Never Love a Lawman (25 page)

It struck her as extraordinary that she could smile. “No,” she said. “Not now.”

His tongue darted into her mouth. She pressed hers against it, circled, suckled. She swallowed his soft groan; his hips drove into her. Her hands were finally free, and they fisted in his hair. His hat fell to the ground, and the shadow that had been cast across his features disappeared.

Rachel saw him clearly, saw the taut line of his jaw, the features that were slightly drawn as he held himself carefully away from her. She cupped his face, brushed her thumb across his lower lip. He sucked in a breath and the tip of her thumb. He bit down gently.

She began to slip away in that moment. Her legs slowly unwound until she was standing, though not without help from him. Her hands remained on his face, her heels dug into a bed of pine straw between his feet. She felt his fingers twisting the buttons on her coat; then his hands were inside, trapped between the lamb’s wool and the linen of her shirt, warming themselves, but warming her, too.

She hardly dared breathe. He seemed to know it because he bent his head and touched his lips to hers, a kiss so light that it was hardly more than a puff of air. She took it greedily, gratefully.

He tugged at the tails of her shirt, pulling it free; then his fingers slipped beneath the linen. Swearing softly, he laid his forehead against hers.

Rachel knew what had frustrated him. She reached under her shirt and caught each of his wrists in her hands. When she tugged, he let her pull him away. Her slightly ragged breathing matched his own.

“That’s a hell of a thing you’re wearing, Rachel.”

“It’s a corset.”

“It’s a cage.”

She smiled a little ruefully. He wasn’t far wrong. “Steel ribs.”

Wyatt lifted his head and studied her face. Her skin was still flushed, but he could see that something had changed. Regret edged the line of her mouth, softened the look in her eyes. It didn’t stop him from saying what was on his mind. “I want to touch you.”

“I know.”

“I think you want me to.”

“It could be that you’re right,” she said quietly. “In fact, I think you are.”

“But…?”

She dropped his wrists and tucked in her shirt. She pulled her jacket closed. “But it’s not going to happen.”

“Jesus, Rachel.” He plowed through his hair with his fingers. “I didn’t start this. You were the one throwing yourself at me.”

Rachel glanced up from buttoning her coat. Her right eyebrow rose in a perfect arch. “Is that really the position you want to take?”

The fact that she was right to call him on it didn’t exactly go down well. He bent, scooped up his hat, and jammed it on his head. Turning away, he stalked off in the direction of his horse.

Rachel leaned back against the tree trunk and watched him go. His shoulders looked bunched, and his hands were thrust deeply in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” she called after him. She saw him shrug, so she knew he’d heard her. Her voice fell to a whisper that was well outside his hearing. “I’m sorry.”

Monday morning, Rachel met with Abe Dishman. She found him at Longabach’s, eating breakfast alone, and learned that Ned was out and about doing odd jobs. As he lacked an opponent for his favorite game, she joined him at the table and outlined her proposal over the checkerboard.

“If you accept,” she told him, “it means you’ll have to stop asking me to marry you.”

Abe’s mouth screwed up to one side, and he scratched his lantern jaw as he thought about that. “I don’t know, Miss Bailey. Could be it’s a deal breaker. There’s folks that might say you offered me the job on account of me courtin’ you ever since you came to town. Maybe they’ll say that you’re a little sweet on me, too. Wouldn’t look right for me to stop all of a sudden. Strains the balance. This way you can keep turning me down and all’s right with the world.”

“Mr. Dishman, if there is logic in that argument it escapes me, but rather than ask you to elaborate, I’ll agree to your terms. Mr. Clay and Mr. Kirby warned me that you wouldn’t give up easily.”

Abe smiled so broadly that his eyes almost disappeared. “That’s a fact. John and Sam know me that well.”

“They said you helped build the spur.”

“They told you right, then. I guess I know about every inch of that track. I managed the depot for a time.” He lowered his head and made a study of the board. “Maddox hired a new manager a couple of years back. I imagine John probably told you about that.”

“Not the details.”

Abe shrugged and made his move. “Ben Cromwell—that’s the man Maddox hired—he didn’t much care for my suggestions.”

“Your suggestions? I think you’ll find that I’m reasonable in that regard.”

“Don’t know about that, Miss Bailey, but then I don’t expect I’ll be tellin’ you what you can do with your foot after you finish stompin’ on my…” Abe flushed. “See? I don’t think I’ll be sayin’ that to you.”

