the Town
by Andrea Jackson
Gallant, Texas, May 1884
Â
âIâm in desperate need of a hero.â
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 didnât tolerate rudeness well, but he thought for her, he might make an exception.
He recognized her only because heâd seen her arrive on the noon stage. Heâd been sitting right there, on the worn wooden bench outside his office, watching the cominâs and goinâs, 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 hadnât 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 Mattâs way of thinking was as bad as calling your horse âHorseâ or your dog âDog.â With a poorly painted sign, Lester proudly boasted that his hotel had twenty-eight roomsâwhich 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 sheâd 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 whoâd 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.
Heâd 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. Sheâd been issuing directions he couldnât 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 sheâd 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 heâd 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 didnât jump, but he did extend his manners, unfolding his body until he reached his full height. Some people found his height imposing, but she didnât 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 sheâd 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. âMaâam, if youâre looking for a hero, youâre looking in the wrong place.â
She angled her chin as though that small action was needed to ignite her courage. Her
He rode in from the west, a tin star on his chest, a six-gun at his hip, and the promise of justice smoldering in his dark eyes.
âFrom Tex Knight Tames the Town
by Andrea Jackson
Gallant, Texas, May 1884
Â
âIâm in desperate need of a hero.â
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 didnât tolerate rudeness well, but he thought for her, he might make an exception.
He recognized her only because heâd seen her arrive on the noon stage. Heâd been sitting right there, on the worn wooden bench outside his office, watching the cominâs and goinâs, 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 hadnât 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 Mattâs way of thinking was as bad as calling your horse âHorseâ or your dog âDog.â With a poorly painted sign, Lester proudly boasted that his hotel had twenty-eight roomsâwhich 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 sheâd 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 whoâd 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.
Heâd 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. Sheâd been issuing directions he couldnât 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 sheâd 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 heâd 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 didnât jump, but he did extend his manners, unfolding his body until he reached his full height. Some people found his height imposing, but she didnât 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 sheâd 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. âMaâam, if youâre looking for a hero, youâre looking in the wrong place.â
She angled her chin as though that small action was needed to ignite her courage. Her
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