A Reckoning

Chapter Two

Chapter TwoSimms spent his morning sweeping out the sheriff's office at Glory. Stepping inside, he read again, for the umpteenth time, the telegram the Pinkerton office in Chicago had sent him the previous day. They wanted him to report to headquarters, to discuss suggestions put forward by the new mayor of Glory, Doctor Grove. They also wanted him to bring in the money, something Simms had put off for long enough. The original idea was to secure it at Fort Bridger, under the watchful eye of Colonel Johnstone, but trouble was again brewing in the north of the Territory. With a Mormon splinter group growing more belligerent with every passing day, the army's orders were clear – suppress any hint of trouble which may impair the negotiated settlement made between Brigham Young, the Mormon leader, and the President.

“I brought you some corn bread.”

Simms looked up to see Mrs. Miller standing before him, well-kitted out in powder blue dress and matching bonnet. She held a tray, covered by a white, embroidered cloth. She smiled and lifted the cover to reveal half a dozen pieces of soft, moist bread. Simms leaned forward, eyes closed, and breathed in the aroma.

“My, they smell good, Mrs. Miller.”

“Call me Laura,” she said, stepping up onto the boardwalk. She studied the broom in the detective's hands. “You should get someone else to do that.”

He blanched a little, looking away, awkward, “There is no one else … Laura. Thank you for the bread.” He propped the broom against the wall and took the tray from her.

“You should have someone, Sheriff. A man like you, so busy and all, you need someone to share the load.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words, so he simply gave a small laugh.

“I could make you some coffee. Coffee and corn bread is a wonderful combination.”

“Mrs Miller, I—”

“Laura.”

“Yes, Laura. I, er, I have quite a lot to do this morning. I need to tidy this place up before I leave.”

“You're leaving?”

He caught something in her voice, a shred of alarm perhaps, and he quickly continued, “Only temporary, you understand. I'll be back in a week, perhaps less.”

“Well, even more reason for me to make that coffee.”

She set about brewing the coffee whilst Simms did his best to keep his mind on sweeping the floor, but his eyes constantly drifted towards her slim waist, those tumbling curls, the random sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

They sat down, Simms behind his desk, Laura Miller beside the wood burner, sipping hot coffee. The lawman munched on a piece of bread, grateful for having something to do whilst her eyes burned into him.

“It must be hard for you,” she said at last, her voice sounding overly loud in the confines of the small office.

He arched a single eyebrow. “Hard? No, no, once I get back from Bridger I shall swear in a deputy or two before beginning to look through what needs to be done.”

“I didn't mean your work, Mr Simms. I meant your life. Moving backwards and forwards from here to Bovey, holding down your shared responsibilities, living out in your ranch house, all alone. I know what it is like to be alone, Mr Simms. My husband was taken two years ago this spring. I understand your wife, too, was taken by the fever?”

Pausing with a piece of bread hovering close to his mouth, Simms forced down a swallow and, no longer hungry, returned the slice to the tray, sat and stared. “It was the birth that killed her, Mrs. Miller. No doubt she was weakened by the fever before she went into labour, but …” His voice trailed away and an awkward silence followed, during which neither looked at each other, Simms preferring to focus his attention on the crumbs sprinkled across his desk.

“Listen,” she said suddenly, slapping her knees and standing up, “why don't you come to dinner? My cooking is renowned throughout the entire town, Mr Simms, and you won't find a better—”

“That's kind of you, it surely is, but like I told you – I have to leave for Bridger.”

“When you get back, I mean. The first Sunday of your return, what do you say?”

“Well, I …” He looked up into her eyes. Green eyes, flecked with hints of gold. Heat rose to his jawline and he squirmed in his chair, staring into his empty coffee cup for something to do. “That's very kind of you.”

“We shouldn't dwell on the past, Mr Simms. We should do all we can to move forward.”

“Should we?”

“I believe so. If we don't, we become immersed in grief, regret, thoughts of what might have been.” She stood and moved to the desk. “I'm not saying forget, Mr Simms, but we should try and—”

“Live with it?”

Laura Miller averted her eyes, twiddling her thumbs. “Time. Time eases the pain, but the memories remain. The good memories. My Tom was a kind, loving man. We married back in Fifty-One. Five years we were together. I often wonder where those five years went, and I struggle sometimes to recall what we did, where we went, most of it being little more than a blur. But he is still here,” she put her fist against her breast, “and he always will be. Such thoughts won't bring him back, of course. Nothing will, but I believe it is important, for my own wellbeing, to move on.” Smiling, she gathered up her purse and put out her hand. “The first Sunday then?”

Simms half-rose, taking her slim, soft hand, not knowing whether to shake it or kiss it, social etiquette not being a strong point of his. She saved him by giving his fingers a squeeze, then turned and left.

Slumping back into his chair, Simms blew out a long sigh. The last woman he'd allowed into his heart almost got him killed. Although he did not believe Mrs. Milligan harboured such dark desires, nevertheless Simms had promised himself not to succumb to the charms of a pretty woman again. And Mrs. Miller was pretty, no doubts about that. But then, so was Tabatha, and Tabatha wanted him dead.