Never Love a Lawman Page 9

  “No.”

  “No sense putting brass buttons on confectionery. But then, you knew that.”

  “It was important to me that you realize it,” Rachel said. “Now, if you’d like me to show you some fabrics in other colors, like indigo blue or burgundy, or some plaids similar to what I’m wearing, I’d be happy to bring them by.”

  “What about the moss-green material that I ordered?”

  “It will work, of course, but the dress you picked out for it is really the perfect choice.”

  “Are we talkin’ about three dresses now or two?”

  “We’re talking about as many as you’d like, Mrs. Longabach.”

  Estella’s gaze was both shrewd and appreciative. “Let’s see. I’m hearin’ the burgundy and brass for stopping Miss LaRosa in her tracks, the moss green for every day, and the shell pink for…Now, what do I need the shell pink for?”

  “It’d make a lovely nightgown.”

  Chuckling, Estella picked up her cup. “Aren’t you the quick one, Miss Bailey, but I’m forty-two years old with about as many curves as a string bean, and in a Colorado winter I prefer flannel.”

  “Does Mr. Longabach?”

  Estella’s laughter was strangled by the fact that she was trying to swallow a mouthful of tea. She recovered before Rachel could lend assistance. “I’m fine,” she said. “That was unexpected, is all. But I trust your instincts and your needlework. I’ll find that pattern book for us.” Standing, she sighed. “Don’t know that anyone else could have made me think I needed three new pieces. You have a gift, Miss Bailey.” Then, just to make certain Rachel understood, she added, “That’s a compliment.”

  “I know. Thank you.” And this time there was no doubt that she meant it.

  Rachel paused, looking up from the fabric she was cutting as Molly Showalter entered through the back door. “Put a kettle on, Molly,” she called, going back to work. “We’ll have tea when you want to take a break.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you have a list of chores for me?”

  “It’s on the kitchen table. Come here first. I want your opinion.”

  Molly only poked her head into the workroom. “My opinion, Miss Bailey?”

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Of course. You have them, don’t you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Come on. Over by the table. You can’t see anything from where you’re hiding.”

  Molly made a slow, cautious approach and stopped when she was still a few feet from the table. “My hem’s been a magnet for dust today, Miss Bailey, and I have ink on my hands. I was cleaning my father’s office, and I knocked over an inkpot. I don’t want to touch anything in this room.”

  “Hold them up. Let me see.” Rachel set down her shears and regarded Molly’s hands. “Oh, yes. You look as if you’ve been picking blueberries. I have something on my vanity that might remove that. I’ll get it for you in a little while. First, tell me what you think of this.” She reached for the leather portfolio lying on one of the side chairs and unwound the grosgrain ribbon that secured the flap. Her fingers moved quickly over the contents, separating the sketches she’d made until she found the one she wanted. She pulled it out and laid it on the table for Molly to see.

  Molly sidled closer and bent at the waist to peer over the table, her hands set in a fist behind her back. The woman in the sketch had no features to speak of, and her hair was merely a suggestion made by a few bold spiral strokes of a pencil, but what she lacked in detail of face, she was compensated for in detail of form.

  She was a lithe figure, with young curves that promised a full blossom in time, and she held herself with confidence, shoulders back, head erect. She wore a party dress with a square-cut neckline and long, tight-fitting sleeves that tapered to points that lay softly against the back of her wrists. The stiff ruffle that defined the neck was repeated in a tiered cascade that began twelve inches above the hemline. The bodice was flat and plain so the woman’s figure was seen to its advantage rather than disappearing in flounces and an abundance of lace.

  “What do you think?” Rachel asked.

  Molly and Rachel both gave a violent start when a masculine voice behind them answered the question. “Johnny Winslow won’t be able to keep his eyes where God intended.”

  Chapter Four

  Rachel spun around, hand raised, clutching her shears.

  “Whoa!” Wyatt jumped back and thrust his palms out defensively. “I knocked, ladies.”

