Читать книгу Never Love A Lawman - Jo Goodman - Страница 10

Rachel heard herself actually stutter and realized her brain was doing the same thing as her sewing machine: slipping a gear. Her tongue tripped over itself as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said to her.

“What in—? Did you just—? Belgian lace?” She followed the direction of his gaze to look down at herself. Her robe, which she’d no time to close securely, was gaping open, and the delicate ecru lace border of her nightgown’s neckline was what had provoked his comment. She was hardly immodestly covered, but Rachel closed her robe and belted it anyway. Wyatt, she noted, had already turned his attention to her face. It was Ned sitting a few feet back that was having a difficult time putting his eyes back in his head. In spite of both those things, she managed to collect herself.

“It’s at least ten minutes before daybreak. You’re standing in my yard, splitting wood. Mr. Beaumont’s…well, I’m not certain what Mr. Beaumont’s doing, but I—”

“I’m stackin’,” Ned said helpfully.

“He’s stacking,” Wyatt said. “You were going to hire him, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, he can’t split wood, now, can he? I told you about his injured leg.”

“Yes, you did, but—”

“Can’t split wood,” Ned interjected. “Can’t plant my feet proper and throw my shoulder into it.”

“Thought I could help him,” Wyatt said. “You don’t have to pay me, just him.”

Rachel looked at the throne Ned had made for himself out of Wyatt’s labor. “Pay him for sitting.”

Wyatt and Ned objected with one voice. “And stacking.”

Rachel was certain her brain slipped another gear. She took a steadying breath. “Why are you here now?”

“Sorry about waking you,” Wyatt said, setting up another log. “Ned’s got a second job to do this morning, so we thought we’d come early and get a decent start on this one.”

“Actually,” Ned said, sliding off the stack, “I need to be goin’. Joe Morrison’s got some shelves that need repairin’ at the emporium. Told him I’d be there before he’s set to open.” He tipped his hat at Rachel. “Don’t worry about paying me now, Miss Bailey. I’ll come back round for it later.”

Rachel stared after him, her lower jaw a tad slack with disbelief as Ned loped off, favoring his injured leg. When she looked back at Wyatt, she saw his features were so seriously set that he could only be suppressing a howl of laughter. “I su-p-pose you think you’re f-funny,” she said, thrusting her hands deep in her pockets to keep them warm.

“Go on back inside. You’re cold.” He swung the maul, driving the wedge cleanly into the wood and splitting it in three pieces this time. “I’ll be in when I’m finished here and you can make me breakfast. That’ll even things out between us.” He set another foot-long length of wood on its end and took aim. Just before he swung, he spared a glance for her. “Scrambled eggs, if you don’t mind.”

Rachel decided the best response was not to make one. She pivoted smartly and marched back to the house. If she owned a shotgun she’d use it to point out the direction of Longabach’s restaurant, then shoot him with it if he didn’t take the hint. She liked the idea so much that she entertained herself with plans to buy a shotgun. That kept her occupied while she washed up, pinned back her hair, and dressed for the day, but when she went to put a pot of coffee on, she saw he was still cutting and splitting wood. In spite of the briskness of the morning, there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his face and throat. She watched him pause once, lift his hat, and wipe his brow with a kerchief, then go right back to work.

It shouldn’t have softened her toward him. Rachel reminded herself that she hadn’t asked him to do anything for her and, in truth, had made several attempts to direct him elsewhere. She sincerely doubted this was what Clinton Maddox had in mind when he arranged for Wyatt Cooper to look after her.

Rachel wondered if she could find a way to better explain her opinion on the matter over breakfast.

Wyatt stomped his feet as he came in the door, alerting Rachel to his presence. The combined hearty aromas of bacon and coffee made him hope that she intended to feed him. He hung his coat and hat by the door and stepped into the kitchen. It was a consequence of the appetite he’d worked up that the first thing he noticed was that there were plenty of eggs and bacon in the skillet. She’d even made some biscuits that were now staying warm on top of the stove. Evidently she’d elicited the great black beast’s cooperation this morning.

“Smells good.” He came up beside her at the stove and warmed his hands several inches above the basket of biscuits.

“Wash up. I know your mother taught you manners.” Rachel glimpsed his half smile before he went to the tub and lathered his hands. She placed the biscuits on the table and served up the bacon and eggs, then took up the chair she’d occupied the night before. She was uncomfortably aware that she usually sat in the chair she was giving over to Wyatt. He’d only spent one evening in it and somehow she’d allowed him to claim it.

She’d have to be careful she didn’t let him wander around the house, marking territory.

“Did you say something?” asked Wyatt. He slathered butter on a warm biscuit.

“Hmm? No. No, at least I didn’t mean to. I was just thinking.”

“A penny, then.”

“It’s not worth that much.”

