Mahalia laughed again, her shoulders shaking. “I think it’s best that you face that man. How long do you think you can avoid him after what you seen this mornin’?”
“Maybe I didn’t see anything.”
Mahalia’s eyes were filled with amusement. “If that’s true, why is that hollow in your throat jumpin’ like there’s a frog trapped behind it?”
Libby didn’t have to feel her neck to know that was true. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I discovered Mr. Wolfe in the parlor last night, drunk on brandy. If I’m having any reaction at all, it’s that I hope his embarrassment is overshadowed only by his hangover.”
Mahalia continued to enjoy herself. “Yes, indeed. I don’t doubt that there’s wild horses gallopin’ through his head about now, droppin’ their turds on his tongue.”
Libby shook her head. “Very crudely put, Mahalia.”
“Hangovers ain’t a pretty sight, Libby, especially to those havin’ them. I had a few of my own in my time.”
Libby hadn’t had much experience with drunks. Her father, as thoughtless and insensitive as he’d been, had many failings, but drinking wasn’t one of them. Sean had taken one drink a week. Jackson Wolfe could have learned something from him, she thought, with a shake of her head.
She turned and marched to the kitchen, only to discover there was no hotcake batter left over from breakfast. Evidently Bert and Burl had packed away more than the usual number. She was trying to decide what to fix when Jackson stepped into the room.
Their gazes met.
The pulse at her throat continued its attempt to escape.
She forced herself not to react to the sheer size of him, concentrating instead on his squinty bloodshot eyes and the thick stubble of beard that covered his face and neck. Libby swore she could see a pulse throbbing at his temple, and she could only hope his head felt close to exploding.
She slammed a frying pan onto the stove and heard his groan. It gave her a satisfying sense of power.
“What are you hungry for this morning, Mr. Wolfe?”
“Coffee will do.” His voice was like gravel tumbling into a well, all cavernous and harsh.
She affected her most sympathetic look. “Oh, but I think you should eat breakfast, don’t you? Liquor is likely to eat a hole in your stomach. If you don’t coat it with something good, you’ll probably belch up that awful bitter green stuff.”
At her words, he turned a bright shade of green himself. She hid a smile.
“Coffee.” He slumped into a chair, propped his elbows on the table, and put his face in his hands.
Libby’s lips curled into an evil smile. “I know just the thing.” She removed two eggs from the basket on the counter, cracked them into a dish, and brought it to the table.
The yolks, yellow and round as twin harvest moons, floated atop the clear, thick whites. “How about eggs?”
Without looking up, he shook his head. “No eggs?”
“Oh, I think eggs would be good for you, Mr. Wolfe. And these are so fresh, too. Why, look.”
When he didn’t, she prodded, “Please, it’s the least you can do. Dawn gathered these herself.”
He opened one bleary eye, then quickly closed it again, but not before she wiggled the dish under his nose. His cheeks briefly bulged with air before he swallowed.
“See? The yolks are so yellow and perky, and the whites are thick and nice. They haven’t gotten to that runny, slimy stage.”
He raised his head, and the look he gave her would have curdled milk. “I said no eggs.”
She waved them under his nose again. “You’re sure? They’re so good when they’re fresh. Not like after they’ve gone bad.” She made a disgusting sound in her throat. “You know, when the smell is putrid enough to make a man retch. Nothing as bad-smelling as rotten eggs, I don’t believe.”
She saw him gag, so she put the eggs aside, intending to use them in her baking. Feeling only a slight twinge of pity, she poured him a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of him.
He grabbed the mug between his hands and raised it to his mouth, slurping the hot brew slowly.
“I do have baking-powder biscuits, Mr. Wolfe. Perhaps they would go down easily.” Oh, how quickly she took pity on him! Her bark was always worse than her bite.
He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. “I have to apologize.”
She knew what was coming. “Apologize?” She should apologize. After all, she’d been the sober one, and she’d acted like a hussy just the same.
