Never Love A Lawman

by Jo Goodman

Genres: Historical Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

USA Today bestselling author Jo Goodman delivers a thrilling tale of small town greed that may have big time consequences--unless two strangers open their hearts to a highly unconventional arrangement. . . Rachel Bailey may seem like just a beautiful newcomer to most of Reidsville, Colorado, but Sheriff Wyatt Cooper knows she's much more. Through a twist of fate, Rachel is the inheritor of a very valuable commodity: control of the railway that keeps the isolated mining town connected to the world. That is, she will be, if she agrees to the surprising stipulation in her benefactor's will--that she marry Wyatt. Rachel has no choice: refusing the marriage could put all of Reidsville in the hands of an outsider--and not just any outsider, but the cruel tyrant she has come here to escape. Yet living with Wyatt will be her greatest challenge. For he has a tempting way about him that makes Rachel forget theirs is a marriage in name only--until her frightening past shows up to remind them exactly how much they have at stake. . .

Release date: September 1, 2009

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 446

Sample

Sacramento, California, June 1881

He could hear them arguing. It wasn’t the first time their voices carried as far as his bedroom. He tried to dismiss them, counting the gold tassels that fringed his bed curtains so that numbers occupied his mind, not words. That diversion had served him well in the past, but it was no longer as successful. Once he had counted and confirmed there were ninety-six tassels, divided them, factored them, identified the prime numbers, summed the digits, and finally calculated the square root to the ten thousandth place, he discovered that repeating the mental manipulations was not satisfying in the least, and more to the point, did little to suppress the voices. He considered placing one of the thick pillows that were stacked around him squarely over his face, but it was a childish gesture and the last thing he wanted was to be surprised in so infantile a response.

His distress would worry her. She would blame herself, convince herself there was something she could have done to put the argument away from him. There was, but it meant she would have to leave the house altogether. He hoped for that day, dreaded it all the same. Once she was gone, he would be profoundly alone. She knew that. It weighed heavily on her decision to remain, and he’d never found the words that could move her.

It was not that he was unafraid, but that his fear was not for himself. He feared for her, could not help himself, and she knew that, too.

He turned carefully on his side and raised his head a fraction. Her voice was muffled, insistent but not loud. The other, deeper voice remained unmodulated. Volume substituted for a well-constructed argument. Heat and anger underscored every word. She remained adamant. Her opponent threatened, then pleaded, then threatened again.

He imagined her circling the room, keeping her distance, blocking an advance with an end table, the divan, an armchair. She would be wary, rightfully so. She would be scanning the room for a potential weapon. A candlestick. A book. A crystal decanter. Not that she would use any of those things. These were the missiles that might be thrown at her head. She was the one who would have to duck and dodge.

The servants would not interfere. They knew what place they occupied within the house and no one would dare overstep, no matter that they were fond of her. Feelings of affection paled in comparison to their collective fear of the man she faced. There was probably none among them that didn’t wish for the courage that would permit them to come to her aid. It was common sense that kept courage on a tight leash.

Experience had taught him this. There was a time he would have cocked his head toward the outer door, hoping to hear the approach of footsteps, a preemptive knock down the hall. A diversion would have been welcome, but it never came. After a time, he understood that it would fall to him to save her, and that saving her meant she would have to leave him.

Now he waited, wondering if tonight would be the night she surrendered to the inevitable.

The crash startled him. He felt the vibration as a tremor in the bed frame. What had toppled? A chair? A table? A stack of books? There was a brief silence. He closed his eyes and envisioned the combatants catching their breath. Another sound, this time more of a thud. Heavy. Jarring.

He tried to rise and got as far as pushing his elbows under him. He willed his legs to move, imagining that he was pumping them vigorously while he watched the blankets to see if they shifted. There was a twitch, nothing more, and it was possible that even that small movement was only wishful thinking.

Falling back on the bed, he closed his eyes and concentrated on what he could still hear. It was only then that he realized there was nothing to hear. Silence had finally settled.

He waited it out, conscious of holding his breath as though the mere act of respiration would somehow influence the outcome. Had she won or lost? The pressure in his chest was heavy now, but he refused to surrender to it. He waited it out, nose pinched, lips pressed tightly together.

