Never Love a Lawman Read online

  Rachel resisted pressing a hand to her heart even though it was fluttering wildly against her breast. Her cheeks felt hot, and her mouth was dry. She could feel her throat constricting and an uncomfortable ache forming behind her eyes. Her insides twisted.

  And still her gaze remained steady and stubborn.

  “Arguments were difficult. Attempts to humiliate me were difficult. Avoiding him was difficult. I could not be alone anywhere in the house. If I was, he cornered me. No servants in the house dared to interfere for fear of losing their position. Clinton Maddox was the only one who could have stopped it, and for months he lay helpless in his bed. But even that, the groping, the insinuations, the suggestions that I whore for Foster’s friends, all of that was merely difficult.

  “It was when he made threats against my mother, my sister and her family, and his own grandfather that my situation was made intolerable.” Rachel didn’t look away, but her voice fell to a husky whisper. “I’m not proud of this, but I began to think that killing Foster Maddox was the answer. Not idle thoughts, either. I considered all the reasons that justified it. I became the one who did the watching. I knew his schedule and the route he took between work, his home, and Mr. Maddox’s house. I thought about all the different ways he might die. Poison. Hanging. A fall. Gunshot. A blow to the head. An accident on the street. I wanted to—”

  “Rachel.” Wyatt spoke her name quietly, firmly. “I understand. You don’t have to—”

  “No,” she said sharply. “You wanted to know. That means you have to listen, no matter how uncomfortable it is to hear. You said I’m accountable to you, and this is my accounting.”

  “I wasn’t trying to spare myself. I was trying to spare—” He stopped because it was a partial truth at best, at worst, a lie. If he had wanted to spare her, her eyes seemed to say, then he should never have pressed for answers. “Very well,” he said. “Say it all.”

  “I wanted to kill him,” she said. “I dreamed about it. I imagined how I would do it. I thought about how I would live with myself if I were never caught, and I considered what it would be like to hear a judge pronounce my own death sentence. I decided I could accept either eventuality.”

  Rachel set her hands on top of the table and folded them into a single fist. “Mr. Maddox’s recovery was slow, but everyone responsible for his care observed the changes. As he improved, he began to find ways to communicate. Blinking. Finger movements. Squeezing my hand. He was surprisingly talkative using these methods, and I came to realize that he knew what I was contemplating. During that time when he couldn’t find a way to say anything to us, he became an extraordinary observer and an even better listener.

  “It shouldn’t surprise you that he began encouraging me to leave.”

  “No,” Wyatt said carefully. “It doesn’t surprise.”

  “There were a number of things to consider,” Rachel said. “Foster’s threats were predicated on the fact that I refused to share a bed with him, but at the same time, my presence in the house kept him from acting on his threats toward Mr. Maddox. I rarely left Mr. Maddox’s side, but that gave Foster the opportunity to direct threats toward my mother and sister.”

  “He said he would hurt them?”

  “His threats to do harm were mostly financial in nature. He would have made it impossible for my mother to find another position. My sister’s husband would have been dismissed from his job. These things would have happened at great cost to their pride. The same sort of accusations he’d leveled at me would have been turned on them. On those occasions when he talked about unfortunate accidents, his accounts were always about children. I have a niece and a nephew. Twins. Just six years old. It required no imagination on my part to know he was speaking about them.”

  “Jesus,” Wyatt said under his breath.

  “Besides killing Foster, there really was no other choice than to remove myself from Sacramento. I suppose that it can be argued that by encouraging me to go, Clinton Maddox was trying to save me from myself. For reasons that are entirely understandable, my mother and Sarah also wanted me to leave. I still felt certain that Mr. Maddox’s full recovery would be compromised if I left, making him supremely vulnerable to Foster. We talked about it. He knew and accepted the risk to himself. I was the one who kept balking.”

  “What tipped the scales?”

  Rachel closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. After a long moment, she let her hand fall to her lap and looked at Wyatt, her gaze weary now. “Foster came upon me in my sewing room. Until he walked in, I hadn’t known he was in the house. While no one on the staff stepped forward when Foster and I were arguing, it was typical that someone would warn me of his arrival. No matter where I was in the house, I usually managed to get to Mr. Maddox’s room first.

  “There was no chance of that this time. The details of the argument are unimportant. There was little variation on the theme. We exchanged words, but there was no conversation. We each had lines and delivered them by rote. On this occasion, Foster was suffering with one of his migraines. He was all but lost to reason, and there was little hope that he’d recover it. He was louder, more forceful, and ultimately more physical. It was as if he’d decided that bombast would make his argument convincing.”

  The memory caused Rachel to visibly draw into herself. “He knocked over a chair and caused a small table to skid across the floor in one of his clumsier efforts to reach me. I’d been forced to grapple with him before to defend myself from his blows, so I was prepared for something like that to happen again. Before he came within arm’s reach of me, I yanked up the hem of my gown so I could move quickly in any direction. Foster must have interpreted it as an indication that I’d changed my mind and was issuing an invitation. It’s the only reason I can imagine that he stopped in his tracks.”

