Читать книгу Never Love A Lawman - Jo Goodman - Страница 8

Reidsville, Colorado, September 1882

Watching her was a pleasure. A mostly secret pleasure. Wyatt Cooper braced his hands on the wooden balustrade and leaned forward just enough to make certain her progress down the street remained unobstructed. His second-story perch lent him a particularly fine view of her gliding toward him.

Give or take a few minutes, she was right on schedule. He didn’t have to look away from her to confirm that he wasn’t alone in his appreciation. He could safely predict there were upwards of a dozen men loitering on the wooden sidewalk between Morrison’s Emporium and Mr. Redmond’s Livery. Abe Dishman and Ned Beaumont were almost certainly glancing up from the checkers game they played every afternoon in front of Easter’s Bakery. Johnny Winslow would have set himself to sweeping out the entrance of Longabach’s Restaurant just about now, whether or not Mrs. Longabach needed him scrubbing pots or hauling water. Mr. Longabach, too, generally found some reason to wander outside the restaurant, even if it was only to remind Johnny not to dawdle.

Jacob Reston managed the bank and employed two tellers, both of whom had surely moved quietly from behind their cages to crowd the doorway. Jacob had the best view, a consequence of the position of his desk, the window, and the convenience of a chair that swiveled. Ed Kennedy had likely stopped pounding out a shoe in his blacksmithing establishment long enough to watch her take her daily constitutional, and because Ed liked to impress the ladies, he’d be standing almost at attention, making the best of what God and hard work had given him: broad shoulders, upper arms like anvils, and hands as big as dinner plates.

Wyatt’s fingers tapped out the steady cadence of her walk as she passed Caldwell’s Apothecary and the sheriff’s office. She slipped out of his sight when her path took her under the sheltering porch roof in front of the Miner Key Saloon, but Wyatt kept tapping, and she reappeared at the precise moment he predicted she would, just as his index finger hit the downbeat.

She was within moments of reaching her destination when he was joined at the rail. He didn’t pretend he was doing anything but what he was, and the fact that he didn’t try to hide it brought a throaty chuckle from his companion.

“I don’t suppose you have a jealous bone in your body, Rose,” Wyatt said.

“And I reckon I don’t have any reason to be jealous. Purely wasteful emotion.” She matched Wyatt’s pose at the rail. The ruffled hem of her petticoats fluttered as a light breeze was funneled down the street. Small eddies of dust rose and fell between the bordering sidewalks, but they were no kind of nuisance compared to the muddy puddles that appeared after a rainstorm. “Are you fixin’ to court her?”

“No.”

“Why not? You watch her the same as every other man in town.”

“Maybe I think she’s setting up to rob the bank.”

“She’s not setting up to do any such thing, and you know it.”

“Do I?”

“Course you do. Folks that rob banks come and go. Fast. She’s been here a year now.”

“Fifteen months.”

“There you go.” Rose belted the loose ties of her bloodred silk robe, then turned and leaned back against the rail. She glanced sideways at Wyatt. “She does all right for herself without robbin’ the bank. She made this robe for me.”

“It’s a fine piece of work.”

Rose snorted. “Like you would know. You hardly looked at it.”

“Like you better out of it.”

“Ain’t that just like a man?”

“I hope so.”

Rose allowed her glance to slide over Wyatt. He was taller than many men of her acquaintance, and it was a plain fact that she was acquainted with many men. In profile, he was all smoothly sculpted angles and edgy watchfulness, more than a little aloof but not so cold that you could see his breath when he spoke. He was surely the most contained man she knew, not exactly comfortable in his own skin, but making the best of the fit. From where she stood, she had no complaints about the fit. He’d dressed carelessly: loose fitting trousers, half-tucked shirt, and bare feet. Only one suspender strap was hitched over his shoulders. The other dangled in a loop at his side. The clothes, though, did not make this man. He was narrow-hipped and tautly muscled across the chest and abdomen. The stiff brace of his arms made them as hard as iron rails. He had long legs, tight buttocks, and, damn him to hell, prettier feet than she’d seen on most women, including her own.

He never exactly issued an invitation when you came at him straight on. He’d tip his hat, nod politely, always say hello, yet you got the sense it was all form and no feeling. At least she got that sense, and the improbably named Roseanne LaRosa counted herself as a fair judge of such things. Her profession demanded it. Her life could very well depend on it.

Impulsively, Rose reached out and brushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen across Wyatt’s brow. Her fingers lingered a moment, separating threads of sunshine gold from his thick thatch of light brown hair. He cocked his head to look at her, one eyebrow slightly raised, and she whipped her hand away as if she had reason to feel guilty—or in danger.

“You ought not look at a body like that,” she said sharply.

“Oh?” His eyebrow kicked a notch higher, and he made a point of looking at her body exactly like that.

Rose’s mouth twitched. “That isn’t what I meant, though I suppose you think you’re flattering me. As if you could with eyes like a wolf’s.”

“A wolf’s? Because of the color?”

“Because when they’re not all still and watchful, they’re squinty.”

