A Hero in the Making. Laurie Kingery

just happened to be bringing Detwiler’s supper in to him in the saloon—a favor she did so he could continue to be available to any early-evening customers—when Bohannan entered carrying a tied stack of newly turned table and chair legs with him over one shoulder as if he were a conqueror laden with booty. She noted he also carried a brown-paper–wrapped parcel as if he’d made a stop at the mercantile.

      Detwiler whistled. “You’ve been busy,” he said admiringly.

      Bohannan grinned. “That I have. I’ll take them back with me in the morning since I’ll need to join them to the tabletops and chair seats when those are done, but I thought I’d make sure you approve of how I’m doing them before they’re varnished.”

      As if Bohannan thought there was anything to disapprove of, Ella thought waspishly, seeing the saloonkeeper run a hand over the even, sanded surfaces of a couple of chair legs.

      “Whoo-ee, these are smooth as a baby’s—” Detwiler darted a hasty glance at Ella “—um, cheek. The only problem with these is they’re too good for my customers,” he added with a chuckle, keeping his voice low so it didn’t carry to a couple of cowboys lounging at one of the long tables.

      Ella managed to stifle an unladylike snort at the fulsome compliments, but she could see that Bohannan had done quality work.

      “Dare I hope there’s some of that for me?” Bohannan asked, with a nod toward the plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes she was still holding.

      Ella set it down on the bar. “You should have had to eat the cold chicken I kept by for you at noontime,” she told him tartly. “But you never showed up. I finally ate it myself.”

      He had the grace to look abashed. “I’m sorry about that, Miss Ella. I got caught up in what I was doing, once I got started at the lathe. Next time, I’ll either come back at noon, or maybe take some extra breakfast with me, all right?”

      Who could stay irritated at a man who could smile like that? His smile seemed to know the path straight to her heart, unfortunately for her.

      “Come on back to the café after you wash up,” she said, turning on her heel. Over her shoulder, she added, “By the way, you might want to rinse the sawdust out of your hair while you’re at it.”

      * * *

      Ten minutes later, freshly shaved, his damp hair curling, he entered the café and sat down at one of the tables. He was wearing a new white shirt, she noted, one that looked like the ready-made ones sold at the mercantile, along with the silver brocade vest he’d had on the first day he came to town. The shirt was what had been in the package he’d been carrying, she realized, remembering that Salali had robbed him of everything but the clothes he’d been wearing. She thought he must have sweet-talked Mrs. Patterson into advancing him the cost of it, since he’d said the medicine-show man had picked his pockets, too.