Never Love a Lawman (27 page)

“Rachel?”

She made a few blind stabs with her needle, knowing full well that she’d have to pull them out. Abandoning her work, Rachel fumbled under the fabric to find her handkerchief. She pressed it to her eyes, then blinked rapidly. Her smile was a trifle watery as she collected herself. “Forgive me. I didn’t anticipate that rush of feeling.” And because she felt she had to offer him something, she said, “What would you like to know?”

“I’m sorry, Rachel. I didn’t—”

“I know.” She put her handkerchief away and began removing the ill-placed stitches. “My father was an officer in the Union army. He and Benson Maddox enlisted together, and both of them were quickly promoted. Neither had fighting experience or an inclination for battle, but they were leaders and that’s what was recognized.”

“They knew each other before enlistment?”

“I suppose I didn’t say, did I? They were friends. Good friends. My father worked for Clinton Maddox. He kept the financial records for all of Mr. Maddox’s rail lines. When Mr. Maddox expressed interest in a western line, my father and Benson moved to Sacramento. Mr. Maddox came later. I think my father had it in his mind that he could protect Benson if they enlisted together, and perhaps that was even true for a while, but eventually their individual responsibilities separated them. Benson moved with the infantry. My father’s special financial skills kept him at the side of generals, figuring the costs of war, not only of supplies, but of men. Mr. Maddox was laying track all over the East, especially in the mid-Atlantic, so Union troops would have food and weapons. My father had a lot to do with helping to determine the routes. He would tell me later that he was Mr. Maddox’s government man, and he never said it as if it pleased him.”

“No, I don’t imagine that it did.” Wyatt had been resting the back of his head against the Gothic-styled walnut headboard that Sir Nigel Pennyworth swore was reminiscent of European cathedrals. Now he tucked a pillow behind his back, because cathedral spires be damned, he wasn’t comfortable. “But he survived the war.”

“A truth in the literal sense,” Rachel said quietly. “He was different afterward, at least that was what I understood. I was seven when he returned to us, so I’m sure that my view was colored by the perspectives of my mother and my sister, but I noticed things as well. He was quieter, more introspective. It was not uncommon to find him sitting alone in his study. He could appear deeply contemplative, but what he was studying was a wall, a window, or the tips of his own fingers. Melancholia was his companion unless he was trying very hard not to allow us to see it. That took its toll.”

Wyatt realized he’d never been certain if her father was dead or alive. Now he knew. “How long ago?”

“Ten years. It was just after my fourteenth birthday.”

Offering his regrets seemed inadequate in the face of grief that was still so easily tapped. Rachel took the opportunity for unsolicited condolences away from him by quickly going on.

“My father and I were very close. My mother and Sarah are the proverbial peas in the pod. I suppose that’s why I was the one who looked after him. I had the temperament for it, and they didn’t.” She laughed a little when she saw Wyatt’s skeptical look when she mentioned her temperament. “Caring for someone doesn’t mean giving in to their whims. There is a place for compassion and an equally important place for—”

“A complete lack of feeling?” Wyatt interjected. “A cold heart?”

“Common sense, I was going to say, but if you prefer either of the others, I don’t mind.”

“You know I was teasing, don’t you?”

She flashed her most slyly contented smile. “So was I.”

Wyatt held his chest as he laughed this time, finding it hurt a great deal less. When he settled back again, he asked her if her father had worked for Clinton Maddox until his death.

“He died in his office,” she told him. “His heart just gave out. Mr. Maddox was distraught. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I think that for Mr. Maddox it was like losing his son. He never held it against my father that he came back and Benson didn’t. My father’s feelings toward Mr. Maddox were more complicated, I think. He respected him, was more than a little in awe of him, but he was disappointed, too. That Mr. Maddox’s wealth increased tenfold during the war was difficult for him to reconcile. His own role troubled him. He urged Mr. Maddox to make gifts, contributions, set up trusts, but that didn’t happen until years later.”

“When you were living with Clinton Maddox.”

“When Mr. Maddox decided he’d had enough of acquiring wealth,” she corrected. “Do not mistake his gestures for atonement. He never thought he had anything to atone for.”