“Oh. I do see. Well, I suppose if you need to say something like that…” Rachel pressed her lips together to keep her smile in check. Even the tips of Abe’s ears were red. She countered Abe’s last jump with one of her own, pulling his attention back to the board. “So there was no love lost between you and Mr. Cromwell.”

“No. None at all. He didn’t appreciate that the spur was special. Didn’t understand why it required more attention than other parts of the line.”

“Well, it’s only a small section,” she said. “Sixty miles?”

“Seventy-three and a quarter. It’s got one bridge, three tunnels, and two water towers. It’s a lifeline to these folks, and it’s sure been good to the Maddox family, so there ought to be some respect for it.”

“Mr.
Foster
Maddox hired Ben Cromwell, is that right?”

“Sure is. Wasn’t no time at all until there was changes.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw the door to the restaurant open. She didn’t turn her head as Wyatt Cooper walked in, although Abe lifted his hand to acknowledge the sheriff. “What changes will you want to make?” she asked.

“Mostly put things back the way they ought to be. Schedule regular inspections of the bridge, shore up the tunnels. Things like that. Come winter, we’ll have to send out crews to clear the passes. Always an avalanche or two. Sometimes it makes sense to start one ourselves so the trains don’t do it accidentally. Nothin’ upsets John Clay like having his precious engine buried in the snow.” Abe shifted in his chair as Wyatt came to stand at the table. “Howdy, Sheriff. How’re your guests doin’?”

“Morning, Abe.” He nodded at Rachel. “Miss Bailey.”

“Good morning.”

Wyatt addressed Abe’s question. “They don’t like my jail much, but that doesn’t begin to compare with how much they don’t like each other. They pick and peck at each other like Estella and Miss LaRosa. Draw blood, too.”

“I heard that,” Estella called from behind the counter.

Wyatt and Abe chuckled. Rachel forced a smile.

“You want to join us?” Abe asked.

“No. Don’t want to interrupt. I just stopped here to find out if you accepted Miss Bailey’s offer.”

“So you know about that.” Abe’s eyes darted to Rachel for confirmation.

She nodded. “The sheriff introduced me to Mr. Clay and Mr. Kirby.”

“Well, how about that? You takin’ a special interest in the spur, Wyatt, or are you a rival for the affections of Miss Bailey here?”

Wyatt chuckled. “It’s the spur, Abe. I’m no rival.”

“Good to hear.” He pointed to the checkerboard. “Looks like I won’t have much time for this, ’cept evenings and Saturdays. You’re talkin’ to the new operations manager.”

Wyatt clapped Abe on the back. “Congratulations.” He looked at Rachel. “You found a good man, Miss Bailey.”

“I think so.”

Giving Abe’s shoulder a squeeze, Wyatt moved on to the register to pay his bill.

Abe turned in his chair to face Rachel. “Is what I heard true?” he asked, knuckling his chin again. “The sheriff took you out shootin’ yesterday?”

“How did you hear that?”

“So it’s true.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So it’s not true.”

She sighed. “I didn’t say that, either.”

“I heard it from Ned first thing this morning. That’s just about as good as reading it in Artie Showalter’s paper.”

“Then I won’t dispute it.”

Abe’s broad forehead became deeply furrowed as he considered her response. “Now, that doesn’t quite answer my question, does it?”

Rachel smiled as she came to her feet. “I’m appreciative of your willingness to return to work, Mr. Dishman. Once you’ve settled into your office at the depot and have looked things over, I’d like a report. Friday?”

“Friday’ll be fine,” he said, standing. He accepted the hand she extended, and they shook firmly. It wasn’t until she was gone that Abe realized she’d beaten him soundly at his own game.

That no-account Beatty boy was sitting behind a rolltop desk with his feet up when Rachel walked into the sheriff’s office. He was not quite as skilled as Wyatt in supporting himself on the two back legs of a chair and nearly went ass over teakettle when he saw Rachel. The chair rocked unsteadily as he jumped up.

“Miss Bailey. Somethin’ wrong? You need the sheriff? He’s not here right now. Went up to Longabach’s to get breakfast for the prisoners.”

Rachel began removing her gloves. “I know. I just saw him there. I’ll wait.” She walked over to the wood stove and held out her hands to warm them. “I thought you ride out on Mondays.”