“I don’t usually drink. I mean, I can’t drink. I’ve never been able to in my entire life.”
Curious, Libby poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from him. In spite of his disheveled appearance, he commanded her attention. He hadn’t dressed with as much care as she’d noticed before. The three top buttons on his shirt were unbuttoned, and the dark hair that covered his chest now shoved its way through the buttonholes.
She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze elsewhere.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing thick forearms with an abundance of dark hair, and wrists she knew she couldn’t span with her fingers. She attempted to ignore the fluttery feeling in her stomach and concentrated on his failings.
“Are you telling me you can’t hold your liquor?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Surprised, she asked, “Then…why do you continue to try?”
He sighed and rubbed his face again, as if doing so would banish the pain she knew was throbbing inside his head. “Every now and again I think maybe my body’s changed and I can handle it. And every time I try, I suffer for it.” He gave her a bloodshot look. “The eggs were a dirty trick.”
Libby suppressed a smile. “I’d apologize, but I enjoyed your reaction too much.”
His look said everything. “Somehow I knew you would.”
“Why do you drink?”
He cleared his throat. “Something usually triggers it.” He took a bite of biscuit and seemed to have trouble getting it down, but finally succeeded.
She rose, lifted a jar of honey off the shelf, placed it in front of him, and resumed her seat. “And what triggered it last night?”
His smile was mysterious as he slathered the biscuit with honey. He didn’t answer for a long, quiet moment, then finally said, “Probably the job. I thought it was going to be a piece of cake.”
“And it’s not?”
“Seems I’ve stepped smack dab into a bit of a range war.”
“Oh, yes. Those poor sheepmen.” Ethan had talked of little else for months.
“What do you know about it?” He suddenly seemed quite alert.
“Oh, not much. Ethan—that is, Mr. Frost, the banker— is a friend of mine, and he holds the loans against much of the property around here. He hears things.”
Jackson Wolfe gave her a noncommittal nod. “I see.”
They sat together in silence for another long moment. Finally he said, “Again I apologize for last night.”
Libby ran her finger over the rim of her cup and waited.
“I must have said or done something stupid. I usually do when I’m in that state.”
She recalled every second of their little tryst. It was just as well that he didn’t. “You don’t….remember anything?”
His gaze flickered to her chest, then to her mouth. “Not much.”
Heat crept into her neck. So. He did recall ogling her bosom.
The silence was thick again, and just when Libby decided she couldn’t bear it, Mahalia glided into the room.
“Well, Mistah Wolfe. You feelin’ better now with some-thin’ in your stomach?”
He gave her a weak smile and took another swig of his coffee.
“Tell you what,” she began. “I’m gonna start on dinner. It’s gotta cook a long, long time, and this house’ll be filled with smells that’ll make your mouth water. I’m cookin’ New Orleans vittles tonight, complete with Cajun spices and sausage
drippin’ in grease.” She winked at him. “Bet you can hardly wait.”
With a shuddering swallow, he pushed himself away from the table, rose, and rushed from the room.
Libby’s lips twitched. “You did that on purpose.”
Mahalia chuckled. “Every man what imbibes oughta pay the price, is my feelin’.”
“I gave him a little of my own,” Libby admitted. “I described eggs gone bad, then stuck a couple of fresh raw ones under his nose.”
Mahalia threw her head back and laughed. “You’re learnin’, gal. You’re learnin’.”
Later in the morning, after Mahalia had opened the quilt and spread the feathers on the attic floor to dry, Libby continued to think about Jackson Wolfe’s body. It upset her that thoughts of him took control of her mind. He was, after all, just a man. It had been hard enough to remember that when he was clothed. But at least she could have told herself that, like Sean, he probably looked terrible without attire.
However, the sight of him with nothing on at all was completely and utterly impossible to forget. That was one body against which she could easily consider curling up. And if nothing else, that admission shocked her into doing something that totally occupied her mind. She sat at the desk in the parlor and went over her accounts. It was the only thing that could take her mind off everything else. Even at that, it was a struggle, for every other word she read reminded her of him. Sheets—that he slept on and that molded his manly form. Quilts—that were whipped off, revealing his glorious nudity. Pillows—which he belatedly used to cover himself.
