Читать книгу Never Love A Lawman - Jo Goodman - Страница 9

Rachel determined right then that she would set herself apart from the general populace of Reidsville. She knocked his legs out of her path with enough force to almost unseat him.

“You could have asked me to move,” he said, righting himself. “I would have, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.” She set the kettle down hard. The stove flue rattled. She turned on him and held out her hand. “You may as well give me your hat. Your coat, too, if you’re warm enough.”

Wyatt handed them both over. When her back was turned, he raked a hand through his hair, belatedly remembering how many times Rose had twirled and curled it with her fingertips. It occurred to him that he might still have the scent of sweat and sex on him, or at least the cloying fragrance of Rose’s perfume. She favored attar of rose petals these days. Until he got used to it, it was like bedding down in his mother’s hothouse, and there was nothing at all that appealed to him about that.

Wyatt waited to see where Rachel would sit before he stretched his legs again. She was liable to knock him off his chair the next go around and take unholy pleasure in doing it. She must have been working up to it for a long time, he decided, which was kind of interesting since he’d never been sure that she was paying him any mind. It made him wish he’d come on some other business. He couldn’t take advantage of the fact that she’d tipped her hand. She probably didn’t even know what she’d revealed to him. She was just plain mad.

And scared.

Rachel took a chair at a right angle to his. She’d taken a tartan shawl from the peg rack where she’d put his coat and hat, and now she threw it over her shoulders and loosely tied the ends to secure it. She tugged at the cuff of her long sleeve and removed the crinkled telegram from where she’d tucked it.

Wyatt turned his head just enough to study her without giving the appearance of doing so. He watched her unfold the paper and smooth the creases with the flat edge of her hand. She seemed to read it again, although he was almost certain she’d memorized the words from the first moment they were revealed. How could she not?

“Why did you bring this to me?” she asked.

“That’s not the question you asked me outside. I don’t suppose you thought I’d recognize the difference.” When she said nothing, he went on. “The first time you asked how I knew to bring it to you. That’s far and away different from you pretending ignorance now.”

Rachel wished he had simply shown her the message and gone. She wanted to grieve in private, not show her open wounds to this man. His remote glance saw too much to be as impersonal as it seemed. He was sizing her up without benefit of a tape measure.

Wyatt waited her out. He was in no hurry, and he knew from his experience in the darkroom that it took nothing so much as time to see a picture clearly.

“What do you think you know about this?” Rachel said finally.

It was a beginning, Wyatt decided. He could give her something that would help her be less wary of his intentions. “Mr. Maddox was no stranger in these parts. He visited a few times before he approved the spur that brings the railroad to Reidsville. There’s no one in town that doesn’t fully appreciate the impact of the rails on us. Towns like Reidsville can simply disappear; folks pack up and move on when they can’t get what they need or get where they’re going.”

“It’s only a sidetrack,” Rachel pointed out. “It doesn’t go through to anywhere.”

“It doesn’t have to. Back and forth to Denver is enough. The link to Denver gives Reidsville a rail link to the rest of the country, but I think that’s something you know as well as anyone.”

When Rachel did not confirm it, Wyatt elaborated. “You order sewing machine parts from Chicago, fabric from New York and San Francisco, lace from Europe. Your threads come from Denver, and you’ve never had to leave Reidsville. It’s the same for everyone here. What people can’t grow or raise or make for themselves comes to them by rail.”

Now that his toes were nicely warm, Wyatt shifted and angled his chair a little toward Rachel. “Clinton Maddox never pretended he was a philanthropist, at least not when he was still making his money. He didn’t approve the spur because Reidsville needed it. There were plenty of boomtowns around that could have lasted longer if they’d had his rails. He recognized there was something here for him, and that’s how the partnership was formed.”

“Partnership,” Rachel said softly, more to herself than to her guest. She rose gracefully as water began to rumble in the kettle. “Tea, Sheriff? I have coffee if you prefer.”

“Tea’s fine, though I wouldn’t mind a spot of whiskey. I don’t suppose that you—”

“I have a bottle, but I’m surprised that you didn’t know that. You seem to know a great deal about my business.”

“Whiskey isn’t your business now, is it? I don’t ask myself what you buy from Rudy Martin when he takes delivery of liquor for his saloon.”

“It’s a wonder,” she said, turning her back on him. She found the routine of making the tea to be helpful in regaining her calm. Each tidbit he revealed set her teeth on edge, and she couldn’t say that she’d been very effective in hiding it from him. He must have wondered at the muscle jumping in her cheek as she clamped down hard on her jaw.

Wyatt watched Rachel’s efficiency as she made the tea. After the first few moments, she seemed to have forgotten him, and her slender, long-fingered hands moved briskly, not a motion wasted as she set out cups and saucers, measured, and poured. His eyes followed her as she made to leave the kitchen to get the whiskey bottle, and he was waiting for her when she returned from the dining room with it. She didn’t look at him until she was ready to pour the whiskey into his teacup, then she simply raised a questioning eyebrow.