It was the footfalls that told him what he wanted to know. He lost track of the progress of her light tread in the hallway as he emptied his lungs and drew in a great, gulping breath. It was a mere moment, though, and he was able to steady the rise and fall of his chest by the time she reached his door. He opened his eyes and waited.

The bedside lamp lent just enough light for him to make out the turn of the handle. It occurred to him that perhaps he should pretend to be sleeping, but there was no time to consider it properly and just as little time to act on it. He kept his gaze fixed on the door as it opened only those inches necessary for her to slip into his room. Her entrance wasn’t stealthy but representative of the economy she practiced in all things. Extravagance and excess had never impressed her favorably, and he was reminded of that as she closed the door quietly behind her and made her way to his bedside.

She was simple elegance in a room given over to every sort of indulgence, from the Chinese silks and Italian vases, to the Gothic-like imposition of the massive marble fireplace imported from a sixteenth-century French chateau.

Wearing a voluminous ivory cotton nightgown, she moved toward him like a wraith. He would not have been surprised to learn her slippered feet never once disturbed the intricately patterned Persian rug beneath them, and the fanciful notion stayed with him as she seemed to hover at his bedside.

It was a long moment before she spoke.

“It’s time,” she said.

He nodded. Even though he had been expecting it, in some way even hoping for it, he was robbed of his voice.

“You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

It was more to the point that she would have to forgive herself, but saying so seemed deliberately hurtful, and she would never accept that there was nothing to forgive. Instead, he reminded her of what was true.

“It was my idea,” he said, and saw her smile a little at that. He recognized the smile for what it was. She was indulging him, not accepting it as fact. He saved his breath for what was important. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

Her answer was too perfunctory to hide the lie. He saw she had the grace to blush, but the rosy color did not conceal the deeper stain along her jawline.

“No worse than I’ve known,” she amended.

As a description of her injuries it left a great deal to his imagination and filled him with sick dread. “You should leave now.”

“Yes.” But she didn’t move.

“Before he comes around.”

Looking down at him, unable to look away, she only nodded this time.

“At his best he’s impatient. Intolerant at his worst.” He saw her smile again, this time as if he’d said a profound truth. She surprised him then by seating herself at the edge of his bed and angling herself toward him. She lifted the covers enough to find his hand, drew it out, and placed it between both of hers. He wondered if it felt as small and frail in the cup of her palms as it seemed to him.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she said. “You should never believe that I wanted to leave you.”

He said nothing for a moment, absorbing the truth of it, concentrating on the tender fold of her hands around his. “I know.”

She did not offer to take him with her. That was an impossibility and discussing it as if it could be otherwise was painful beyond what any person could bear.

“You mustn’t be afraid that he’ll bully you,” she said.

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Of course you’re not. I only meant that he won’t bother you once I’m gone.”

He knew she believed that, and he said nothing to contradict her. He could have told her that while he wouldn’t be bothered, he would also no longer be of any use. There was nothing to be gained by reminding her.

“You’ll do what’s expected, won’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.” She meant the nurses. She would have already given instructions to them, made certain they knew what he should eat, his likes and dislikes, how often he should be exercised, how to care for his linens, what he enjoyed reading, how he cheated at cards and chess if you let him, and how to respond when the mood of the moment was fair or foul. She would have done all this gradually over time, all of it in the course of mothering him, smothering him, and without once raising suspicion that she was preparing for the possibility of abandoning him.

“I’m depending on your good sense,” she said.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

Her smile was gently mocking, tinged with genuine humor. “I am almost convinced.”

He smiled in return and grieving was pushed to the back of his mind. He felt her hands slip away from his. She braced herself on either side of his narrow shoulders and bent down to kiss him. He felt her lips settle lightly on his forehead. It only lasted the narrowest margin of time, but he knew the feather-soft sweep of her lips on his brow would remain with him long after she was gone.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.

Reidsville, Colorado, September 1882

Watching her was a pleasure. A mostly secret pleasure. Wyatt Cooper braced his hands on the wooden balustrade and leaned forward just enough to make certain her progress down the street remained unobstructed. His second-story perch lent him a particularly fine view of her gliding toward him.

