Chapter 3 #2
“She hit me,” moaned the young man from the ground.
Lyla considered the wisdom of giving him a little kick for good measure, then decided against it.
She lifted her head, threw back her shoulders, met the deputy sheriff’s gaze—and suddenly faltered.
He did not look as though he was going to take her side. He was frowning.
“Did you?” he asked.
“I—I did—but—he was talking to me,” she said, fumbling her words, painfully aware of how they sounded. “And…he wouldn’t stop, even though I asked him to.”
The deputy sighed. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the saloon, almost imperceptibly, and Lyla suddenly understood that the young man had likely been drinking.
It was only the middle of the afternoon, and surely too early to be intoxicated—but if he was, perhaps that was why he had such a strong reaction to being hit in the middle with a bag of books.
She knew little about the effects of alcohol firsthand, but the novels she’d read had informed her that drinkers were often sick to their stomachs and dizzy-headed—both of which seemed to fit the young man lying on the ground at her feet.
On the other hand, she thought uncomfortably, the lawman had also been in the saloon in the middle of the afternoon.
But he didn’t appear in the least bit intoxicated. If anything, he was almost too sober.
“Help him up,” he told the other young men, who obliged. He put his hands on his hips, eyeing Tom and Lyla in turn.
Tom looked miserable; Lyla had to acknowledge that he was a far cry from the brash, flirtatious young man she had encountered mere moments before.
“You ought to lock her up, Deputy,” he said. “She’s a wild woman!”
Lyla felt her eyes widen. “I beg your pardon!”
Deputy Morrow sighed.
“Now, Tom, what good would that do?”
“You can’t have folks runnin’ around strikin’ other folks with bags of bricks!” put in one of Tom’s friends.
“My father wouldn’t stand for it,” said Tom, nodding so hard that he had to hold onto his friend’s arm hastily to avoid falling over.
Just as the question was forming on Lyla’s lips—his father? —the deputy shook his head again and turned to her.
“Well, miss, you would have to go and pick the one young fellow in town who happens to be the mayor’s only son,” he said. “You’re sure you want me to take her in charge, Tom? It won’t make your story any better.”
“She attacked me,” Tom said bitterly. “Fought like a wolf.”
“I barely touched you!”
“My father keeps this town orderly and peaceful. Can’t have some girl from back East turnin’ it upside down. She’s got to know that there are consequences!”
Gulping, barely able to believe her ears, Lyla turned slowly to the deputy. He looked down at her—and heaved yet another sigh.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got anyone to back up your side of the story.”
She didn’t bother to glance at the young men.
“No,” she said, her lips drawn tight.
“All right,” he said. “Come on, miss. I’ll carry your bag for you.”
She gripped it tightly.
“Thank you, but no,” she said stiffly. “I’ve brought it all this way. I can surely carry it a bit further.”
The deputy rubbed his forehead beneath his hat, glanced at Tom’s infuriated expression, and sighed once more.
“Miss,” he said, “as far as we’re concerned, that bag’s the next best thing to a lethal weapon. Hand it over, if you please.”
And so, with her only worldly possessions taken from her at last, Lyla Partridge found herself shepherded down the road toward the jailhouse.
It was small, which was only to be expected for a town this size; small and rustic—also to be expected, she supposed.
Deputy Morrow set her things in the corner and opened the cell door.
Lyla stared at him.
“You can’t be serious!”
“Just for a little while,” he told her. “Tom is spoiled to the core—he’s liable to make a big ruckus about it if we don’t. Anyhow, the sheriff’ll be back before long and will investigate it. Go on, miss, you’ll find it’s more comfortable than you think.”
Lyla was angry enough to grind her teeth. But she controlled herself, marching into the cell with every ounce of dignity she could muster, then turning to snatch the barred door from the deputy’s hand. She closed it behind herself and stood with her head high as he locked it.
“I feel so very welcome here in West Hope,” she announced to no one in particular.
As the deputy walked away, she heard yet another sigh.
Fairly vibrating with agitation, she turned to make her way to the back of the cell. He might have been right, all things considered; it was far more spacious than she had anticipated, with bunks at one end and a bench at the other. She sank onto the bench and buried her face in her hands.
“How on earth did it come to this, Lyla Partridge?” she murmured. “It’s only been half an hour since you arrived in California, and you’re already in jail!”
There came the faint sound of someone clearing their throat, followed by a polite male voice.
“That’s awful quick work, if you ask me. Take it from a professional—it’s downright impressive.”
Lyla’s head flew upwards at once, her eyes widening on the figure that was seated in the bunk on the far side of the cell. He grinned at her. He appeared to be a young man, not more than a few years older than she was—and very handsome.
She dropped her head back into her hands with a groan.
“Good Lord,” she said aloud. “Another one!”