“I do.” While Rachel’s back was turned, Will tucked in his shirt, smoothed it over his chest. “Judge Wentworth’s coming today, taking the Admiral. We got the news from Artie this morning, so the sheriff told me to stick. I’ll probably head out tomorrow.”

Rachel looked back over her shoulder. “Does the judge’s arrival mean there will be a trial?”

“Yep. You think you’ll want to watch? Most people do. I can make sure you get a seat.”

“It’s a kind offer, but no.” She rubbed her hands to infuse them with more heat, then stepped away from the stove. “I suppose a trial is something of an entertainment here.”

“Oh, it sure is. Better than the travelin’ shows that Rudy sometimes hires to entertain at the saloon, though I don’t like to miss those, either.”

Rachel smiled. “I liked the illusionist. The Astonishing Arturo. Did you see his performance?”

“Twice. I still can’t figure how he—” He stopped, cocking his head toward the back where the sounds of a scuffle could be heard. “Excuse me, Miss Bailey. Got to settle the boys. They know the judge is on his way.” He took his gun out of a drawer in the desk. “They’re a mite twitchy.”

Nodding, Rachel watched him disappear through the connecting door to the jail cell. She thought it was just as likely that his prisoners were hungry as anxious about Judge Wentworth’s arrival. Wondering what was keeping Wyatt when she’d seen him such a short time ago, Rachel made a circle of his office. There were notices tacked on the wall, rough sketches and grainy photographs of men wanted for robbery, cattle thieving, and murder. Interspersed among them were bills of sale for a saddle from Wickham’s Leather Goods and a Colt .45 with a pearl grip. She recognized the latter as the revolver that Will Beatty had taken from the desk.

She listened with half an ear to the deputy trying to reason with Morrisey and Spinnaker. The scuffling continued. Shaking her head, thinking again that food was a more likely peacemaker than the gun, Rachel turned her attention to one of the maps on the wall that detailed the local area. She followed trails that were marked in Wyatt’s own hand, and she imagined these were the routes he and Will Beatty took when they did their regular surveys.

The map detailed the last leg of the Calico Spur, and she followed the track as it wound up the mountain, closely following a trail blazed years earlier by men sent west to learn the lay of the land. She glanced at a map that showed a larger area of the state, and one that took account of the neighboring states and territories. She traced the spur and then the C & C line all the way to Salt Lake. It was just as well the map didn’t show Sacramento. She had no interest in going there, even in her mind.

It wasn’t until Rachel sat behind the desk in the same seat that the deputy had occupied that she realized that the scuffling had stopped. She imagined that Will had finally used his gun to reason with his prisoners, since they hadn’t seemed to care what he had to say. Smiling to herself, she began an idle examination of the papers lying on top of the desk. There were several complaints, a few telegraph messages from Artie, and some records related to the arrest of Morrisey and Spinnaker. Curious about these last accounts, Rachel picked them up and began to read.

She heard the door open behind her, but she didn’t have time to glance back and acknowledge Will’s return before an unfamiliar voice took the choice away from her.

“Stay where you are, ma’am. Just keep reading and there’s no harm that’ll come to you.”

Rachel didn’t look up. The words she’d been reading clearly moments before blurred on the page. She would never know where she found the temerity to ask, “Are you Mr. Morrisey or Mr. Spinnaker?”

“Morrisey, ma’am.”

“Is Deputy Beatty all right?”

“Just a sore head. One to match the one he give ol’ Spinnaker here t’other day.”

“That seems fair.”

Morrisey cackled. “Ain’t it just?” He stepped more fully into the room and motioned to Spinnaker to follow. “Now, who are you, ma’am?”

“Miss Rachel Bailey.”

“Schoolmarm?”

“No. Seamstress.”

“Is that no-account Beatty boy your fella?”

“No. May I put this paper down?”

“Yeah. That’s all right.” He spoke to his partner. “See if you can find a gun. I know the sheriff’s got a Henry rifle around here somewheres.”

Rachel looked up. She blinked, her breath catching slightly when she saw Morrisey had Will’s Colt aimed at her. “The sheriff’s Henry rifle is being repaired. Something about the firing mechanism. I’m sure I don’t understand it, but there’s a receipt here. I just saw it.”

“That right?”

She nodded. “May I?” When he gave his approval, she riffled through the notes in one of the rolltop’s compartments. “Here it is. It’s dated Saturday. He must have taken the rifle to Kennedy’s shortly after arresting you.”