Never Love a Lawman (17 page)

“I have to go back to see Artie, so I’ll take care of it. About one o’clock?”

“That should be fine.”

“You’re frowning,” Wyatt said as she poured herself some more tea. “What’s wrong?”

She waved aside his concern. “I was just thinking that we can’t eat comfortably in my kitchen. I’ll have to rearrange my workroom so we can use the dining table.”

“Then let’s not meet there. We can get together right here at the Commodore. Sir Nigel has a private dining room. It won’t be a problem.” He cut into his veal. “In fact, it will be better if we meet here. We’ll be observed coming together, and that’s good for people to see. They’ll know you’re serious about operating the spur.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, doubtful.

“I’ll talk to Nigel on my way out. It shouldn’t be—” He stopped because Rachel was shaking her head. “We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?”

“You said that people will know I’m serious about operating the spur.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“How do I know?” She pushed her teacup out of the way and set her folded hands on the tabletop. “I admitted to you that I don’t know the first thing about it. What if I hear things at the meeting that assure me that I’m unsuited for this responsibility?”

“You don’t have to drive the trains yourself, you know.”

Rachel gave him a sour look. “I know that.”

“I didn’t mean it in the literal sense.”

“You have to speak more plainly. I didn’t go to Harvard.”

Wyatt finished chewing, swallowed, and set his fork down. “I’m ignoring that snipe because I figure you’re pretty damn scared, and I notice when you get scared you tend to go after me with whatever’s handy.”

Rachel had the grace to flush. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But I
am
scared. I make
dresses,
Wyatt.”

“So you do. And if I needed one, I wouldn’t try making it myself. I’d hire you to do it from start to finish. Is that plain enough?”

It was. “You’re suggesting I hire someone to manage the operation.”

“That’s right. That’s what Clinton Maddox did.”

“Well, why aren’t we inviting that person to the meeting?”

“Because Ben Cromwell manages more than just the spur. He’s in charge of operations from Denver north to Cheyenne and east to Omaha. The popular thought is that he’s going to remain Foster’s man.”

Rachel felt her insides clench. “How long before Foster Maddox realizes that I own the spur?”

“Not long, I expect. Not now. Cromwell’s likely going to send him word by telegraph before the formal documents reach him in Sacramento.”

“But that means he’s going to learn I’m here.”

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed sharply on Rachel’s pale features. “What is it that I still don’t know?”

She took a deep breath and forced herself to release it slowly. “Foster Maddox is the reason I left California.”

Rachel pushed her chair back from the table and stood. Her movement was so abrupt that upon standing she teetered. Uncertain suddenly, she looked around, trying to think of what had become of her coat and bonnet. Her fingers worked nervously at her sides, curling and uncurling, pulsing to the same frantic beat of her heart.

“Rachel?” Wyatt put down his fork and tossed his napkin on the table. He started to rise. “Rachel. You need to breathe. You’re going to—” He watched her suck in a deep draught of air. It was enough to keep her standing until he was at her side.

“What is it?” he asked, cupping her elbow. He took a step forward to shield her from the other diners. They were now attracting the attention she wanted to avoid.

“I want to go,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I want to go home.”

“All right.”

She tried to step around him, but he gripped her elbow more firmly and moved to completely block her path. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Wyatt held his ground. “What are you doing? You’re hardly steady on your feet, Rachel, and you’re pale as death.” With his free hand, he grasped one of hers. “Your fingers are like ice. You’re so close to fainting that I don’t think you can go five steps without dropping to your knees.”

The truth of that was forced on her as she was overcome by deep, abiding cold. Unable to help herself, she began to shiver. A wave of dread washed over her, and she felt as if the ground were shifting under her feet. She tilted her face in Wyatt’s direction and made a silent appeal.

Wyatt eased Rachel into her chair just as her eyes rolled back in her head. Still shielding her, he got the waiter’s attention and motioned him over. “Miss Bailey’s not feeling well,” he said quietly. “Do you have some smelling salts?”

“No. Nothing like that here. Is it something she ate? Sir Nigel will—”

“Jim. She drank tea, remember? She probably
should
have eaten. Listen, the last thing she wants is to bring about anyone’s notice. Can you get me some horseradish sauce?”

“Horseradish?” The concern etched in his sharply drawn features eased as he realized what Wyatt intended. “Sure. That should do the trick.”

Wyatt managed to keep Rachel from slumping down so far in the chair that she slid out of it. He glanced behind him a couple of times and saw that the interest that Rachel had attracted when she’d jumped up from the table was gone now. He believed that if anyone realized she had fainted, there would have been at least one offer of assistance.

When Jim Moody arrived with a salt dish piled high with horseradish sauce, Wyatt thanked him, reminded him to be discreet, then sent him away. Wyatt gently raised Rachel’s head and held the dish directly under her nose. It required less time than he’d imagined. Her head jerked, her nose crinkled, and her eyes opened wide in alarm.

