Never Love a Lawman (8 page)

Ignoring her slippers, Rachel yanked her robe over her shoulders on her way to the window. She threw back the curtains and stared through the murky blue-gray light at the two figures standing in front of her woodshed. One of them cast a shadowed profile exactly like Wyatt Cooper’s and was raising a maul over his shoulder, while the other one wore his coat collar turned up to protect his jug ears just like Ned Beaumont and was sitting on a short stack of wood with his feet resting comfortably on a stump.

Rachel opened her mouth to yell at them, then thought better of it. “It would serve him right if he amputated something,” she muttered. She didn’t weigh much, but she managed to make every pound of her thunder on the way to the back door. Grinding her teeth, she stuffed her feet into a pair of work boots, then flung the door open and continued her punishing march to the woodshed, bootlaces dragging.

Ned Beaumont sat up straighter, but Wyatt Cooper didn’t miss a beat. He brought the maul down in a graceful arc on the log and split it cleanly in two. Satisfied, he threw them one at a time at Ned, who stood to catch them, turned to set them neatly on the stack, and then sat right back down again.

Wyatt hefted the maul so the handle rested on his shoulder and turned to Rachel. He looked her over and liked what he saw. “It’s easy to see why Adele’s been pining for some of that Belgian lace.”

Rachel heard herself actually stutter and realized her brain was doing the same thing as her sewing machine: slipping a gear. Her tongue tripped over itself as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said to her.

“What in—? Did you just—? Belgian lace?” She followed the direction of his gaze to look down at herself. Her robe, which she’d no time to close securely, was gaping open, and the delicate ecru lace border of her nightgown’s neckline was what had provoked his comment. She was hardly immodestly covered, but Rachel closed her robe and belted it anyway. Wyatt, she noted, had already turned his attention to her face. It was Ned sitting a few feet back that was having a difficult time putting his eyes back in his head. In spite of both those things, she managed to collect herself.

“It’s at least ten minutes before daybreak. You’re standing in my yard, splitting wood. Mr. Beaumont’s…well, I’m not certain what Mr. Beaumont’s doing, but I—”

“I’m stackin’,” Ned said helpfully.

“He’s stacking,” Wyatt said. “You were going to hire him, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, he can’t split wood, now, can he? I told you about his injured leg.”

“Yes, you did, but—”

“Can’t split wood,” Ned interjected. “Can’t plant my feet proper and throw my shoulder into it.”

“Thought I could help him,” Wyatt said. “You don’t have to pay me, just him.”

Rachel looked at the throne Ned had made for himself out of Wyatt’s labor. “Pay him for sitting.”

Wyatt and Ned objected with one voice. “And stacking.”

Rachel was certain her brain slipped another gear. She took a steadying breath. “Why are you here now?”

“Sorry about waking you,” Wyatt said, setting up another log. “Ned’s got a second job to do this morning, so we thought we’d come early and get a decent start on this one.”

“Actually,” Ned said, sliding off the stack, “I need to be goin’. Joe Morrison’s got some shelves that need repairin’ at the emporium. Told him I’d be there before he’s set to open.” He tipped his hat at Rachel. “Don’t worry about paying me now, Miss Bailey. I’ll come back round for it later.”

Rachel stared after him, her lower jaw a tad slack with disbelief as Ned loped off, favoring his injured leg. When she looked back at Wyatt, she saw his features were so seriously set that he could only be suppressing a howl of laughter. “I su-p-pose you think you’re f-funny,” she said, thrusting her hands deep in her pockets to keep them warm.

“Go on back inside. You’re cold.” He swung the maul, driving the wedge cleanly into the wood and splitting it in three pieces this time. “I’ll be in when I’m finished here and you can make me breakfast. That’ll even things out between us.” He set another foot-long length of wood on its end and took aim. Just before he swung, he spared a glance for her. “Scrambled eggs, if you don’t mind.”

Rachel decided the best response was not to make one. She pivoted smartly and marched back to the house. If she owned a shotgun she’d use it to point out the direction of Longabach’s restaurant, then shoot him with it if he didn’t take the hint. She liked the idea so much that she entertained herself with plans to buy a shotgun. That kept her occupied while she washed up, pinned back her hair, and dressed for the day, but when she went to put a pot of coffee on, she saw he was still cutting and splitting wood. In spite of the briskness of the morning, there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his face and throat. She watched him pause once, lift his hat, and wipe his brow with a kerchief, then go right back to work.

