Never Love a Lawman Read online

  “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?”