“Squinty.”

“Yes. Don’t say it like you don’t know. There you go again. Squinty-eyed and accusing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You don’t have to. I’m telling you, it’s there in your eyes.”

Wyatt turned his attention back to the telegraph office near the end of the street. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

Wyatt shrugged. “What do you suppose she’s doing in there today?”

Rose glanced over her shoulder at the now empty sidewalk. “I expect she’s takin’ delivery of some packages. Artie Showalter picks up her things at the depot and brings them to his office. She’s been expecting three yards of Belgian lace and a bolt of peacock-blue sateen. She says she gets it faster if she places the order herself instead of asking for it at Morrison’s.”

“Really?”

“You couldn’t be at all interested, so why bother asking?”

“Just making talk, I expect.”

“Are you sure you’re not fixin’ to court her? Seems like every other single man’s fixed his eye on that prize. Now that I recollect, a couple of married men spun that notion around in what sadly passes for their minds—until their wives spun it back.”

“I say again, I’m not fixing to court anyone, let alone Miss Rachel Bailey.”

“Why not? She’s handsome enough, ain’t she?”

“Handsome enough?” It wasn’t how he would have described her, but coming from Rose, it was a fulsome compliment. “Yes. She’s that.” And more, he thought. A pure pleasure. He nudged Rose with his shoulder. “Who are you trying to marry off? Me or her?”

“Don’t see that it matters either way. You’re not exactly keeping me in silk and silver, and she’s a nice enough lady. A little sad about the eyes, if you ask me, but not so much that you think she’s about to burst into tears if you look at her sideways.”

“Huh.”

That was enough of a prompt for Rose to go on. “I never heard anything that wasn’t gossip and speculation because Miss Bailey likes to keep to herself, but my girls spin a good tale about her pining away. They’re fanciful in that regard, especially on a slow day.”

“Is that right?”

Rose ignored that. “Anyway, if you came around more, I might not like seein’ you go, but the way it is now, it’d be all right if you put your hat in the ring for Miss Bailey’s affections. She’s not going to stop making dresses just because she gets married, so I’m thinkin’ that’ll be all right, too. And she does keep me in silk and silver, though, God knows, I pay a pretty price for it.”

“You’re the best-dressed woman in Reidsville,” Wyatt said. “Probably in Colorado.”

She laughed. “When I’m wearing clothes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your birthday suit, but Miss Bailey does right by you.”

Rose thought it was an odd thing for him to say. Not the first, but the second. She’d never have guessed his watchful, predatory eyes noticed the cut of a woman’s gown or the color of her threads. “You’re a peculiar sort of fellow, aren’t you, Wyatt?”

Though only one side of his mouth lifted, what he offered his companion was most definitely a grin. “I never thought about it.”

“Well, I’m telling you, you are. I’ve known you, what? Five years?”

“Something like that.”

She simply shook her head. “Peculiar.” Before she could elaborate, she saw Rachel Bailey step out of the telegraph office. “Oh, there she is.”

“Mmm.”

“Looks like her packages came.”

“Looks like.”

“She’s juggling an armful. Might be she could use an extra pair of hands.”

“Might be she should have taken Artie up on his offer to help her.”

“Now, how do you know he offered to tote those home for her?”

“He always offers. She always refuses.”

Rose gave him another sideways glance. “You been askin’ after her.”

Wyatt didn’t confirm or deny her claim.

Sighing softly, Rose changed the subject. “I hope she’s got the peacock-blue sateen in one of those. That’s for me.”

“I thought it might be.”

“Adele’s been waiting for the Belgian lace. She’s been pining for that trim on a nightgown since Miss Bailey showed her a sample.”

“She sews for your girls, too?”

“Sure she does. Pays to have them lookin’ real nice. Like I said, if you dropped in more than once in a blue moon, you probably would have realized it. Where have you been anyway?”

“Around.”

“Not in town, not so folks have seen you much. You leave that no-account Beatty boy in charge. What do you suppose he’d do if there was trouble?”

“Same as me. And you shouldn’t call him that.”

Rose rolled her eyes at his rebuke. “Why not? You do. Everyone does.”

“Everyone else doesn’t say it with the same mean edge that you do.”

“I’m sure you misheard. Is it all right with you if I call him a boy?”

Wyatt drew back and regarded Rose with interest. “Are you sweet on him?”

“Sweet on him? Didn’t I just say he was a boy?”

“He’s twenty-seven. Seems about the right age for a man.”

“No man as far as I can tell, and my girls have been wonderin’ the same. We’re thinkin’ he’s sweet on you, Wyatt Cooper, and that explains why he never visits us.”

Wyatt considered all the responses he could make to the particulars of that statement. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose that’s a compliment. Will’s a real fine-looking young man.”

“You’ve only got five years on him, Wyatt.”

“But a lot more time in the saddle.”

“That’s what I mean. No one doubted you were a man at twenty-seven. Will’s still got pink in his cheeks and green behind his ears.”