He let her pour what his eyes told him was a full shot before he put out his hand to stop her; then she gave him pause by pouring an equal measure in her own cup.

“I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,” she said. “If I buy the whiskey, I must intend to drink it, don’t you think? I imagine you know I don’t keep it around for visitors I don’t have.”

He knew it. Everyone did. “Molly Showalter comes by.”

“To work when I need her, not drink my liquor.” She sat down as he turned his chair completely around so that he faced the table instead of the stove. “She hasn’t said differently, has she?”

“Molly? No. She’s a quiet, serious girl. If she knows you sometimes drink alone, she’s not saying.”

Rachel’s mouth flattened. Wyatt Cooper made drinking alone sound pitiable, and she cringed from the notion that she was the object of anyone’s pity. “Go on with your story,” she said coolly. “You were going to tell me what the town had to offer Mr. Maddox.”

Wyatt lifted the delicate cup she’d given him in his palms and took a sip. Over the rim, he watched her drizzle honey into her tea, and when she put it aside, he drew it toward him and added some to his own cup. “Sweet tooth,” he said by way of explanation.

Rachel was not impervious to the half grin that changed the shape of his mouth and appeared briefly in his eyes. It made his simple admission a bit more like a confession, and therefore, made it intimate. She imagined he was used to drawing women in with that unaffected smile.

“Your story,” she repeated.

Wyatt was fairly certain that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She’d regained her considerable composure through the simple act of preparing tea, and she was full steam ahead now. “Maddox met with the miners.”

“That seems extraordinary, even for him.”

“Perhaps. I can only say that what he heard from the Reidsville miners made him decide to build a spur here.”

“What did they tell him?”

Wyatt shrugged. “That was better than twenty years ago, before the war, before the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific pounded their last spike in Utah. Benton and Frémont and others were still exploring and surveying the territory. The pathway west was trails, not rails, and I wasn’t there to hear what the early miners had to tell him. Very few people could envision the Atlantic and Pacific ever connected by a railroad.”

“Are you saying Mr. Maddox was one of the few?”

“Could be.” He took another swallow of tea. “Could be the miners were the visionaries.” Wyatt allowed Rachel to consider that. She appeared poised once more, unruffled. She held herself carefully, but not rigidly. The slender stem of her neck was no longer bowed under the weight of what troubled her. Her lips were parted a fraction, and the bottom one was slightly swollen where she had worried it. Her cheeks retained some of the pink that had infused them at her first blush, but her deep, coffee-colored eyes had not lost their veil of hurt, no matter how direct she kept her gaze. He wasn’t certain she was aware that tears washed her eyes from time to time, or that she blinked them back with a sweep of her long, sable lashes, seemingly without effort.

There was no hint of tears now. Curiosity had cleared them.

“When Maddox was ready to build his railroad in the West, he brought his line from California to Colorado by way of an alternate trail through the Rockies,” Wyatt told her. “He wasn’t beholding to the Central Pacific, and he used their same tactics to achieve his ends. Government grants, tracts of land at prices he couldn’t afford to pass on, and a cheap, mostly Chinese labor force, helped him become Central’s chief competitor, and once he reached Denver he hooked up with his own system of rails to the East. One standard gauge for all of his tracks and spurs. Only John MacKenzie Worth could boast of that back then.”

Rachel followed what he was telling her to its logical end. “So he built the spur to Reidsville to thank the miners.”

“You’re confusing Clinton Maddox with a generous man. He built the spur to secure the mining operation.”

Rachel blinked slowly, and her eyes were marginally wider when they opened. “He owns the mine?”

Wyatt wondered if he could believe that her astonishment was real. He would have bet dollars to doughnuts that she’d known it all along. “He’s a partner in it, or he was,” he amended. “He brought in the machinery needed to mine the deeper veins of ore after the placer gold and silver were gone.”

“I never knew,” she said quietly.

“Then maybe I was wrong to tell you, but I figured we needed to get past this pretense that you didn’t know Clinton Maddox.”

Rachel let that settle a moment before she spoke; then she asked the question that had been uppermost in her mind. “How is that you imagine I know him?”

“If I can speak plainly, until he sent you packing, you were his mistress.”

That revelation effectively knocked the wind out of her. She expelled a breath that whistled softly between her teeth. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Does everyone in town know?”

“If they do, they didn’t hear it from me. I’ve never heard it discussed.”

“Small mercies, I suppose. How do you know?”

“Mr. Maddox told me.”

“Told you?”

“Wrote to me. I was the one who arranged the purchase of this property and supervised the construction of your house.”

“So you knew I was coming as long ago as that?”

