PART 1: The Sheriff Who Thought He Was Perfect

Sheriff Walter Briggs had arrested cattle thieves, faced dangerous outlaws, and survived a gunfight with three armed bandits. But nothing in his twenty years of law enforcement had prepared him for the afternoon his wife walked into the saloon carrying a notebook.

Especially because the notebook contained forty-seven reasons why he was the worst husband in Colorado.

It all started on a Saturday afternoon in 1887, when Martha Bell, the sharp-tongued owner of the Silver Spur Saloon, decided the town of Dusty Creek needed some entertainment.

And Martha knew exactly where to find it.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she announced, standing on a wooden chair. “Today, we’re holding the first annual Worst Husband Contest!”

The saloon erupted in laughter.

“Every wife gets three minutes to tell us the dumbest thing her husband has ever done. The audience picks the winner!”

A rancher named Billy Thompson immediately stood up.

“That’s ridiculous! My wife doesn’t have anything bad to say about me!”

His wife, Clara, slowly turned toward him.

“Billy, last winter you tried to dry your socks inside the oven.”

“They were wet!”

“You forgot they were in there and baked them with my birthday cake!”

The entire saloon exploded with laughter.

Billy sat down.

At the corner table, Sheriff Walter Briggs chuckled into his coffee.

“Poor fools,” he muttered. “Some men just weren’t born to be husbands.”

His deputy, Samuel Price, glanced at him.

“You planning to enter, Sheriff?”

Walter nearly choked.

“Me? Absolutely not! My marriage is perfect. Twenty-two years, and my wife has never had a serious complaint.”

Samuel raised an eyebrow.

“Has she ever told you that?”

“She doesn’t need to. I can tell.”

Samuel wisely returned to his coffee.

Meanwhile, the contest was becoming the most entertaining event Dusty Creek had seen in years.

Mrs. Henderson revealed that her husband had once mistaken a bag of flour for a sack of horse feed.

Mrs. Cooper described how her husband had spent an entire afternoon searching for his missing hat while wearing it.

Mrs. Jenkins announced that her husband had named all twelve of their chickens after his former girlfriends.

“And he wonders why I won’t cook eggs!” she declared.

Even Walter laughed so hard that tears ran down his cheeks.

“Gentlemen,” he announced proudly, “this is why a man must exercise good judgment in marriage!”

Then the saloon doors swung open.

Every conversation stopped.

Standing in the doorway was Eleanor Briggs.

The sheriff’s wife.

She was a respectable woman of forty-six, with neatly pinned brown hair, a blue Sunday dress, and the calm expression of someone who had spent twenty-two years practicing patience.

In her right hand was a small leather notebook.

Walter smiled.

“Ellie! Come sit down, sweetheart! We’re having a wonderful time!”

Eleanor looked at her husband.

Then at Martha.

“Is this where women are telling stories about their husbands?”

Martha grinned.

“It certainly is, Mrs. Briggs. Would you like to participate?”

Walter waved dismissively.

“Oh, don’t waste your time, darling. These ladies have real complaints.”

Eleanor smiled.

It was a small, pleasant smile.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Samuel suddenly felt sorry for the sheriff.

“Actually,” Eleanor said, stepping forward, “I believe I have a few things to share.”

Walter laughed.

“Well, this should be interesting!”

Eleanor opened her notebook.

“On March third, my husband volunteered to repair our kitchen roof.”

Walter nodded proudly.

“And I did!”

“Yes,” Eleanor continued. “He repaired the wrong roof.”

The room went silent.

“What?” Martha asked.

“He spent six hours fixing the roof of the abandoned chicken shed. Meanwhile, rain poured through our kitchen ceiling onto my bread dough.”

Laughter erupted.

Walter’s ears turned red.

“The buildings look similar from behind!”

Eleanor turned a page.

“On April seventeenth, I asked him to buy six eggs.”

“And I brought home six eggs!” Walter protested.

“Six dozen eggs, Walter. Seventy-two. We ate eggs for eleven days.”

The crowd roared.

“On May ninth, I asked him to watch the laundry while I visited my sister.”

Walter crossed his arms.

“And I watched it!”

“Yes. You sat in a chair and watched the clothes blow off the line. Then you told me the wind had stolen them.”

Martha nearly fell off her chair.

Eleanor continued.

“On June twenty-first, he promised to cook our anniversary dinner.”

Walter looked relieved.

“Now, that was a lovely evening!”

“He boiled the potatoes without water.”

“Nobody told me they needed water!”

“Walter, you are the sheriff. You investigate crimes.”

“Potatoes aren’t criminals!”

The laughter became deafening.

By now, men were leaning against the walls to keep from falling over.

But Eleanor wasn’t finished.

She flipped through several more pages.

“On July fourth, he accidentally locked himself inside our outhouse.”

Walter covered his face.

“Eleanor, please.”

“On August twelfth, he gave my birthday present to the horse.”

“The packages looked alike!”

“And on September second, he told me he couldn’t help with the dishes because he had an emergency at the jail.”

She paused.

“The emergency was a card game.”

Samuel slowly lowered his coffee cup.

Every deputy in Dusty Creek had attended that card game.

Walter stared at his wife.

“How do you remember all this?”

Eleanor lifted the notebook.

“Because, Walter, I started writing things down after you told me I was imagining them.”

For the first time that afternoon, the sheriff had absolutely nothing to say.

Martha wiped tears from her eyes.

“Mrs. Briggs, I think we’ve heard enough! Ladies and gentlemen, we have our winner!”

The crowd began chanting.

“SHERIFF! SHERIFF! SHERIFF!”

Walter stood, straightened his vest, and attempted to recover his dignity.

“Well, I suppose every great man has a few imperfections.”

Martha handed him a golden-painted wooden trophy shaped like a broom.

“Congratulations, Sheriff Briggs! You are officially Dusty Creek’s Worst Husband!”

Walter accepted it with a stiff smile.

“Thank you. I suppose.”

“And now,” Martha announced, “it’s time to explain the grand prize!”

Walter blinked.

“Prize?”

“Of course! Every contest has a prize!”

Martha reached beneath the counter and produced a large sheet of paper.

“The winning husband must spend one entire week doing the household chores for every family that entered the contest!”

Silence.

Walter stared at her.

“Every family?”

“Every single one.”

“How many entered?”

Martha checked her list.

“Seventeen.”

Walter’s face turned pale.

“Seventeen families?”

Eleanor closed her notebook.

“Oh, Walter. You always said housework was easy.”

The crowd erupted again.

But Martha had one final announcement.

“And since the contest rules require the winner to begin immediately, your first assignment is waiting outside!”

Walter turned toward the saloon doors.

Through the windows, he could see seventeen women standing beside seventeen overflowing laundry baskets.

Behind them waited three stubborn mules, a mountain of dirty dishes, and a wagon stacked with firewood.

Samuel leaned toward him.

“Sheriff, would you like me to arrest somebody?”

Walter swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Walter looked at his smiling wife.

“Whoever invented marriage.”

Then Martha rang the saloon bell.

“One more thing, Sheriff! Eleanor hasn’t told us what happened on October tenth.”

Every woman in the room suddenly stopped laughing.

Eleanor’s smile disappeared.

Walter went completely still.

And Samuel whispered, “Sheriff… what happened on October tenth?”

Eleanor slowly opened her notebook to the final page.

“That’s the day,” she said quietly, “my husband brought another woman home and told me to prepare the guest bedroom.”

The saloon fell silent.

Walter’s face drained of color.

“Ellie,” he whispered, “you promised we wouldn’t discuss that.”

But Eleanor looked him straight in the eye.

“And you promised me she’d only be staying one night.”