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on a piece of paper.”
    He just gave her that intimidating stare.
    She sighed. “It’s supposed to make it easier on those who do a good deal of writing.”
    â€œStop them from getting that bump on their finger?”
    Self-consciously she glanced down at her hands. She’d always been embarrassed that her fingers weren’t quite straight and that she did indeed have a raised place on the finger where she’d been pressing a pencil since she was five years old and had first been taught the magic of creating letters.
    â€œI brought it with me,” she said to change the subject.
    â€œDon’t see how you could leave the bump behind.”
    She scowled. “The typewriter. It’s in my room at the hotel if you have an interest in seeing it.”
    His eyes narrowed. “They have a name for ladies who invite men to their hotel room.”
    â€œI wasn’t inviting you to my room. I was inviting you to see a typewriter.”
    He took another slow sip of coffee. “Is that the reason you looked so skittish yesterday when they were hauling your trunk into the hotel?”
    â€œI wasn’t skittish, but yes, I did have concerns. The machine was an investment, and I’m not in a position to replace it if it’s mishandled.”
    â€œDon’t see why you need a machine. I can accomplish the same thing by pressing pencil to paper.”
    â€œBut is your handwriting legible? Is every letter perfect?”
    â€œI can read it. That’s all that matters.”
    She crossed the room back to his desk. “Well, unfortunately, in my profession, others have to be able to read what I write. Although my point was that I’m sure you could learn to use a typewriter and I could learn to use a gun.”
    â€œWell, teaching you isn’t part of my job.”
    â€œWhy are you so ornery?” she asked, sitting back down in her chair.
    â€œYou’re disturbing my peace.”
    There it was again. That word “peace.” He was cantankerous. And had gone back to staring at the cell.
    She sighed. “When do you actually start to work, Sheriff?”
    â€œI’m at work now.”
    â€œYou’re in your office, but I don’t see you working.”
    â€œI’m waiting.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor trouble to come calling.”
    She glanced around. “Surely, you must do something more than sit there all day . . . waiting.”
    He slowly shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
    â€œHow will you know when trouble arrives?”
    â€œI’ll know.” He took another leisurely sip of that disgusting coffee. He turned his head to the side so he could see her. “Reckon there’s really no reason for you to stay.”
    â€œOn the contrary. I see no reason to leave.”
    She noticed that a muscle in his jaw twitched.
    â€œMy day would make for mighty boring reading, Miss Jackson.”
    She scooted up to the edge of her chair so she could rest her elbows on the desk. “It might, Sheriff, if I didn’t have such a vivid imagination. Besides, my job is to embellish the mundane.”
    He narrowed his eyes, and that muscle twitched again. “I don’t see that there’s really anything for you to write about.”
    Oh, but there was. Simply because he didn’t want her here was reason enough to be here. It was her stubborn nature that had allowed her to get published to begin with. Several of her works had been rejected by the publisher before she’d found a story that an editor had thought was worth telling.
    She had a feeling that Matthew Knight had a story worth telling. Why else would he so desperately guard it?
    â€œWhere are you from, Sheriff?”
    â€œAround.”
    â€œIs that a town in Texas? I’m not familiar with it. Whereabouts is it located?”
    She wasn’t certain, but she thought a corner of his mouth quirked up. Rather than answer her, he took another sip