by Jo Goodman
“What?” He frowned and reached for his glass of whiskey. He held it in his hand, fingers curled around it, but he didn’t drink.
“Now,” she repeated. “You find me attractive now, but nothing’s changed except that we signed some documents. I’ve been living in Reidsville for almost a year and a half, and you barely said a hundred words to me until you brought me the message that Mr. Maddox had died. You never tried to kiss me before or thought you needed to offer a comment about my mouth. What am I supposed to believe except that you’ve decided I’m convenient?”
Wyatt was glad he hadn’t taken a drink because sputtering it across the table would have been a waste of good whiskey. “Convenient? I’d be hard pressed to name a single thing about you that makes you convenient, and if there was such a single thing, it definitely wouldn’t be your mouth.” He knew a moment’s satisfaction watching Rachel snap that particular body part closed. “I’ve been watching you glide up and down the sidewalk since you came to town, so I guess I know better than you how long I’ve found you a pleasure to look at. As for not talking to you much, it seemed to me it was mutual. You didn’t exactly go out of your way to be friendly to me, and I had to wonder why, when you sure as hell were friendly to Abe and Ned and Henry and Johnny and even that no-account Beatty boy.”
When Rachel looked as if she wanted to speak, Wyatt set her back in her chair with a stony, no-quarter-given glance. “Besides that, there was the matter of my contract with Maddox. He was pretty clear that there could be no marriage until he was dead, so what would have been the point of putting myself in your path any more than I did? Hell, Rachel, you crossed the street two blocks before you ever got to my office. What was I supposed to make of that?”
Wyatt gave her a moment to digest all that he’d just fed her and then pointed to her soup, her spoon, and her mouth, which was slightly agape once more. “Your food’s getting cold. Eat up.”
He didn’t know which one of them was more surprised when she did.
The following day, Rachel alternated working on Mrs. Longabach’s moss-green skirt and jacket and cutting out a muslin pattern for Molly’s party dress. Several times she discovered herself standing at the window in her workroom, looking out at the curtain of falling snow, with no clear memory of having abandoned her needle and thread. She knew what had caused her mind to wander, but it was a new experience, and somewhat disconcerting, to find that the rest of her could follow so easily.
Rachel wished she’d sent Wyatt off with biscuits this morning. Really, what was the point that she’d been trying to make? That she could be firm? Not taken advantage of? It made her feel petty now that he’d ridden out without something warm from her kitchen. She was well aware that he’d been managing his regular Thursday rides for years with no assistance from her, but that knowledge didn’t particularly soothe her.
Sid Walker’s aching shoulder and swollen left knee had accurately predicted the accumulation. When Rachel woke, there were already four inches of snow on the ground and a drift upwards of a foot at her back door. She swept the path to the spring and brought another load of wood to the mudroom. She kept the kitchen stove fired up and started a fire in the parlor. The house was tolerably warm, but she was aware that outside the wind was becoming increasingly more forceful.
No doubt Wyatt would be startled to learn that she’d spent any part of her day worrying about him. She certainly hadn’t left him with the impression that she cared what happened when they parted company the night before. Not that she’d wished him ill, but without a word crossing her lips, she had communicated that she most definitely wished him gone.
He overwhelmed her. And frightened her.
Neither settled well. She’d spent years neatly sidestepping confrontation when she could, standing firm when she had to, and pushing back when she was pushed, but the lessons learned weren’t so easily applied when her opponent was Wyatt Cooper.
Rachel pressed her forehead to the window and closed her eyes. It occurred to her that it was her own thinking that she needed to challenge. How would things be different if she stopped thinking of Wyatt as an opponent? Life experience didn’t allow for her to treat him as other than an adversary from the moment of their introduction, but the view from where she stood now made her question if it had ever been truly necessary.
She liked him. Admitting that didn’t make her easy, and she forced herself to consider why that should be. She had no difficulty saying the same thing about Johnny Winslow or Mr. Showalter or even the persistent Abe Dishman, so what made it seem uncomfortably like a revelation when she applied those words to Wyatt Cooper?
Rachel’s insides twisted and a certain wariness for the direction of her thoughts made her turn away from the window. She told herself there was nothing she could do for him either through worry or reflection, and yet, some niggling voice at the back of her mind would not be quieted and called her coward.
It was Saturday afternoon before Rachel left her house for anything but water or wood. The cloud cover had vanished by daybreak and the sun was bright in a cerulean sky. There was eight inches of snow on the ground, but that was the least amount Sid had predicted and merely a minor accumulation compared to what she’d witnessed the year before. With clear skies overhead, it seemed possible that this first round of snow would disappear before they were visited by what she understood was real winter in the Rockies.
Shopkeepers had cleared the sidewalks in front of their businesses, which made walking easy once she reached the main street. The first thing she noticed was that Ned and Abe had moved their checkers game from the sidewalk to somewhere indoors. The second thing was the empty chair in front of the sheriff’s office.
She went straight to the telegraph office to check on the delivery of packages that she’d ordered weeks earlier and to show Artie Showalter the sketch of the dress she intended for Molly. She didn’t mention to him that she’d already measured Molly and cut the pattern.
