by Ava Winters
"I'm fine," she replied as she continued to hang out the laundry. Layla raised her chin and looked up at the cloudless sky with a sigh. "It sure is a pretty day."
"That it is," Annabelle agreed. Suddenly, she began to laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"I was just rememberin' a day like this," she started. "It was the day my late husband took me for a walk by the lake.” As her smile broadened, Annabelle looked down into her lap. "It was the first time he ever held my hand. It feels like yesterday."
"It sounds wonderful," Layla told her with a smile.
"My husband was the sweetest man on two legs," Annabelle continued. "He made me feel as if I was the only person in the world who could ever be for him. I felt like a queen that day.” She looked at Layla earnestly. "It was nothin' more than that. I was a good girl and he knew it. He respected me and didn't get fresh until we were married. Still, the flutterin' in my stomach when he took my hand in his… I'll never forget it.” She sighed. "If only I could get these hands to work as they should these days."
"Don't you worry about that," Layla reminded the older woman. "That's why I'm here to help."
"And you are that, aren't you," Annabelle answered. "My very own angel."
"I'm no angel," Layla replied, crestfallen. The term was deserving of someone else, someone good—not her. She'd done far too much bad in her lifetime to ever warrant such a title. If Annabelle knew the truth, she would never say such a thing.
Richstone was home now. Still, the people there didn't know her. They didn't know the truth. How much longer would she be welcomed among them once they knew that she was not who she appeared to be?
The day Peter had told her she was one of them had been the best day Layla could remember. She had never belonged anywhere, not even with Jacob and his men, and she had always hoped to. Layla had given Jacob her whole heart and believed she would receive his in return, but that was not to be. He was nothing like what she’d imagined him to be, upon closer acquaintance. Perhaps, if she had waited longer, she might have seen it before, but she had not. Thankfully, that was over. Jacob had yet to come after her, which told Layla one thing—he had never cared. He’d enjoyed having his washerwoman for a while, but now that she was gone, he wasn't concerned. They never had love, and they never would.
Layla arrested her thoughts. Annabelle was looking at her curiously and she did not wish to answer any questions. "I'm just me," she offered as a distraction.
"You cannot determine what you are to another, my dear. That is somethin' you're goin' to have to learn. We rarely see ourselves as anythin' more than who we are, but others often see our qualities better than we can.” She turned to look at Layla squarely. "You, my dear, are far more than what you think. I can see it. I don't know who told you somethin' or didn't tell you somethin', but you are a sweet girl and I'm happy to know you."
"Thank you," Layla said with a blush. She tried to stop grinning, but she couldn't. No matter how many times Annabelle told her things like that about herself, she never got used to it.
"Let's finish this off and get inside. I invited Peter over for Sunday dinner tonight," Annabelle announced. Layla's heart leaped in her chest.
"You invited Peter for dinner? You didn't say anything to me," she chided as she hung out the last of the shirts and tucked the basket under her arm.
Annabelle smiled at her. "I thought I just did."
Peter was all Layla could think of as she helped prepare dinner. She peeled and chopped the vegetables while Annabelle continued to sing Peter's praises. Each word she uttered made Layla’s imagination run wild. She pictured herself with him, married with children. In every image that crossed her mind, she saw Peter smiling at her exactly the way he did now. How much longer would he keep that smile, once he knew everything?
The day Layla learned had the truth about her husband was a day she would never forget. Annabelle had her fond memories, but Layla had too few. The memories which lingered with her were the ones she wished most to forget. Jacob was not the kind, considerate man that Peter was. Layla doubted if he’d ever known an honest day's work in his life; he certainly never did while she was with him.
"Layla?" Annabelle called to her. "Will you tell me somethin’?"
"Yes, Miss Annabelle," she answered.
"What are you afraid of?"
Layla's face slackened and her lips parted as she fumbled for an answer. She lowered her eyes to the food before her. "I'm not afraid."
"Yes, you are," Annabelle persisted gently. "I can see it."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Annabelle. I'm not afraid of anything," Layla insisted, forcing her gaze back to the other woman. "I'm just fine."
"Whatever it is that's troublin’ you, it’ll get better once you let it go," Annabelle advised.
Layla couldn't speak. She tried to think of what to say, but nothing would come. She wanted to trust someone, but she couldn't; she didn't want to lose what she had now. Maybe in the future, when she was sure they really accepted her, she could tell the truth. Until then, though, she couldn't risk it.
Annabelle walked over to Layla and placed a hand on her shoulder, patting it gently. Her expression was sympathetic, but there was so much kindness, as well. She continued across the room and pulled out a chair from the dining table. "Come sit with me."