“Didn’t he? What about you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You came to live with him. How did that happen?”

“My mother was his housekeeper, Wyatt. She took the position to support us after my father died. I lived in the mansion with my sister and mother. When my sister married, my mother left with her.”

“But you stayed.”

“Yes. I performed valuable functions for him, acting as his hostess from time to time, scheduling his appointments, and making certain he was available for them. Later, after his stroke, I took care of him.”

Wyatt did not miss that her explanations were rendered defensively, but she didn’t seem to notice. He let it go. Her own feelings toward Clinton Maddox were as complicated as her father’s.

“You’re tiring,” Rachel said, watching him rub his jaw. “Perhaps you should lie down.”

It was an indication of how well she’d read his face that Wyatt didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the mattress, taking the pillow with him, and drew the covers up to his chest. He didn’t remember falling asleep. It just happened.

Over the course of the next ten days, a steady stream of visitors came to the Commodore to evaluate Wyatt’s progress for themselves. Rachel referred to it as a pilgrimage, a description that Wyatt had to admit had crossed his mind also. He appreciated Rachel’s common sense when she turned it on the pilgrims, insisting that they wait until after lunch to visit and leave before dinner. The only visitors she made exceptions for were Doc Diggins and that no-account Beatty boy.

Molly took care of Rachel’s house in her absence and brought her whatever she needed, but Wyatt had always known it wasn’t a practical arrangement for her. More interesting, at least to him, was that everyone seemed to accept it without raising an eyebrow or posing a single question. He remembered telling Rachel that Reidsville embraced “live and let live,” but this was extraordinary even for them. Gracie Showalter couldn’t be moved to explain it. He pressed Estella and Molly and Ann Marie Easter, and they gave him nothing in return. Pastor Duun’s wife wouldn’t hint that there was any sort of impropriety in Rachel’s presence. Rose LaRosa and Adele dropped in and neither made suggestive remarks. The women had nothing but praise for her, and even the men were unsympathetic of his objections. When he complained that she wouldn’t allow him to drink whiskey, not one of them offered to bring him a flask. He organized a poker game, and his friends left the first time she hinted that he was getting tired.

He supposed it was a natural consequence of her owning half of the town’s mine and all of the spur. The Calico Spur. That name had always seemed a little disparaging when Clinton Maddox had control of it, but now that it was Rachel’s it was an exact fit, perfectly tailored to suit.

It was late. He’d heard the clock in the sitting room strike ten, and he thought it was probably closer to eleven now. She was still working at the dining table. He could hear the shears clicking as she cut fabric. Sometimes he could hear her moving around the table, humming softly to herself. He didn’t recognize the tune, but that was probably because she couldn’t carry one with a pack mule.

He tried to remember if Sylvie had ever hummed. The problem was that he couldn’t recall that she’d ever worked. Sylvianna Hammond planned parties, attended parties, and invented reasons for parties. She loved choosing her gowns, her jewelry, her shoes, and the combs and feathers for her hair. She married him believing they would remain in Boston, that he would be successful in her father’s law offices or part of his own family’s banking business.

He hadn’t been fair to her, he’d always known that. She thought he’d lied to her, but he hadn’t. It was truer that he’d lied to himself, convinced himself that he could live in Boston, a city he found too narrow, and work for his family, which he also found too narrow. He was dying there, and in the end, he’d made the same choice his father had—to save himself.

Wyatt set the book he’d been reading on the nightstand and turned back the lamp. When he looked up, he saw Rachel was standing in the doorway.

“Am I keeping you awake?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

She studied him a moment longer, her head angled to one side. “All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll just shut the door.”

“No. Don’t.” He spoke just as her fingers closed around the crystal knob. “I like it open.”

“Well, I’m almost done.” She started to back away, but she paused when she saw his hand come up. “What is it?”

“I’m not tired,” he said. “Just the opposite. Would you mind if I sat out there while you work?”

“Of course not.” His question was curious because he’d sat with her on other evenings, although never as late as this. She wondered why he asked now when he had never asked before. “Would you like something? Perhaps some warm milk?”