Wyatt let it go. “Ned and I made a pretty good start on the wood you’ll be needing.”

“About that, Sheriff Cooper, I—”

“Wyatt.” When she just looked at him, he added, “Wyatt. Most folks call me that.”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

Biting into the biscuit, Wyatt let it melt over his tongue. As the first taste slowly made its way to all of his senses, he was tempted to simply close his eyes for the sheer fine pleasure of it. “Well, they do,” he said around a mouthful. “Lord, but this is good. Why did you let me think you were all thumbs in the kitchen?”

“Please don’t make me responsible for what you think. I had problems yesterday with the eggs. I never said I couldn’t make a biscuit.”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” He nudged the honey jar toward him and drizzled a curlicue on what was left of the biscuit in his palm. The sweetness made the last two bites just about sinful. “I promise not to tell anyone you can cook like this as long as you fix them for me from time to time.”

“Now, why would I care if you told anyone?”

“First off, because they’d know you were entertaining me and that’s bound to make for speculation, and second, Abe Dishman will take it as a sign that you’re wavering in your old maid ways and is likely to lead the charge to your front door. There’s no hope I can beat back all your suitors.”

“Old maid, Sheriff?”

Wyatt didn’t answer. He picked up a forkful of eggs instead.

“Old maid, Wyatt?”

He lifted an eyebrow as he gave her a sideways look. “You’re just about the oldest unmarried woman in Reidsville. That pretty much defines old maid here.”

“I was only twenty-four my last birthday.”

“When was that?”

“March.”

“Twenty-four and one-half. You’re making my point for me.” He used his fork to indicate her plate. “You better eat. You’re going to need your strength to fight off Abe and everyone else who wants their name on your dance card.”

Rachel rolled her eyes, but she picked up her fork and tucked in. “Where did you get the wood that you were splitting?”

“Ned has a lot of it behind his place. He gathers it up, hauls it in from all around, and delivers it to most of the businesses. He’ll give you a good price.”

“All right,” she conceded, though not graciously. “I knew I needed it. I just wish you’d talked to me first.”

“I thought I did.”

Her mouth flattened briefly to communicate that her own thinking was at odds with his. “We have to settle this matter of your agreement with Mr. Maddox.”

“Mr. Maddox and I settled that. I don’t see that you have any say in it, but the offer’s still there to read over the contract. Come by my office today if you have a mind to. I’ll take you over to the bank.”

“Or I could go to the bank by myself.” She bit into a biscuit. They were good. “I do know where it is.”

“Jake Reston won’t allow you to see my private papers without me being there.”

Knowing that he was right, Rachel surrendered. “Very well. I’ll come by around two, if that’s not inconvenient. I promised Mrs. Longabach I’d schedule a fitting with her. I can see her afterward.”

“Around two’s fine.” He gave her a narrow smile. “Feel better now that that’s settled?”

It was uncomfortable to realize she had such an expressive face. There was no other explanation for how he was able to read her mind. “A little, yes.”

“Good, but don’t expect to feel much relieved when you read the contract. I’d have brought it around for you to see even if you hadn’t asked, but I’m fairly confident that you’re not going to like it.”

Her slight smile held no humor. “I’m fairly confident that you’re right.”

Silence settled between them. It wasn’t precisely uncomfortable, so neither of them was moved to fill it. For Rachel’s part she found it confusing that she’d managed to keep people like the sheriff, most particularly the sheriff, at arm’s length for fifteen months. Now, with Clinton Maddox’s death, she’d entertained him twice in her kitchen, had him fetching water and cutting wood, and had arranged to see him again this afternoon. If he really thought she was a danger to someone else, he surely was putting himself in harm’s way.

Watching her, Wyatt was struck again by the stillness she could affect. It suited her, this quiet. Not that he didn’t enjoy sparring with her, but that had been the surprise. He was used to seeing her in town, engaging, but not engaged. She was unfailingly polite, always pleasant, but those qualities were also a product of good manners and breeding, not necessarily fundamental to her character. The stillness was.

It was easy to imagine her with needle and thread, enjoying the solitary pursuit of creating something by her own hand, realizing a vision that was in her mind. He was moved by that.

He wondered if he’d ever tell her so.

“I don’t suppose that it matters much that I was someone’s mistress,” she said quietly.

The abrupt resumption of conversation startled Wyatt as much as what was said. “In Reidsville? No, not much. Maybe it did in Sacramento. It sure as hell would in Boston. But here?” He shook his head. “I like to think we’re the better for it. There must be lots of reasons why a woman agrees to become a man’s mistress.”

“Most people assume it’s money.”

“That’s probably the most popular.”

She nodded absently. “Probably is.”

“Have you thought any more about the biscuits?” When she merely stared at him blankly, he said, “Remember? You fix them for me and I keep your secret?”