Wyatt settled his hip against the rail and folded his arms across his chest. “Will does all right for himself, Rose. He likes Denver women just fine.”

“Denver women?” Her dark eyebrows arched dramatically. “Whores, you mean. What’s he doin’, goin’ to Denver? What’s wrong with my girls?”

“Did I say he was bedding whores?”

“There’s no respectable women in Denver that aren’t married. Is he seeing a married woman?”

“No.”

“Ha! Then he’s bedding down in the tenderloin.”

Wyatt laughed. “Is it losing his business that bothers you or something else? Maybe I was wrong about you not having a jealous bone.”

Rose’s mouth flattened. “As if I’d give him the time of day.”

“Maybe not, but you’d wind his clock.”

Pushing away from the rail, Rose spun around and jerked her chin in the direction of the departing Rachel Bailey. “Shouldn’t you be trailing after her skirts?”

Having riled her sufficiently to make his point, he merely gave her his laziest half grin. “I know where she’s going.”

Rose fingered Wyatt’s suspender from his waist to his shoulder. In case the gesture wasn’t obvious to him, she offered a coy come-on. “What about me? Do you know where I’m going?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

She abandoned the suspender strap in favor of taking a fistful of his shirttail. “Why don’t we see if you’re right?”

Offering no resistance, Wyatt allowed Rose to lead him back inside her fancy house and into her fancier bed. They were satisfied, as they always were, to make good use of each other.

Rachel Bailey dropped one of her parcels. Even as she stooped to retrieve it, young Johnny Winslow was bending to scoop it up.

“Here you are, Miss Bailey.” He held it out to her before he noticed she was having difficulty with her remaining load. As more packages bobbled in her arms, he made another offer. “Better yet, let me take some of these from you. No trouble, I promise you.”

“That’s kind of you,” she said, “but Mrs. Longabach likely has need of you elsewhere. I can hear her calling for you. Just help me rearrange these, and I’ll be all right.”

Johnny regarded her with a mixture of skepticism and disappointment. He glanced at the broom he’d set against the restaurant’s window so he could help her. Sometimes he wished Mrs. Longabach would just hop on and ride it out of Reidsville. “Course, miss. I’ll get them settled in your arms just the way you want them.”

Rachel allowed her arms to relax as Johnny took the weight of the parcels from her. She knew she shouldn’t have tried to carry everything herself, but she’d stubbornly insisted that she could do it even though Mr. Showalter offered one of his boys to share the load. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the kindness; she simply didn’t want the company. She never wanted the company.

The sudden appearance of Mrs. Longabach made Rachel jump and lose the two parcels that Johnny had already put in her outstretched hands.

“Heavens! I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Bailey. I came out to learn why Johnny was ignoring me.” Mrs. Longabach’s thin face lost its pinched, disapproving expression as she took account of the scene in front of her. “Well, I can surely see that he’s up to good this time, and I can tell you, it’s a nice change. Go on, Johnny, finish helping Miss Bailey. You take some of her packages and see that she gets home without another mishap.”

“No, really—” Rachel’s protest fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Longabach had her own reasons for making certain that the parcels arrived undamaged.

“My batiste came today, didn’t it?” As if she could divine the contents, Mrs. Longabach looked over the plainly wrapped parcels with an eager and eagle eye. “The moss green? Oh, I dearly hope it was the moss green.”

“The moss green and the shell pink.”

Mrs. Longabach’s eyes brightened. “Well, isn’t that just grand? I swear, Miss Bailey, you have the greatest good fortune when it comes to getting what you want.”

Rachel’s smooth brow creased. “I do?”

“Your material, dearie. Seems to me like the train from Denver runs to Reidsville just for you. There’s always something waiting for you when it reaches our end of the line.”

Rachel considered that. “I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t realized.”

“Course the train runs for all of us, doesn’t it just? I’m not the first one to say that we don’t know what would become of Reidsville if Clinton Maddox hadn’t decided we were worth the cost of rails and ties.” Mrs. Longabach tucked a frazzled tendril of nut-brown hair behind her ear. “None of that’s neither here nor there, is it? I don’t imagine you ever give it any thought, what with you being so new to our town and all.”

“I’ve been here more than a year now,” Rachel reminded her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Johnny Winslow’s arms were beginning to sag under the weight of her parcels. She snatched two from the top of the pile and shored up the others. “But you’re right, Mrs. Longabach, I never gave it a thought. That doesn’t speak well of me, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t mean it as a criticism, Miss Bailey.” Her hands fiddled in the folds of her calico apron. “You shouldn’t think I meant it like that.”

Rachel hardly knew what to say. Rather than be caught in an endless circle of apologies where not even one was required or desired, she pointed to the armload that Johnny was barely balancing. “I should see to these, Mrs. Longabach. I’ll call on you when I’ve sorted through the material and schedule a fitting.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’ll look forward to that. Go on with you, Johnny. Miss Bailey doesn’t need you dawdling, and I certainly need you back here. There’s pots, pans, and a kitchen floor that needs scrubbing. Now scat.”

