Never Love a Lawman (20 page)

“How’s that?”

“Well, I expect her cookies are just that good because she’s determined that they should be.”

Wyatt stared at that no-account Beatty boy.

“What?” asked Will. “What did I do?”

“Nothing.” Wyatt rubbed the underside of his chin with his knuckles. “Sometimes you just surprise me, is all.” He eased the tin away from Will’s territorial hug and pushed it to the far side of the table. “Do you want me to bunk down at the jail tonight?”

“No reason for you to do that. I don’t expect they’ll get rowdy. They weren’t even talkin’ to each other when I left. Ed said he’d stick around if I need him.” He hesitated. “Ah, are you goin’ to be…that is, um, are you…”

“Say what’s on your mind, Will.”

“Since I don’t need you at the jail, does that mean you’re bunkin’ here tonight?” When Wyatt just stared hard at him, Will’s hands came up defensively. “You said I should—”

Wyatt interrupted him. “I’m trying to decide what I regret more: encouraging you to speak up or leaving my rifle at the back door.”

“I can see how that’d be a…what’s that word you were tellin’ me about…means a puzzle?”

“Conundrum.”

“That’s it. You have yourself a regular conundrum.”

“I’m leaning hard toward getting my rifle.”

Rachel stepped out of the hallway and presented herself in the alcove to the kitchen. Her glance darted from Wyatt to Will, then back again. “I think that’s a very good idea, Sheriff.”

Startled, Will leapt to his feet. His chair tipped on its back legs and would have crashed to the floor if Wyatt hadn’t reached around the table and caught it.

“Easy there, Will. I think she means to aim that rifle at me.”

Will Beatty studied Wyatt’s face for some sign that he was kidding and couldn’t find a twitch or a twinkle. It was more of the same when he looked at Rachel. “Well, all right, then. I’ll just be goin’ and leave you two to sort it out. I’ll talk to the one that’s still alive in the mornin’.”

Judging that the most direct route out of the kitchen was to squeeze behind Wyatt’s chair, that’s what Will did. He nodded at Rachel. “Excellent cookies, Miss Bailey. Good day.”

“I’ll be talking to you tomorrow, Deputy.”

That assurance made Will glance back at Wyatt and offer a sympathetic smile; then he slipped into the mudroom and took up his coat, gloves, gun belt, and hat. He was still putting them on as he stepped outside.

From where she was standing, Rachel could see Will leave. When the door closed behind him, she turned her attention to Wyatt. “That no-account Beatty boy must want your job, Sheriff. He didn’t trouble himself to take your rifle.”

“I imagine getting out of your way was his first priority. It’s hard to fault his sense of self-preservation.”

Rachel nodded, approaching the table. “Is there coffee left?”

“Mm-hmm.” Wyatt reached behind him and took the pot off the stove while Rachel got a cup and saucer. He poured when she held the cup out across the table.

“I’ve always favored a dainty cup,” she said. “I suppose because it lends itself to grace and good manners.”

Wyatt paused in the act of returning the pot to the stove. “Well, that answers my question about how much you heard.”

She smiled, the placement of her lips both sweet and insincere. “I thought it might.”

Wyatt set the pot down and swiveled back around. He pointed to the chair she usually sat in when they were together. “Will you consider joining me?”

It went through her mind to tell him he was in her chair, but she caught herself before she challenged him in such a petty way. He would move, of course, even be gracious about it, and she would be the one diminished by her spite. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”

Wyatt waited until she was settled. “Are you warm enough? You don’t have your shoes.” She hadn’t taken the time to pin up her hair again, either, but he didn’t mention that for fear she’d do something about it. He liked the way it fell in waves all the way to the small of her back, though he didn’t mind at all when she drew it over her right shoulder and began to loosely plait it. She had beautiful hands, long, slender fingers and buffed, elegantly tapered nails. They didn’t look as if they ever chopped wood or hauled water or did any of the score of other tasks that made up the routine of her day. They were the hands of a woman who was flanked by servants, not one who occasionally employed a seventeen-year-old girl.

Rachel’s fingers lost their deftness when she became aware of Wyatt’s curious interest in her hands. She stopped plaiting but kept her fingers in place on the braid. “Is there something wrong?”

“No.”

“You’re staring.”

He resisted the temptation to continue and lifted his eyes to hers. “Am I?”

Rachel simply arched an eyebrow, observed that Wyatt was utterly shameless in his denial, and sighed. She quickly finished with her hair and brushed the braid behind her back. Taking up her coffee, she asked, “Can I assume there’s no laudanum in this?”

Wyatt’s response was a grimace.