“Oh, that. I can’t say that I like being blackmailed.”

“Imagine how I feel resorting to it. People around here expect me to be above such things.”

“But you’re not.”

“Sadly, no. Your biscuits prove that.”

Rachel shook her head, mildly exasperated. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Some.”

Her eyebrows knit as she gave him the skeptic’s eye. What he gave her in return was the uncomplicated expression of innocence. Convinced now that he was cunning beyond easy comprehension, Rachel acknowledged that the best she could likely do was make the game interesting.

“Once a month,” she said. “Once a month I’ll make biscuits for you.”

He chewed on a strip of bacon while he pretended to consider that offer. “No,” he said finally. “Once a week on Thursdays and every other Sunday.”

“I don’t think so. But I’m curious, why Thursdays?”

“That’s when I ride out, make a sweep through the passes to make certain no gangs have moved. There are a lot of hideouts in these parts. I also check on the folks that live farther up or out, take them mail if they have any and supplies if they’ve told me what they need.”

“Doesn’t your deputy ever go in your place?”

“That no-account Beatty boy strikes out on Mondays.”

“Oh.” She turned this over in her mind. “Well, I imagine I can make biscuits for you every other Thursday and one Sunday a month.”

“Two Sundays. Two Thursdays. Alternating. And on Sundays I get to eat them here.”

“Absolutely not. Two Sundays. Two Thursdays. And I’ll see that you get them.”

“All right,” he agreed. “Just so you know, I strike out pretty early on Thursdays.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She went to take another bite of food and realized she’d finished off her plate. She set her fork down. “I didn’t know I had such an appetite.”

“You want another biscuit? Here. I’ll split this one with you and call it my sacrifice for the day.”

That made her smile. “Thank you. I will.”

Wyatt sliced the biscuit, buttered both halves, then held them in his open palms and let her choose top or bottom.

Rachel chose the bottom. She settled back in her chair as she ate. “How long before I arrived was my house built?”

“About six months.”

That meant Mr. Maddox was making arrangements for her departure long before she’d decided to leave, perhaps before they had first discussed it together. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he saw the handwriting on the wall before she did. He’d made his fortune anticipating the mood of the country and the strategies of his peers. She considered herself prescient if she could guess what soup would be served at luncheon.

“How did you explain that you were building a house?” she asked.

“Told everyone it was for me.” He shrugged. “That didn’t cause stir, though some folks were surprised when I didn’t move in.”

“Did you want to?”

“I didn’t let myself think too much about it. I knew Maddox was pretty confident that you’d come here, so it seemed better just to wait and see how things turned out.”

“He maneuvered me about without the slightest indication that he was doing so. I had a lot to consider last night. In hindsight, I know this is where he wanted me to be. There were subtle pressures that I never understood until now.” She brushed her hands together over her plate, ridding herself of biscuit crumbs. “I doubt he would have been so adamant about me leaving if I’d pressed to go anywhere else.”

“Where else did you consider going?”

“San Francisco. Chicago.”

“Big cities. Never Denver? St. Louis? Somewhere back East?”

“No. I never gave them any real consideration, and there’s no ‘back East’ for me. I was born in California. I guess he knew me better than I knew myself. San Francisco was too close. Chicago was too far. And a small town was a better choice than a city. He realized I’d need help that would be hard to come by for a woman alone in places like Denver. Reidsville’s just about perfect.”

“Folks here think so,” he said. “Tell me about ‘too close’ and ‘too far.’”

Rachel knew what he meant, but she declined to answer. “I better see to these dishes. I have plenty of work to do today before I can leave to look at that contract.” She started to rise, but he caught her wrist. It was a light grip, just firm enough to let her know that he could insist that she sit. She set her jaw, unhappy with this turn, but she sat.

Wyatt let her go immediately. “Just one other thing,” he said. “Did you know about the Calico spur before you came here?”

“Not until I began making arrangements to leave and realized I’d have to use the spur to make the very last leg of the journey. I wasn’t certain I’d come here after all.”

“What decided you?”

“The need to be connected, even if that connection is by steel rails and spikes.” Rachel saw Wyatt nod slowly, as if he understood better than she did. “You know, Sheriff, Mr. Maddox tolerated people using C & C when they talked about his western railroad, but he disliked it immensely when they referred to the great California and Colorado as Calico.”

Wyatt raked back his sunshine-threaded hair with his fingertips and shared a slip of a smile with her. “I know.”

Rachel slowed her steps as she passed the bank. She entertained the notion that she could ask Mr. Reston to show her the contract without Wyatt Cooper’s permission or presence, but what reasons she could offer did not occur to her, especially since Wyatt was reclining in front of his office in his familiar, sublimely restful pose.

