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of his coffee.
    Her stomach growled like a dog that had spied the sheriff’s undercooked tossed-out meat. She pressed her hand below her ribs, embarrassed by the noise.
    â€œI have another can of beans,” he offered.
    â€œThank you, but I’m not really hungry.” If anything, she was feeling nauseous. She wondered if the only restaurant in town was open yet. She should probably go and have some decent breakfast, but she was certain that as soon as she left, the excitement would begin.
    Settling back in her chair, she studied the posters on the wall. Men wanted for breaking the law. Rewards offered. Only a few had a likeness of the man printed on them. Most were descriptions only.
    â€œDo you suppose outlaws take pride in the amount of their reward?”
    â€œI doubt they take pride in anything.”
    â€œWhy would a man steal?” she asked. “Why would he kill?”
    The muscle in his jaw jerked, and she remembered that he had killed. Was he haunted by his actions? How could he not be?
    â€œDo you know the time?” she asked, refraining from asking him how it had felt, how he had dealt with it. If he wouldn’t tell her where he was from, he certainly wouldn’t share with her the doubts that might plague him.
    He stretched back and pulled a pocket watch out of his trousers watch pocket. “Twelve minutes after seven.”
    That was all? She’d thought it had to be at least ten. She got up, went to the window, and looked out on the town. She could see people moving about, sweeping the boardwalk, unloading wagons. “Shouldn’t you be out walking around?” she asked.
    â€œBetter to stay put in one place so people can find me if they need me.”
    She spun around. “Don’t you get bored?”
    He tipped his head back so he could see her. “I tried to tell you. Nothin’ exciting about my life.”
    She released another sigh and returned to her chair. She wasn’t going to leave. “It would be a mite less boring if you’d at least answer my questions with some enthusiasm.”
    â€œYou wanted to follow my footsteps. I granted permission. I never said I’d answer questions.”
    â€œIt’s a little difficult to follow your footsteps when your boots seem to be permanently at rest.”
    She was certain this time. His mustache moved; a corner of his mouth did shift up.
    â€œThis is my life, lady,” he said flatly.
    â€œFine. I can do this the hard way.” She picked up her paper and pencil. He said that he’d been around long enough, and she thought she might be able to gauge his age, but based on the deep lines fanning out from the visible corner of his eye, she didn’t think he was referring to years with his cryptic statement. The lines were many and deep. No doubt a result of squinting at the sun or carrying heavy burdens. Ruggedly handsome, he wasn’t at all hard on the eyes. Before he’d shaved this morning, she’d noted how thick his morning beard was. Probably one of the reasons he grew the mustache. He probably looked like a desperado by the end of the day. She wondered if that mustache would tickle if he kissed her. She supposed she could ask for research purposes. In her stories she always had a damsel in distress, and her hero always received a kiss at the end.
    But she’d never had a hero with a mustache.
    Her stomach rumbled again.
    â€œWhy don’t you mosey over to McGoldrick’s?” he suggested. “I’ll go over and get you if there’s any excitement.”
    She presented what she hoped was her sweetest smile. “Why would I even contemplate exchanging the pleasure of your company for food?”
    The door opened, and he grimaced. His booted feet hit the floor with a resounding thud as he sat up. “Not now, Doc,” he fairly growled.
    â€œWhat do you mean not now?” asked the man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a white