  “Did you hear him, Molly?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Molly flinch and realized that the girl had misinterpreted her snappish tone as an accusation directed at her. That forced Rachel to calm herself as nothing else would have. “I didn’t hear him,” she said with a credible lack of inflection. “Did you?”

  Molly stuttered something that might have been yes or no.

  “It’s all right, Molly,” Wyatt said. “Miss Bailey has her shears pointed at me, not you.”

  Rachel dropped her hand to her side. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

  “I didn’t know I was. I thought I heard you tell me to come in.”

  “Now, that’s just a lie, plain and simple.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t lie, Miss Bailey. He’s the sheriff.”

  Wyatt nodded once at Molly. “Thank you for that stout defense.” He then regarded Rachel with a slip of a smile. “See? I don’t lie. I’m the sheriff.”

  Seeing no merit in carrying the argument further and risking disillusioning Molly, Rachel asked, “Why are you here?”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

  “And?” she asked, drawing out the single word.

  He shrugged. “Just reminding you.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ll make a note of—” She stopped, remembering her promise. “Oh. Thursday.”

  Wyatt saw she finally understood. “I leave real early.”

  “Crack-of-dawn early or chopping-wood early?”

  He chuckled. “Crack-of-dawn early.”

  “All right.” She turned, intent on dismissing him, but he somehow managed to insinuate himself between her and Molly.

  “Can I get a better look at that sketch?”

  She agreed, albeit reluctantly, and made more room for him at the table. “I still want to know what Molly thinks.” She leaned forward, looking around Wyatt to catch Molly’s eye, and nudged the sketch toward the girl. “Be honest, Molly. Like the sheriff.” She set her shoe on the toe of Wyatt’s boot and ground down gently. She heard him suck in a breath, but to his credit, he didn’t move. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  Molly stared raptly at the sketch for a few moments longer, her sigh speaking for her before she offered any words. “It’s beautiful, Miss Bailey, and that’s a fact.”

  “Would you change anything?”

  “No, ma’am. I especially like the sleeves. They taper so daintylike.” Her voice changed, some of her initial enthusiasm diminishing as she said, “Sheriff Cooper’s right. You’ll strike Johnny Winslow blind wearing it.”

  Wyatt made a small choking sound. “I don’t think I said it quite like that. Besides, Molly, can’t you see this dress isn’t for Miss Bailey? That’s you she sketched wearing it.”

  “Me?” She stared at it again. “Is that true, ma’am?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Does my mother know? She might not…well, this is a grown-up dress, and she thinks I’m…”

  “Not so grown up?”

  Molly nodded. She pulled the tail of her long honey-color braid over her shoulder and began chewing absently on the end of it.

  Rachel reached over and gently removed the braid from Molly’s nervous hands and mouth. “You’re seventeen, aren’t you?”

  She nodded again. “Almost eighteen.”

  “I’ll speak to your mother, Molly.”

  “She’ll want flounces. She always does.”

  “That’s because they suit her. They’ll swallow you.”

  Wyatt raised a fis
t to his mouth and coughed gently. “If I could offer a suggestion?”

  Rachel regarded him with annoyance, but she noticed that Molly looked at him as if he were bringing the Ten Commandments down from the mount. “What is it?”

  “You might want to consider getting Artie’s approval first.”

  “My father?” asked Molly.

  Rachel smiled. It was as if Wyatt had just shattered the stone tablets, Molly was that appalled. It went against her grain to agree with him, especially in front of a witness, but she had to admit his idea had merit. “You’re the apple of his eye,” Rachel told Molly. “He could lend some support if your mama balks.”

  “I don’t know. What if he doesn’t like it?”

  “He will,” said Wyatt. “You’ll just have to trust me. Now, whether he’ll like Johnny trailing after you like a love-struck pup, I can’t say.”

  Molly’s green eyes went a little vague and dreamy. “Johnny’s so stuck on Miss Bailey, I don’t know if he…” She looked at Wyatt hopefully. “Do you really think he would notice…?” Her voice trailed off again.

