I, Fernanda Elena Maria Sobrano, am tell you this thing from my heart, how I find this man, Hawk Rivera, and ask for his help. My lady she not know what I do, but you will understand when I tell what happen.
“Sheriff, you can’t miss this.”
Hawk Rivera tilted his head so he could see the pudgy overeager face of the mayor from beneath the broad brim of his well-worn gray Stetson. “Like hell I can’t.”
“But everybody in town’ll be there!”
Hawk winced. All the more reason he should stay away. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the townspeople of Smoke River, just that he didn’t like them in bunches. “Mingling,” his mother had called it. He hated mingling. Made the back of his neck crawl like two dozen spiders had been dropped down his shirt collar. Mayor O’Grady cleared his throat. “She came in on the afternoon train. Fine-looking woman.”
Hawk shifted his boots to a new spot on his paper-littered desk. “Save your breath, Harve. Not interested.”
“Looks kinda feisty, too.”
“Still not interested.”
Harvey O’Grady smacked his now-empty whiskey glass down on top of a Wanted poster. “Not interested in a pretty woman? Somethin’ wrong with you, Sheriff.”
Hawk snorted. “Nuthin’ wrong with me another shot of whiskey and a little peace and quiet can’t fix. Leave me alone, Harve.” He tipped his chair farther back toward the dirty wall of the jail. “Leave the whiskey.”
“Aw, hell. A little excitement’d do ya good. Sure as God made little green leprechauns, yer gettin’ morose as a randy coyote.”
“Drop it, Harve.” Pointedly he looked at the door. “See you tomorrow.”
His office door slammed and Hawk reached for his whiskey, drained the glass, then refilled it from the flask the mayor had left. Night was too damn pretty to spoil it with politics.
Down the street somewhere he heard what sounded like chanting. “Oregon women better take note, Wyoming women have got the vote!”
He snorted. Bad poem. Bad idea. If Oregon women were smart they’d leave the thinking to their menfolk and tend to the business of making love and babies. Like they did in Texas.
But that’s why you left, isn’t it? Love and a baby?
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw cracked. He grabbed for his whiskey and shut his eyes.
* * *
Caroline MacFarlane leaned out the second floor window of her hotel room and pointed. “Just look, Fernanda. The ladies have made signboards!”
Below her in the street a dozen women marched holding up hand-lettered placards.
LADIES UNITE.
WOMEN ARE PEOPLE TOO.
VOTES FOR WOMEN!
With their free hands, the ladies gripped their straw bonnets, which the hot afternoon breeze threatened to dislodge. Caroline’s eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Mama would have been so proud.”
Fernanda shifted her bulk beside her. “Your mama, mi corazón, work too hard.”
True. Her mother had never minded the dust, or the heat, or the rough manners of little towns like this one, out in the middle of nowhere. Evangeline MacFarlane had lived for The Cause. Caroline was doing her best to follow in her sainted mother’s footsteps.
Fernanda touched her arm. “You must eat something before people come.”
“Afterward,” Caroline breathed. “I am far too excited to eat just now.”
“Humph,” Fernanda sniffed. “Soon you look like scrawny chicken. Now you put on speaking dress.”
Reluctantly Caroline let her companion draw her away from the window, lace her up in the whalebone corset that made it hard to breathe between sentences and smooth out the sleeves on her severely cut dark blue bombazine. She must look every inch a lady tonight; winning over an audience of ranchers and townspeople and their wives must be handled with decorum as well as rousing words.
With a final tug at her starched petticoats she donned her favorite speech-making hat, a bonnet with an iridescent green-and-blue pheasant feather drooping stylishly over one eye. She flashed Fernanda a smile and turned toward the door.
“Let us go forth and conquer!”
* * *
Even from inside his office, Hawk could hear the noise rumbling from the town hall behind the barbershop. A twinge of unease crawled up the back of his neck. He hadn’t heard such a commotion since the lynching the new judge, Jericho Silver, had narrowly averted. That, he recalled grimly, had ended up in a near riot.
He was glad Jericho had been elected district judge. That had meant Smoke River had needed a new sheriff. And he’d sure as hell needed to get out of Texas.
He liked Smoke River. The town was flanked by mountains that shaded into purple in the distance, golden wheat fields, and endless grassy expanses where mottled brown cows grazed. Like Butte City, only smaller. Tree-lined streets. Nice houses. Even the main street looked well-kept.
His deputy cracked open the door