Rachel noticed that Mrs. Longabach was primarily speaking to Johnny’s back, because as soon as she’d said “go,” the boy made a dash for it. “Good day, Mrs. Longabach.” She offered a brisk wave and took off after Johnny, lengthening her stride until she caught up with him in front of Wickham’s Leather Goods. “Whoa, Johnny. There’s no point in making a race of it.”

Johnny slowed his step so Rachel could fall in beside him. “Sorry, miss. Mrs. Longabach, well, sometimes I don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’ when she’s around. Mister says that he just circles her and that seems to work most times.”

That no-account Beatty boy stepped out of Wickham’s. “Hey, Johnny. Miss Bailey. You need some help with what you got there?”

Johnny Winslow thrust out his chin, immediately defensive. “I got it.”

For Johnny’s benefit, Rachel was careful to temper her smile, but her response was no less firm. “We can manage, Deputy Beatty. Thank you.”

“But you don’t mind if I tag along, do you?”

Rachel did mind. Very much. The trouble was she couldn’t think of a single credible reason to keep the deputy from joining her. She hoped Johnny would be inspired to offer an objection, but he’d just struck a resigned, sullen pose. “If that’s your pleasure,” she said. She was polite but unenthusiastic, and judging by Will Beatty’s quick grin he didn’t fail to notice. Nevertheless, he was undeterred and loped along beside them, his long and lanky arms swinging at his sides.

“Shall we cross the street here, gentlemen?” she asked. “Unless I am mistaken, that’s Mr. Dishman taking a stretch from his checkers game and he looks set to join our parade.” She didn’t need to mention that Abe Dishman, a widower of some ten years and at least thirty years her senior, was one of her most ardent, persistent admirers. Everyone in Reidsville knew that Abe made a marriage proposal to her on or around the seventh of every month. Today was the fifth, too close to Abe’s chosen date for Rachel to risk a public declaration. She’d been setting herself to the problem of how to turn him down this time, and since she hadn’t quite worked it out in her mind, she judged it was better to avoid him.

“Too bad for Abe that checkers is his game,” Beatty said, looking up and down the street before they made the diagonal crossing.

“Hmm?” Rachel was unhappily aware that the deputy had placed his palm under her elbow to assist her from the sidewalk to the street. Distracted, she realized she hadn’t heard him. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Standing just behind them, Johnny stared hard at where Will Beatty’s hand rested on Rachel’s arm. “He said, ‘too bad for Abe that checkers is his game.’ Ain’t that right, Will? That’s what you said.”

Will nodded amiably. “I did.”

Rachel accepted the deputy’s help until she had firm footing on the dusty street, then gently disengaged herself from his fingers. “Why is that too bad?”

“Why, Miss Bailey, if he was a chess man, he’d have captured you long ago.”

“Is that so, Deputy?” She didn’t look at him but concentrated on keeping a step ahead so that when they reached the opposite sidewalk she could take the step up without his help. “Is that your notion alone or the prevailing thought?”

“Can’t take credit for it. Seems like I heard it somewhere else first. I guess that makes it the prevailing thought. It’s a good one, though, don’t you think?”

“I don’t suppose the person who observed it was moved to wonder if I play chess.”

Will Beatty chuckled. His grin spread easily, taking up most of the lower half of his face. Cradling that wide smile and lending it a mischievous, boyish charm were two deep, crescent-shaped dimples. He gave Rachel a nod and what passed for an appreciative salute by tipping his hat back with his forefinger. A shock of hair as light and feathery as corn silk was revealed in the gesture.

“I reckon you do play chess, Miss Bailey,” he said. “Probably good at it, too, ain’t you?”

“Do you play?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then let me just say I’m good enough to make the game interesting for my opponent.”

Beatty tugged at the brim of his hat so it settled securely on his head. “I’ll pass that along.”

She looked at him sharply. There was a decided lack of warmth in her coffee-colored eyes. “Pass that along?” she asked. “To whom? I’m sure I don’t like being the subject of anyone else’s conversation.”

“Now ye’re in for it,” Johnny told Will, clearly relishing the notion.

“I don’t need a Greek chorus tellin’ me what’s what,” Beatty said.

“Uh? That don’t make no kind of sense. I ain’t Greek.”

Rachel’s expression lost some of its chill. “Enough,” she said, sounding more than a little like a schoolmarm charged with settling two unruly boys. “Both of you. Look, here we are.” She stopped on the short flagstone walk leading up to her porch and spared a glance at her home. The sight of it warmed her and helped her draw deeper on her well of patience.

The small, whitewashed frame house beckoned as a sanctuary. The window boxes held a variety of herbs: dill, mint, thyme, and chive. Around the side was a modest vegetable garden that she’d already harvested and cleared in anticipation that a cold snap would be upon them soon. The greenery of morning glories covered the lattice that she’d painstakingly repaired and painted. She’d forgotten that she’d left the windows open at the front of the house. A breeze had drawn out both pairs of lace panels and they fluttered against the shutters as flirtatiously as a dewy-eyed coquette.