Give or take a few minutes, she was right on schedule. He didn’t have to look away from her to confirm that he wasn’t alone in his appreciation. He could safely predict there were upwards of a dozen men loitering on the wooden sidewalk between Morrison’s Emporium and Mr. Redmond’s Livery. Abe Dishman and Ned Beaumont were almost certainly glancing up from the checkers game they played every afternoon in front of Easter’s Bakery. Johnny Winslow would have set himself to sweeping out the entrance of Longabach’s Restaurant just about now, whether or not Mrs. Longabach needed him scrubbing pots or hauling water. Mr. Longabach, too, generally found some reason to wander outside the restaurant, even if it was only to remind Johnny not to dawdle.

Jacob Reston managed the bank and employed two tellers, both of whom had surely moved quietly from behind their cages to crowd the doorway. Jacob had the best view, a consequence of the position of his desk, the window, and the convenience of a chair that swiveled. Ed Kennedy had likely stopped pounding out a shoe in his blacksmithing establishment long enough to watch her take her daily constitutional, and because Ed liked to impress the ladies, he’d be standing almost at attention, making the best of what God and hard work had given him: broad shoulders, upper arms like anvils, and hands as big as dinner plates.

Wyatt’s fingers tapped out the steady cadence of her walk as she passed Caldwell’s Apothecary and the sheriff’s office. She slipped out of his sight when her path took her under the sheltering porch roof in front of the Miner Key Saloon, but Wyatt kept tapping, and she reappeared at the precise moment he predicted she would, just as his index finger hit the downbeat.

She was within moments of reaching her destination when he was joined at the rail. He didn’t pretend he was doing anything but what he was, and the fact that he didn’t try to hide it brought a throaty chuckle from his companion.

“I don’t suppose you have a jealous bone in your body, Rose,” Wyatt said.

“And I reckon I don’t have any reason to be jealous. Purely wasteful emotion.” She matched Wyatt’s pose at the rail. The ruffled hem of her petticoats fluttered as a light breeze was funneled down the street. Small eddies of dust rose and fell between the bordering sidewalks, but they were no kind of nuisance compared to the muddy puddles that appeared after a rainstorm. “Are you fixin’ to court her?”

“No.”

“Why not? You watch her the same as every other man in town.”

“Maybe I think she’s setting up to rob the bank.”

“She’s not setting up to do any such thing, and you know it.”

“Do I?”

“Course you do. Folks that rob banks come and go. Fast. She’s been here a year now.”

“Fifteen months.”

“There you go.” Rose belted the loose ties of her bloodred silk robe, then turned and leaned back against the rail. She glanced sideways at Wyatt. “She does all right for herself without robbin’ the bank. She made this robe for me.”

“It’s a fine piece of work.”

Rose snorted. “Like you would know. You hardly looked at it.”

“Like you better out of it.”

“Ain’t that just like a man?”

“I hope so.”

Rose allowed her glance to slide over Wyatt. He was taller than many men of her acquaintance, and it was a plain fact that she was acquainted with many men. In profile, he was all smoothly sculpted angles and edgy watchfulness, more than a little aloof but not so cold that you could see his breath when he spoke. He was surely the most contained man she knew, not exactly comfortable in his own skin, but making the best of the fit. From where she stood, she had no complaints about the fit. He’d dressed carelessly: loose fitting trousers, half-tucked shirt, and bare feet. Only one suspender strap was hitched over his shoulders. The other dangled in a loop at his side. The clothes, though, did not make this man. He was narrow-hipped and tautly muscled across the chest and abdomen. The stiff brace of his arms made them as hard as iron rails. He had long legs, tight buttocks, and, damn him to hell, prettier feet than she’d seen on most women, including her own.

He never exactly issued an invitation when you came at him straight on. He’d tip his hat, nod politely, always say hello, yet you got the sense it was all form and no feeling. At least she got that sense, and the improbably named Roseanne LaRosa counted herself as a fair judge of such things. Her profession demanded it. Her life could very well depend on it.

