The Accidental Lawman Read Free Page A

chief.
    “We don’t have a badge.” The storekeeper introduced himself as Harrison Barker and added, “But I’ll order one.”
    “Badge?” Hank was fairly certain he’d just told them he had no interest in becoming the town sheriff. The young woman beside him was gently poking at the swelling on his cheek.
    “We should have an official swearing in. Hold it at the church hall.” This from a tall, clean-cut man of the cloth. If his white collar, black suit coat and radiant calm wasn’t enough of a clue, he quickly introduced himself as Reverend Brand McCormick and warmly welcomed Hank to Glory.
    “We’re in your debt, Mr. Larson,” the reverend said. “Why, if anything had happened to Mary Margaret or Timothy, the whole town would have been shattered.”
    “Not to mention broke. The contents of the safe would have been gone had you not intervened,” Harrison added.
    “You’re our hero,” a middle-aged woman in a simple poke bonnet said.
    Hank shook his head. He was no one’s hero. “It was all more of an accident than anything,” he said.
    “Why wait?” Harrison Barker surveyed the crowd. “Why not swear him in here and now? Never know what else might happen between now and the time it’ll take to organize a fancy to-do over at the church hall. We could hold a town picnic in celebration later, but I’m all for swearing him in right now.”
    Shouts of approval went up all around. Hank felt as if he were mired in quicksand and sinking fast.
    “Listen, I’m not…”
    Apparently, no one cared what he was or wasn’t. Timothy Cutter was summoned with a bellow. The frizzy-white-haired banker came blinking to the forefront of the group. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes a faded blue behind his spectacles.
    “Do you keep a Bible here, Mr. Cutter?” the minister asked.
    “Why, nothing happened to anyone but Mary Margaret!” Timothy Cutter’s eyes blinked faster as he scanned the crowd and shouted, “How can I be libel?”
    The minister leaned close to the man’s ear and shouted. “Not libel. Do you have a Bible here?”
    Cutter visibly relaxed. “Of course. In the office. Like to browse through it after lunch.” Muttering to himself, he hurried toward the back again.
    Hank ran his finger around the edge of his suddenly too-tight collar. The young woman beside him didn’t look any more comfortable than he.
    “I really should get home,” she said, thinking aloud.
    “I really should have stayed home,” Hank responded.
    Life might have become unbearable in Missouri, but at least folks there had learned to give him a wide berth. Now the good citizens of Glory, Texas, were intent upon railroading him into becoming the official sheriff.
    “Have you seen my hat?” he whispered to the young woman, suddenly remembering someone had called her Amelia.
    “Planning an escape?” she whispered back.
    “One can always hope.”
    “Too late. Here comes Mr. Cutter.”
    Indeed, Timothy Cutter was back, moving with remarkable speed for someone of his age, a weather-beaten Bible clutched in his hands. “Here you go, Reverend.”
    Brand McCormick accepted the Bible and turned to Hank. For the first time, the preacher seemed to notice Hank was anything but pleased.
    “You are willing to take an oath and help us out, aren’t you, Mr. Larson?”
    “Actually, I…” Hank met the man’s eyes. There was a tranquility about Brand McCormick, a calm knowingness no doubt nourished by his faith. The man appeared to be in his late thirties—around Hank’s age. He’d entered the bank with a woman.
    Hank found himself wondering if Brand McCormick’s faith had ever been tried? Had it ever faltered under an unbearable load of pain and sorrow?
    “Mr. Larson?” The preacher’s voice called him back.
    “I can’t do this,” Hank said.
    “Can’t or won’t?” the preacher asked softly.
    “I’m not qualified.”
    “The outlaw tied up in the corner would beg to differ.”
    “I’m just a writer,” Hank