“I’d been led to believe it, yes.”

Rachel’s brow puckered. It was vaguely unsettling to realize that Clinton Maddox had known well in advance what her decision would be. “The house is really mine, isn’t it?”

“It always has been. He made sure of it.”

Her eyes reflected some of her anxiety. “And it wouldn’t be too easy for others to discover, would it?”

“No, I don’t suppose that it would.”

She relaxed the white-tipped grip on her teacup and took a sip. “It’s odd that he told me so little about the town when it seems as if he must have known it fairly well. I suppose he meant for it to be a secret all the way around. We agreed that when the time came for me to leave I would use the Central line to ship the furniture and all of my trunks.”

“I think that might properly be what’s called an irony.”

The line of Rachel’s slight smile was bittersweet. “And I think you might be right, Sheriff.” She collected herself, took a breath, and let it out slowly. “How did you know he sent me packing?”

“That was in his letter. Not those exact words, of course, but to that effect.”

“I see.”

Wyatt rubbed the underside of his chin with his knuckles, felt the rough stubble of a three-day growth. “He was considerably older than you.”

“He was? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sorry. It’s not my place to comment on your arrangement with him.”

“No, it’s not.”

“There’s one thing I’d like to know, if you don’t mind.”

Rachel was quite sure she didn’t want to hear his question, but she heard herself answer him differently. “I won’t know if I mind until I hear what’s on yours.”

Wyatt wondered how often Rachel Bailey actually drank. There was a hint of provocation in her tone and in the tilt of her head that seemed as if it might be whiskey-proof. “Fair enough,” he said. “I was wondering—since it seems he didn’t want to hear from you again—why you think he made it part of our agreement that I’m supposed to look after you?”

Rachel’s head snapped up. “Look after me? He said that?”

“Drew up an entire document.” Wyatt watched Rachel’s lips part. Whatever she was going to say, she reconsidered it, and her mouth snapped shut. He was disappointed that she wasn’t going to tell him what she knew. He said, “I suppose Maddox thought he had his reasons.”

“I suppose he did.” Her dark eyes wavered, then fell away from Wyatt’s flinty pair. She began to reach for the teapot, stopped, and reached for the bottle of whiskey instead. She poured a generous shot for herself, then nudged the bottle toward Wyatt.

Wyatt just pushed it aside. He imagined one of them should remain clearheaded. He tried again to prompt her to talk, wondering if the whiskey would work in his favor. “So what do you think his reasons were, Miss Bailey? If you had to make a guess.”

“Do I?”

“Do you what?”

“Do I have to make a guess?” She bit off every word as if it were its own sentence. “Really, Sheriff, try to follow your own lead.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up a fraction. “You’re a regular termagant, aren’t you?”

She took a deep swallow. There was considerably more whiskey than tea in her cup, and she felt the liquor’s heat all the way to the pit of her stomach. “Termagant. There’s a word I don’t hear every day.”

“It means shrew.”

“I know what it means. I didn’t expect you would.”

“I’ve been studying up on words. Passes the time. There’s not a lot of criminal activity in Reidsville in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I noticed you don’t wear a gun.”

“Most days it seems like a bother.”

“Your deputy wears a gun.”

“It must not bother him.”

A small vertical crease appeared between Rachel’s eyebrows as she considered this. She couldn’t possibly be having this conversation, and yet she was certain that she was.

“Are you all right, Miss Bailey? You’re looking a little peaked.”

“Pike’s Peaked?”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, watching her carefully. “When did you last eat?” The fact that she had to think about it did not give him confidence. “Did you have breakfast?”

“I did.” Her frown deepened. “Coffee. I burned the eggs.” She cast a sour glance at the stove, then brightened a little. “Your socks are done.”

Wyatt looked over his shoulder. Not simply done; his woolen socks were smoking. He jumped up from his chair and plucked them off the stove top. He held one between the fingertips of each hand and gave them a frenetic wave, hoping he did not cause them to burst into flame.

Watching him, Rachel was put in mind of a coquette energetically waving her handkerchief as she bid farewell to a parade of departing soldiers. Even if she were sober, the image would have amused her. The warm spread of whiskey in her blood guaranteed that she would laugh out loud.

Pausing, Wyatt explained expressionlessly, “They’re my favorite socks.”

“Oh.” Rachel placed three fingers over her mouth to quell her laughter and hide her smile. “Then, by all means, continue.”

He dropped them on the seat of his chair. “I’ve lost my enthusiasm for it.” He retrieved his boots, examined them, then let them thump to the floor.

Rachel leaned over and whisked his socks from the chair before he sat on them. She quickly thrust them in his hands.

“Thank you,” he said. He regarded her a moment before he sat, wondering if her action was made clumsy by the alcohol or her natural reluctance to be close to him. Most likely, it wasn’t one or the other, but both. He drew up his left leg, settled it crosswise over his knee, and put on one sock. When he reversed position, he caught her staring at him. “You must have seen a man put on his socks before.”