There was some talk in town when she painted her front door red, but folks had gotten used to it—more or less—and put it down to one of her many eccentricities. Come spring, she would paint the shutters.

“I’ll take my parcels now,” she said, turning to Johnny.

Johnny looked a bit longingly past her shoulder to the front porch and the intriguing red door. “It’s no problem, Miss Bailey. I’d be pleased to—”

“No, truly,” Rachel said, interrupting him. “I’ll see myself inside.” She held her ground, effectively blocking the path for both of her escorts, then held out her arms. “Pile them on.”

Johnny’s eyes darted to Will Beatty. “Ain’t there some law that says a fellow oughta help a lady?”

“Suppose we could pass an ordinance or some such fool thing, but that’d take time, and Miss Bailey’s lookin’ fit to be tied. Give her the parcels, Johnny, because neither one of us is goin’ to get on the other side of that red door today.”

Johnny Winslow’s expression was so perfectly hangdog that Rachel was moved to laugh. “I’m telling you, Mr. Winslow, that your imagination is far superior to anything you’d discover inside my home. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

Will Beatty didn’t wait for Johnny to object. He began taking the plainly wrapped packages from Johnny’s arms and placing them carefully in Rachel’s. “You don’t mind if we wait here to make sure you’re safely inside?”

“I don’t mind at all,” she said. She used her chin to secure the pyramid of parcels in her arms and gave them a smile that was at once warm and firm in its dismissal. “Thank you, gentlemen.” She turned away then, but not so quickly that she missed their preening, wanting to look every inch the gentlemen she’d named them.

Once inside the house, Rachel dropped her packages on the large dining table that she used for spreading material and cutting patterns but never once for eating or entertaining. She shook out her arms to remove the sensation of still carrying the parcels. Once the ghost weight was gone, she approached one of the windows at the front of the house but never went so close to it that she could be seen from the street. She was in time to see the deputy and Johnny Winslow turning away from her flagstone walk and heading to their respective destinations.

She nodded, satisfied that they weren’t going to loiter in front of her house until one of them arrived at an excuse to call on her. Stepping back from the window, she set her hands on her hips and looked around, trying to see her home with the fresh eyes of someone who’d never been in it. Since that accounted for almost all of the fine citizens of Reidsville, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how someone like young Johnny Winslow would be curious.

As homes in the mining town went, this one stood as something apart from the others. It was one of only a baker’s dozen of houses built on the north side of the main street. The south side was home to the majority of the town’s early settlers, mostly miners and their families, and a good many people still lived above their businesses, took rooms in the hotel or the boardinghouse, bunked near the livery, or, like Miss Rose LaRosa and her girls, lived and worked in the same place. There’d been talk that Ezra Reilly and Miss Virginia Moody were going to put up a house when they married, but that seemed to hinge on whether Miss Moody was going to give up whoring.

It made Rachel smile to think her closest neighbor could be a whore. There was a plot of land next to her that was perfect for a home about the size of her own. She’d considered buying it herself, even gone so far as to inquire about it at the land office, but since her only purpose in making the purchase would have been to further secure her privacy, she fought the inclination and made no move to claim it.

There was no point in worrying that she’d ever have neighbors on the other side of her. A pine woodland rose sharply up the mountainside on her left. No one in Reidsville wanted to build a house on a hillside when there was better land to be had east and south of the town proper.

Rachel knew the interior of her home was finer in its appointments than any of the homes she’d had occasion to visit. The denizens of Reidsville only suspected it was true as she did not issue invitations in response to the ones she received. It was certainly not because she thought they would be uncomfortable surrounded by imported porcelain vases, gold-plated music boxes, and rococo-styled parlor chairs, or that she was worried that these objects would be stolen or become the subject of envy. The nature of her reluctance to share the museum-like quality of her appointments was that so very few of the pieces bespoke of her own tastes that she was certain she’d be identified for the fraud she was.

Still, she could not help but feel a peculiar kinship with the objects that appointed her home. They evoked memories that were at times pleasant, at others, painful, but needed to be recalled to sustain her resolve.

Rachel wandered through the parlor with its gold-toned damask-covered side chairs and emerald brushed-velvet bench seat, dragging her fingers lightly across the elaborate scrollwork that framed the back of the bench. Her eyes fell on the Italian gold-leaf clock on one of the walnut end tables, and she made a detour toward it, pausing long enough to give the key a few turns.

The kitchen was a practical affair, dominated by a temperamental wood stove and a square oak worktable. She prepared meals for herself when she could engage the stove’s cooperation, although she didn’t necessarily have to. The Longabachs served hearty fare in their restaurant and better desserts than she had been able to master. The boardinghouse, too, offered three squares, and the Commodore Hotel provided fine food and as elegant a dining room as existed anywhere in Denver or even St. Louis. Fighting with the stove, though, was worth it most days, just because she generally preferred to keep to herself in spite of not always enjoying the company.