Layla set the knife down on the counter and followed Annabelle. She sat across from her, nervousness beginning to fill her stomach. Annabelle said she could see things about people. What did she see in Layla that she had yet to speak about? What was she going to say now?
"Layla, I know it hurts to trust people. When you let people in, you risk getting hurt, but it's worth it. You will never see who people are if you don't show them who you are."
"What if they can't accept who you are?" Layla asked.
"I think it's less about who accepts you and more about accepting yourself," Annabelle replied. Layla looked at her silently. Did she accept herself?
Layla had spent most of her life trying to be better than the person everyone saw. There had never been a time when she’d looked at herself and liked who she saw looking back. She never saw it as something negative before, it was just how things were. She thought it was good that she saw herself that way; it propelled her to be better.
"Layla, there is no one in this town who doesn't have their secrets or their problems. We aren't going to judge you," Annabelle added with a kind smile. "I certainly won't. I just want to help you."
"I know, Miss Annabelle."
"Good," the older woman replied, and patted her hand. Layla could see the slight grimace as she tried to flex her fingers, and she vowed to do whatever she could to make things easier for Annabelle. A knock on the door interrupted them.
"Think about what I've said," Annabelle suggested as she got to her feet. "You’d better answer that; it must be Peter."
Layla's heart fluttered in her chest as she stood, and continued to dance as she walked to the front of the house. She was eager to see him. She needed to calm down.
"Annabelle?" Peter's voice called from the other side of the door. "Layla?"
Her heart beat faster when he said her name. Why did it do that? How could she make it stop? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to lessen the smile on her face and be calm. She only had a few seconds before she heard Peter moving on the stoop. Finally, she pulled the door open.
"Good evening, Peter," she greeted him. She stepped back for the deputy to come in, but he just stood there, looking at her with a smile on his face.
"Layla," he said after a long silence, and he stepped inside. Her stomach warmed and flipped inside her as she closed the door behind him.
"How are you this evening?" she asked, walking past Peter to led him into the modest living room. Annabelle didn't have much in the way of furniture, but what she had she cared for well. "Have a seat."
"I'm well," Peter answered. "You look well, too," he added, taking a seat near the
window.
"Can I get you anything? We have some lemonade," Layla offered. "Dinner's not quite ready yet."
"Where's Annabelle?" he asked and looked past her.
"She's in the kitchen, working on dinner. She'll be out as soon as it's done," Layla explained.
Peter smiled. "Lemonade sounds good."
Layla felt her cheeks burn, and that treacherous smile was beginning to pull at her cheeks as the light, happy feeling that came with Peter's presence began to fill her.
She walked back to the kitchen as her feelings took her over. By the time she reached Annabelle, there was no hiding it. The older woman looked at her with a smile but said nothing.
Layla never wanted this feeling to stop, but how long could she hold onto it? How much longer would Peter and Annabelle, or the rest of the town, accept her once they knew that she was not only married, but married to an outlaw?
Never.
She would never tell. Jacob wasn’t coming to find her, and what they knew couldn’t hurt them. It was better for everyone if she kept the truth to herself, especially Peter. How would it look that he had done all of this for an outlaw’s wife? Besides, she might have been mistaken in his looks. Yes, she definitely was. Peter Jones did not fancy her. She was being ridiculous. Still, why ruin a good thing?
Chapter Five
The day was quiet and Peter liked it like that. It was stocktaking at the saloon and, though they weren’t closed, a quiet day meant it was a little easier to get things done.
Saloons never closed. Business never stopped. Even on Sundays. While gambling wasn’t allowed, Peter still catered to his patrons' needs by providing meals and refreshments for those who didn’t have someone to cook for them. Peter, himself, took Sunday as a day of rest, and often attended church.
Unfortunately, today wasn’t Sunday. However, there was one thing to be grateful for: the fact that Layla was right there with him to help.
“How many bottles of Garfield whiskey do we have left?” he asked as he stood at the bar noting the count. Layla was sitting on a short stool, with crates of bottles all around her. They were counting the stock out front before they went into the storeroom to tally up the rest. They had already counted the bottles on the shelves.
“I’ve got five here,” she answered, touching her finger to the top of each bottle in turn. It made Peter smile.
“How about the Hancock whiskey?”
“Just two of those,” she replied, then chuckled. “Why did Kane, O’Leary & Co. make two types of whiskey? It tastes the same, but they put two different faces on the front.”
“That was their way of supporting both presidential candidates in the last election,” he informed her. “I guess they wanted to show support so they could get favor regardless of who won.”
Layla laughed. “Makes sense, I guess. Make sure no one can say you liked one or the other. Thereby you don’t offend anyone who buys from you.”
“Something like that,” Peter agreed. “Gin?”
“Three bottles,” Layla answered. They returned to their count.
