Never Love a Lawman Page 7

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

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

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

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

  “A penny, then.”

  “It’s not worth that much.”

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

  “About that, Sheriff Cooper, I—”

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

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Old maid, Sheriff?”

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

  “Old maid, Wyatt?”

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

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

  “When was that?”

  “March.”

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

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

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

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

  “I thought I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He wondered if he’d ever tell her so.

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

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

  “Most people assume it’s money.”

  “That’s probably the most popular.”

  She nodded absently. “Probably is.”

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

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

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

  “But you’re not.”

  “Sadly, no. Your biscuits prove that.”

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

  “Some.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “About six months.”

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

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

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

  “Did you want to?”

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

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

  “Where else did you consider going?”

  “San Francisco. Chicago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What decided you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

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

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

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

  “I could have met you at the bank.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She read.

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