Sighing, Rachel moved on. She’d chosen her dress with some particular attention today, wanting to appear as a woman who was both careful in her deliberations and confident in her decisions. With that in mind, she’d picked out a brightly colored batiste handkerchief dress, vaguely masculine in its tailoring with its double-breasted jacket and deep pleats. When she had critically regarded herself in the mirror, she was satisfied to see that she looked striking and not alluring. It was the first order of business for a woman who wanted to be taken seriously.

She nodded or spoke to everyone who greeted her, and even risked a proposal from Abe Dishman by acknowledging him first. Ned tipped his hat at her, laughed gleefully, then jumped two of Abe’s red checkers and palmed them. Johnny Winslow offered a cheery hello when she passed him coming out of Morrison’s on an errand for Mrs. Longabach. Rudy Martin stopped sweeping the sidewalk in front of his saloon when she passed, and Mr. Caldwell wandered outside his apothecary shop just as she was going by and bid her good day.

By the time she reached the sheriff’s office she estimated that she’d acknowledged the compliments of some fourteen men and one from that no-account Beatty boy. She stopped at the gate that Wyatt had erected with his long legs and waited for him to move aside or in some other way indicate that he knew she was there.

After a moment he nudged the brim of his hat back and looked her over—slowly—from her ribbon-adorned bonnet to her soft kid boots. “Are you planning to dress every woman in town in that fashion?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell, but you were accosted upwards of a dozen times once you turned the corner from Aspen Street until you got here. I can’t say that I see Gracie Showalter or Ann Marie Easter putting up with that sort of attention.”

“I was hardly accosted,” she said. “People are friendly here. At least most of them. And this dress wouldn’t suit Mrs. Showalter or Mrs. Easter, so I won’t be suggesting the design to either of them.”

“There’s a relief.” He dropped his legs so that his chair fell hard on all fours, and rose easily to his feet. “Let’s go. Jake’s expecting us.”

“I could have met you at the bank.”

“Sure you could’ve.” He didn’t add what he was thinking, namely that he’d have missed her gliding toward him if she had. The mannish cut of the dress she was wearing shouldn’t have lent itself to her floating walk, but somehow it was emphasized, not diminished.

Wyatt stepped to the outside of the sidewalk, giving Rachel the inside track, and gestured toward the bank. “Are you anxious?”

“A little,” she admitted as they began walking.

“Do you think I’ve been lying to you about it?”

“No. It was just unexpected, that’s all.”

He nodded. “When we get to the bank, you’ll have to read it with me there. I only have the one contract. I can’t risk something happening to it.”

“You hardly have to be concerned that I’ll destroy it. What would be the point? You seem dead set on living up to the terms of the agreement whether or not there’s a paper that says you have to.”

“Glad you see it that way, Miss Bailey.”

They fell quiet until they reached the bank; then Wyatt opened the door for her and ushered her inside. “Here we go,” he said softly, a bit resignedly, and Rachel was moved to wonder if he was speaking to her or himself.

Jacob Reston was the sort of man that medium was meant to describe. He came in at average for height, weight, and the length of his sideburns. He spoke in carefully modulated tones and was never passionate on any subject. He was genial, unaffected, and comfortable to be around. In matters of finance, he was the agreed-upon expert, and he managed the bank efficiently and with integrity because it was not in his nature to manage it in any other manner.

Mr. Reston engaged in precisely one minute of small talk, then showed them to the back room where the bank’s safe was located. The words HAMMER & SCHINDLER were set in bold gold-leaf typeface on the door and sides. The brass lock was as big as Rachel’s fist. Mr. Reston stepped in front of the safe and used his body to conceal the combination. It took him mere seconds to find what he was looking for; then he closed the safe and spun the dial.

He handed an envelope to Wyatt. “You’ll have privacy here,” he said. “Take your time.”

Wyatt waited until Reston closed the door upon exiting before he gave the envelope over. “Would you like to sit?” he asked, pointing to the ladder-back chair closest to the oil lamp.

“Yes, I think I would.” She put herself at the corner of the small table and leaned forward so her elbows were resting on the edge. She was peripherally aware that Wyatt had chosen not to join her but was leaning back against one wall, his hands behind him. “I guess I’m a little nervous. Did he write it in his own hand, do you know?”

“I believe so. I remember thinking the script matched his signature. You’ll know better, but I never doubted it was from him.”

Rachel nodded once, then slipped her finger carefully under the envelope’s flap where the seal had been broken once and then reset lightly by the pressure of the things placed on top of it. She eased out the contract, set the envelope aside, then carefully unfolded the paper.

She read.