“I must have,” she agreed.

Wyatt was aware that she was parroting him rather than offering a direct response. There was also a faint singsong quality to her voice that he recognized as the whiskey’s influence. She apparently heard it, too, but decided that the cure was more of the same. He didn’t try to stop her when she reached for the bottle and poured two thick fingers of liquor into her empty teacup. Shaking his head, he slipped on his other sock. “You might want to take your time with that.”

Rachel’s defiance of his suggestion made her gasp and brought tears to her eyes.

“Or,” he said with complete equanimity, “you can knock it back like a sailor.” He set his foot down, shifted in his chair, and slid his legs under the table. Each movement was deliberate and communicated his intent to stick around for a while longer.

Frowning, Rachel cast a sideways look at his boots. “Aren’t you going to put those on?”

“Don’t see the point.” He folded his arms across his chest. “About what you had to eat today. All I heard was coffee.”

“Burned the eggs,” she said.

“That’s been established. What else?”

She thought back. “There was a plate of cookies at the telegraph office. Mrs. Showalter made them for her husband. He offered me some.”

“But did you eat any?”

“I don’t remember. We got to talking, and I—” Rachel chewed on her lower lip as she reviewed her exchange of pleasantries with Mr. Showalter. “No, I don’t think I did.”

“Lunch?”

Rachel shook her head, then wished she hadn’t. She set her cup in its saucer and placed her fingers at her temples. Closing her eyes, she massaged the twin aches in her head. “I never got around to it,” she whispered.

Wyatt took the opportunity presented by her closed eyes to sweep aside her cup and the bottle, putting both of them outside of her easy reach. “Sore head?”

“No. A little dizzy.”

“Makes sense. The sore head’ll be there for you in the morning.” He smiled when she groaned softly. “It’s not too early for supper. Day’s giving way to night. Why don’t I poke around your kitchen and see what I can rustle up?”

Rachel held her head very still and risked darting the narrowest glance at him. “I’m not hungry.”

“I am.”

“Help yourself, then. There’s some ham in the larder and—”

“I’ll find it,” he said, interrupting her. Wyatt pushed away from the table, kicked his boots under it, and stood. He’d glimpsed the larder when he came in the back door. Now he had a chance to inspect it and see for himself how she was set for winter. From the number and variety of jars filling the shelves, he could tell that she had been busy over the summer and taken advantage of the bounty of her own garden. She’d pickled cabbage, onions, beets, and cucumbers, and made two different kinds of relishes. She had also canned stewed and whole tomatoes, rhubarb, green beans, and huckleberries, and she had three small jars of venison jelly made with wild grapes and several more of grape marmalade. There was a dry store of potatoes, onions, beans, and apples. Fruits and vegetables that she had canned or preserved were all labeled in her neat, flowing script. Items that she’d bought or traded for carried the labels of Estella Longabach, Mrs. Showalter, Ann Marie Easter, and a few he didn’t recognize.

He found the ham, chose a couple of potatoes and an onion, picked up a jar of applesauce, and carried it cradled in one arm into the kitchen. Rachel hadn’t moved from her position. Even better, she hadn’t moved either her cup or the bottle. “Still dizzy?”

“Less than I was.”

He nodded, set his things down. “Looks like you have enough in the pantry to see you through.”

“I’m more prepared anyway. Last winter was…well, it was—” She sighed. “I didn’t know what I was doing.” Her regard of him suddenly turned accusing. “It was you. You were the one.”

“I was?” Wyatt began looking around for the skillet. He found it hanging on a hook above the washtub and took it down. “The one what?”

“The one who made certain I didn’t go hungry. Or are you going to tell me you weren’t responsible for those baskets that showed up on my front porch just before three feet of snow blew in?”

“Wasn’t me,” he said. “Maybe one of your hopeful suitors didn’t want to see you waste away, but it wasn’t me.”

“But you knew about it.”

“Sure. That’s part of looking after you. Folks around here don’t need me to tell them to help a newcomer out. If they hadn’t done it, I would have stepped in. There was just no need.”

“But you know who I should thank.”

“Could be that I do, but none of them are asking for it, and most of them would be embarrassed to receive it, so I don’t figure I’ll be telling you.” He washed the potatoes, sliced them thin, and tossed them in a pan of cold water to soak. Next, he peeled and chopped the onion and threw it into the skillet with some lard. He set the skillet on a trivet on the stove to keep it from getting hot too quickly. He rinsed his hands and dried them on a towel he’d tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “You’re low on wood. I’ll get some from the shed.”

“I’ll do it.” Rachel actually started to rise, but a combination of his quelling look and her wobbly knees set her right back.