Impulsively, Rose reached out and brushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen across Wyatt’s brow. Her fingers lingered a moment, separating threads of sunshine gold from his thick thatch of light brown hair. He cocked his head to look at her, one eyebrow slightly raised, and she whipped her hand away as if she had reason to feel guilty—or in danger.

“You ought not look at a body like that,” she said sharply.

“Oh?” His eyebrow kicked a notch higher, and he made a point of looking at her body exactly like that.

Rose’s mouth twitched. “That isn’t what I meant, though I suppose you think you’re flattering me. As if you could with eyes like a wolf’s.”

“A wolf’s? Because of the color?”

“Because when they’re not all still and watchful, they’re squinty.”

“Squinty.”

“Yes. Don’t say it like you don’t know. There you go again. Squinty-eyed and accusing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You don’t have to. I’m telling you, it’s there in your eyes.”

Wyatt turned his attention back to the telegraph office near the end of the street. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

Wyatt shrugged. “What do you suppose she’s doing in there today?”

Rose glanced over her shoulder at the now empty sidewalk. “I expect she’s takin’ delivery of some packages. Artie Showalter picks up her things at the depot and brings them to his office. She’s been expecting three yards of Belgian lace and a bolt of peacock-blue sateen. She says she gets it faster if she places the order herself instead of asking for it at Morrison’s.”

“Really?”

“You couldn’t be at all interested, so why bother asking?”

“Just making talk, I expect.”

“Are you sure you’re not fixin’ to court her? Seems like every other single man’s fixed his eye on that prize. Now that I recollect, a couple of married men spun that notion around in what sadly passes for their minds—until their wives spun it back.”

“I say again, I’m not fixing to court anyone, let alone Miss Rachel Bailey.”

“Why not? She’s handsome enough, ain’t she?”

“Handsome enough?” It wasn’t how he would have described her, but coming from Rose, it was a fulsome compliment. “Yes. She’s that.” And more, he thought. A pure pleasure. He nudged Rose with his shoulder. “Who are you trying to marry off? Me or her?”

“Don’t see that it matters either way. You’re not exactly keeping me in silk and silver, and she’s a nice enough lady. A little sad about the eyes, if you ask me, but not so much that you think she’s about to burst into tears if you look at her sideways.”

“Huh.”

That was enough of a prompt for Rose to go on. “I never heard anything that wasn’t gossip and speculation because Miss Bailey likes to keep to herself, but my girls spin a good tale about her pining away. They’re fanciful in that regard, especially on a slow day.”

“Is that right?”

Rose ignored that. “Anyway, if you came around more, I might not like seein’ you go, but the way it is now, it’d be all right if you put your hat in the ring for Miss Bailey’s affections. She’s not going to stop making dresses just because she gets married, so I’m thinkin’ that’ll be all right, too. And she does keep me in silk and silver, though, God knows, I pay a pretty price for it.”

“You’re the best-dressed woman in Reidsville,” Wyatt said. “Probably in Colorado.”

She laughed. “When I’m wearing clothes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your birthday suit, but Miss Bailey does right by you.”

Rose thought it was an odd thing for him to say. Not the first, but the second. She’d never have guessed his watchful, predatory eyes noticed the cut of a woman’s gown or the color of her threads. “You’re a peculiar sort of fellow, aren’t you, Wyatt?”

Though only one side of his mouth lifted, what he offered his companion was most definitely a grin. “I never thought about it.”

“Well, I’m telling you, you are. I’ve known you, what? Five years?”

“Something like that.”

She simply shook her head. “Peculiar.” Before she could elaborate, she saw Rachel Bailey step out of the telegraph office. “Oh, there she is.”

“Mmm.”

“Looks like her packages came.”

“Looks like.”

“She’s juggling an armful. Might be she could use an extra pair of hands.”

“Might be she should have taken Artie up on his offer to help her.”

“Now, how do you know he offered to tote those home for her?”

“He always offers. She always refuses.”

Rose gave him another sideways glance. “You been askin’ after her.”

Wyatt didn’t confirm or deny her claim.

Sighing softly, Rose changed the subject. “I hope she’s got the peacock-blue sateen in one of those. That’s for me.”