Her vision did not blur immediately. She’d prepared herself for that first shock by asking if she’d find Clinton Maddox’s handwriting, so she was able to beat back tears for a while. The content was straightforward, outlining the terms, expressing that she was to have land, a house, and such assistance as she required from time to time to make certain that she would stay in Reidsville. That assistance, he was careful to specify, would have to be offered in a way that did not arouse suspicion. He did not put it to paper in plain words, but it was there between the lines that he thought she was too proud or too stubborn—perhaps both—to accept too many kindnesses, thereby ensuring that she would cut off her nose to spite her face and guarantee that she would decide to leave. The final implication was that she would decide to move back to him, and that was the very last place she was welcome. It was little wonder that Wyatt thought she’d been sent packing, albeit with much consideration and a great many possessions in her trunk.

Halfway through, she fumbled for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Without looking up, she addressed Wyatt. “I understand why you think you’re required to look after me, but that’s an interpretation, not a condition.”

“Read on,” was all he said.

She set down the first page and continued until her breath caught sharply. She stared at the page. “He wasn’t serious.” At first it was all she could think to say. “If you knew him better, you’d know he had a wicked sense of humor. This is clearly a joke or proof of an addled mind.”

“You knew him very well. Was his mind addled?”

It occurred to her to lie, but this was Clinton Maddox she was talking about, and she couldn’t bring herself to tarnish his memory. “No,” she said softly. “Anything but.”

“Which makes it a joke.”

Relieved, Rachel nodded. “Then you do see it. I’m glad. For a moment I was concerned that—” She bit down on her next words when she glanced up and saw that Wyatt Cooper wasn’t smiling. Not even a little bit. “You certainly don’t have to be worried that I’ll hold you to it. This sort of thing isn’t done any longer. I’m not even sure that it was done in Mr. Maddox’s youth.”

“A marriage arranged for property and protection?” he asked. “It’s done all the time.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think so. I signed the contract, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes, but it’s not binding. It can’t be, not with such a ridiculous clause. You agreed it was a joke.”

“I didn’t say that exactly. You should know I put my name to it with a sense of the consequences.” He shrugged. “And now I have myself a mail-order bride.”

Rachel’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“You’ll catch flies that way but not much else.”

Her mouth snapped shut. She glared at him, rattled the paper in her hand, and continued to read. Clinton Maddox was clear that there could be no marriage while he lived, but at his death, her need to be protected was paramount. He did not outline his reasons, which Rachel knew was quite deliberate. She understood them well enough, though it was clear from her earlier conversations with Wyatt Cooper that he did not. Mr. Maddox had cared deeply for her, enough so that he arranged for her safety, but in the end blood will out. He could not bring himself to leave a record of why she’d been compelled to go in the first place.

“He must have thought that marriage was the only sure way to…” She let her thought trail away.

Wyatt picked it up. “To keep you from doing injury to someone?”

“If you like.”

“That’s what he implies.”

“Yes, I read that.”

He waited to see if she would say more, but on this subject she was obstinately quiet. “Will I have to spend our married life sleeping with one eye open?”

“Don’t suggest that, even in jest.”

“What? That you’ll murder me in my sleep?”

“That I’ll marry you.”

Wyatt released a pained sigh as he pushed away from the wall. He spun around one of the chairs at the table and straddled it. Placing his forearms across the uppermost rail, he jerked his chin at the contract she still held in her hands. “Finish reading it; then we’ll talk.”

His expression did not invite argument, although Rachel was sorely tempted. She did as he suggested but only after she made certain he understood it was because she wanted to. Her lips moved slightly as she read, not because she was quietly sounding out the words, but because she was cursing Clinton Maddox.

When she finished reading, but not cursing, she refolded the contract and slid it and the envelope in Wyatt’s direction. “He mentions the mine,” she said. “And reminds you that I’m to have a half interest in it.”

“That’s right.”

“That was his share?”

“Yes.”

“Who has the other half?”

“I have a quarter. The town has the other.” He watched her try to take that in, work out what it meant. “That’s not the important part,” he said before she began to raise objections that would make no difference in the end. “Did you read the paragraph about the spur?”

“Yes. He means to give me sole ownership of it.”

“If you marry me.”

“Yes, I saw that. And since I don’t want the Calico spur, there’s absolutely no motivation for me to marry you.” She tucked her handkerchief out of sight, then raised her eyes to regard him with frank satisfaction. “That ends it, doesn’t it? I believe a wedding contract requires the approval of both parties.”

Wyatt gave her a moment to enjoy what she thought was checkmate before he said the words that proved she had only checked him. “I told you how important that spur is to the town. Do you recall the second half of the message I showed you yesterday?”

She did. It was etched in her mind as deeply as the first, but it didn’t concern her. Then. “C & C control to Foster,” she said. “That’s to be expected, isn’t it? Foster is Mr. Maddox’s only grandson and therefore, his heir.”