Satisfied that she saw the error of her ways, Wyatt sat down long enough to pull on his boots. He didn’t bother with his coat or hat; it was a short walk to the shed. He looked over her stacks of wood and kindling, loaded a canvas bag with six logs that looked like they could fit into her firebox, and hauled it back to the house. He scraped his boots on the mat in the mudroom. “You’re going to need more wood cut,” he called to her. “There’s not—”

He stopped, some sixth sense telling him he was wasting his breath. He stepped into the kitchen and saw his senses hadn’t failed him. Rachel Bailey was no longer sitting at the table. “Rachel?” There was no answer, and no sound to indicate where she’d gone. He dropped the canvas bag, selected one log for the firebox, and pitched it inside; then he went in search of his reluctant, and moderately drunk, hostess.

He passed through what should have been a dining room but was now clearly Rachel’s work area. Bolts of fabric covered the table and more material was draped over the chairs. The sideboard was stacked with remnants of every conceivable print and plaid. A cabinet filled with spools of thread hung on the wall between a pair of windows. Pins, needles, and more thread filled one basket. Dress patterns were neatly folded in several others. A dressmaker’s doll stood in the corner, the torso of its plain muslin form covered with the beginnings of a cherry-and-white-striped shirtwaist dress.

He recognized the shape of the form as Rachel’s own. There was no mistaking that long slender line of her back, the narrow waist, and the curve of breasts that was at once high and full. He didn’t have to work hard to imagine what she’d look like come spring when she glided past him—and every other man in town.

“Pure pleasure,” he said softly.

The foyer and parlor were also empty. He had more than a passing familiarity with fine pieces of furniture and cabinetry and recognized the work of Chippendale and Alexander Roux. He took a moment to examine the ornate gold-leaf clock, lifting it just above his eye level to check for the name of the Italian craftsman. The porcelain vases, he thought, were probably from Europe, but the decorative glass bowls and pitchers were likely the products of New England and Pittsburgh. It was a curious collection, little of which seemed to suit her in line and form.

Wyatt wended his way through the parlor, entered the hallway again, and came upon the door to Rachel’s bedroom. It was ajar, so he stepped up to it and cocked his head. He jerked back when the door opened suddenly, but he didn’t know which of them was more surprised. Rachel’s doelike eyes could have been only marginally wider than his own. His small advantage was that he collected himself more quickly.

“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” he said.

Still getting her bearings from having almost barreled over him, Rachel merely blinked.

“Are you all right?”

“Do you mind stepping away?” He did so, and she swept past. Leading the way back to the kitchen, she said, “Mr. Maddox is dead. Your obligation is at an end, Sheriff. I’m not your responsibility, and you don’t have to look after me.”

He ignored that. “Are you all right?”

Rachel wanted to whirl on him, but he was just a half step off her heels, too close to deliver a dressing-down, especially when he had the benefit of height. She returned to her chair at the head of the table instead. “Did you hear me? It doesn’t matter. I’m not your responsibility.”

Wyatt rounded the table to stand at the stove. “We’ll get to that in a moment.” He used the towel at his waist to carefully remove the trivet from under the skillet, then found a wooden spoon to move the onions around in the hot grease. “Were you sick?”

Rachel’s heavy, exasperated sigh preceded her surrender. “Yes, I was sick. And yes, I’m all right now.”

“You only had to say so. It didn’t need to be painful.”

“I was trying to make the point that it needn’t matter to you.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. My agreement with Maddox didn’t end when he died. The contract specifies that I look out for you even after his death. In fact, especially after his death.”

“That cannot be true.”

“Sure it can. Contract’s in the safe at the bank, if you care to look at it.”

“I do care.”

Wyatt gave the onions another stir. “Why do you suppose he did that, Miss Bailey? Make sure you were looked after even when he was gone?”

So they were back to that, she thought. “I don’t even know that he did do that. You’re asking me to accept your word.”

“It was good enough for Mr. Maddox.”

Rachel had no reply for that.

Wyatt found plates, silverware, and napkins and set them out. “I’ve been giving it some thought,” he said, “and it occurs to me that he considered you might be a danger to yourself. Maybe someone else. I don’t know that I would have put much stock in it if I hadn’t seen how you wielded that bucket.”

“Oh, but that I would have found my target.”

The drama she made of her disappointment brought his wry grin to the surface. “Were you an actress back in California?”

“An actress? No. Never.”

“Might be that you have the talent for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff, in the event someone in Reidsville opens a real theater.”

“Good.” He rinsed the potato slices, patted them dry with a clean towel, then spooned them into the skillet with the onions and covered them. He leaned back against the dish cupboard and folded his arms. “So, which is it? A danger to yourself or someone else?”

“Your mind is a single track, very narrow gauge.”

“Could be you’re right.” He fell silent, waiting her out.

