Never Love a Lawman

“Why didn’t you tell me that everyone knew we were married, Rachel? Why did I have to figure it out on my own?”

She stared at him. “You really don’t know?”

Wyatt said he didn’t, but as soon as the words were out, he wondered if he’d lied. “You wanted to avoid this.”

“This?”

“This.” Edging closer, he brushed her lips with his. “And this.” His fingertips ran along the length of her thigh, his palm came to rest on her hip. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He had to strain to hear her. “But you didn’t leave when you woke.”

She shook her head. “I seem to be of two minds.”

“Which one wants to kiss me?”

“This one.”

Then she leaned into him and gave him her mouth.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Sacramento, California, June 1881

He could hear them arguing. It wasn’t the first time their voices carried as far as his bedroom. He tried to dismiss them, counting the gold tassels that fringed his bed curtains so that numbers occupied his mind, not words. That diversion had served him well in the past, but it was no longer as successful. Once he had counted and confirmed there were ninety-six tassels, divided them, factored them, identified the prime numbers, summed the digits, and finally calculated the square root to the ten thousandth place, he discovered that repeating the mental manipulations was not satisfying in the least, and more to the point, did little to suppress the voices. He considered placing one of the thick pillows that were stacked around him squarely over his face, but it was a childish gesture and the last thing he wanted was to be surprised in so infantile a response.

His distress would worry her. She would blame herself, convince herself there was something she could have done to put the argument away from him. There was, but it meant she would have to leave the house altogether. He hoped for that day, dreaded it all the same. Once she was gone, he would be profoundly alone. She knew that. It weighed heavily on her decision to remain, and he’d never found the words that could move her.

It was not that he was unafraid, but that his fear was not for himself. He feared for her, could not help himself, and she knew that, too.

He turned carefully on his side and raised his head a fraction. Her voice was muffled, insistent but not loud. The other, deeper voice remained unmodulated. Volume substituted for a well-constructed argument. Heat and anger underscored every word. She remained adamant. Her opponent threatened, then pleaded, then threatened again.

He imagined her circling the room, keeping her distance, blocking an advance with an end table, the divan, an armchair. She would be wary, rightfully so. She would be scanning the room for a potential weapon. A candlestick. A book. A crystal decanter. Not that she would use any of those things. These were the missiles that might be thrown at her head. She was the one who would have to duck and dodge.

The servants would not interfere. They knew what place they occupied within the house and no one would dare overstep, no matter that they were fond of her. Feelings of affection paled in comparison to their collective fear of the man she faced. There was probably none among them that didn’t wish for the courage that would permit them to come to her aid. It was common sense that kept courage on a tight leash.

Experience had taught him this. There was a time he would have cocked his head toward the outer door, hoping to hear the approach of footsteps, a preemptive knock down the hall. A diversion would have been welcome, but it never came. After a time, he understood that it would fall to him to save her, and that saving her meant she would have to leave him.

Now he waited, wondering if tonight would be the night she surrendered to the inevitable.

The crash startled him. He felt the vibration as a tremor in the bed frame. What had toppled? A chair? A table? A stack of books? There was a brief silence. He closed his eyes and envisioned the combatants catching their breath. Another sound, this time more of a thud. Heavy. Jarring.

He tried to rise and got as far as pushing his elbows under him. He willed his legs to move, imagining that he was pumping them vigorously while he watched the blankets to see if they shifted. There was a twitch, nothing more, and it was possible that even that small movement was only wishful thinking.

Falling back on the bed, he closed his eyes and concentrated on what he could still hear. It was only then that he realized there was nothing to hear. Silence had finally settled.

He waited it out, conscious of holding his breath as though the mere act of respiration would somehow influence the outcome. Had she won or lost? The pressure in his chest was heavy now, but he refused to surrender to it. He waited it out, nose pinched, lips pressed tightly together.

It was the footfalls that told him what he wanted to know. He lost track of the progress of her light tread in the hallway as he emptied his lungs and drew in a great, gulping breath. It was a mere moment, though, and he was able to steady the rise and fall of his chest by the time she reached his door. He opened his eyes and waited.

The bedside lamp lent just enough light for him to make out the turn of the handle. It occurred to him that perhaps he should pretend to be sleeping, but there was no time to consider it properly and just as little time to act on it. He kept his gaze fixed on the door as it opened only those inches necessary for her to slip into his room. Her entrance wasn’t stealthy but representative of the economy she practiced in all things. Extravagance and excess had never impressed her favorably, and he was reminded of that as she closed the door quietly behind her and made her way to his bedside.

She was simple elegance in a room given over to every sort of indulgence, from the Chinese silks and Italian vases, to the Gothic-like imposition of the massive marble fireplace imported from a sixteenth-century French chateau.

Wearing a voluminous ivory cotton nightgown, she moved toward him like a wraith. He would not have been surprised to learn her slippered feet never once disturbed the intricately patterned Persian rug beneath them, and the fanciful notion stayed with him as she seemed to hover at his bedside.

It was a long moment before she spoke.

“It’s time,” she said.

He nodded. Even though he had been expecting it, in some way even hoping for it, he was robbed of his voice.

“You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

It was more to the point that she would have to forgive herself, but saying so seemed deliberately hurtful, and she would never accept that there was nothing to forgive. Instead, he reminded her of what was true.

“It was my idea,” he said, and saw her smile a little at that. He recognized the smile for what it was. She was indulging him, not accepting it as fact. He saved his breath for what was important. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

Her answer was too perfunctory to hide the lie. He saw she had the grace to blush, but the rosy color did not conceal the deeper stain along her jawline.

“No worse than I’ve known,” she amended.

As a description of her injuries it left a great deal to his imagination and filled him with sick dread. “You should leave now.”

“Yes.” But she didn’t move.

“Before he comes around.”

Looking down at him, unable to look away, she only nodded this time.

“At his best he’s impatient. Intolerant at his worst.” He saw her smile again, this time as if he’d said a profound truth. She surprised him then by seating herself at the edge of his bed and angling herself toward him. She lifted the covers enough to find his hand, drew it out, and placed it between both of hers. He wondered if it felt as small and frail in the cup of her palms as it seemed to him.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she said. “You should never believe that I wanted to leave you.”

He said nothing for a moment, absorbing the truth of it, concentrating on the tender fold of her hands around his. “I know.”

She did not offer to take him with her. That was an impossibility and discussing it as if it could be otherwise was painful beyond what any person could bear.

“You mustn’t be afraid that he’ll bully you,” she said.

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Of course you’re not. I only meant that he won’t bother you once I’m gone.”

He knew she believed that, and he said nothing to contradict her. He could have told her that while he wouldn’t be bothered, he would also no longer be of any use. There was nothing to be gained by reminding her.

“You’ll do what’s expected, won’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.” She meant the nurses. She would have already given instructions to them, made certain they knew what he should eat, his likes and dislikes, how often he should be exercised, how to care for his linens, what he enjoyed reading, how he cheated at cards and chess if you let him, and how to respond when the mood of the moment was fair or foul. She would have done all this gradually over time, all of it in the course of mothering him, smothering him, and without once raising suspicion that she was preparing for the possibility of abandoning him.

“I’m depending on your good sense,” she said.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

Her smile was gently mocking, tinged with genuine humor. “I am almost convinced.”

He smiled in return and grieving was pushed to the back of his mind. He felt her hands slip away from his. She braced herself on either side of his narrow shoulders and bent down to kiss him. He felt her lips settle lightly on his forehead. It only lasted the narrowest margin of time, but he knew the feather-soft sweep of her lips on his brow would remain with him long after she was gone.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.