It was a wonder she got any work done at all.
Dawn poked her head around the kitchen door. “I’m looking for Mumser, Mama, have you seen him?”
Libby thumped her knuckle on a loaf of bread, testing the firmness of the crust, then slathered the top with butter. “I imagine he’s at the jail with Mr. Wolfe.” She placed a cloth over the bread.
Dawn danced into the room, “Burl said Mr. Wolfe didn’t take the dog with him this morning.”
Libby frowned. Obviously the man couldn’t handle a hangover and a dog all in one day. “I wish he’d tell me when he’s not taking the dog with him. I wouldn’t appreciate having to look after it, but at least I could keep it out of trouble. Hopefully, the dog is shut in his room.”
“He’s not.”
Libby pulled the apple crisp from the oven and slid it onto a table. “How do you know?”
Dawn glanced at the floor. “I checked.”
Libby gave her a soft, scolding look. “You know we don’t go into our boarders’ rooms without good reason.”
“I know, but I wanted to play with Mumser. He’s probably lonesome and bored, having been alone all day.”
Libby ground coffee beans, then poured them into the coffeepot strainer, placing a coarser strainer over the top. “Have you finished your sums?”
Dawn flittered about the room. “Everything is done. That trick Mr. Wolfe taught me is great, Mama.” She stopped in front of Libby, her gaze a bit dreamy,
“He’s been so many places. All over the world. Can you imagine? He’s been to Africa, India, and even China, Mama. China. That’s where he got Mumser.” She hugged herself and twirled. “I’ve never known anyone who’s been to so many exciting places.”
She danced to the stove and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Mahalia’s cooking that smelly stuff for supper?”
Libby winked at her daughter. “Better see that the horse trough is full.”
Putting her hand over her mouth, Dawn tiptoed closer to Libby and giggled. “Remember the first time Bert tasted Mahalia’s Cajun cooking? He nearly drowned in the trough trying to put out the fire in his mouth.”
Libby remembered, too, and joined her daughter with soft laughter of her own. “He was facedown in the water with his arms and legs hanging over the sides.”
Dawn’s giggles grew. “He looked like a drowning scarecrow.”
Laughing harder, Libby drew her handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes. She pressed her forehead against Dawn’s. “We shouldn’t laugh at him, dear.”
“Oh, pooh, Mama. He laughs at everyone else, all the time.”
Libby gave Dawn’s braid a loving yank, then stepped away. “It’s time to set the table.” She lifted the plates from the cupboard and put them on the counter.
Dawn grabbed handfuls of silverware and started making place settings while Libby gave Mahalia’s stew a stir.
“Evening, ladies.”
Libby’s pulse jumped at the sound of Jackson Wolfe’s voice, and both she and Dawn turned toward the door. Libby had to admit his appearance was much better than it had been at breakfast.
“I…er…thought I should tell you that I’ve finished putting fencing around your flowers.”
Libby felt warm, almost content. “Why…how thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
He appeared contrite. “It was the least I could do. After … ah …” He glanced at Dawn, then at Libby, and smiled sheepishly.
In spite of Libby’s warm, cozy feeling, the cynical side of her wanted to inquire if he was merely trying to make up for what he’d done the night before, but she was wise enough not to put the thought into words.
“Oh, Mr. Wolfe” Dawn gushed. “Where’s Mumser? I wanted to play with him, but I couldn’t—”
A shrill, eardrum-piercing shriek interrupted Dawn’s sentence, and all three of them glanced toward the stairs.
Libby was the first one out of the kitchen. “Mahalia?” Hiking her skirt up to her knees, she ran up the stairs, the clatter of Dawn’s and Mr. Wolfe’s footsteps not far behind her.
Libby reached the attic, her heart pounding from fear and exertion. “Mahalia? What’s wrong? What is it?”