“For pity’s sake,” she said, feeling those predatory eyes boring into her. “Perhaps he thought I was both those things.”

Wyatt considered that, nodded. “Did you know him long?”

“Long enough.”

“Sorry,” he said, retreating a bit. “Curiosity’s my worst fault.”

“Who told you that? And how did they ever choose?”

“Yep,” he said after a moment, “I’d say you’re feeling all right. You always been a fighter?”

“When I’ve had to be.”

“I don’t know how it worked for you in Sacramento, but it’ll serve you here.”

“How it worked for me in Sacramento is the reason I’m here.”

Wyatt didn’t miss the trace of bitter sadness in her voice. He had no doubt she hadn’t meant to say what she had, nor to lay bare her feelings about it. He deliberately changed the subject. “You never asked how Mr. Maddox died.”

Rachel leaned forward at the table and reached for the teapot. “Could I have another cup, please? Mine still has liquor in it.”

Wyatt got her a cup and placed it on the table. He resumed his position, waiting for her answer.

“I think you mean well, Sheriff,” she said, pouring her tea. “But from my perspective your interest feels a bit like an interrogation, or worse, an inquest.”

“Point taken.”

It wasn’t precisely an apology or an assurance that the conversation wouldn’t go on as it had begun, so Rachel accepted it for what it was: an acknowledgment that he’d heard her. “I’ll tell you this much,” she said, rising from the table. “I didn’t ask how he died because I know. It doesn’t matter to me what the newspapers report or what anyone present at his deathbed says to the contrary, I know the truth.”

Wyatt thought she would say more, give him what passed for the truth in her mind. She didn’t, though. She disappeared into her workroom and came back a few minutes later with a large glass globe oil lamp that she lighted and placed on the kitchen table. “It was getting too dark in here. The lantern’s fine when I’m alone.”

“That helps,” he said, unwrapping the cured ham. He lifted the lid on the skillet, stirred, and added the meat to warm it. “Let me hang the lantern over here.”

She passed it to him. “It smells good,” she said, sidling up to the stove. She put her hand out for the lid, but he knocked it away.

“Careful. That’s hot.” He pulled his towel free and handed it to her. “Use this.”

She did, inhaling deeply. The fragrance of sweet, browning onions and the moist aroma of the potatoes tickled her nose. “I didn’t think I could eat anything, but I’m hungry now.”

“Good.” He took the towel and lid from her and replaced it.

Rachel returned to the table and opened the jar of applesauce. She spooned some onto each of their plates, then sat and waited for him to finish at the stove. “Do you cook often?”

“Just often enough to hold my own. Mostly I eat at the hotel or Longabach’s.”

She’d seen him there sometimes. “How did you learn?”

“Necessity. How did you learn?”

“My mother taught me. Mrs. Farmer, also. She was our cook when I was growing up.”

“Well, my mother definitely did not teach me. I’m not sure she knew where the kitchen was, and Monsieur Gounod suffered no one to enter that he could not abuse with a wooden spoon and a tirade.”

That caught Rachel’s attention and confirmed a suspicion she’d been harboring since she first met him. “New England,” she said. “I keep hearing something in your speech. Massachusetts. Boston? A Brahmin, I imagine. Oh, but that’s a good one.” She smiled when she saw him flush. It might have been the steam coming from the skillet that turned his sharply defined features ruddy, but she didn’t think so. She’d embarrassed him. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You have a good ear.”

“You do a credible job of disguising it, but Mrs. Maddox was from Boston. I was around her for a lot of years.” She stopped him when he looked expectantly at her, as if she might comment further. “That wasn’t an invitation to talk about me or that family. We were talking about you and yours.”

Wyatt lifted the lid, turned the meat over, then put the lid to one side altogether. He gave the skillet a shake, flipping the potato slices. “My mother’s family could properly be called Brahmins. A couple of brothers and my sister, also. As for me, it’s generally held by the family that I take after my father.”

“But that’s a compliment, isn’t it?”

“Not if you heard my grandparents say it.” He removed the skillet from the stove and divided the contents evenly between them, ignoring Rachel’s protests that he should take the lion’s share. “You could stand to eat my portion as well,” he told her. “Colorado winter’s not kind if you have no meat on your bones.”

“I’ll sit closer to the stove,” she said dryly.

Wyatt tossed the skillet and spoon in the dishpan and sat. He motioned to her to pick up her fork and waited until she’d had her first bite before he did the same. “All right?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Better than that. Delicious.” She intercepted his skeptical look. “No, really. It is.”

“This is pretty standard fare. You must burn a lot of eggs.”

She ducked her head a shade guiltily. “Seems like.”

“You should try soft-boiling them.”

Rachel quickly took another forkful of potato and onion and avoided looking at him.

“Oh,” he said, drawing out the single syllable. “You were soft-boiling them this morning. What did you do? Forget about them?”