  “Yes, indeed.” Wyatt and Rachel exchanged glances that Molly missed in her rapt attention to the drawing.

  It was Rachel who breached Molly’s wistful silence. “Go start on that list I left you in the kitchen,” she said. “And don’t forget about putting the kettle on.”

  Molly nodded absently, turned, and wandered off in the direction of the kitchen with a little sashay in her step.

  “She’s already the belle of the ball,” Wyatt whispered.

  Rachel smiled, pleased. “And so she should be. She’s a lovely girl.” She picked up the sketch and slipped it back inside her portfolio, then handed it to Wyatt to put aside. Keeping her voice low, she asked, “How did you know that she was sweet on Johnny?”

  “When I’m not studying up on new words, I watch people.” He ignored her mocking smile. “Did you think I was napping?”

  “It certainly occurred to me.” She pointed to the chair beside him as she turned her attention back to cutting the peacock-blue sateen. “You can put the portfolio there. I’ll have your biscuits in the morning.”

  Ignoring her dismissive tone, Wyatt sat down and opened the portfolio. “May I?”

  She didn’t bother looking at him. “Could I stop you?”

  In answer, he drew out a third of her sketches. Molly’s humming reached him from the kitchen. “She can carry a tune.”

  Rachel nodded absently and moved around the table to give her a better position to make the next cut. She smoothed the muslin pattern that she’d pinned to the sateen carefully, then began cutting. “If she’s no good to me this afternoon because you’ve got her mooning over Johnny Winslow, I’ll expect you to finish her chores.”

  “What’s she have to do?”

  “Sweeping, mopping, dusting. That sort of thing. Carrying wood and water. There’s a load of bed linens that go to Mrs. Ritchie’s for laundering. Molly takes the basket when she leaves, so you better hope she doesn’t forget it.”

  “I’ll see that she doesn’t.” Wyatt tipped his chair so that it rested on the two back legs and balanced himself while he began looking through Rachel’s sketches. “I thought you were going to stab me with those shears,” he said conversationally.

  Rachel didn’t look up from cutting. “I thought I was, too. What’s the penalty for killing a lawman?”

  “Hanging, most likely. Of course, if there’re mitigating circumstances—”

  “Oh, there are, since you sneaked up on me.”

  “A jury would have to decide that, but let’s say they’re sympathetic to the defense’s explanation, then you might only have to spend the rest of your days in jail. Folks around here are partial to me, so I think you’d hang.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  Wyatt held up one of the drawings. “I like this one a lot. You ever put fabric to it?”

  Rachel glanced at the sketch. “That’s a walking dress for occasions when young ladies of fashion and means are taking an idle stroll.”

  “There’s nothing idle about a stroll when a young lady’s wearing this. There’s a clear purpose here, and it’s that she wants to be noticed. She’s telling all of the gentlemen in her social circle that she’s available.”

  “Available?” Rachel asked carefully. “I surely hope you aren’t saying she looks like a strumpet. And will you please put that chair down? You’re making me nervous.”

  “Sorry.” Wyatt let the chair thud to the floor. “I was thinking she’s letting her gentlemen friends know she’s available for marriage. This dress is part of a much larger strategy to snare a husband. Spiders aren’t the only creatures who know what to do with silk.” He slipped the sketch back into place and began leafing through the rest. “So, did you ever make the dress or did it remain a sketch?”

  “I made the dress five years ago. Miss Charlotte Petersen wore it to attend Meriwether race day in Sacramento.”

  “Was it a success? Did you do more work for Miss Petersen?”

  Rachel didn’t look at him. She could see where this was going. “Very successful. She hired me to make her traveling clothes.”

  “Her traveling clothes.” He pondered that for a moment; then one corner of his mouth quirked. “I think that’s a euphemism for trousseau.” Wyatt saw Rachel’s mouth purse disagreeably, and he was certain he was right. “Interesting. So she married.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t suppose she married someone who saw her in that walking dress on race day.”

  “What if she did?”

  Wyatt’s half grin lifted a fraction higher. “Oh, that’s rich. Who did she marry?”