“I thought it might be.”

“Adele’s been waiting for the Belgian lace. She’s been pining for that trim on a nightgown since Miss Bailey showed her a sample.”

“She sews for your girls, too?”

“Sure she does. Pays to have them lookin’ real nice. Like I said, if you dropped in more than once in a blue moon, you probably would have realized it. Where have you been anyway?”

“Around.”

“Not in town, not so folks have seen you much. You leave that no-account Beatty boy in charge. What do you suppose he’d do if there was trouble?”

“Same as me. And you shouldn’t call him that.”

Rose rolled her eyes at his rebuke. “Why not? You do. Everyone does.”

“Everyone else doesn’t say it with the same mean edge that you do.”

“I’m sure you misheard. Is it all right with you if I call him a boy?”

Wyatt drew back and regarded Rose with interest. “Are you sweet on him?”

“Sweet on him? Didn’t I just say he was a boy?”

“He’s twenty-seven. Seems about the right age for a man.”

“No man as far as I can tell, and my girls have been wonderin’ the same. We’re thinkin’ he’s sweet on you, Wyatt Cooper, and that explains why he never visits us.”

Wyatt considered all the responses he could make to the particulars of that statement. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose that’s a compliment. Will’s a real fine-looking young man.”

“You’ve only got five years on him, Wyatt.”

“But a lot more time in the saddle.”

“That’s what I mean. No one doubted you were a man at twenty-seven. Will’s still got pink in his cheeks and green behind his ears.”

Wyatt settled his hip against the rail and folded his arms across his chest. “Will does all right for himself, Rose. He likes Denver women just fine.”

“Denver women?” Her dark eyebrows arched dramatically. “Whores, you mean. What’s he doin’, goin’ to Denver? What’s wrong with my girls?”

“Did I say he was bedding whores?”

“There’s no respectable women in Denver that aren’t married. Is he seeing a married woman?”

“No.”

“Ha! Then he’s bedding down in the tenderloin.”

Wyatt laughed. “Is it losing his business that bothers you or something else? Maybe I was wrong about you not having a jealous bone.”

Rose’s mouth flattened. “As if I’d give him the time of day.”

“Maybe not, but you’d wind his clock.”

Pushing away from the rail, Rose spun around and jerked her chin in the direction of the departing Rachel Bailey. “Shouldn’t you be trailing after her skirts?”

Having riled her sufficiently to make his point, he merely gave her his laziest half grin. “I know where she’s going.”

Rose fingered Wyatt’s suspender from his waist to his shoulder. In case the gesture wasn’t obvious to him, she offered a coy come-on. “What about me? Do you know where I’m going?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

She abandoned the suspender strap in favor of taking a fistful of his shirttail. “Why don’t we see if you’re right?”

Offering no resistance, Wyatt allowed Rose to lead him back inside her fancy house and into her fancier bed. They were satisfied, as they always were, to make good use of each other.

 

Rachel Bailey dropped one of her parcels. Even as she stooped to retrieve it, young Johnny Winslow was bending to scoop it up.

“Here you are, Miss Bailey.” He held it out to her before he noticed she was having difficulty with her remaining load. As more packages bobbled in her arms, he made another offer. “Better yet, let me take some of these from you. No trouble, I promise you.”

“That’s kind of you,” she said, “but Mrs. Longabach likely has need of you elsewhere. I can hear her calling for you. Just help me rearrange these, and I’ll be all right.”

Johnny regarded her with a mixture of skepticism and disappointment. He glanced at the broom he’d set against the restaurant’s window so he could help her. Sometimes he wished Mrs. Longabach would just hop on and ride it out of Reidsville. “Course, miss. I’ll get them settled in your arms just the way you want them.”

Rachel allowed her arms to relax as Johnny took the weight of the parcels from her. She knew she shouldn’t have tried to carry everything herself, but she’d stubbornly insisted that she could do it even though Mr. Showalter offered one of his boys to share the load. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the kindness; she simply didn’t want the company. She never wanted the company.

The sudden appearance of Mrs. Longabach made Rachel jump and lose the two parcels that Johnny had already put in her outstretched hands.

