Forever Wild (Book 1 in the Forever His Series)

Chapter 3

1850

November.

  The sun peeks through the afternoon clouds, lighting up the farmers on the main thoroughfare with their wagons full of wares to sell, other men loitering about talking business with each other; women, by themselves or with their young, shopping, and older matrons nudging their young wards along when they try to stop and stare at the fancy dresses and soft fabrics in the display case of The Mercantile. Next to this upkept, one-story building, stands the town's jailhouse in all its prominent glory, where, inside, things are certainly becoming more heated than the humid environment outside.

  "Mrs. Rosewater, like I have said two weeks ago, there have been no new leads in the investigation of your husband's death." Sheriff Tilby sighs in his seat, takes his hat off, runs a hand through his sweaty scalp. He's a busy man in a busy little town going nowhere. Where is that deputy when he needed him? Damn, no good, weasel of a man.

  When he speaks again, he does his best to soften his tone. "It's been over a month, ma'am. Even if we did find any new evidence, the murderer's trail has long since disappeared. There's no way to track 'em."

  Emily Rosewater stands on the other side of the sheriff's desk, with the bearing of a storm determined to break loose.

 "But I've told you who killed Collin! Liar Joe doesn't hide from the law." She leans forward. "With all the trouble he causes in other towns, it'd be easy to hunt him down and have him face justice." At the last word, her fist slams onto the desk, causing a frown to form on the sheriff's wrinkled and leathery face.

 "Careful there now, ma'am. That kind of man doesn't take too kindly to accusations, especially when he's got his moles in nearly every town in the state. Besides, how can anyone know for sure that he was the one who committed the crime?" Sheriff Tilby sits upright, an itch begins to form in his right hand, his gaze travels to the drawer housing his cigarettes.

  Emily's voice raises against her better judgment and tears prick at her eyes. "I witnessed his murder first hand! My husband died in my arms!"

  Sheriff Tilby stands, places his hat back on his head. His patience, what little there was to begin with, has been wrung dry from his conscience. "Beg your pardon, Mrs. Rosewater, but all I have is your word and a dead body to go on." He adjusts his gun belt, moves to stand near the front door. "No one saw the outlaw enter or leave your husband's shop. Truth be told, there's talk-" He stops himself, the words almost slipping out before he can catch them. "Well, it isn't right to say." He opens the door.

  "Talk of what, Sheriff?" The sharp tone has his feet planted to the wooden flooring of the jail-house. Should he say anything? If he didn't, she'd only find out from someone else. Then there'd really be a storm to swim through.

  Emily watches as the sheriff's shoulders sag before he turns with his hat in his hands. He does his best to screw his expression into one of pity, but to her, it resembles that of a dog who just ate something sour.

  "Some in town believe..." Grow a pair and get it out, you idiot. A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Collin died because of a...ah...marital dispute." A sudden sense of relief from withholding that information all this time has him breathing easier. When his eyes shift to the floor, she realizes the true meaning of his words. Disbelief leaves her stomach clenching.

  "They think I had Collin killed because of an affair? That's absurd!" Outrage clogs her throat; tears threaten to fill her eyes. All these years of living in this town, and this is how she's treated? Like a plausible suspect of murder?

  She whirls around, snatches her purse from the seat.

  Sheriff Tilby decides to give one last attempt at dissipating the coming storm before him. He takes a step toward her, raises his palms in the air as if he is going to console her. Really, it's more of an added barrier between them.