He came close to growling at her, and he had to be satisfied that his look was enough to send her into full retreat. Throwing back the covers, he sat up and reached for his robe. He shrugged into it, belted it loosely, then padded barefoot into the sitting room. There was a comfortable damask-covered chair next to the stove. He sat there and rested his feet near the firebox to keep them warm.

Rachel was poised over her open sketchbook. The tip of her pencil tapped lightly against the paper. There was a vertical crease between her dark eyebrows and a pink sliver of her tongue peeping out from the corner of her mouth.

Wyatt’s gaze shifted from Rachel to the couch. She’d already covered it with a couple of sheets, blankets, and the quilt from her own bed. The pillow had a lace sham over it. It still didn’t look very inviting, but it was where she had been sleeping since she’d moved into his suite. Every morning since he’d started to improve she cleared away the linens, removed the lace sham, and stored all of it in the bottom of his armoire. He couldn’t remember what she’d done in those early days of her stay, but he didn’t think she’d attended to those details. It seemed to him that the maids had been in and out more frequently than they were now.

It was almost as if she didn’t want people to know they weren’t sharing—

The footstool tipped and thudded on its side as Wyatt bolted upright. Rachel jerked at the suddenness of his move and straightened herself. She flinched when she met his reproachful stare.

“What?” She dropped her pencil and took a step back. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You told them. That’s why no one’s saying anything. You told them the truth.”

Rachel started to skirt the table as he approached, keeping distance and a barrier between them. “You’re accusing me of telling the truth? About what?” She thrust out her hand as if it would stay his advance. “And why is that a problem?”

Wyatt was unconvinced by the questions she lobbed at him. He was learning something about how she mounted her defenses, and they were entirely made of question marks. “We discussed it, Rachel. We both agreed that we weren’t going to tell anyone. You were the one who insisted on it, and now you’ve gone back on your word without even consulting me. You know what this means, don’t you?”

She continued to circle the table. “Did you hit your head? Has something happened that—” She felt a little jolt akin to alarm, but not alarm exactly. Wyatt’s smile matched the cool and cunning of his eyes. He was watching her so carefully that she couldn’t move. It was easy to imagine that he would stop circling, forget his injuries, and leap across the table at her.

“All right,” she said, lowering her hand a fraction. “They know.”

“Say it all,” he said.

“They know we’re married.”

He dropped back on his heels, relaxing his ready-to-pounce posture. “Well, how about that?”

“But I didn’t tell them,” she said, folding her arms under her breasts and giving him the steely end of her sharpest stare. “You did.”

“What?”

“You told them, Wyatt. You were half out of your head with pain when the ether began to wear off. You started talking about your wife. Where was your wife? You wanted your wife. Gracie, Will, Dr. Diggins—even I—thought you were talking about Sylvianna. That’s why Gracie was so sure you were going to die. Will was holding on to the bucket, whispering about Sylvia being dead and how you shouldn’t think about joining her, and Doc was trying to spoon laudanum down your throat to ease the pain. He was repeating some of what Will was saying and some of Gracie’s prayers. His hands were shaking, and he still hadn’t finished sewing you up. That’s when I decided that he could attend to the laudanum and I would attend to your stitches. As soon as you saw me, you started to quiet. I was your wife now. That’s what you said, and when I tried to make light of it, humor you so no one would take what you were saying seriously, you just wouldn’t let it rest.”

Rachel sighed deeply. “You convinced them I was your wife because you also convinced them that you knew Sylvie was dead. You told them they were fools if they couldn’t see that I was nothing like Sylvie, and then you told them the truth—or at least a version of it—about our marriage.

“I stopped trying to deny it. I knew I wasn’t going to allow anyone else to look after you, so what would have been the purpose of pretending you were lying? No one’s said a thing to you because I asked them not to.”

“Didn’t anyone think that was strange?”

“I explained you meant to keep our marriage a secret for a while, just until people got used to the idea that I was half owner of the mine and you had a chance to court me properly. I don’t know why that made sense to them. I can only suppose they’re used to your lawyer way of making things complicated so they accepted it. I imagine, too, that no one wants to remind you that you blurted it all out while you were under the doctor’s knife.”