“Heavens! I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Bailey. I came out to learn why Johnny was ignoring me.” Mrs. Longabach’s thin face lost its pinched, disapproving expression as she took account of the scene in front of her. “Well, I can surely see that he’s up to good this time, and I can tell you, it’s a nice change. Go on, Johnny, finish helping Miss Bailey. You take some of her packages and see that she gets home without another mishap.”

“No, really—” Rachel’s protest fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Longabach had her own reasons for making certain that the parcels arrived undamaged.

“My batiste came today, didn’t it?” As if she could divine the contents, Mrs. Longabach looked over the plainly wrapped parcels with an eager and eagle eye. “The moss green? Oh, I dearly hope it was the moss green.”

“The moss green and the shell pink.”

Mrs. Longabach’s eyes brightened. “Well, isn’t that just grand? I swear, Miss Bailey, you have the greatest good fortune when it comes to getting what you want.”

Rachel’s smooth brow creased. “I do?”

“Your material, dearie. Seems to me like the train from Denver runs to Reidsville just for you. There’s always something waiting for you when it reaches our end of the line.”

Rachel considered that. “I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t realized.”

“Course the train runs for all of us, doesn’t it just? I’m not the first one to say that we don’t know what would become of Reidsville if Clinton Maddox hadn’t decided we were worth the cost of rails and ties.” Mrs. Longabach tucked a frazzled tendril of nut-brown hair behind her ear. “None of that’s neither here nor there, is it? I don’t imagine you ever give it any thought, what with you being so new to our town and all.”

“I’ve been here more than a year now,” Rachel reminded her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Johnny Winslow’s arms were beginning to sag under the weight of her parcels. She snatched two from the top of the pile and shored up the others. “But you’re right, Mrs. Longabach, I never gave it a thought. That doesn’t speak well of me, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t mean it as a criticism, Miss Bailey.” Her hands fiddled in the folds of her calico apron. “You shouldn’t think I meant it like that.”

Rachel hardly knew what to say. Rather than be caught in an endless circle of apologies where not even one was required or desired, she pointed to the armload that Johnny was barely balancing. “I should see to these, Mrs. Longabach. I’ll call on you when I’ve sorted through the material and schedule a fitting.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’ll look forward to that. Go on with you, Johnny. Miss Bailey doesn’t need you dawdling, and I certainly need you back here. There’s pots, pans, and a kitchen floor that needs scrubbing. Now scat.”

Rachel noticed that Mrs. Longabach was primarily speaking to Johnny’s back, because as soon as she’d said “go,” the boy made a dash for it. “Good day, Mrs. Longabach.” She offered a brisk wave and took off after Johnny, lengthening her stride until she caught up with him in front of Wickham’s Leather Goods. “Whoa, Johnny. There’s no point in making a race of it.”

Johnny slowed his step so Rachel could fall in beside him. “Sorry, miss. Mrs. Longabach, well, sometimes I don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’ when she’s around. Mister says that he just circles her and that seems to work most times.”

That no-account Beatty boy stepped out of Wickham’s. “Hey, Johnny. Miss Bailey. You need some help with what you got there?”

Johnny Winslow thrust out his chin, immediately defensive. “I got it.”

For Johnny’s benefit, Rachel was careful to temper her smile, but her response was no less firm. “We can manage, Deputy Beatty. Thank you.”

“But you don’t mind if I tag along, do you?”

Rachel did mind. Very much. The trouble was she couldn’t think of a single credible reason to keep the deputy from joining her. She hoped Johnny would be inspired to offer an objection, but he’d just struck a resigned, sullen pose. “If that’s your pleasure,” she said. She was polite but unenthusiastic, and judging by Will Beatty’s quick grin he didn’t fail to notice. Nevertheless, he was undeterred and loped along beside them, his long and lanky arms swinging at his sides.

