The man still didn’t move.
Thomas sighed. The ruffian wasn’t much bigger than Jessalyn. Did he really think sitting on the frozen porch was going to get him out of being searched? He bent and grabbed the man’s arms.
Rip!
The unmistakable sound of tearing fabric filled the porch, and a cool burst of air flooded his backside.
Heat rushed his face despite the cold in his nether regions.
A laugh broke out behind him. Then someone hooted.
“Well, well,” one of the ruffians drawled. “Maybe your helper there’d be better served down at the brothel instead of working with you, Sheriff.”
A fresh round of laughter started, the guffaws and hoots so loud Thomas half expected everyone at The Penny to rush down the road and see what the commotion was about.
The skin of his face burned against the winter night. He reached behind him to feel a tear right down the seam of his backside, exposing his union suit to the world. That’s what he got for purchasing trousers at the mercantile. But did this have to happen now? When he was trying to help Isaac?
He clenched his teeth together. The story about his trousers would be all over town the second Isaac let these hooligans out of jail.
Even the man he was about to search was laughing, his rancid, wheezy breaths souring the air between their faces. Lovely. Just lovely. He’d spent his whole childhood in Cornwall being laughed at and mocked, and he couldn’t even get away from it by crossing an ocean.
He hauled the man up by his arms, then thrust him against the wall.
“Pants a little small?” Someone choked out behind him.
Thomas removed the gun holstered at the man’s waist. “They were the biggest the mercantile had.”
The ruffian he searched was still chortling, all notion of resistance gone from his limp, laughter-ridden body. He didn’t seem to be carrying any other weapons at his waist. Thomas scratched the back of his neck. Should he check somewhere else? He dropped to his knees and reached for the man’s ankle.
Rip!More air flooded his backside, and another wave of laughter swept the porch.
He clenched his teeth as he lifted the man’s pant leg and removed the pistol and knife strapped there. No sense trying to cover the tear with his hands. That would only make him look more ridiculous, and Isaac still needed help, rip or not.
“Might want to find yourself a new pair of pants come tomorrow,” Isaac choked through his own fit of laughter.
Or maybe he didn’t need to help Isaac. Could the man even keep his gun trained on the untied ruffians with the way he was laughing?
Then again, he might not need to. The rest of them were laughing too hard to make an escape.
“You can stop now,” he gritted. “It’s not like you’ve never seen a man with a rip in his pants before.”
“Ain’t never seen a man rip his pants quite that-a-way though,” one of the men jeered.
“And he was helpin’ the sheriff when he did it!”
Would their laughter never end? It wasn’t that funny. Really, it wasn’t.
He moved to the man lying on the porch, only beginning to come around after Isaac’s punch to his temple. He didn’t have an ankle holster or a gun at his waist, just a knife strapped to his belt. Thomas took the weapon and stood.
“I suggest you pay a visit to the seamstress first thing in the morning.” Isaac’s laughter settled, but he still wore a grin the size of Lake Superior on his face. “She might be able to save those.”
“She’s a looker, that seamstress is.” One of the men standing against the porch railing elbowed his friend. “I got me three shirts at her place right now. Might stop by tomorrow to see if they’re finished yet.”
“Careful.” Thomas’s voice was low and deep. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”
“She ain’t married.” The big man he’d put in a stranglehold earlier smirked. “Everyone in town knows that.”
Thomas took a step toward him. “You’re wrong. She is married. To me.”
