The Reluctant Hero Read Free Page B

Only too willing. She didn’t want his epitaph to read, “Here lies a swindler.” Besides, she’d known why he’d done it. He’d spent a fortune trying to find a cure for her mother’s frail health—to no avail. Andrea had signed an agreement promising to pay back the bank with steady payments. She’d only have to write two hundred and fifty dime novels.
    She thought that looming task was probably what had caused her muse to flee. But she could feel the tickling of its return.
    She walked over to the table that the hotel owner, with the help of the stagecoach driver, had moved up to her room. When she’d arrived, the room had only a bed, dresser, washstand, and chair. She’d desperately needed a desk. So Lester Anderson had accommodated her request as much as he was able, taking the table from his office. Probably because, as far as she could tell, she was his only guest and source of business, and he would do whatever it took to keep her happy, to keep the coins coming in. She sometimes wondered if money, the root of all evil, was the root of all goodness as well.
    Once the desk was placed in front of the window, she’d opened her trunk, and the men had lifted out her most recent and most precious purchase, heaved it across the room, and set it on the table for her.
    Now, she slowly trailed her fingers over the Remington No. 2 typewriter. She’d bought it when her muse had deserted her, hoping it would help her find the stories. She’d heard that other dime novelists were producing a manuscript a week using this newfangled contraption. She’d quickly discovered, however, that the keys had to be pressed in order for them to deliver ink to the paper.
    And in order for the keys to be pressed, her fingers had to know what story her mind was conjuring up. Unfortunately, her mind had become a perpetual blank slate. She’d once written purely for the joy of telling a story. Now she desperately needed the two hundred dollars that the next novel would bring her.
    Her mother’s nurse, Beth, had suggested Andrea turn to real-life heroes for inspiration, but only a few had yet to be claimed, and quite honestly, they didn’t interest her. Then the article on Matthew Knight had appeared in the Fort Worth newspaper, and Andrea had begun to feel the first stirrings of excitement.
    Now, it was full blown, and she felt her empty well of creativity beginning to fill, at long last, with possibilities.
    She dragged the chair over and sat. She wound a piece of paper into the typewriter. She wove her fingers together and bent them backward, as was her usual ritual before writing—because of all the cramping in her hands she’d had in the past—took a deep breath . . .
    And looked out the window, inviting the elusive words into her soul.
    Â 
    Â 
    â€œMind if I join you?”
    Matt jerked his head up and stared at the woman who’d spoken. He’d been enjoying his beef at Mc-Goldrick’s Family Home Restaurant, alone, in silence. A shame he didn’t have the authority to chase a citizen out of town for upsetting a man’s digestion.
    Suddenly remembering his manners, he came to his feet and announced, “I’m almost finished.”
    With a demure smile, she said, “Then you won’t have to endure my company for long.”
    Before he could respond that he had no plans to endure it at all, she sat in the chair opposite him, not even waiting for him to pull it out for her or to issue an invite. He thought about walking out. That would make his position clear. But he still had a good portion of meat and potatoes remaining, and he was hungry. He took his seat and went to slicing off another bite of beef, ignoring her as much as he was able, considering he’d yet to find any aspect of her worthy of ignoring.
    â€œYou cleaned up real nice,” she said.
    He stilled, the beef halfway to his mouth. He hoped the sudden heat in his