“Shall we cross the street here, gentlemen?” she asked. “Unless I am mistaken, that’s Mr. Dishman taking a stretch from his checkers game and he looks set to join our parade.” She didn’t need to mention that Abe Dishman, a widower of some ten years and at least thirty years her senior, was one of her most ardent, persistent admirers. Everyone in Reidsville knew that Abe made a marriage proposal to her on or around the seventh of every month. Today was the fifth, too close to Abe’s chosen date for Rachel to risk a public declaration. She’d been setting herself to the problem of how to turn him down this time, and since she hadn’t quite worked it out in her mind, she judged it was better to avoid him.

“Too bad for Abe that checkers is his game,” Beatty said, looking up and down the street before they made the diagonal crossing.

“Hmm?” Rachel was unhappily aware that the deputy had placed his palm under her elbow to assist her from the sidewalk to the street. Distracted, she realized she hadn’t heard him. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Standing just behind them, Johnny stared hard at where Will Beatty’s hand rested on Rachel’s arm. “He said, ‘too bad for Abe that checkers is his game.’ Ain’t that right, Will? That’s what you said.”

Will nodded amiably. “I did.”

Rachel accepted the deputy’s help until she had firm footing on the dusty street, then gently disengaged herself from his fingers. “Why is that too bad?”

“Why, Miss Bailey, if he was a chess man, he’d have captured you long ago.”

“Is that so, Deputy?” She didn’t look at him but concentrated on keeping a step ahead so that when they reached the opposite sidewalk she could take the step up without his help. “Is that your notion alone or the prevailing thought?”

“Can’t take credit for it. Seems like I heard it somewhere else first. I guess that makes it the prevailing thought. It’s a good one, though, don’t you think?”

“I don’t suppose the person who observed it was moved to wonder if I play chess.”

Will Beatty chuckled. His grin spread easily, taking up most of the lower half of his face. Cradling that wide smile and lending it a mischievous, boyish charm were two deep, crescent-shaped dimples. He gave Rachel a nod and what passed for an appreciative salute by tipping his hat back with his forefinger. A shock of hair as light and feathery as corn silk was revealed in the gesture.

“I reckon you do play chess, Miss Bailey,” he said. “Probably good at it, too, ain’t you?”

“Do you play?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then let me just say I’m good enough to make the game interesting for my opponent.”

Beatty tugged at the brim of his hat so it settled securely on his head. “I’ll pass that along.”

She looked at him sharply. There was a decided lack of warmth in her coffee-colored eyes. “Pass that along?” she asked. “To whom? I’m sure I don’t like being the subject of anyone else’s conversation.”

“Now ye’re in for it,” Johnny told Will, clearly relishing the notion.

“I don’t need a Greek chorus tellin’ me what’s what,” Beatty said.

“Uh? That don’t make no kind of sense. I ain’t Greek.”

Rachel’s expression lost some of its chill. “Enough,” she said, sounding more than a little like a schoolmarm charged with settling two unruly boys. “Both of you. Look, here we are.” She stopped on the short flagstone walk leading up to her porch and spared a glance at her home. The sight of it warmed her and helped her draw deeper on her well of patience.

The small, whitewashed frame house beckoned as a sanctuary. The window boxes held a variety of herbs: dill, mint, thyme, and chive. Around the side was a modest vegetable garden that she’d already harvested and cleared in anticipation that a cold snap would be upon them soon. The greenery of morning glories covered the lattice that she’d painstakingly repaired and painted. She’d forgotten that she’d left the windows open at the front of the house. A breeze had drawn out both pairs of lace panels and they fluttered against the shutters as flirtatiously as a dewy-eyed coquette.

There was some talk in town when she painted her front door red, but folks had gotten used to it—more or less—and put it down to one of her many eccentricities. Come spring, she would paint the shutters.

“I’ll take my parcels now,” she said, turning to Johnny.

Johnny looked a bit longingly past her shoulder to the front porch and the intriguing red door. “It’s no problem, Miss Bailey. I’d be pleased to—”

“No, truly,” Rachel said, interrupting him. “I’ll see myself inside.” She held her ground, effectively blocking the path for both of her escorts, then held out her arms. “Pile them on.”

Johnny’s eyes darted to Will Beatty. “Ain’t there some law that says a fellow oughta help a lady?”