“Better,” Wyatt said, removing the dish and setting it on the table well away from her. “It goes straight to your head, doesn’t it?” He watched Rachel try to make sense of what had happened. “Just sit there. Don’t move.” He made certain she was firmly planted in her chair before he returned to his own.

“Rachel. Look at me.” When she did, he gave her an encouraging nod. “I’m going to get our things and bring them here. Once we have our coats on, I’ll escort you out and home. I can get a buggy, if you don’t think you can walk.”

She hesitated a moment, testing the idea in her mind. “I can walk,” she said. “I
can.”

He remained skeptical but gave in. “Very well. It’s probably better that you do.”

“I really fainted?”

Wyatt could tell she found the idea distasteful. It wasn’t so much that she was embarrassed by it, but that she was disappointed. “You did. Your first time?”

She nodded. “Did anyone…that is, um, did I…” Her eyes darted to the right where the other diners sat.

“No one noticed, Rachel. You didn’t make a sound.”

“Then you must have stopped me from hitting the floor.”

“I did. Put you directly in your chair. Jim knows, naturally.”

“Jim?”

“Jim Moody, our waiter. He helped me out. The next time we eat here together, one of us will have to order the braised beef. It’s served with horseradish sauce.”

Rachel managed a weak smile. “Moody? Is he Virginia Moody’s brother?”

“Cousin.” He leaned forward. “If you’re able to ask about those kinds of connections, I’d say you have your feet under you again. Give me a moment. I’ll be right back.” He excused himself and went for their coats.

Rachel drank a little bit of tea while she waited. It was still warm enough to make an impression on her deeply cold insides. When Wyatt returned, she stood on her own to prove to both of them that she could do it. She let him help her into her cashmere-lined pelisse but managed her bonnet by herself. She found her leather gloves in her pocket and pulled them on. “What about our bill?”

“Jim knows to put it on my room charge.”

“Your room charge?”

He regarded her oddly for a moment. “I live here, Rachel.”

“You have a room at the Commodore?”

“A suite, actually. Where did you think I lived?”

She didn’t know that she’d ever thought about it. “Behind your office.”

“That would be the jail.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“My deputy lives above the office, so you’re not far off supposing I might have lived there.” He took her arm and noticed that she didn’t try to pull away. As they left the dining room, he asked, “Have you ever seen the rooms here?”

“No.”

“Well, Clinton Maddox told me they compare favorably to what’s available in places like New York and Chicago, though naturally Sir Nigel’s inspiration was London. The beds in every room are solid walnut. The chairs and chaises in my suite are just about the quality of what you have in your own home, and the washstands all have marble tops. No one could believe it when he said he was putting in hot and cold taps, but that’s just what he did. He brought in Irish linen and Wedgwood china to promote his idea that refinement wasn’t beyond the reach of a little mining town. Just in case anyone didn’t get the idea, he put up elaborately framed paintings of London landmarks in the upstairs hallways. Cambridge. Parliament. Westminster Abbey. That wasn’t too bad, but then he decided to add the portraits.” Wyatt rolled his eyes, prompting Rachel to smile as they reached the sidewalk.

“Are they family portraits?” she asked, falling in with him. He had dropped his hand away from her elbow, and the realization that she missed him being so close almost made her stumble. She caught herself quickly, and the hesitation in her step was corrected easily. “His family, I mean.”

“To hear him talk, they are. But I think he might be stretching the truth. I can’t find a resemblance, and I’ve looked them all over.”

“You’ve lived at the Commodore a long time?”

He nodded. “I was the second tenant. Nigel being the first. He finished construction on it in seventy-five. It came at the right time for me.”

Rachel remembered that his wife had died seven years ago. She understood his reference to the timeliness of his move. She didn’t comment on it, though. Instead, she asked, “Where did you live before that?”

“Two streets over on Miller. It was my father’s house; then it became mine—and Sylvie’s, of course.”

“Sylvie. That was your wife’s name?”

“Sylvianna, really. Even she thought it was pretentious. She preferred Sylvia, but she didn’t mind Sylvie.” Wyatt’s steps slowed in front of Longabach’s as movement inside the restaurant caught his attention. “Just a moment,” he told Rachel. He poked his head in the door and looked inquiringly at Henry, who was standing behind the counter at the cash register. “You all right, Henry? You better not let Estella catch you with your hand in the till.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” said Henry. His hand remained precisely where it was.

Wyatt glanced around the restaurant. Ned and Abe were sitting at a corner table hunched over their checker play. They returned his greeting but didn’t offer conversation as they made several moves in quick succession. Jacob Reston and his senior teller occupied another table. Jake lifted his hand in acknowledgment, while Andy Miller didn’t look up from spooning split pea soup. Adele Brownlee smiled coyly at him when his glance came her way. She was sitting alone at her table.

“I’ve got Miss Bailey with me,” Wyatt said. “She took a little sick while she was out, so I’m walking her home. I don’t expect I’ll be more than half an hour or so. Tell Estella that I got a good whiff of her shortcake while I was by, and I’ll be back for some directly. Good day, folks.” He ducked back out of the restaurant and shut the door. “We can go,” he told her.