Rachel smiled, lifting the cup to her lips. “Why would Mr. Caldwell put laudanum in my tea?”

“Because I told him to make certain you stayed put. I might have suggested the method of ensuring it as well.”

“Might have?”

“All right. I did suggest it. I didn’t know he’d be so liberal with the dose.” He pointed a finger at her. “You agreed that you wouldn’t leave the drugstore.”

“I don’t remember it quite like that, but I know you were trying to live up to the letter of your contract.”

Wyatt swore softly and made no apology for it. “I never thought once about that damn contract. I needed you to stay off the street and out of the way, and I told you that I’d come for you when it was over.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the only person I had to—” He stopped, finally hearing her apology, and regarded her suspiciously.

“I
am
sorry. I meant to do exactly what you said. The waiting…well, the waiting was interminable. I was unprepared for how…how
intense
it was. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I began insisting that I needed to leave. I will apologize to Mr. Caldwell tomorrow for placing him in such an unenviable position.”

Wyatt realized he was having some difficulty regaining his footing. “I imagine he’d appreciate that,” he said carefully.

“Still,” she said, “you took an absurd liberty when you advised him as you did.”

His predator’s gaze narrowed. “You don’t expect an act of contrition from me, do you?”

“No,” she said softly, an amused smile playing about her lips. “I don’t expect that.”

“You’re a hard person to figure out, Rachel Bailey.”

“A conundrum?”

Taking stock of her slightly hopeful expression, Wyatt realized she wanted to be that much of a puzzle to him. It made him wonder about all the things she had yet to reveal. “You’re exactly like that.”

She thought she probably should not be so pleased, but his answer made her feel safe, as if she still might have secrets, and that, in turn, warmed her. She pointed to the cookie tin. “Did you and your deputy leave any for me?”

Wyatt nodded and pushed the tin toward her. “Not as many as I meant to.”

Simultaneously, they said, “That no-account Beatty boy.”

Rachel laughed. “Poor Will. Why does everyone call him that?”

Wyatt didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “No one’s told you?”

“I never asked.”

“You know the Beattys?”

“Some of them. There must be at least four or five families with that name in town.”

“And they’re all related. Two brothers begat eleven children; they begat upwards of thirty offspring. There’s a lot of begetting with the Beattys. The boys are mostly miners. The girls generally marry miners. Mrs. Easter was a Beatty. So was Sid Walker’s wife. Once you become familiar with the family, it’s easy to see the commonalities.”

“There are a lot of redheads, aren’t there?”

“That’s right. Widely spaced eyes, most of them green, and they’re all on the wrong side of tall. I don’t know as there’s ever been a Beatty that stood as high as my chin.”

Rachel frowned. “Will’s as tall as you are.”

“And his eyes are blue, he’s got hair like silk on a corncob, and a pair of dimples that no one can figure out where they came from. What everyone agrees to is that on no account is he a Beatty boy.”

“That’s it?” she asked, incredulous. “He’s carrying around that name because he
isn’t
one of them?”

“Oh, he’s one of them, just not one of them by blood. His mother was one of the town’s early working girls, and when she died of childbed fever, it was Janet Beatty that agreed to suckle him. No man ever stepped forward and claimed to be the father, so John and Janet raised him with their own.”

Rachel realized she was reaching for a second cookie and pulled her hand out of the tin. “What a curious town this is,” she said, pensive. “Unexpectedly rich.” She waved a hand airily. “I don’t mean wealthy, though that seems to be true, but abundant in character.”

“And characters.”

“Certainly.”

“You like it here, don’t you?” said Wyatt. “I think that surprises you.”

“I do,” she admitted. “And, yes, it surprises.”

Wyatt tipped his chair to rest on the back legs and watched Rachel wince as he found his balance. He crossed his arms. “Why?” he asked, continuing to study her.

“I suppose because when one has no expectations everything surprises.”

He considered that. “And doesn’t disappoint.”

“Yes. That’s true also.”

“Why did you come here, Rachel? You didn’t know that you’d be inheriting a mine. You certainly hadn’t anticipated that you’d own a spur, and I imagine if you’d had a hint that marriage was waiting for you, you’d have run for the hills.”

Rachel smiled at the expression. “At the risk of diminishing the majesty of these mountains, I thought that’s what I did.”

Amusement lifted one corner of Wyatt’s mouth. “Point taken.”

Gathering up their cups, Rachel rose and padded softly to the washtub. She set them gently inside, then turned back to Wyatt, resting her hip lightly against the washstand. “Do you play cards, Wyatt? Perhaps know a few tricks with them?”

“Yes to both,” he said.

