If she didn’t get out of this bank soon, her own husband was going to have to arrest her for murder.
“You didn’t tell me what you needed the withdrawal for,” Adelaide said stiffly.
“Oh, I thought you knew already. Everyone else in town has been talking about it.” Elizabeth studied her with pity and then instantly felt remorse. She just couldn’t sink to Adelaide’s level. “We’re ready to build the new barn. All the supplies are in at the lumber mill.”
“I guess Sheriff O’Hara lets you run as wild and free as your father did. It’s no wonder he’s been looking for outside work to distance himself from you. Your ways will ruin a man like Cole O’Hara.”
Adelaide’s smile was full of spite, and Elizabeth knew she was luring her into a trap. But it was an arrow that hit a little too close to the bullseye. And Adelaide knew it.
“But Cole is a smart man,” Adelaide continued. “I heard a US marshal was in town and they’ve been talking all day. It’s only a matter of time before he pins that star to his vest and takes off to parts unknown. His skills are so renowned that the president sent his top man to recruit him. You wouldn’t want to hold him back, would you? It’s not like you’ve got a bump growing under those trousers you insist on wearing. Doesn’t seem to me like Cole O’Hara has much of a reason to stay in Laurel Valley at all.”
Elizabeth knew she was pale. She could feel the blood draining from her face, that peculiar lightheaded sensation that came with shock and fury mixed together. And her hand shook slightly as she reached out to take the money, the bills fluttering like autumn leaves in her trembling fingers. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was sure everyone in the bank could hear it, a war drum beating out the rhythm of her rage.
Adelaide’s words echoed in her head, each one a barbed arrow finding its mark. No bump growing under those trousers. Doesn’t seem like Cole has much reason to stay. The casual cruelty of it stole her breath. This woman knew nothing—nothing—about what happened behind closed doors, about the hopes Elizabeth carried like fragile glass, about the fears that kept her awake long after Cole’s breathing had deepened into sleep.
Once she’d secured the money in her bag with fingers that refused to cooperate, she took a step back and decided the best course of action was to just walk away. It’s what she always did. What every woman in Laurel Valley did when faced with Adelaide’s poison tongue. They swallowed it down, let it burn their insides, and walked away with their tails tucked between their legs and their dignity in tatters.
But she couldn’t do it this time. Something inside her—something that sounded remarkably like her father’s voice—said enough.
“Adelaide Murchison,” Elizabeth said with a slight quiver to her voice, but it was loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “You are the most hateful, spiteful woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. I remember your parents from when I was a child, and they were some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. So if you want to talk about people rolling in their graves then maybe you should look a little closer to home.”
Someone gasped from behind her, and Leroy Henry’s eyes were big and round behind his spectacles.
“You don’t know me or my husband, and you never knew the kind of man my father was, because he couldn’t stand to be in a room with you and share the same air. But know this,” she said, her voice ringing in the deafening silence. “You’ll reap your reward. You’re so busy judging and gossiping about everyone else that you’ve forgotten the sermon Reverend Graham has preached on several times. You might think that you’re ruling your little part of earth, but your judgment day is coming. And you should be afraid because you’re about the most un-Christian woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Well, I never—” Adelaide said, her hand going to her chest.
“I pray that you find peace somewhere in your soul and that your bitterness no longer eats you alive.” With that, Elizabeth nodded her head once to Adelaide, did the same to Leroy, and turned on her heel to walk out of the bank, avoiding the wide-eyed stares of everyone else.
A man dressed in a nice suit and long wool overcoat, a hat pulled low over his eyes, was trying to get inside just as she was leaving, and they shuffled awkwardly around each other in the doorway. The wind whipped between them, carrying snow and the sharp bite of winter. He was tall—as tall as Cole—with broad shoulders that filled the doorframe. She caught a glimpse of a strong jaw shadowed with several days’ worth of beard.
There was something about him that made her pause, some instinct she couldn’t name raising the hair on the back of her neck. Maybe it was the way he moved, fluid and controlled like Cole did, like a man who’d spent time with violence. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t recognize him, and she knew everyone in Laurel Valley, knew their families and their histories going back generations. Strangers were rare here, especially in winter, especially just before a blizzard.
He muttered a “Beg your pardon,” in a voice rough as gravel, and then moved to the side so she could get by, pressing himself against the doorframe.
“Excuse me,” she said, and rushed to escape the stifling heat and her own humiliation.
The door closed behind her and her only thought was finding her husband. If Miss Adelaide was right, he had some explaining to do.
Chapter Two
Cole O’Hara knew there was going to be trouble from the way the air changed in the room, that indefinable shift that every lawman worth his badge learned to recognize, the minute the man walked through the door, bringing with him the scent of trail dust, gun oil, and that particular brand of arrogance that marked him as government of the sheriff’s office.
He wasn’t a big man—maybe five foot nine in his boots—and his frame was on the thin side. Average was the word that came to mind. Followed closely by deadly. His duster was coated with a layer of grime and snow from a hard ride, and Cole saw the two pistols, one on each hip, as he made his way toward him. He also saw the US marshal’s star pinned to his vest.
He pulled down the bandana that had protected his face from the storm and said, “Sheriff O’Hara?” He pushed his hat back slightly so Cole could see his eyes. The eyes never lied.
Cole sighed, confident in his original observation that the man was going to be trouble. He didn’t bother to remove his feet from his desk, scarred by years of use, or stand up to greet the man properly. Others had come for him, and they’d all left without completing their mission.
“I’m Cole O’Hara,” he said. “And I’m not interested.”
The man grinned, but Cole saw it in the wrinkling of his eyes since his mustache was so bushy it covered his lips. The marshal removed his hat and hung it on the rack next to Cole’s, and then he did the same with his duster, clearly planning to make himself at home.
“You never know what you might be interested in until you know what you’re interested in,” the man said cryptically.
“Deep thoughts,” Cole said.
With the hat and coat gone, Cole took a closer inventory of the man. He was younger than he’d first assumed, his hair a rich black in need of a trim. The drooping mustache was peppered with gray, making him seem older than he was. His eyes were a soft green, but Cole recognized the look in them—they were eyes that had seen too much—eyes that were a window to a broken soul.