“I can’t believe you’re going back for shortcake,” she said.

He shrugged. “Have you tasted Estella’s shortcake?”

“No.”

“Then you have no idea.”

Rachel started to say something, but Wyatt suddenly took hold of her arm and hustled her into the sheltered entrance of Caldwell’s Apothecary. The only time he’d ever been that forceful or urgent was when he’d pressed her against the wall in her own home and kissed her so hard her knees folded. It was incomprehensible to her that he meant to do the same thing now, but her knees went a little weak in anticipation of it.

“Listen to me, Rachel.” Wyatt took hold of both of her arms above the elbow and squeezed. If she had any thought of struggling, his narrow-eyed glance ensured that she didn’t. “I want you to do exactly what I say. Nothing more or less. Do you understand?”

Heart hammering, she offered a faint nod.

“Tell Chet I need him to go to my office and get Will. He should not run past Longabach’s, but walk normally, then get to Will as quickly as he can. He’s to tell Will that the bank’s about to be robbed, and that the thief is in Longabach’s moving things along. Will needs to strap on, bring my gun and my rifle, and meet me in the alley. Do you have that?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

He looked hard into her eyes and saw it was true. “You stay in Caldwell’s. Don’t you leave until I come for you, and stay away from the windows. Do you hear me?”

She nodded.

He did kiss her then. Once. Hard. Then he opened the door to Caldwell’s for her and urged her inside. He took a shortcut between Caldwell’s and the emporium to get to the alley. Everyone had heard him say he’d be gone about half an hour, so that gave the thief a window for making his move. Wyatt didn’t expect anyone to come out the back, but he couldn’t loiter on the sidewalk waiting for the thief, or thieves, to come out the front. Depending on whether the would-be robber was one of the locals—which Wyatt sincerely doubted—it was likely that he wouldn’t be recognized on sight as the sheriff. The problem was, Wyatt couldn’t count on Jake Reston or Andy Miller not to do something that would give him away, and Wyatt fully expected Jake and Andy to be accompanying the thief to the bank.

On a Saturday afternoon, having the bank manager and one of the tellers around was about the only way a person was going to get into the bank without causing a ruckus. The citizens of Reidsville didn’t much care for a ruckus. Their sheriff, Wyatt reminded himself as he waited for his deputy, liked it even less.

Will came loping up the alley within the five minutes that Wyatt had allotted him. Chester Caldwell followed about twenty paces back, puffing heavily as he tried to keep pace with a man who was half his age, and more telling, half his weight.

“You go back in your store, Chet,” Wyatt told him. “Take care of your customers.”

“Miss Bailey’s all alone in there.”

“Then look out for her.” He strapped on the gun belt Will brought for him. “She’ll likely get to thinking there’s something she can do. If you can’t talk her out of it, drug her. I mean it, Chet. If she shows up anywhere near the trouble, I swear I’ll hunt you down and shoot you.”

Caldwell nodded, his fleshy second chin wobbling under his first.

“Good. Go on. Get out of here.” As Chet lumbered off, Wyatt addressed Will Beatty. “I think we have to assume there are at least two of them. One was hiding behind the counter by the register when I poked my head in the restaurant. I’m fairly certain there was someone else in the kitchen because neither Johnny nor Estella was out front, and it was Henry at the till.”

“Damn,” Will said. He handed Wyatt the Henry rifle. “Cleaned and ready.”

Wyatt nodded. “Thanks.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the bank. “There’re too many people in Longabach’s to take them there. I want us to set up in the bank and wait for them to come. That sound good to you?”

“Sure does.”

They turned simultaneously and began striding down the alley toward the bank.

“How are they getting in?” asked Will.

“Jake and Andy were in the restaurant. I think the plan is to force them to open the doors.”

“All right. And how are we getting in?”

“I’ve got the key to the back.”

Will’s stride shortened, then paused a beat. He caught himself and hurried to catch up. “You do? Have you always?”

“Yes. And yes.”

“How come I never knew that? It’s because I’m that no-account Beatty boy, isn’t it?”

“It’s because there was never any reason that you should know. Until now.”

“Does Mr. Reston know?”

“Yes, he knows. Of course he knows.”

“I was just asking.”

“Well, if you tell anyone, don’t be surprised if I shoot you.”

Will glanced over at Wyatt’s starkly set profile. In spite of that hard look, Will couldn’t help grinning. “You sure seem like you’re fixin’ to shoot somebody today.”

“Could be that I am. Make certain it’s not you.”

When they reached the rear of the bank, Wyatt tipped his hat forward so it fell upside down in his palm. He ran his index finger under the hatband until he found the key. “You didn’t see that,” he said.

“No, sir.”

Wyatt carefully inserted it into the lock and turned. He opened the door quietly and stepped inside, motioning Will to follow. They paused on the threshold and listened. Except for their breathing, there was no sound.

Satisfied, Wyatt nodded once. He replaced the key and his hat, then hefted his rifle. “Shut the door,” he whispered. “No noise.”