“That’s right. Heir to everything but half of the Reidsville Mine and the Calico Spur.” He paused, watching Rachel’s cheeks lose color and her eyes darken until the black centers were nearly all that he could see. “How well do you know Foster Maddox?” She didn’t answer, but it was there in her expressive face. “That well,” he said. “Then you must suspect as I do, as most of the town will when they all learn of Clinton Maddox’s passing, that Foster Maddox isn’t likely to keep the spur open. He won’t have an interest in the mine, so you see, that pretty much eliminates his motivation.”

Rachel felt her shoulders compress as she drew in on herself. “I can’t—that is, I don’t know if—” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “How did Mr. Maddox arrange for me to inherit his half share of the mine? I mean, is it in his will? Will I have to go to Sacramento?”

“You don’t have to leave Reidsville, which, if you noticed, he was particular about. His right to name an heir was settled when he entered into the partnership. The town’s share can never be reassigned, but he and the other shareholder retained the right to pass their portion along.”

“I thought you were the other shareholder.”

“I am. Now.”

“And you received it from your…” She paused, considering the likely candidates. “Your mother’s family?”

“From my father. Matthew Cooper. Do you know the name?”

“No. I never heard Mr. Maddox speak of him.”

“Probably just as well. He followed his own mind about most things and didn’t take kindly to reasoned debate. He was stubborn to a fault and prided himself on being ornery.” He held up one hand, palm out. “And before you say the apple doesn’t fall far, you should know I heard it so often growing up that I thought it was our family’s motto.” He caught the glimmer of her smile, slightly wobbly, but a good sign that she wasn’t digging in. If he could keep her listening, and more importantly, thinking, there was a chance she would come around.

“I still don’t understand how Mr. Maddox could have named me his heir to the mine. Those partnership papers must have been drawn up years ago, maybe even before I was born. It couldn’t have occurred to him then.”

“No, you’re right. Like my father, he named his son.”

“Benson.”

“Yes, but both of them understood that they might outlive their children. There was war talk even then. Neither of them knew what would happen. They wrote out a proviso that in the event of their heirs predeceasing them, they could name another at a later time. The intent was not to pass it to a third generation without forethought. Clinton Maddox named you six and one-half years ago.”

Rachel was properly astounded. “On my eighteenth birthday?”

“So it seems.”

“But I—”

“I can’t speak for the workings of that man’s mind, but that’s what he did. He made sure I knew about it right away. Of course, I didn’t know what was coming down the pike. I don’t think he did, either, though from where I’m sitting it’s hard to put anything past him.”

That had occurred to Rachel also. “Do you think Foster actually knows about the mine?”

“I don’t know what his grandfather would’ve told him. Probably very little.”

But Rachel didn’t want to talk about Foster Maddox, and she regretted asking the question. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, and quickly changed the subject. “Can I refuse to accept my share?”

“No. You can do whatever you like with it, but you can’t refuse to have it put in your name first.”

“And that’s not dependent on me marrying you?”

“No, not at all. But if we lose the spur, the mine won’t help the town much. We still need to bring machinery in and out, and the rails transport gold and silver. If you’re thinking someone else will step in to lay track, think again. There’s no other right-of-way as direct or safe.”

Rachel rolled her neck, then her shoulders. The beginning of a headache was forming behind her eyes. “I need time,” she said. “I can’t possibly think this through now.”

“I didn’t expect that you could.”

“Do you have the partnership papers?”

“Yes. They’re here, but Jake will have to get them for us.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to see them now. But later…later I’d like to look them over.”

“Of course.”

Rachel lifted her head to look at him. He appeared damnably untroubled, but then she knew he’d had considerably longer to get used to the idea. “I haven’t asked if you’re prepared to do it,” she said.

“I think you know the answer to that. I wouldn’t have delivered the message, allowed you to see the contract, or made an attempt to explain how it all will work if I wasn’t willing.”

“It’s a lot of money,” she said softly. “I can hardly imagine it. Do you need a lot of money?”

“Not a lot. The mine takes investing in to keep it operational. What about you?”

“Mr. Maddox gave me more than enough to start out. You know I don’t owe anything on my home or the land. I’ve been careful with what I have, so I get by nicely. The women here, they like my dresses.” She frowned, regarding him with suspicion. “That’s not your doing, is it? Another way you’ve been looking out for me?”

“No. I swear that accomplishment’s your own. I just learned yesterday that you’ve been sewing for Miss LaRosa and her girls. She’s particular about her clothes, so if she’s patronizing you instead of the fancy dressmakers in Denver, I’d say you earned your success.”

She nodded slowly, still uncertain if she could believe him, but the turn in the conversation reminded her of her other commitment. She placed her palms firmly on the edge of the table, prepared to push herself up. “I have to go. I want to see Mrs. Longabach, and I’m already later than I meant to be. I don’t like showing up and interfering with her routine. She’ll be starting to prepare for dinner soon.”

