Sheriff and Deputy

She had been staring him down across the table. The night was growing late. A heady scent of cheap floral perfume wafted through the air mixing with the heat rising from the old ply-wood floor. The not entirely unpleasant and warm smell of humanity breezed through the air as patrons moved in and out of the building. Clients cheerfully strode up and down the creaking stairs to the straining beds above. The steady rock and beat of wood overhead, an out of tune piano player cycling the same list of songs. Dull roars of belligerent, gruff and mostly drunk men complimented by soft, fabricated moans of hard working women. Mixing together and creating the usual melody of the night, as sawdust sprinkled from the ceiling with the stucco rhythmic beat. 

She wasn’t like most of the women here. She wasn’t here for work. Not yet. Lora Deveen was an oddity, she was something “different”. Something that the other men both hated and desperately wanted. She was a “Law-Woman”; the acting deputy to be exact. Her overprotective father the sheriff. Although, in his old age and largely behind his unaware back she had taken over most of his duties and obligations. Meting them out while the old man doted on more and more. All of the patrons knew her well — aware and wary of her presence. The deadly sylvan colt .44 dangling from a slim but shapely hip, it's trigger custom made for thinner fingers and well worn.

Recallous, she grew up around firearms and gunpowder. Her mother was shot down when she was young, too young to remember. The reason still lost or perhaps never revealed to her. She was no stranger to violence and cruelty. Old enough to remember years later when her father finally tracked down her mother’s killer and shoot him dead in the streets of her dusty, ill-ridden town. Old enough then to know the completed and empty satisfaction it brought the two of them. She like him had become steeled to this world; molded to life out here and the work that she, like him, purely loved. She thought of her old man for a second. A grin escaped her countenance; it framed what was a comely face. A usually stern visage studded with full red lips and sharp hawk eyes. A long mane of bronze hair, tied and swept under a ridge-top cowboy hat. The thought tracing through her head of how he would be scowling at the idea of her being at this brothel.

Yet her she was, at this table staring bullets down the man across from her. The grin across her face not escaping her counterpart. The man trying to match her steeled now playful visage. Offered a cracking smile from his thin lips. He too was an oddity, something different. Another type of rarity as well for these parts untamed. He wasn’t rough and bellicose nor strong and gruff. However, he was slightly drunk; liquid courage mixing a bit in his thread-thin veins. Thomas Nomalis was one of these “city slickers” new to town. An “artist” he would call himself. He was only half a head taller than Lora, who was very much an average sized woman. He was thin, and he was frail — not much to look at. The townsfolk felt he dressed poorly; forgoing leather chaped jeans and a rawhide vests for linen pants and neatly fitted dress shirts. 

When she first met him trying to draw water from the local well, bumbling like a child without his mother, she thought him a useless fool. He wasn’t good with his hands and his work, she thought, wasn’t anything special or useful. He told her he came out here looking for “inspiration”. She could only laugh and she did just that — right in his face. Rumors persisted for weeks about how he could barely ride his horse straight upon arrival in town; no doubt he would have been dead if he didn’t have guide leading him here. He spoke well though; but, a silver tongue meant little to anyone in law. Still he was honest. Only visiting the brothel a handful of times in the past. He always payed out his losses at the card tables and his tabs at the bars. Indeed, he never minded or batted an eye at disparaging remarks the locals might try and bait his way. 

Still, as time went on. She liked him. 

He spoke softly, enough so that when his voice carried it was only intended for her to hear. Once more, when she spoke he listened. He intently hung onto her words, not as a longing puppy dog but as a man interested. Thinking what she spoke carried its worth in gold to him. And he was clever. Clever enough to keep her entertained for the months that they had gotten to know each other. Like the game they were locked in now. There were no cards or dice or any manner of prop on the table. There was one singular drink, a beer he had been nursing on through the night. They both would lean back in their chairs and wordlessly eyeing one another. He tapped his thin, frail finger against the wood — matching the stucco beat overhead. She saw his cracked smile, and still hung her grin wide. There was a sketch pad resting in his lap and between the edge of the table. He had drawn a masterpiece a scant few hours before their arrival. In it a scrawled out face that he had been touching up in between long deep looks into her dark earth hawk-eyes. Still he’d tippy-tap the beat along with his free hand while playing this waiting game together.  

They had grown accustomed to each other over the months. She had shot dead a thief trying to rustle off with his horse (he had left it poorly tied outside a bar). And he in turn had written and told her stories and shared with her his pens and paints. She even admitted to him that she enjoyed using his paints and that did leave him like a puppy dog smiling. And he knew it, as did she. Her father; however, was unsure. He was weary that he never carried a gun. Worse yet, he saw him use one once. At a skeet shooting game during the town’s yearly fair. He was a terrible shot. He saw the frail, thin and too weak frame go to work. Firing the mostly toy gun took more out of him than it would have the target. Still she didn’t care. She grew up steeled and callous; and he, soft and tender brought her something that her work, town and father could not. A feeling that she never quite knew before but still enjoyed having around. She thought of it like a coat that she’d prefer to keep on during a brisk cool day. Not necessary but wanted, perhaps even enjoyed. 

But still they were busy now. The game they were playing catching up to them, soon to end. Thomas would take a long pull from his beer. The tapping ceasing, one of the overhead beats above coming to a rest. A few long moments would pass. Casually, he would slide the sketch pad across the table to Lora. Her spritely grin fading to a cold, pleased smile. She loved this man. She reached down to her hip, drew her colt .44, and slowly cocked it’s trigger. Resting it on her hip, lining it straight across to her love. She tilted her head, the slightest of tells, the smallest of inclinations. In an instant, he finished his beer, sloshing the liquid down hard and rising to his full meager height. His shadow and figure casted over his love. He made a move to the bar.

Bang.

A shot rang out. There was a scream. A groaned clutch. And then a softer familiar thud. A body fell. And all at once the rhythmic pounding melody of the sawdust hazed hotel stopped. The panino-player cut out. It was drawn up just as she had planned; his work was surprisingly useful. The sketch was all she needed to confirm the bounty now dead on the floor. She looked down at her criminal quarry, proud of her work. A clean shot.  

Bang.

The next shaky shot wasn’t planned. In an instant she spun; behind her, now on one leg was another body. An unplanned accomplice to the now dead fool. Her love, ever the poor shot, hitting the vermin in the thigh. It groaned and wailed in pain. She was quick to finish off Thomas’ poor work, a straight shot through the heart. There was a wordless sigh from her lips, the others in the inn had fled to cover. The rest had ducked under tables, crawled on the floor or panicked to the exits. But her Thomas, still shaking, stood and fired. He had covered her blindspot. Still at his full meager height, casting a shadow over his love. A poor shot. But it was enough. They exchanged glances. Hers: steeled, practiced, and cold. And his: unsure, honest, and warm. 

She knew she liked him.

Word Count: 1465     Genre: Western, Romance, Suspense

Closing Word: This piece came about after having another one of my creative writings edited and taken apart by a peer. This short story came about as an attempt to write in a grounded, simple fashion. There are few stylistic deviations from proper grammar within this piece. At the same time I wanted to explore two genres I don’t normally touch on: Westerns and Romance.  Finally, this was written with a 2000 word limit challenge.