It shouldn’t have softened her toward him. Rachel reminded herself that she hadn’t asked him to do anything for her and, in truth, had made several attempts to direct him elsewhere. She sincerely doubted this was what Clinton Maddox had in mind when he arranged for Wyatt Cooper to look after her.

Rachel wondered if she could find a way to better explain her opinion on the matter over breakfast.

Wyatt stomped his feet as he came in the door, alerting Rachel to his presence. The combined hearty aromas of bacon and coffee made him hope that she intended to feed him. He hung his coat and hat by the door and stepped into the kitchen. It was a consequence of the appetite he’d worked up that the first thing he noticed was that there were plenty of eggs and bacon in the skillet. She’d even made some biscuits that were now staying warm on top of the stove. Evidently she’d elicited the great black beast’s cooperation this morning.

“Smells good.” He came up beside her at the stove and warmed his hands several inches above the basket of biscuits.

“Wash up. I know your mother taught you manners.” Rachel glimpsed his half smile before he went to the tub and lathered his hands. She placed the biscuits on the table and served up the bacon and eggs, then took up the chair she’d occupied the night before. She was uncomfortably aware that she usually sat in the chair she was giving over to Wyatt. He’d only spent one evening in it and somehow she’d allowed him to claim it.

She’d have to be careful she didn’t let him wander around the house, marking territory.

“Did you say something?” asked Wyatt. He slathered butter on a warm biscuit.

“Hmm? No. No, at least I didn’t mean to. I was just thinking.”

“A penny, then.”

“It’s not worth that much.”

Wyatt let it go. “Ned and I made a pretty good start on the wood you’ll be needing.”

“About that, Sheriff Cooper, I—”

“Wyatt.” When she just looked at him, he added, “Wyatt. Most folks call me that.”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

Biting into the biscuit, Wyatt let it melt over his tongue. As the first taste slowly made its way to all of his senses, he was tempted to simply close his eyes for the sheer fine pleasure of it. “Well, they do,” he said around a mouthful. “Lord, but this is good. Why did you let me think you were all thumbs in the kitchen?”

“Please don’t make me responsible for what you think. I had problems yesterday with the eggs. I never said I couldn’t make a biscuit.”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” He nudged the honey jar toward him and drizzled a curlicue on what was left of the biscuit in his palm. The sweetness made the last two bites just about sinful. “I promise not to tell anyone you can cook like this as long as you fix them for me from time to time.”

“Now, why would I care if you told anyone?”

“First off, because they’d know you were entertaining me and that’s bound to make for speculation, and second, Abe Dishman will take it as a sign that you’re wavering in your old maid ways and is likely to lead the charge to your front door. There’s no hope I can beat back all your suitors.”

“Old maid, Sheriff?”

Wyatt didn’t answer. He picked up a forkful of eggs instead.

“Old maid, Wyatt?”

He lifted an eyebrow as he gave her a sideways look. “You’re just about the oldest unmarried woman in Reidsville. That pretty much defines old maid here.”

“I was only twenty-four my last birthday.”

“When was that?”

“March.”

“Twenty-four and one-half. You’re making my point for me.” He used his fork to indicate her plate. “You better eat. You’re going to need your strength to fight off Abe and everyone else who wants their name on your dance card.”

Rachel rolled her eyes, but she picked up her fork and tucked in. “Where did you get the wood that you were splitting?”

“Ned has a lot of it behind his place. He gathers it up, hauls it in from all around, and delivers it to most of the businesses. He’ll give you a good price.”

“All right,” she conceded, though not graciously. “I knew I needed it. I just wish you’d talked to me first.”

“I thought I did.”

Her mouth flattened briefly to communicate that her own thinking was at odds with his. “We have to settle this matter of your agreement with Mr. Maddox.”

“Mr. Maddox and I settled that. I don’t see that you have any say in it, but the offer’s still there to read over the contract. Come by my office today if you have a mind to. I’ll take you over to the bank.”

“Or I could go to the bank by myself.” She bit into a biscuit. They
were
good. “I do know where it is.”

“Jake Reston won’t allow you to see my private papers without me being there.”

Knowing that he was right, Rachel surrendered. “Very well. I’ll come by around two, if that’s not inconvenient. I promised Mrs. Longabach I’d schedule a fitting with her. I can see her afterward.”

“Around two’s fine.” He gave her a narrow smile. “Feel better now that that’s settled?”

It was uncomfortable to realize she had such an expressive face. There was no other explanation for how he was able to read her mind. “A little, yes.”

“Good, but don’t expect to feel much relieved when you read the contract. I’d have brought it around for you to see even if you hadn’t asked, but I’m fairly confident that you’re not going to like it.”