Rachel poked at the small fire in the stove, then added another log. She picked up the kettle, felt the weight of the water inside, and judged it sufficient for a cup of tea. She set the kettle in place and took a daintily hand-painted cup and saucer from the china cupboard. She carefully spooned tea from her store in the stoneware jar and placed it in the silver brewing ball; then she set a jar of honey beside the cup.

Having better things to do than wait for the water to boil, Rachel returned to what was now her workroom and began unwrapping packages, inspecting bolts of material, and examining the lace for unfinished edges or snagged imperfections. Fabric was not the only thing she received. She fingered the precious replacement gear that she’d ordered for her sewing machine. After Mr. Kennedy, the town’s blacksmith and wheelwright, had not been able to make so fine and exact a replica, she’d sent to Chicago for the part. She’d made do with Mr. Kennedy’s piece, but the machine jammed too often to make it practical to use for the long term.

In truth, she liked creating her gowns with the industry of her own hands. The delicacy of the stitching could not be duplicated by Singer’s machine, but it had its place, and when one of the men in town needed durable work clothes or a shirt in short order, the Singer was more blessing than curse.

By the time Rachel heard the rumblings of the kettle, the polished surface of the dark walnut dining table was no longer visible for the spread of satin, velvet, damask, linen, and lace. The corners of her mouth lifted as she examined the conflict of colors. The bright peacock-blue sateen did not work in concert with the muted, subtle shades of the sage damask and shell-pink batiste. Rather, the colors seemed to be engaged in an argument, not unlike the one that erupted from time to time between the town’s madam and Estella Longabach. Not that there was any real heat or malice between the pair. They seemed to scratch at each other simply because they could, and Rachel had noticed early on that every observer of their little skirmishes not only expected there would be an exchange of words, but found it entertaining, especially Mr. Longabach, who was frequently the subject of their tiffs.

Rachel poured the heated water into the pot and allowed the tea to steep while she took one of the wooden buckets resting near the back door and went outside to get water from the spring. Depending on how much piecework she had to do, she sometimes hired Mr. Showalter’s oldest daughter to help her with chores, but it was only recently that she’d lowered her guard enough to make this exception for visitors, and then only after Mr. Showalter had assured her most emphatically that his Molly was in no way a gossip like her mother. Thus far, it had proved to be true.

Rachel held the bucket away from her as she walked back to the house, careful not to let the water slosh over the sides and splatter her dress. It wasn’t that the black-and-white pin-striped poplin would have suffered any permanent damage, but rather that she was naturally fastidious—Molly would have said prissy—and that she was more comfortable when she didn’t have to apologize for hair that was out of place or a stain on her skirt. It was easier to stay clean than make excuses for her appearance.

After setting the bucket in the tub, Rachel attended to her tea. She drizzled honey into her cup and gave the tea a gentle stir, then leaned back against the table, wrapped both hands around the cup, and enjoyed her first sip.

It caught her unaware, this fresh wave of loneliness. It came upon her sometimes, but rarely so out of the blue. Perhaps it was because she’d wound the ornately sculpted gold-leaf clock, or run her finger across the scrollwork along the back of the bench, or perhaps it was that Johnny Winslow had made such a gallant offer to carry her packages, but whatever the trigger, she’d felt as if it had been pulled.

Gut-shot.

She’d heard people talk about it, understood it was a hard way to die. Slow. Painful. She thought she knew something about what it must feel like, though not from any buckshot or bullet. Loneliness could do that to a body, she thought. Longing, too. When the mood was on her, as it was now, she knew both, mostly in equal, intimate measure, and she bled a little. Always just a little.

She was assured of living a long life dying.

“Find your backbone, Rachel.” She saw the surface of her tea ripple in response, proof, she supposed, that there was breath left in her. “Else you’re liable to be mistaken for a”—she paused, considering her options for spineless creatures, and settled on—“a mealworm.” Sufficiently disgusted by that comparison, she drew herself up, finished her tea, then set herself to the task of replacing the gear in her sewing machine.

She was studying the fit of the parts that she’d removed, frowning in concentration over the gears spread out before her, when the front door rattled hard in its frame. The sound of it was loud and insistent enough to alarm her. She jerked her head upright and sat poised on the edge of her chair waiting to hear it again before she acted. The next time it came, she rose calmly, walked in the opposite direction, and lifted an empty bucket by the back door. Stepping out, she circled the rear of the house and came around the side.

Her visitor had a distinct height advantage over her even when he wasn’t standing on her porch. Just now he looked more than a little imposing, standing three-quarters turned toward her door and one-quarter in her direction. Not that he’d noticed her yet. He seemed every bit of him intent upon splitting her door from its hinges.

“You break it, Sheriff, you’ll have to pay for it. I like my red door.”

Wyatt Cooper pivoted on his boot heels and stared past the end of the porch at Rachel Bailey. At the angle she presented herself, she looked kind of smallish, trapped behind the vertical porch rails as if they were his jail’s iron bars. He managed to stop his fist from hitting the door again, thus saving the wood and his bare knuckles.

He nodded once. “Miss Bailey.”

“Sheriff Cooper.”