“I was putting the hem in a dress for Mrs. Morrison.” She winced at her defensive tone and tacked on a more agreeable admission. “Yes, I forgot about them.”

Wyatt glanced around the kitchen, most particularly behind him around the stove. “Looks like you got the mess scraped off the walls.” He looked up at the ceiling and pointed with his fork. “I’ll get that for you after.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Didn’t think I did, but I’ll do it just the same.” He tucked back into his food. “Maybe scrambled is the way to go for you. Even if they burn, they don’t explode.”

Rachel knew he was amusing himself and decided it would serve him right if he choked on his next mouthful. She waited, hopeful that she’d have an excuse to pound him on the back. He was mannerly, though, and chewed his food thoroughly before swallowing. She blamed his Boston Brahmin mother for that.

“I looked around your woodshed when I was out there,” he told her. “There’s more wood that needs splitting.”

“I know.”

“Who are you going to hire to do it for you?”

“However that contract between you and Mr. Maddox reads, I don’t believe the intent was for you to insert yourself into every aspect of my life.” She paused to give him an opportunity to argue the point, but he merely continued eating. She sighed. “I haven’t asked around yet.”

“Ned Beaumont could use the work.”

Rachel was unsuccessful at masking her surprise. She’d been so certain that he meant to foist himself upon her.

Wyatt correctly interpreted the reason her mouth was now slightly agape. “I have a job, Miss Bailey.” He pointed to the star on his vest. “Plenty to do.”

Her lip curled. She fed his earlier words to her back to him. “There’s not a lot of criminal activity in Reidsville in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m sure you mean that as a compliment to law enforcement, and I thank you for it. I’ll pass it along to my deputy.”

She stared at him a long moment, then simply shook her head and returned her attention to her meal.

“So you’ll give Ned a try?” he asked. “He injured his leg in the mines a couple of years back. That’s why he mostly plays checkers with Abe and picks up the odd job now and again. You won’t be sorry for giving him a chance.”

Rachel didn’t answer right away. It went against her grain to be pressed into a corner. “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll speak to him. Does he have any influence with Mr. Dishman?”

“Couldn’t say. They’re both stubborn cusses. Why?”

“It’s nothing important. Just a wayward thought.”

“I don’t think he can convince Abe to stop proposing, if that’s what you were wondering.”

Rachel beat an impatient tattoo against her plate with the tines of her fork. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

He shrugged. “Plenty, I expect.”

She didn’t believe him, not about what went on in Reidsville at any rate. She stabbed a triangle of ham and brought it to her mouth. “I gather that most folks know about Abe.”

“Mmm.” He finished cleaning his plate and pushed it aside. “How’re you going to turn him down this time?”

“Maybe I’m not.”

Wyatt showed no reaction, just waited for her to come to her senses.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she admitted. “You don’t think he’s really serious, do you?”

“All you have to do to find out is say yes.”

“I’ve thought of that, but I’m a little afraid.”

His mouth took on a wry twist. “Trust that feeling.”

Rachel smiled a little herself. “Thank you. I’ll do that.” She stood, gathered their plates, and carried them to the washtub; and she filled the kettle with water from one of the buckets and set it on the stove to heat. Setting her hip against the oaken washstand, she addressed Wyatt. “I appreciate what you’ve done, Sheriff, bringing me word about Mr. Maddox. I didn’t make it easy for you. I didn’t kill the messenger, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.” She spoke carefully, no trace of humor in her tone. She meant for him to understand how much she wanted him gone. “I tolerated your presence and to a point, your inquiry. Dinner was excellent, and I thank you for that, but I want to have my home back and that means you can’t continue to occupy a chair in my kitchen—or anywhere else.”

It was a firm dismissal. Wyatt considered his options and decided that ignoring her wishes was not the better course. He made a halfhearted attempt to see if he could turn her by pointing at the ceiling. She didn’t bite. Her dark eyes remained unwavering on his. The remnants of eggshell, albumen, and yolk would be there for a while, he supposed.

His chair scraped the floor as he pushed away from the table. He swept his napkin off his lap and dropped it on the seat of his chair when he stood. “I’m sorry about your loss, Miss Bailey, but you should know you won’t be the only person in Reidsville grieving the passing of Clinton Maddox.” He saw her eyes widen marginally, so he knew she’d heard him; then he nodded once in her direction and showed himself out the same way he came in.

Rachel resisted the urge to go to the window after she heard the back door close. With the lamplight behind her, he would have only had to glance up to see that she was watching him. She had to trust that he was leaving. The thought of him lingering nearby made her more uncomfortable than entertaining him in her kitchen. She didn’t need him to know that.

She collected the items remaining on the table. Before she wiped it off, she used one of the chairs to comfortably and safely reach the tabletop; then she applied herself to removing every vestige of the morning egg mishap from the ceiling. If Wyatt Cooper thought she was going to supply him with an excuse to wriggle his way back into her house, he was mistaken. The mealworm.