  Wyatt kept his own counsel, afraid that saying anything would damn him for being a man like Foster Maddox. The hard truth was that he was having a difficult time not letting his eyes stray to the slim ankles and calves that could stop any man cold. “And?” he asked.

  “And I charged him. I’ve never seen a bull do it, but I think it must have been something like that. I put my head down and ran at him. I drove into his midsection and heard the breath leave his body.”

  “I’ve seen a bull charge,” said Wyatt. “That sounds about right. What happened?”

  “He stumbled backward, tripped over his own feet, and landed hard on his back. He didn’t get up. I thought he’d passed out, but when I collected myself enough to look more closely, I saw that he’d hit his head on the marble apron of the fireplace. There was blood, quite a bit of it, but he was still breathing. I stared at him for a long time, knowing that it would probably never be easier to kill him. And when I didn’t, when I realized that I never could, I knew the time had come for me to leave.”

  Wyatt let the words lie, absorbing them, appreciating that this was as much a confession of what she hadn’t done as of what she had. He could not tell which troubled her more. “You left everyone behind?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’ve had no contact since I left the station in Sacramento. I wrote to my mother and sister and gave the letters to Mr. Maddox to pass to them. I didn’t dare risk seeing them in person. A visit to them would have been out of the ordinary at that time, and I was afraid that Foster would suspect my intent. I told them nothing that would reveal where I was going. My silence was in consideration of their safety and I depended on Mr. Maddox not to reveal anything to them. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “So you thought you were well out of Foster’s reach.”

  “Of course I did. I used another name to purchase my tickets. I even used a rival rail line to make most of the journey. I was confident that no one I left behind would be able to give me away. I worried what Foster would do when he realized I was gone, but I had to hope that by sending no letters, no packages, not even a single telegram, he would come to accept that my family were all telling him the truth when they said they didn�
��t know where I was. I depended on Foster understanding that he’d finally gotten what he wanted.”

  Wyatt frowned as he considered this. “What did you think he wanted?”

  “For me to be away from his grandfather. He thought I was influencing Mr. Maddox’s decisions, remember? I explained this already.”

  “You explained it, but I didn’t realize you actually believed it.” He shook his head, his mouth grim. “Rachel, if only half of what you told me is true, it’s still clear as Pittsburgh glass that he wanted you. Not wanted you out of the way, just wanted you. I don’t think he’s much accustomed to being refused. The one strategy you didn’t try was bedding him.”

  Her chin came up. “Not because I didn’t think of it. I could more easily have killed him.”

  “It wasn’t meant as a criticism,” said Wyatt. “It’s just an observation.”

  “You can keep your observations, then.” She rubbed her hands over her face, agitated. “God, but I wish I hadn’t told you anything. You can’t know what it was like. What he was like. You can never understand.” She placed her palms flat on the table and stood. “What purpose did telling you serve except to satisfy your prurient curiosity?” She could feel herself shaking. Her eyes were dry and gritty. “You asked me to be accountable, and I let you dig at my wounds with a stick. Shame on me for that.” She stared at her hands. “Shame on me.” And although her lips moved around the words, they were largely without sound.

  Rachel didn’t see him leave his chair, didn’t know he was standing just beside her until she turned to go and blindly walked into his embrace. She fought it at first, struggling hard, pushing at him in earnest. Her nails scrabbled at his shirt. She twisted and turned and would have clamped down on his shoulder with her teeth if he hadn’t managed to jerk away in time.

  He held her fast, his arms so tight around her that she thought she might not be able to draw another breath, and yet she heard herself sobbing deeply, and felt the keening cries like a razor at the back of her throat. Her fingers curled into fists around the fabric of his shirt.

  She heard his voice in her ear, his hot breath against her skin. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, couldn’t hear him above her own weeping, but it wasn’t comfort that he was offering. The tenor of his voice was not calculated to soothe or placate her. This was a low growl that was intended to urge her on, as if he knew instinctively that trying to quiet her would have been not merely infuriating, but at the core, disrespectful as well.

  His embrace simultaneously confined and shielded her. She was pressed against him intimately, yet the contact felt impersonal. He didn’t try to rub her back or massage her shoulder. He didn’t press his lips to her forehead or finger her braid. He simply took the brunt of her anger and absorbed her self-loathing.

  She felt the cadence of her sobs change as they quieted. The pause between shuddering breaths lengthened as she drew air deeper into her lungs. She wept, but almost silently now, turning her cheek against his shoulder and finding the warm curve of his neck. He didn’t try to press a handkerchief into her hands or avoid the discomfort of having his shirt made salty and wet by her tears.

  His arms tightened once, briefly, when she could no longer suppress a shiver, but he didn’t belabor the moment by coddling her. His restraint was a revelation to her. He demanded nothing, expected nothing, and when she let herself slump against him, he stood firm.

  Rachel found her own handkerchief and pressed it against her eyes and then her nose. When she began to ease away, he let her go. “I think I’d like to lie down now.”

  “Of course. I’ll let myself out.”