Her slight smile held no humor. “I’m fairly confident that you’re right.”

Silence settled between them. It wasn’t precisely uncomfortable, so neither of them was moved to fill it. For Rachel’s part she found it confusing that she’d managed to keep people like the sheriff, most particularly the sheriff, at arm’s length for fifteen months. Now, with Clinton Maddox’s death, she’d entertained him twice in her kitchen, had him fetching water and cutting wood, and had arranged to see him again this afternoon. If he really thought she was a danger to someone else, he surely was putting himself in harm’s way.

Watching her, Wyatt was struck again by the stillness she could affect. It suited her, this quiet. Not that he didn’t enjoy sparring with her, but that had been the surprise. He was used to seeing her in town, engaging, but not engaged. She was unfailingly polite, always pleasant, but those qualities were also a product of good manners and breeding, not necessarily fundamental to her character. The stillness was.

It was easy to imagine her with needle and thread, enjoying the solitary pursuit of creating something by her own hand, realizing a vision that was in her mind. He was moved by that.

He wondered if he’d ever tell her so.

“I don’t suppose that it matters much that I was someone’s mistress,” she said quietly.

The abrupt resumption of conversation startled Wyatt as much as what was said. “In Reidsville? No, not much. Maybe it did in Sacramento. It sure as hell would in Boston. But here?” He shook his head. “I like to think we’re the better for it. There must be lots of reasons why a woman agrees to become a man’s mistress.”

“Most people assume it’s money.”

“That’s probably the most popular.”

She nodded absently. “Probably is.”

“Have you thought any more about the biscuits?” When she merely stared at him blankly, he said, “Remember? You fix them for me and I keep your secret?”

“Oh, that. I can’t say that I like being blackmailed.”

“Imagine how I feel resorting to it. People around here expect me to be above such things.”

“But you’re not.”

“Sadly, no. Your biscuits prove that.”

Rachel shook her head, mildly exasperated. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Some.”

Her eyebrows knit as she gave him the skeptic’s eye. What he gave her in return was the uncomplicated expression of innocence. Convinced now that he was cunning beyond easy comprehension, Rachel acknowledged that the best she could likely do was make the game interesting.

“Once a month,” she said. “Once a month I’ll make biscuits for you.”

He chewed on a strip of bacon while he pretended to consider that offer. “No,” he said finally. “Once a week on Thursdays and every other Sunday.”

“I don’t think so. But I’m curious, why Thursdays?”

“That’s when I ride out, make a sweep through the passes to make certain no gangs have moved. There are a lot of hideouts in these parts. I also check on the folks that live farther up or out, take them mail if they have any and supplies if they’ve told me what they need.”

“Doesn’t your deputy ever go in your place?”

“That no-account Beatty boy strikes out on Mondays.”

“Oh.” She turned this over in her mind. “Well, I imagine I can make biscuits for you every other Thursday and one Sunday a month.”

“Two Sundays. Two Thursdays. Alternating. And on Sundays I get to eat them here.”

“Absolutely not. Two Sundays. Two Thursdays. And I’ll see that you get them.”

“All right,” he agreed. “Just so you know, I strike out pretty early on Thursdays.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She went to take another bite of food and realized she’d finished off her plate. She set her fork down. “I didn’t know I had such an appetite.”

“You want another biscuit? Here. I’ll split this one with you and call it my sacrifice for the day.”

That made her smile. “Thank you. I will.”

Wyatt sliced the biscuit, buttered both halves, then held them in his open palms and let her choose top or bottom.

Rachel chose the bottom. She settled back in her chair as she ate. “How long before I arrived was my house built?”

“About six months.”

That meant Mr. Maddox was making arrangements for her departure long before she’d decided to leave, perhaps before they had first discussed it together. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he saw the handwriting on the wall before she did. He’d made his fortune anticipating the mood of the country and the strategies of his peers. She considered herself prescient if she could guess what soup would be served at luncheon.

“How did you explain that you were building a house?” she asked.

“Told everyone it was for me.” He shrugged. “That didn’t cause stir, though some folks were surprised when I didn’t move in.”

“Did you want to?”

“I didn’t let myself think too much about it. I knew Maddox was pretty confident that you’d come here, so it seemed better just to wait and see how things turned out.”

“He maneuvered me about without the slightest indication that he was doing so. I had a lot to consider last night. In hindsight, I know this is where he wanted me to be. There were subtle pressures that I never understood until now.” She brushed her hands together over her plate, ridding herself of biscuit crumbs. “I doubt he would have been so adamant about me leaving if I’d pressed to go anywhere else.”