Mahalia threw open the door and stood over her, her fists slammed against her hips and smoke nearly coming out of her ears.
She flung a fleshy arm toward the attic floor. “This. This is what’s wrong!”
There, amid a flurry of feathers that appeared to be falling from the ceiling, scampered Jackson Wolfe’s damned dog. He was chasing after the tiny plumes, leaping and snatching at them, catching them in his mouth, then flicking them out with his tongue. The hair on his chin was thick with feathers and wet from his slobber. The room looked as though a storm had dumped several inches of snow on the floor, then sent in a whirlwind to bring every flake to life.
6
Jackson took the broom Libby offered and began sweeping the floor. He’d insisted on cleaning up the mess his dog had made, and he was apologetic as he swept up feathers.
“I hope some of these can be salvaged.” He uttered a mild curse. “I’m sure sorry this riled your cook the way it did. I should have taken the dog with me today, but”—he stopped sweeping and ran one hand through his hair—”I guess I thought I had enough to worry about without wondering what he’d get into at the jail.”
Libby allowed a small smile. “He’s a nuisance at the jail?”
“According to Vern, he is.”
“I wouldn’t imagine there’s much to get into there,” Libby reflected.
He gave her a boyish smile, one that tugged at her. “You’d be surprised.”
They worked quietly. “I know Mumser’s a poor excuse for a dog,” he said, “but you have to understand. He was a gift from the emperor of China, and I wouldn’t feel right palming him off on someone else. I guess, according to Chinese customs, I should feel honored, Mumser’s a breed of dog that’s highly valued there.”
Intrigued, Libby asked, “You’ve recently been to China? What on earth did you do there, Mr. Wolfe?”
“Jackson. Please. You know what they say—Mr. Wolfe is my father.” His eyes closed briefly, but not before Libby saw a twinge of pain.
“What kind of work are you in that takes you clear to China?”
“I’m a soldier-for-hire. At least I was.”
Libby crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. This man became more and more interesting as time we
nt by. “You mean a country planning a revolution would send you an invitation?”
He caught her cynical tone and smiled. Again it transformed him. “Something like that.”
“You said you were a soldier for hire. You’ve retired?”
He turned, sweeping with his back to her. “I’ve done enough fighting to last me a lifetime. War changes people, ma’am.” He stopped working and stared out the window.
Libby’s gaze followed. On the bare branch of a dying cedar, blackbirds loitered like hooded highwaymen. From the tone of his conversation, she imagined they bespoke his mood.
“Before we go into war, we’re chaste. Naively innocent. After a few battles, we change color, like cities that become blanketed in soot.”
My, she thought, lifting an eyebrow. For a large, battered man, he was quite poetic. “Do you think that standing in for Sheriff Roberts will fulfill your lust for adventure?”
He turned, his china-blue eyes cautious. “Wanderlust is a hard impulse to resist, but I’m going to try.” After a moment he added, “I have some other plans.”
The way he looked at her almost made Libby believe she would be a part of those plans. Which was ludicrous, of course. She mentally shook herself. Too much time spent listening to her daughter and Chloe Ann blather on about fantasies and dreams.
The door creaked open, breaking the silence between them, and Cyclops sashayed in, her scarred and scabby nose in the air as she perused the room. In spite of her appearance, she no doubt considered herself quite a feline. Rather like Lila Sanders, the aging prostitute who had rented a room from Libby a few years ago, unaware that her looks had gone bad and her figure had gone south. The cat sniffed at the floor, smelling the area where the dog had been. Growling, she arched her back, then sashayed out again.
“We’ve…never had a dog around here. Only cats,” Libby explained.
Jackson continued to sweep. “I was raised on a ranch. Cats were left outside to control the rat and mouse population.”
Another boyish smile, another tug at Libby’s heart.
“I had a dog, though. Well,” he amended, “he ended up being mine. Max was a big black bruiser. He fell down an empty well shaft and was as close to death as a creature could be.”
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