Rachel narrowly avoided the restraining hand that Wyatt put out for her. “No, really. I have to go.” She stood and easily stepped around the chair, putting some distance between them. “You know I wasn’t going to make a decision now, so there’s no reason for me to stay.”

Wyatt leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankle under the table. He tapped the center of one palm with a corner of the envelope. “Very well. Go on. See Estella. You’ll have your work cut out for you if she wants her dress to outshine Miss LaRosa’s.”

That observation dampened some of Rachel’s enthusiasm, but she resolutely headed for the door. At the last moment, she turned. “I’ve never inquired before, but does Reidsville have a lawyer, or at least someone well versed enough to go over the contract and the partnership papers with me?”

“We have a lawyer. There’s not much for him to do these days as it regards contracts and such, but if you want him to look over the papers with you, I’d be happy to arrange it. I imagine he’ll be pleased to do it.”

“You don’t mind?”

Wyatt shook his head. “Consider it a leg up on an extra plate of biscuits.”

He had a one-track mind, Rachel decided, and it followed the most direct route to his stomach. “All right,” she agreed. She offered him a brief, tentative smile, then let herself out.

Wyatt gave her what he thought was sufficient time to leave the bank; then he poked his head out the door and called to the manager. “Hey, Jake, I’ll be needing you to get in the safe again. Miss Bailey wants to see the incorporation papers for the mine.”

Rachel sat in a green-velvet-upholstered side chair in Estella Longabach’s parlor and sipped tea from a fluted, gold-rimmed cup. “I brought my tape measure,” she said. “Just to be certain that what I have in my records at home is still accurate.”

Estella held out her cup a fraction so she could stare down at herself. “I’m certain I haven’t gained any weight.”

“As hard as you work, Mrs. Longabach, it’s more likely you’ve lost some, and a fraction of an inch here or there, well, you can understand that it makes a difference in the fit of the dress.”

Nodding, Estella made another study of Rachel’s dress. “I sure like what you’re wearing today. I don’t remember seeing that in the pattern book you lent me. I’m sure it would have caught my eye.”

“It’s my own design, but there are dresses similar to it in the book.”

“Well, I like yours. It looks, hmm, I don’t know, like maybe you could lead a charge in it. What’s the name of the French girl that fought the English?”

“Do you mean St. Joan? Joan of Arc?”

“That’s her. Your dress puts me in mind of her. Not sure why because you couldn’t really ride a horse in it, now, could you?”

Laughter parted Rachel’s lips. She smiled warmly. “No, it’s not practical for horse riding or swinging a sword. I think you’re noticing the double-breasted cuirass. It feels a bit like I’m wearing armor, I can tell you, but then I wanted to dress for battle today.”

“Well, it sure is pretty, that’s what I know. Must’ve made every man in town sit up and take notice.”

“It’s a friendly town,” said Rachel, realizing she’d spoken those same words to Wyatt earlier.

Estella snorted. “Friendlier to some than others, I’ve seen.”

“I’m sorry. Did I—”

“I’m not talkin’ about you.” She waved one hand dismissively. “I’m talkin’ about that LaRosa woman. I swear she thinks she can get her painted claws into my Henry.”

Rachel wasn’t certain that there was a correct response to this statement. She hurriedly took a shortbread cookie from the tray Mrs. Longabach had set between them and bit into it. Her hostess didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t replied or even made sympathetic noises.

“Course, if I was wearin’ a dress like yours, Miss LaRosa would know I was serious about wantin’ her to take a step back. I like the idea of dressing for battle.”

The dress was something Rachel felt that she could talk about. “Why don’t we look in the pattern book and see what would suit you best?”

Estella pointed to Rachel’s tailored cuirass. “That’s what I want. What about that shell-pink batiste I ordered? Couldn’t you use that?”

“It’s a beautiful piece of fabric. I looked it over yesterday and wished I’d ordered more, but it doesn’t really work for this dress. I’ll tell you what, I’ll stand up and you take a few moments to study my dress, concentrate on the particulars you like, and then I want you to close your eyes and try to imagine your lovely piece of shell-pink fabric cut and styled and detailed in exactly the same way.”

Estella set her cup aside and laid her hands flat on her lap, prepared to concentrate. “This is a new one on me,” she said. “Is this how they do it in those Paris salons?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said, rising to her feet. “I’ve never been to Paris. What made you think I had?”

Estella shrugged. “Just my imaginings, I suppose. You don’t really talk much about yourself, so I fill in the gaps on my own.”

“But Paris?” asked Rachel. “That gap’s the Atlantic Ocean.”

