A Wanted Man by Linda Lael Miller

looked through the fence at Lydia. “My name is Mr. Rhodes,” he said. “I’m the new marshal. Which one of those yahoos is Beaver Franks?”
    “That’s him over there, in the overalls and the plaid shirt,” Lydia answered, in a whisper, not willing to risk pointing. “With the freckles and the red hair and the big front teeth.”
    Hence the nickname, Rowdy thought. He spotted Franks and narrowed his gaze on him before shifting his gaze back to Lydia. “You want me to talk to him?”
    Lydia shook her head. “I only live just a little ways from here,” she said, pointing out the general direction of home. “And, anyhow, I can outrun Beaver Franks.”
    “Lydia,” Lark said mildly, “go and tell the others recess is over. It’s time for arithmetic.”
    Rowdy raised himself off his haunches.
    Lydia stood still for a moment, then reached through the fence again to give Pardner a parting pat on the noggin before turning to scamper away.
    Rowdy watched the child join the others, gesturing importantly as she explained, no doubt, that the fun was over and arithmetic was about to descend on them all like a plague. Beaver Franks, meanwhile, watched Rowdy, his broad face reddening a little, his fists tightening at his sides.
    Rowdy felt his hackles rise.
    Franks might be a schoolboy, but he had the body of a man.
    “I can manage Roland Franks,” Lark said, apparently reading Rowdy’s thoughts as clearly as if they’d been written on her blackboard in big letters.
    “Can you?” Rowdy asked. “How old is he, anyway?”
    “Twenty-two,” Lark answered crisply. “He might not be so troublesome of the children wouldn’t call him ‘Beaver.’”
    “Twenty-two?” Rowdy echoed.
    “He’s in third grade,” Lark said, with a strange combination of pride and defensive conviction.
    Rowdy stared at her, at a loss for words.
    “He’s been working on his father’s ranch since he was a little boy,” Lark explained. “He didn’t get a chance to attend school until this year.”
    Rowdy opened his mouth, then closed it.
    Lark smiled, plainly enjoying his consternation. “Roland’s best subject is reading, believe it or not. He’s really quite intelligent.”
    “Twenty-two?” Rowdy repeated.
    Lark folded her arms, tapped one foot on the frozen ground. Waited for Rowdy to take the hint and leave.
    Pardner gave a sad moan as all the kids trooped back inside the schoolhouse, with Roland “Beaver” Franks bringing up the rear and casting sour looks back at Rowdy over one meaty shoulder.
    “It doesn’t bother you that he chases Lydia home and pulls her hair?” Rowdy asked, shoving his hat to the back of his head, peeved.
    “I spoke to him about it,” Lark said. “And he stopped immediately.”
    “Not according to Lydia, he didn’t,” Rowdy said. He took his grandfather Wyatt’s watch out of his inside coat pocket, popped the lid with a practiced motion of one thumb and checked the hour. Ten forty-five. “What time does school let out?”
    “Three o’clock,” Lark answered, already turning to go. “Why?”
    Rowdy didn’t answer. He just looked down at Pardner and said, “Three o’clock.”
    Lark sighed and walked swiftly away.
    When she got inside, she shut the door hard behind her.
    Rowdy stayed where he was for a minute or so, pondering the presence of a twenty-two-year-old man in a schoolhouse.
    Mentally he added one more item to the list of things he knew about Lark Morgan.
    She was dangerously naive.

    P ROMPTLY AT THREE , Lark opened the schoolhouse door to dismiss her students, and was taken aback to see Rowdy’s dog sitting patiently outside the gate.
    Baffled, she descended the three narrow steps to the ground and looked down the road, first toward town, then, seeing no sign of the marshal, she scanned the countryside.
    Apparently, Pardner had come alone.
    Children streamed past Lark.
    Terran O’Ballivan and Ben Blackstone mounted their horses, bareback, and made for the ranch. Roland