A Texan's Luck by Jodi Thomas

her safe, he'd better start learning … and learn fast. So far today he'd learned she had a temper and, to give her credit, she was honest. She could have lied to the sheriff.
    He noticed her talking with a few of the farmers' wives. She was the only one without a jacket. The sun fought its way through the clouds, but the day wouldn't be warm enough to go without a coat for at least another two hours.
    Since she didn't seem to be going anywhere soon, Walker crossed to the print shop, hoping to find a shawl or coat for her.
    To his surprise, the print shop door stood wide open. So much for security. An old man, wearing a well-worn
    apron over ink-stained clothes, greeted Walker with a nod.
    "Can I help you?" He whittled the end of a pencil with his pocketknife.
    "I'm Captain Larson."
    The old man cupped one hand to his ear. "Say what?"
    "I'm Walker Larson. Lacy's husband." It sounded strange identifying himself by anything other than his rank.
    The old man grinned without the burden of teeth. "Figured that. Somebody said you were in town. Usually don't see anyone in a uniform unless the supply wagon from Fort Elliot comes in to pick up something at the station." The printer's devil offered his ink-stained hand. "I'm Duncan James. Been working here setting type for close to five years. Worked for your pa before Miss Lacy took over. Mighty fine man, your pa, and mighty fine wife you got there, Mr. Larson."
    Gripping Duncan's hand, Walker yelled, "Nice to meet you."
    Duncan smiled and moved back to his desk. When a man worked as a printer's devil, as typesetters were called, his shoulders often rounded over time. Walker would have guessed the man's occupation, even if he'd seen him outside the shop.
    Walker looked around the shop. Not much had changed since he'd been a boy. The furniture and machines appeared a little more worn. Just behind the long, high counter spread the main work area of the shop with a storage room to the left and a tiny office to the right. There were several tables cluttered with supplies and lamps hanging from wide beams to offer good light if anyone had to work after dark. The large windows across the front of the shop provided enough sunlight for daytime.
    Walker frowned. The windows also allowed passersby to see almost the entire shop and anyone who might be working inside.
    Crossing to the office, he wasn't shocked to find it as messy with papers and bills as the apartment had been with quilts and books. This had to be Lacy's domain. He was starting to recognize his wife's trademark.
    Sweaters and old shirts, probably used as dusters during the printing work, weighed down a hat tree in the corner. Walker dug through and managed to untangle a jacket. He folded it over his arm and headed back to the street, wondering if he could possibly get his wife organized in less than a month. If she started today, she might be able to have her office and quarters livable by the time he left.
    Somehow he doubted she intended to make the effort. After what she'd said to Sheriff Riley, he wouldn't be surprised if she was taking up a collection to have him shot at high noon. With his luck, the folks in Cedar Point would go along with her campaign. He'd left few friends behind when he'd ridden out of town at seventeen.
    Her laughter reached him before he saw her in the crowd of people. He liked the sound, realizing that a woman's laughter was something missing for most of his life. He had no memory of his mother, and women at the frontier forts were few.
    She stopped laughing when she saw him moving toward her, but she didn't dart away. She simply stood, watching him as he lifted her jacket and placed it over her shoulders.
    "Thank you."
    He figured he'd be lucky if he had five seconds before she threatened to kill him again so he said, "The cats stay."
    Lacy raised an eyebrow. "Did the sheriff tell you to say that?"
    "No. He told me how much they matter to you. I still feel you'd be safer without them in the house.