  “Charles Meriwether, if you must know.”

  “Of the Meriwethers of race day. Even better.”

  “And spiders don’t make silk,” she said tartly. “Silk comes from the caterpillar of the moth Bombix mori.”

  Afraid she might have good aim with the shears, Wyatt managed to keep his laughter in check. “Guess you told me.”

  Rachel made a derisive sound at the back of her throat and did a credible job of ignoring him until Molly appeared with a tea tray. “We can’t drink in here,” she said. “I’m not risking staining any fabric. We’ll take it in the parlor. Molly, where’s your cup?”

  “In the kitchen. I’ll drink my tea while I’m workin’.”

  “I promised you a break.”

  “It’s all right. Really. You and Sheriff Cooper don’t want me around, and if it’s all the same, I’d rather be by myself right now.”

  “If you’re sure,” Rachel said with more generosity than she felt. Her preference would have been to take her tea with Molly in the parlor and point Wyatt Cooper to the kitchen. “Thank you, Molly.” She took the tray and gestured for the sheriff to precede her.

  Wyatt chose to sit on the upholstered bench where he could comfortably angle himself into one corner and set his arm along the scrolled back. He knew there was almost no chance that Rachel would join him on the bench, but until she set the tray down and picked a nearby velvet side chair to sit in, he didn’t give up hope.

  Rachel leaned forward to pour. She remembered he liked honey and added some from the little pot that Molly had provided. She passed him his cup, he thanked her, and then they sat in unexpected and awkward silence for the better part of a minute, alternately sipping their tea and staring at it.

  Rachel broke first, good manners dictating that she offer something up for discussion. The problem was that there were so many subjects she simply wanted to avoid. Weather seemed a safe choice.

  “Do you anticipate rain for your ride out tomorrow?”

  “No. Sid Walker—do you know who he is?” When Rachel looked as if she was trying to put a face to the name, he explained. “Well, Sid’s been mining since the discovery of placer silver, and his wife, his children, and his grandchildren can’t get him to give it up, even though his rheumatism about cripples him when the weather turn
s. I saw him this morning as he was heading out, and he was walking tall. No hint of a limp. That’s as good a guarantee of fair weather as you’re likely to get.”

  “I see. Does he know he’s the town barometer?”

  “Sure he does. He enjoys some notoriety for his aches and pains; it probably helps make them a bit more tolerable.” Wyatt regarded Rachel more closely. “You were feeling a little sorry for him, weren’t you?”

  She nodded faintly, surprised he’d noticed. “A little,” she said. “I didn’t look at it in the same light you did, that the notoriety might help him tolerate his pain, it just seemed that people might be taking unfair advantage.”

  “That bothers you?”

  “Of course it does.”

  Behind the rim of his cup, Wyatt smiled. “Good.”

  Rachel bristled. “I’m so pleased that you approve.”

  “You’re touchy this afternoon,” he observed mildly. “I was only thinking that it’s a fine quality in a lawman’s wife.” This last comment found its mark, just as he knew it would. He watched, fascinated, as a tide of pink rose from beneath the collar of her dress and flushed her face all the way to her scalp. “You look like you’ve got something to say.”

  Rachel caught herself before she let her temper fly. It was the gleam of amusement in his eyes that penetrated her red haze. If she was touchy, it was because he was deliberately provoking her and enjoying himself a mite too much at her expense.

  “I’m sure you have a very good idea what I want to say,” she told him. “So there’s no point in repeating it, is there?”

  “Never knew a woman to spare a lecture, especially one she could deliver to a man. You must be as close to perfect as your sex comes.” He set his teacup down and leaned forward, his cool blue eyes intent. “So, about that marriage…”

  She stared right back at him. “No.”

  Wyatt accepted her refusal with perfect equanimity. He picked up his cup, sat back again, and regarded Rachel with an easy smile. “It was worth broaching the subject since you seem hell-bent on avoiding it.”

  “Molly’s in the other room. I don’t want her to overhear.”