Estella twirled her finger, indicating that Rachel could start turning. “I saw paintings of Paris when Henry and I still lived back East. Oh, that was years ago now, but I never forgot them. Seemed like a place I’d like to visit someday, though it was always hard to picture myself there exactly. You, though, I could see you real easy in those paintings. Think of it every time you come glidin’ down the street in one of your pretty dresses, standin’ out of the background like you were movin’ through the painting, strolling on one of those boulevards with the little shops and cafés. Sophisticated, like. Just a bit separate from the crowd, you know. But real nice, too, ’cause you always make a point of smilin’ or givin’ folks a nod.”

Rachel finished turning to face Estella once again. Her eyes were troubled and the small smile she forced was uncertain. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You’re kind to say so.”

Estella’s eyebrows rose halfway to her dark widow’s peak. “Lookin’ at you now, I’m wonderin’ if I should have said a thing. I don’t think you know how to hear a compliment, ’cause that’s what it was. Meant what I said in the kindest way, and that’s the truth.”

“Well, thank you, then,” Rachel said with more conviction this time.

“That’s better. Now I’m going to shut my eyes and think about a shell-pink batiste, and if I can get Paris proper in my mind again, I’ll be draggin’ Henry into one of those cafés with me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rachel waited. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds, and she counted fifty-two before Mrs. Longabach opened her eyes.

“Well,” Estella said firmly, “the shell pink isn’t going to do at all, is it?”

“No.”

“No sense putting brass buttons on confectionery. But then, you knew that.”

“It was important to me that you realize it,” Rachel said. “Now, if you’d like me to show you some fabrics in other colors, like indigo blue or burgundy, or some plaids similar to what I’m wearing, I’d be happy to bring them by.”

“What about the moss-green material that I ordered?”

“It will work, of course, but the dress you picked out for it is really the perfect choice.”

“Are we talkin’ about three dresses now or two?”

“We’re talking about as many as you’d like, Mrs. Longabach.”

Estella’s gaze was both shrewd and appreciative. “Let’s see. I’m hearin’ the burgundy and brass for stopping Miss LaRosa in her tracks, the moss green for every day, and the shell pink for…Now, what do I need the shell pink for?”

“It’d make a lovely nightgown.”

Chuckling, Estella picked up her cup. “Aren’t you the quick one, Miss Bailey, but I’m forty-two years old with about as many curves as a string bean, and in a Colorado winter I prefer flannel.”

“Does Mr. Longabach?”

Estella’s laughter was strangled by the fact that she was trying to swallow a mouthful of tea. She recovered before Rachel could lend assistance. “I’m fine,” she said. “That was unexpected, is all. But I trust your instincts and your needlework. I’ll find that pattern book for us.” Standing, she sighed. “Don’t know that anyone else could have made me think I needed three new pieces. You have a gift, Miss Bailey.” Then, just to make certain Rachel understood, she added, “That’s a compliment.”

“I know. Thank you.” And this time there was no doubt that she meant it.

Rachel paused, looking up from the fabric she was cutting as Molly Showalter entered through the back door. “Put a kettle on, Molly,” she called, going back to work. “We’ll have tea when you want to take a break.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you have a list of chores for me?”

“It’s on the kitchen table. Come here first. I want your opinion.”

Molly only poked her head into the workroom. “My opinion, Miss Bailey?”

Rachel glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Of course. You have them, don’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“Come on. Over by the table. You can’t see anything from where you’re hiding.”

Molly made a slow, cautious approach and stopped when she was still a few feet from the table. “My hem’s been a magnet for dust today, Miss Bailey, and I have ink on my hands. I was cleaning my father’s office, and I knocked over an inkpot. I don’t want to touch anything in this room.”

“Hold them up. Let me see.” Rachel set down her shears and regarded Molly’s hands. “Oh, yes. You look as if you’ve been picking blueberries. I have something on my vanity that might remove that. I’ll get it for you in a little while. First, tell me what you think of this.” She reached for the leather portfolio lying on one of the side chairs and unwound the grosgrain ribbon that secured the flap. Her fingers moved quickly over the contents, separating the sketches she’d made until she found the one she wanted. She pulled it out and laid it on the table for Molly to see.

Molly sidled closer and bent at the waist to peer over the table, her hands set in a fist behind her back. The woman in the sketch had no features to speak of, and her hair was merely a suggestion made by a few bold spiral strokes of a pencil, but what she lacked in detail of face, she was compensated for in detail of form.

She was a lithe figure, with young curves that promised a full blossom in time, and she held herself with confidence, shoulders back, head erect. She wore a party dress with a square-cut neckline and long, tight-fitting sleeves that tapered to points that lay softly against the back of her wrists. The stiff ruffle that defined the neck was repeated in a tiered cascade that began twelve inches above the hemline. The bodice was flat and plain so the woman’s figure was seen to its advantage rather than disappearing in flounces and an abundance of lace.

“What do you think?” Rachel asked.

Molly and Rachel both gave a violent start when a masculine voice behind them answered the question. “Johnny Winslow won’t be able to keep his eyes where God intended.”