“Suppose we could pass an ordinance or some such fool thing, but that’d take time, and Miss Bailey’s lookin’ fit to be tied. Give her the parcels, Johnny, because neither one of us is goin’ to get on the other side of that red door today.”

Johnny Winslow’s expression was so perfectly hangdog that Rachel was moved to laugh. “I’m telling you, Mr. Winslow, that your imagination is far superior to anything you’d discover inside my home. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

Will Beatty didn’t wait for Johnny to object. He began taking the plainly wrapped packages from Johnny’s arms and placing them carefully in Rachel’s. “You don’t mind if we wait here to make sure you’re safely inside?”

“I don’t mind at all,” she said. She used her chin to secure the pyramid of parcels in her arms and gave them a smile that was at once warm and firm in its dismissal. “Thank you, gentlemen.” She turned away then, but not so quickly that she missed their preening, wanting to look every inch the gentlemen she’d named them.

Once inside the house, Rachel dropped her packages on the large dining table that she used for spreading material and cutting patterns but never once for eating or entertaining. She shook out her arms to remove the sensation of still carrying the parcels. Once the ghost weight was gone, she approached one of the windows at the front of the house but never went so close to it that she could be seen from the street. She was in time to see the deputy and Johnny Winslow turning away from her flagstone walk and heading to their respective destinations.

She nodded, satisfied that they weren’t going to loiter in front of her house until one of them arrived at an excuse to call on her. Stepping back from the window, she set her hands on her hips and looked around, trying to see her home with the fresh eyes of someone who’d never been in it. Since that accounted for almost all of the fine citizens of Reidsville, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how someone like young Johnny Winslow would be curious.

As homes in the mining town went, this one stood as something apart from the others. It was one of only a baker’s dozen of houses built on the north side of the main street. The south side was home to the majority of the town’s early settlers, mostly miners and their families, and a good many people still lived above their businesses, took rooms in the hotel or the boardinghouse, bunked near the livery, or, like Miss Rose LaRosa and her girls, lived and worked in the same place. There’d been talk that Ezra Reilly and Miss Virginia Moody were going to put up a house when they married, but that seemed to hinge on whether Miss Moody was going to give up whoring.

It made Rachel smile to think her closest neighbor could be a whore. There was a plot of land next to her that was perfect for a home about the size of her own. She’d considered buying it herself, even gone so far as to inquire about it at the land office, but since her only purpose in making the purchase would have been to further secure her privacy, she fought the inclination and made no move to claim it.

There was no point in worrying that she’d ever have neighbors on the other side of her. A pine woodland rose sharply up the mountainside on her left. No one in Reidsville wanted to build a house on a hillside when there was better land to be had east and south of the town proper.

Rachel knew the interior of her home was finer in its appointments than any of the homes she’d had occasion to visit. The denizens of Reidsville only suspected it was true as she did not issue invitations in response to the ones she received. It was certainly not because she thought they would be uncomfortable surrounded by imported porcelain vases, gold-plated music boxes, and rococo-styled parlor chairs, or that she was worried that these objects would be stolen or become the subject of envy. The nature of her reluctance to share the museum-like quality of her appointments was that so very few of the pieces bespoke of her own tastes that she was certain she’d be identified for the fraud she was.

Still, she could not help but feel a peculiar kinship with the objects that appointed her home. They evoked memories that were at times pleasant, at others, painful, but needed to be recalled to sustain her resolve.

Rachel wandered through the parlor with its gold-toned damask-covered side chairs and emerald brushed-velvet bench seat, dragging her fingers lightly across the elaborate scrollwork that framed the back of the bench. Her eyes fell on the Italian gold-leaf clock on one of the walnut end tables, and she made a detour toward it, pausing long enough to give the key a few turns.

The kitchen was a practical affair, dominated by a temperamental wood stove and a square oak worktable. She prepared meals for herself when she could engage the stove’s cooperation, although she didn’t necessarily have to. The Longabachs served hearty fare in their restaurant and better desserts than she had been able to master. The boardinghouse, too, offered three squares, and the Commodore Hotel provided fine food and as elegant a dining room as existed anywhere in Denver or even St. Louis. Fighting with the stove, though, was worth it most days. . .