  She nodded. When he didn’t move, but merely regarded her patiently, Rachel glanced down and saw she was gripping his forearm. Some part of her was astonished that she didn’t release him immediately. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Nothing’s changed about that. For me, that is. I’d still like you to be there when I meet with Mr. Clay and Mr. Kirby.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good.” Her fingers unfolded slowly and she watched as his arm settled against his side. Her smile was a bit watery and uneven. “I’ll still owe you biscuits.”

  “I know. I like being owed.”

  “Maybe I could—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you when I want to collect them.”

  She hesitated, then finally said, “All right.”

  Wyatt nodded and started for the kitchen. “Do you have any trousers?”

  “Trousers?” She stared at his back, her eyebrows fiercely knit. “Me? Why would I have—”

  He held up one hand, staving off her questions as he lifted his coat from the peg rack with the other. “You’ll need them tomorrow. I figure we’ll only be in the meeting an hour or so, and there’ll be plenty of daylight left for what I have in mind.” He looked her over with a critical eye. “I expect Ted Easter’s oldest boy is about your size. I’ll see if he won’t lend me a pair of dungarees.”

  “I’m not wearing Theo’s dungarees.”

  Wyatt chuckled at her affronted expression. “We need to do some hiking. Not far, just to get beyond the town limits. There’s a law on the books that makes it a crime to throw lead in town.”

  “Throw lead?”

  “Shoot.”

  “You’re going to take me into the hills and shoot me?”

  “Mountains, remember? And I thought I’d teach you to shoot first before I aimed my weapon at you. It’s more sporting that way.”

  Rachel knew her jaw was slack, but closing it seemed inappropriate in light of what she was hearing. “You’re serious?”

  “About teaching you to shoot, yes. As for shooting you, I sure as hell wish you hadn’t put the idea in my head.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll see you in church, Rachel.”

  Rachel kept her eyes on the minister and her thoughts on everything but what he was saying. Reidsville’s population numbered 782. There were only two places of worship: the Lutheran church and the meeting hall on Pine Street for the practice of the religions that weren’t Lutheran or Catholic. The Lutherans had services at eight thirty and ten. The meeting hall was used by the Presbyterians at nine, the Methodists at ten thirty, and about thirty-eight citizens who liked to read and interpret the scriptures for themselves at noon.

  The slate-gray roof of the Lutheran church boasted the year it was built with white-painted tiles embedded into each of the steeply pitched sides. The fact that it was located on Tent Church Road spoke to its humble beginnings when miners slogged in the mud to stand under a tarp and listen to Pastor Duun. The Norwegian immigrant, late of Minnesota, delivered a rather dour message that appealed to them after a week of hard labor and a night of harder drinking.

  Pastor Duun, well into his sixties now, could still be relied on to offer a grim sermon come Sunday morning. Rachel surmised that it was this reliability that remained a comfort to his congregation.

  When the offering plate was passed, Rachel came out of her reverie long enough to place a few coins on it, then stood with the rest of the congregants to participate in prayer. With her head bowed, she surreptitiously glanced sideways to where Wyatt Cooper stood flanked by Ned Beaumont on one side and three members of Will Beatty’s family on the other. He was leaning forward just enough that she could make out the line of his cleanly defined profile, and the tilt at the corner of his mouth that made her think he knew she was watching him.

  Rachel lowered her gaze immediately and prayed that she’d be forgiven for thinking about that mouth and not doubly damned for thinking about it pressed against hers. As far as she was concerned, the benediction could not come quickly enough.

  When the service was over, Rachel stood in line to shake Pastor Duun’s hand and compliment him on his message. She purposely set herself behind Sir Nigel Pennyworth and in front of Grace and Artie Showalter and made a point to engage them in conversation as they shuffled toward the door. She would never be able to say how Wyatt managed to put himself directly at her back be
fore she reached Pastor Duun, and she held out no hope that he’d tell her how he did it. She suspected the Showalters of being actively complicit, while she thought Sir Nigel’s habit of long-winded discourse merely provided a convenient diversion.

  Wyatt didn’t speak to her at all, but she was aware of his presence at her back all the while she moved closer to the door. She spoke sincerely of her appreciation for the sermon when Pastor Duun took her hand in both of his and expressed his best wishes for her success with the mining operation. As soon as she could gracefully extricate herself from his firm grasp, she hurried down the steps and across the flat, open yard.

  “Liar,” Wyatt whispered when he caught up to her.

  Rachel glanced at him, her expression openly perturbed. “Why are you following me? And I’m not a liar.”

  His lips twisted wryly. “Tell me what part of Duun’s sermon spoke to your heart. That’s what you told him, isn’t it?”

  “You were right there. You know what I told him.”

  “I rest my case.” His voice fell to a whisper again, and he bent his head slightly toward hers. “Liar.” He chuckled when she shifted her elbow as if she meant to poke him only to catch herself and draw it back.

  Rachel slowed her steps so it would not appear as if she was running from him, which was precisely what she was doing. “I don’t need an escort home.”

  “Good, because I’m going the other way.”

  “When?”

  “Just. About. Now.” Wyatt took a deliberate step sideways as they came upon the hitching post. “Come here. I have something for you.”