“Then you probably know how to force a card on someone. That’s what Clinton Maddox did to me. The card I chose was the one he wanted me to have, the only one he really offered. I understand why he did it, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve made peace with it. I don’t know anyone who appreciates being manipulated, even when it’s deftly done.”

“What about Foster Maddox?”

“What about him? He certainly doesn’t like being manipulated.”

Wyatt chided her with a look. “I think you know that’s not what I meant. You told me that Foster Maddox is the reason you left Sacramento, yet you’re saying that it was his grandfather who manipulated you.”

Rachel frowned deeply. “I told you that Foster Maddox is the reason I left? When did you hear me say that?”

“Before you fainted in the Commodore’s dining room.”

“Under those circumstances, you probably shouldn’t give much credence to whatever you may have heard.”

He gave her a long, considering look. “You think that’s clever, don’t you?”

“What is?”

“Casting doubt on my hearing rather than flatly deny what we both know you said.”

“I don’t think it’s that clever,” she said. “But you’re kind to say so.”

“Tell me about Foster Maddox.”

Rachel stifled a yawn. “Pardon me. I suppose I’m still trying to shake the effects of the laudanum, unless it’s the lateness of the hour. What time is it?”

Wyatt set his chair on all fours and consulted his pocket watch. “A quarter after eight.”

“Then I did sleep a long time. I wondered.” She covered her mouth again when a yawn split her jaw so wide that it cracked. “Forgive me. I can’t seem to help myself.”

“I’ll just bet you can’t,” Wyatt said. “Maybe what you need is a turn outside in the cold, or I could pour a bucket of spring water over your head.”

“Neither sounds appealing.”

“They’re not meant to, but one or the other is in your future.” He made a steeple of his fingers and looked at her over the peak. “Once more, tell me about Foster Maddox.”

Rachel stood away from the washstand, rounded the table, and kept on going. She heard Wyatt’s chair scrape the floor as he stood up. “I’m not running from you,” she snapped when she heard his footfalls behind her. “I can’t be idle any longer. I was getting something to occupy my hands.”

Wyatt leaned in the doorway to her workroom. “You might have said as much.”

Not turning around or sparing a glance for him, she said, “I can’t think of a single reason why I should be accountable to you.” She surveyed the table, looking over the patterns and fabric pieces for something suitable. After she examined several gowns in different stages of completion, she chose Adele Brownlee’s nightgown. Attaching the lace to the neckline was precisely the sort of mindless, almost effortless task she liked to do to keep her fingers busy. “I can do this right here,” she said. “Sit anywhere except beside the lamp. I need that close by so I can see what I’m doing.”

Wyatt recognized the agitation that defined her movements as well as her need to move. He remembered she was also capable of almost unnatural stillness, although there was nothing about her now to suggest it. He waited for her to collect what she required from various baskets and drawers before he joined her at the table.

“We’re partners, Rachel,” Wyatt said. “That’s the single reason you’re accountable to me. And the single reason I’m accountable to you.” He watched her expertly thread her needle. “Back at the hotel you asked me for help with the spur. If that’s changed, if you want to go it alone because it’s yours and it’s your right, then I won’t ask again about Foster Maddox, but if you haven’t changed your mind, I need to know what you know.”

Rachel set the lace against the neckline and began basting. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Perhaps you need to know something about him, but not everything. There’s no one alive who needs to know everything.”

“All right,” he said. “Let’s begin with that. With
something.
”

“You make it sound as if it should be simple.”

“Do I? I don’t mean to. I can see you find it troubling.”

Troubling? she thought. She found it painful. “He disliked my association with his grandfather. He said it was because I influenced him, which was ridiculous of course, because no one held sway over Clinton Maddox. I simply spent more time in his company than Foster did.”

“Did Foster live with his grandfather?”

“For years, yes. His mother is Cordelia Rice. When she married Benson Maddox, she moved into the mansion with him. I’ve always been given to understand that Benson and his father got along exceedingly well, but when Benson was killed in the war, Mrs. Maddox moved out and naturally took Foster with her. He would have been twelve or thirteen then. I’ve been told that Mrs. Maddox blamed her father-in-law for Benson’s death. She believed he could have done more to stop Benson from going. For whatever reason, she held her husband harmless for his decision and placed the responsibility squarely on Mr. Maddox’s shoulders.”

“So she punished him by removing Foster from his influence?”

Rachel looked up from her needlework. “I can’t speak for her motivation. Mr. Maddox’s wife died shortly after Benson and Cordelia were married, so Cordelia had taken over the reins of managing the home. She was the hostess for all the important functions held at the mansion and looked upon by her society as the arbiter of fashion and manners. She was extraordinarily well regarded.”