This exchange was what generally passed for conversation between them, so they were on familiar ground. The silence that followed stretched long enough to give rise to discomfort, but neither was inclined to give in. Rachel felt she had offered the gambit when she commented on her door. It was incumbent upon the sheriff to make the next move. For Wyatt’s part, he thought it fell to her to extend an invitation instead of standing there as though she hadn’t just sneaked around the house to avoid opening the door.

He couldn’t very well tell her that he knew that’s what she’d done. She’d realize before he finished accusing her that he must have looked in the window before he knocked—which he had—and that was certain to get her back up. She guarded her privacy closely, obsessively, and he mostly respected that, understood it better than he wished he did, and still he had to stand in opposition to it when it got in the way of what he had to do.

Wyatt reached inside his vest and removed a neatly creased piece of paper. “Artie Showalter hunted me down to hand this to me a little while ago. I thought you’d want to see it.”

Rachel didn’t move. “If it’s for me, I should have seen it first, don’t you think? Mr. Showalter knows where I live.”

“It came to my attention.”

“Then why—”

“Can we go inside, Miss Bailey? I think you’ll want to read this where you can be comfortable.”

Rachel lifted her bucket. “I was going to get water when I heard you pounding. I came back, but I still have to get water. You can go with me if you like and read it to me on the way.”

Wyatt allowed that it was the best he could do. They were far from ideal circumstances, but she couldn’t know that. He wasn’t certain how she would accept the news anyway. He’d imagined her fainting or being moved to hysterics, but seeing her now, holding that damn bucket so tightly he feared she meant to clobber him with it, he supposed he could have exaggerated her reaction. While he didn’t relish the idea of ducking the bucket and restraining her, it was preferable to applying smelling salts or sacrificing his freshly laundered handkerchief.

Not putting it past Rachel not to wait for him, Wyatt ignored the front steps and strode to the side of the porch instead. He’d anticipated that she would be surprised when he vaulted the rail and landed softly beside her, but he had not anticipated that she would be so afraid that she’d use the bucket against him right then and there. He was barely able to sidestep her swing before she rounded on him. The weight of the bucket spun her, and he moved quickly to catch her, throwing out his arms and stopping her just before she came full circle. He released her as soon as he halted her momentum. The bucket still swung like a pendulum at the end of her arm. They both stared at it.

“I think I’ll take that,” he said.

She nodded slowly and stiffly opened her clenched fingers, releasing the rope handle. The bucket dropped into his hands.

“Thank you,” he said, drawing it to his side. He lifted his chin in the direction of the spring. “Why don’t you show me where you get your water?”

Rachel realized he was just filling her appalled silence. He knew very well where she got her water. She simply averted her eyes and stepped slightly ahead of him to lead the way.

Apologizing should not be so difficult, she thought. She went over what she’d done and couldn’t find a single moment where she conceived the plan to injure him. There was no premeditation, only reaction. Should she apologize for that? Didn’t he bear some responsibility for provoking her?

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Wyatt said.

“You didn’t scare me.”

“Oh,” he said. “I thought I might have.”

Rachel stopped in her tracks so sharply that Wyatt bumped her from behind with the bucket. She turned just enough to catch his eye and set her gaze stubbornly on him. “We both know I lied. And you lied by pretending to believe me. I don’t think you meant to frighten me, but you saw what happens when you do. That should serve as warning enough, and if it doesn’t, you’ll have to be quicker on your feet because the next time I will replace your head with my bucket.”

Wyatt considered that. After a moment, he said, “It’s my bucket now, but it still seems fair enough.”

“Good.” She gave him her back and continued along the flagstone path. It bothered her to have him a step behind her where his view would be the rigid brace of her shoulders and the steely set of her spine. There was no chance that she could relax with him so close. He wasn’t always physically imposing, but he held himself in a way that others took notice of him, even when he was slouched in a chair outside his office with his long legs stretched lazily against the porch post. People actually walked around him, sometimes stepping into ankle-deep mud on the street rather than disturb his contemplative posing, or—and this was far more likely in Rachel’s opinion—his nap.

She couldn’t believe that he was unaware of people cautiously trooping around him. She thought it was possible that he was secretly amused by it, and in truth, so was she—a little. It was her practice to take the opposite side of the street as soon as she saw him tilted back in his chair. There was no point in surreptitious skulking when she could give him a wide berth.

She couldn’t do that now without giving herself away. It was one thing for him to know his unexpected leap had alarmed her, another thing entirely to let him see how his continued presence disturbed her. She slowed her step and gave him the opportunity to fall in beside her. They were almost upon the spring, and she still didn’t know the precise reason for his visit. In fifteen months, he’d never called on her. It seemed extraordinary that he would ever choose to do so.

Rachel held out her hand, expecting to receive the bucket. Instead, Wyatt Cooper placed the folded paper in her hand.

“I’ll get the water,” he said.