He liked being close to her. Peter found himself looking at Layla every chance he got, and sometimes, he thought she might have been looking at him. He dismissed that thought, however. There was no reason for Layla to look at him. She was young, beautiful, and had her entire life ahead of her. He was older, and not the kind of person someone like Layla would look at. Besides, he wasn’t the only one who noticed the pretty young woman—there were plenty of men vying for her attention. There was no reason for her to give that attention to him.
“Are we finished all the boxes down there?” Peter asked, looking around the room.
Layla did a mental check, and once again, that pretty finger began counting off the boxes. “Yes, that’s all down here,” she confirmed.
“Good. Let’s get in the back. I’m about ready to see this task over,” Peter commented. He hated stocktaking, but it was one of those things you had no choice but to deal with. It came with the business, and it was his responsibility. He wouldn’t leave his staff to do something he wouldn’t do himself.
He helped Layla to her feet, and she dusted her hands on the apron tied around her waist before she turned toward the storeroom. Peter followed her.
“Peter, how often do we have to do this?” she asked.
He smirked. “Why? Tired already?”
She looked over her shoulder and chuckled. “A little,” she admitted.
“That’s no problem. I get tired of this myself, but it has to be done. I usually do it twice a year, because I can’t handle it any more often than that,” he confessed.
“And do you always do it yourself? Why don’t you let someone else take responsibility?” Layla opened the door to the storeroom and stepped inside.
“I need to know what’s going on in my business. Yes, I could trust someone else to do this, but the minute you stop taking responsibility for what’s yours is the minute people stop valuing what’s yours,” he explained.
Layla nodded. “I see. It makes sense. If it isn’t important to you, then why should anyone else care?” She looked around the tightly packed room and sighed. “So, where do we start?”
“In the back and work our way forward,” Peter instructed. He placed his hand gently on Layla’s back to guide her in the right direction and felt a surge inside him, like a small flame igniting.
The pair spent hours counting boxes and bottles. It was always a prolonged task, but eventually, it ended.
“Are you sure you want to be up there?” Peter asked as Layla stood precariously on the stool counting the boxes on the top shelf.
“I told you, I’m fine,” she replied with a smile, looking down at him. “I can do it. Besides, we have a system here. I count and you write.” She gave him a quick nod and turned back to her work.
“If you say so,” Peter conceded. “I still say I should be up there.”
Layla laughed. “Why is it that men always think they know best about everything? A lady can take care of herself, too,” she replied and turned to face him, but slipped.
Peter looked up in alarm at Layla’s cry and quickly reached up to grab her as she fell from her perch. His pencil and notebook fell to the floor, but Layla landed solidly in his arms. He held her close, her face so near to his that he could see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. Her rapid breath wafted over his cheek as she clutched to his shirt with both hands. Their eyes met, and Peter felt a stampede in his chest.
She was so small in his arms, fragile almost, yet she seemed to fit perfectly against him—almost as if his arms were made to hold her. Peter wanted to hold her tightly, to press her to his chest.
“Thank you,” she said softly after several long seconds lapsed.
“You’re welcome,” Peter replied, yet made no attempt to release her. His arms didn’t want to let her go, and the draw of her eyes was pulling him closer. She was some kind of angel, weaving her charms around him. And he was willing to be her captive.
“Layla!” someone called from out front, breaking the spell.
Peter cleared his throat and set Layla safely on the ground. They both stood there, looking nervous, as one of the other employees walked into the storeroom. It was Betsy, one of the servers. She looked at them quizzically.
“Layla,” Betsy repeated. “Miss Annabelle’s out there lookin’ for yah.”
“Thank you, Betsy,” Layla replied as the other woman turned from the room. As Layla’s eyes met his, Peter thought he saw reluctance. “I’d better go see what she wants.”
“I’ll come with you,” Peter offered immediately. He allowed Layla to walk ahead of him while he stopped to retrieve his fallen items. He took his time and let a few seconds pass before he walked out front, more for himself than for Layla. He needed a chance for his heart to slow down.
“Miss Annabelle,” he greeted warmly as walked over to the older woman. She and Layla were engaged in conversation and a picnic basket was sitting on his bar.
“Peter,” she replied with a grin. “I was hopin’ to see you. I was feelin’ so good this mornin’ that I made my special muffins. I thought you and Layla might like some, so I brought ‘em down.”
“Miss Annabelle, you shouldn’t have,” he said. “You know how I love your muffins.” He turned to Layla. “Miss Annabelle won the muffin baking contest six years in a row.”
“That was before my hands started givin’ me trouble,” Annabelle added. “Since then, Patty Lane’s been winnin’ it.”
“Well, I can’t wait to try them,” Layla told her. “I’m sure they’re wonderful.”