you just the tiniest bit curious about what was going on?”
Oh, dear. He looked fit to be tied. His eyes had turned a dark stormy blue, suspicious and hard. She refused to panic. She’d dealt with this man—this big man—before. And she was prepared this time. “Like I said, I was looking for you.”
“There’s a prisoner back there, Miz Webster.” He inclined his head toward the door behind her. “It’s not a good idea for you to be in here alone.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I guess not.”
Despite the day’s heat, she wished she hadn’t forgotten her gloves. Her hands were clammy and shaking awfully.
“You said you were looking for me?” Holt stepped around her to check the door, once more between her and McDougal.
“Oh, yes.” She cleared her throat. “I wonder if you might know someone who can teach me to shoot?”
“To shoot?”
“Yes. You know, a gun.”
Irritation crossed his features as he moved to stand in front of her again. “I didn’t think you meant a slingshot.”
“Well?” She hoped he would believe she had come to the jail only for this reason.
He crossed his arms and studied her. “I just can’t figure you, Miz Webster.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think your being in my jail has something to do with Ian McDougal.”
“Sheriff!” the prisoner yelled. “What’s going on out there?”
Josie stiffened. She did not want the outlaw to see her. Or know she was here until she chose.
“Just talkin’ to a visitor.” Sheriff Holt edged closer, causing her to step away. “What do you say, Miz Webster?”
“About what?” She could barely get the words out through her tight throat.
“You seem fascinated with my prisoner,” he said softly. “Why is that?”
“I’m not.” She clenched one fist in the folds of her skirt and tried to look curious rather than nervous. “Are you saying your prisoner is one of the McDougal gang? You didn’t tell me that the other day.”
“Don’t recall you askin’, but I think you already know he is.” Holt advanced again, forcing her against the wall. “Are you his sweetheart?”
“No!” The thought made her stomach seize up. She scooted down the wall in front of him, but he shifted his large body, trapping her against the door.
“A relative? His sister maybe?”
“Absolutely not.” How could he think her related to that murdering criminal? “I’ve heard about the things he and his brothers have done. I don’t appreciate being referred to as part of their family.”
“Well, I don’t appreciate being lied to and I think that’s what you’re doing.”
“I never!”
“What were you hiding when I walked in?”
“Hiding? Nothing. I—”
He leaned in and she pressed her shoulder blades flat against the wood at her back. Holt planted a hand on either side of her. “Something up your sleeve? A derringer maybe? A file? Some kind of weapon?”
She struggled to keep her composure though the hard warmth of his body proved very distracting. “Do the ladies you know carry weapons, Sheriff?”
“We’re fixin’ to find out.”
His silky voice did things to her insides that she couldn’t recall having ever experienced with William. “Derringer? I don’t have a gun. I told you I want to learn how to shoot.”
His gaze slid down her body then back up to meet her eyes. “Do you want me to search you?”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“I will if you don’t show me what you’ve got hidden.”
“What kind of man are you that you would put your hands on me?”
“The kind who wants an answer,” he said hotly. “Now either show me or I’ll get it myself.”
The thrill that shot through her veins told Josie she did not want this man touching her. She instinctively knew she wouldn’t forget it.
A clanging sounded from the other room. “Sheriff, I’m thirsty.”
“Shut up.” Though Holt spoke to the prisoner, he never took his eyes off Josie.
She realized the noise of metal on metal was the sound of McDougal banging a tin cup or plate against the bars.
The sheriff dipped his head a fraction, his breath soft against her temple. She smelled leather and soap and man. “What’s it gonna be?”
Showing him her scalpel proved nothing, Josie told herself. She angled her chin, hoping he couldn’t see how she trembled all over. “Very well. I do have a weapon. I’ll get it.”
She dipped a hand inside her square-necked gingham bodice.
The sheriff drew back, eyes widening. “What are you doin’?”
“Getting my weapon.” If she weren’t so rattled, she might have laughed at the expression on his face—half anticipation, half stone-cold fear that she might expose herself.
She pulled the blade from between her breasts and saw his eyes darken. Not with curiosity or surprise, but with raw, hot desire. Her stomach did a slow drop to her feet.
“What—” he cleared his throat “—the heck is that?”
The fire in his gaze sent a tingle to her toes and she swallowed hard. “It’s a scalpel.”
“A doctor’s instrument?”
She nodded.
“I thought you said you were a dressmaker.”
“I am.”
He frowned at the weapon’s short silver blade. “You beat all, lady. What are you planning to do with that?”
“Defend myself.” She pressed harder against the door, trying to escape the feel of his lean thighs, the warmth from his body. “My father was a doctor and he taught my mother and me how to use this.”
“Then why do you need to learn how to shoot?”
“With the scalpel, I have to be really close to someone. Like I am to you.”
He eased back slightly,