That image, which had curdled her stomach when she’d applied it to herself, had the opposite effect when she used it to describe him. This time, she smiled. The fact that it was a wildly inappropriate comparison appealed to her. It wasn’t as easy to know what he would think of it.

Rachel could admit that she found him surprising in that regard. She hadn’t anticipated his rather sly sense of humor or the lengths he’d go to make his point. He could be self-deprecating as well, when it served him. He impressed her now as the kind of man who saw advantage in taking a few steps back to gain a better view of the end game.

He was a chess player.

Rachel’s legs were a little wobbly when she climbed down from the table. She realized that Wyatt Cooper was likely the source of his deputy’s earlier observation about checkers, chess, and Abe Dishman’s proposals. The lingering doubts she still harbored about the contract he’d signed vanished. Little that she’d done seemed to have escaped his notice.

“You never breathed a word about that, Clinton Maddox. Canny old bastard.” In her mind’s eye, she imagined him smiling. Like Reidsville’s sheriff, he knew how to turn an epithet into a compliment.

Rachel slept fitfully. Once she woke to discover she’d been crying. It didn’t seem possible she could have tears left, not when she’d begun mourning Clinton Maddox’s passing fifteen months earlier. His insistence that she could have no contact with him meant that for all intents and purposes he was dead to her, if not dead in fact. Only when she wanted to punish herself did she seek out any information about him, and it was hard to know if it was more blessing than curse that there was so precious little news to be had.

Clinton Maddox had outlived her expectations and his own. Neither of them gave him as long as fifteen months once she left. He must have played the game like a master to hold on so long. She regretted that she couldn’t have seen it for herself, but that had always been their conundrum. If she’d stayed he couldn’t have maneuvered his pieces nearly so well.

He’d been correct. Sacrificing her was the right strategy.

Turning on her side, Rachel saw a needle’s width of light slipping between the curtains. It wasn’t dawn, just the precursor to it, when the margin of the ink-blue sky began to fade in narrow increments.

She knew a certain reluctance to get out of bed. On any other morning, it would have been because the floor was cold, but today it was the thought of going through her routine knowing as an absolute truth that Clinton Maddox was dead.

Did her mother know? she wondered. Rachel couldn’t imagine that she didn’t. There wasn’t much that Edith Bailey didn’t know about the Maddox family. It was because she had that breadth of knowledge that she sanctioned, even encouraged, Rachel’s departure. This morning Rachel felt the separation from her mother even more acutely than she usually did.

She found her thoughts drifting to her sister, Sarah. Sarah and her husband, John, had been every bit as adamant as Edith that Rachel should leave. Rachel could hardly blame them for their firmness on the matter. They had their twins to consider, and Sarah hoped to have another child someday. There would never be peace if Rachel stayed.

But it was also a fact that her mother and sister had each other to turn to. She was the one on her own. She didn’t doubt they missed her with an ache that left a lasting impression on their hearts, because she felt it in the very same way. Yet it didn’t mean she could easily put aside the envy she experienced, knowing they were still a family and she was gone to them.

It hardly mattered that leaving had been the right decision. She was safe. And to the best of her knowledge, so were they. As long as they never traded a single card, letter, package, or telegram, it would remain that way.

Rachel realized she had to turn away from that thinking if she was ever going to get out of bed. Her head was beginning to pound and knowing she was facing a cold floor didn’t help, either. What did give her the impetus to throw back the covers and jump to her feet was the sound of wood being split in her own backyard.

Ignoring her slippers, Rachel yanked her robe over her shoulders on her way to the window. She threw back the curtains and stared through the murky blue-gray light at the two figures standing in front of her woodshed. One of them cast a shadowed profile exactly like Wyatt Cooper’s and was raising a maul over his shoulder, while the other one wore his coat collar turned up to protect his jug ears just like Ned Beaumont and was sitting on a short stack of wood with his feet resting comfortably on a stump.

Rachel opened her mouth to yell at them, then thought better of it. “It would serve him right if he amputated something,” she muttered. She didn’t weigh much, but she managed to make every pound of her thunder on the way to the back door. Grinding her teeth, she stuffed her feet into a pair of work boots, then flung the door open and continued her punishing march to the woodshed, bootlaces dragging.

Ned Beaumont sat up straighter, but Wyatt Cooper didn’t miss a beat. He brought the maul down in a graceful arc on the log and split it cleanly in two. Satisfied, he threw them one at a time at Ned, who stood to catch them, turned to set them neatly on the stack, and then sat right back down again.

Wyatt hefted the maul so the handle rested on his shoulder and turned to Rachel. He looked her over and liked what he saw. “It’s easy to see why Adele’s been pining for some of that Belgian lace.”