Rachel watched him step onto the wooden platform that had been built to make the spring more accessible. He walked to the edge, bent, and placed the bucket under the wooden tap that had been carefully fitted into the hillside to direct the spring. It only took moments for the bucket to fill. Rachel had not yet begun to open the letter.

She was aware that he was waiting patiently, and somehow that made it more difficult, not easier. She kept her head down, made a delaying gesture of tucking a wind-whipped strand of hair behind her ear, then took a steadying breath and unfolded the paper.

Rachel recognized Mr. Showalter’s handwriting. She’d only ever received a few messages via the telegraph, but it was enough to be familiar with his careful block lettering. It was his job to translate the electric pulses that he heard as dots and dashes into words that could be understood by everyone.

CLINTON MADDOX DEAD STOP C & C CONTROL TO FOSTER STOP

Not many words. Only the first three mattered to Rachel. She carefully refolded the paper but didn’t surrender it. She couldn’t think what she should do or why it should matter. Her arms felt as heavy as they had earlier when they were filled with packages. She didn’t bend, although her legs felt as if they might. Weight didn’t settle on her shoulders; it tugged on her heart.

“How did you know to bring this to me?”

Wyatt had to strain to hear her above the rushing spring water. “I can explain better if we go inside, Miss Bailey. I imagine you’re going to have more questions once you hear the answer.”

Rachel glanced back at the house and then again at the note in her hand. She said nothing.

Wyatt observed Rachel’s indecision. She had never struck him before as someone who could not be moved to act. It was a fact that he didn’t know her well. No one did. But that was because she wanted it that way, and on the whole everyone respected her wishes. He included himself, restraining his curiosity to keep from asking too many questions or joining the speculative discussions that sometimes arose when she came gliding down the street. If anything, he was the one who discouraged others from making assumptions about her. Not that he had to say anything outright. His presence alone was sufficient to quell the beginnings of a rumor.

“You look as if you could use something to settle your nerves.” His remark had the desired effect. She was looking at him now.

“There’s nothing wrong with my nerves.”

Wyatt’s cool blue eyes dropped to where Rachel’s fingers were closing convulsively around the note. He said nothing, merely let the direction of his gaze speak for him.

Rachel’s fist opened and the note dropped to the platform. Before she could retrieve it, an eddy of wind lifted and spun it toward the icy stream. She made a grab for it, missed, then almost toppled into the stream on her second attempt. Her arms circled like sails on a windmill to keep from falling forward, but it was the handful of skirt that Wyatt grabbed that did the trick.

Wyatt pulled her back from the edge, set the bucket down, and waded into the stream to retrieve the telegram. The stream was running swiftly, but he was fortunate that the paper bobbled on the surface and got caught between two rocks shortly after it entered the water. He managed to get it out before the ink ran and the message was no longer legible.

Wading against the current, Wyatt returned to the platform and stamped his feet hard, squishing water out of his boots. He couldn’t help the shiver that went through him. Inside his damp woolen socks, he clenched and unclenched his toes.

“I could stand to get out of these boots,” he said, holding out the note to her. “It wouldn’t hurt to dry my socks, either.”

Rachel regarded him a long moment. She couldn’t very well accuse him of planning this, not when she was the one who dropped the note. It made her wonder if perhaps she had planned it. Could a mind be so devious as to keep its secrets from the one who was supposed to command it?

“All right,” she said. “You can come in.”

It was, at best, a reluctant invitation, but Wyatt didn’t let that bother him. He knew better than to comment on it. Giving her a single opportunity to think better of it could not possibly work in his favor. He picked up the bucket and jerked his chin toward the house, indicating she could lead the way on the narrow path.

The first thing he noticed in her kitchen was the bucket of water sitting in the washtub. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing. She didn’t apologize for her lie about going out for water, but she did have the grace to blush. Wyatt set his bucket beside hers and picked up a towel to dry his hands.

“You can sit right there,” Rachel said, pointing to the chair closest to the stove. “Let me add some wood first and—” She stopped as he began to balance himself on one foot and raise the other. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking off my boot.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I believe I am.” He bounced a little in place as he yanked at the heel.

“I mean, I don’t want you to remove your boots.”

Wyatt used the edge of the oak table to steady himself and continued working the boot free. He asked conversationally, “How am I supposed to dry my feet?”

Rachel shoved a log in the firebox and closed the loading door hard. Her movements had more heat than the meager fire. “If you sit down, you can prop your feet against the stove and dry everything at once. You are familiar with the position. It’s the same one you affect so frequently on the sidewalk outside your office.”

Wyatt continued to shuck his boots. The brim of his hat created a shadow that safely hid the half curl of his mouth. He couldn’t imagine that she’d be calmed by knowing she’d amused him. More likely, she’d try stuffing him and his boots in the firebox.

Rachel jerked a little as Wyatt dropped his second boot on the floor, then turned away, grabbed the kettle, and busied herself filling it while he removed his socks. When she was ready to return the kettle, she saw it had to share space with his boots and socks. She also observed that Wyatt occupied the chair she’d suggested, and that now his long legs were stretched out and angled toward the stove.

And completely blocking her way.