“I’ll be honest with you, Miss Bailey,” Artie said. “I like it just fine, but my wife is the one who generally makes these decisions. She’s in the back right now. Why don’t I get her? She’ll be real pleased to see this.”
Rachel’s heart sank, not so much for herself, but for Molly. “Of course,” she said, revealing none of her trepidation. “How wonderful that she’s here.”
Artie glanced at the sketch again, nodded thoughtfully, then pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and called for his wife. “Gracie, come out of there. Miss Bailey’s got something to show you that I think you’re going to fancy.”
A musical, vaguely girlish giggle came from the backroom. Rachel tried not to show her surprise when she realized the source of it was Grace Showalter. A moment later, Gracie emerged, barely suppressing her coquettish laughter, her round face flushed and happily set.
Rachel’s own welcoming smile faded ever so slightly when she saw what had brought about Mrs. Showalter’s remarkably cheerful mood. As Wyatt Cooper appeared from behind Gracie, Rachel offered him a polite nod. “Sheriff.”
“Miss Bailey.” His nod matched hers for reserve.
Artie Showalter observed the exchange and said, “Could be that folks seeing you trade nods like you have a rusty hinge in your neck might get to thinking all those friendly words Wednesday night were only for show. Just something to keep in mind when you cross paths out and about. People are liable to get a little nervous if the mine’s two biggest shareholders are already at odds.”
Gracie’s keen eyes darted from Rachel to Wyatt, but she was a moment too late to see what her husband had. Rachel’s warm smile remained welcoming, and Wyatt’s glance was appreciative. She looked back at her husband and simply shook her head. “Where do you get these notions, Arthur? It’s a constant mystery to me that a man who can make sense of dits and dots coming across a wire can’t make sense of the starts and stops of the human heart. Wyatt was just telling me about the gown Miss Bailey wants to make for Molly. And I can tell you that he
was nothing but complimentary of her talents, same as Estella was when she spoke to me.”
Grace reached out a hand toward Rachel and patted her forearm. “Wyatt couldn’t say enough good things about you, Miss Bailey. I don’t think I recall that he’s ever been so admiring in his comments.”
Wyatt stepped up to Artie’s desk and hitched his hip on one corner. He offered Gracie a wry smile. “You’re confusing what I said about that slice of red velvet cake you gave me with my remarks about Miss Bailey’s work.”
“Go on with you,” she said, though she flushed prettily at this mention of her prize-winning cake. “I know what I heard.”
Wyatt shrugged. When Gracie’s attention strayed momentarily to her mildly bewildered husband, Wyatt surreptitiously gestured to the sketch in Rachel’s hand, urging her to seize the opportunity to discuss Molly’s dress.
Rachel laid her hand over Gracie’s, which was still resting on her forearm. “Mrs. Showalter? I’d like to show you my idea for—”
“What? Oh, yes. Your drawing.” She gave Rachel’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Of course I want to see it.” She began tugging gently, maneuvering Rachel to the rear of her husband’s office. “Let’s go in the back, shall we? There’s really no point in talking about it with the men around. Wyatt’s seen it and approved, and Arthur’s seen it and immediately called for me.” By the time she finished speaking, she was ushering Rachel through the door. “Don’t mind the look of the place,” she said. “I came in to bring Arthur his lunch and help him with…”
Wyatt and Artie exchanged knowing glances as Gracie’s voice trailed off after she firmly shut the door behind her.
“Looks like Gracie’s got Rachel in her grip,” said Wyatt. “How long do you suppose they’ll be?”
“She had you back there upwards of half an hour. Could be about that long again.”
“Enough time, then, for me to get to the depot and meet the Admiral. It’s running on schedule, right?”
“I haven’t heard differently,” Artie said. “Some special reason you want to meet the train?”
“I think it’s time for the crew to meet Miss Bailey. They work for her now.” He stood and got his coat and hat from the rack by the door. “You sent word to them like I asked, didn’t you?”
“Wednesday night. Right after the town meeting.”
“Any word back?”
Artie chuckled. “You know, Wyatt, if you hadn’t let my wife tempt you away with the promise of food, you’d already have that answer.” He held up a finger. “Wait. I have the reply right here somewhere.” He moved things around on his desk, opened a couple of drawers, then found what he wanted among a stack of notes that were under a pyrite rock he kept around as a paperweight. “Here you go,” he said. “This is what I sent.”
Wyatt took it and read: SPUR INDEPENDENT PER C MADDOX INSTRUCTIONS STOP FOSTER OUT STOP. “You have a way for getting to the heart of the matter.”
He sighed and poked at his spectacles again. “Not according to my wife.” He gave Wyatt a second piece of paper. “Here’s the reply.”
Wyatt read: HURRAH. He glanced at Artie and grinned. “Pithy.”
“That’s John Clay for you,” he said. “The man just wants to drive his train and be left alone. He’s got no use for Foster Maddox, so I’m thinking that when he meets Miss Bailey the least of his concerns is going to be that she’s a woman.”
“We’ll see,” Wyatt said, less certain. “I better be going. It can’t hurt to clear the track, so to speak.”
“You should have warned me,” Rachel said, looking sharply at Wyatt. They were seated at a relatively private table in the Commodore Hotel’s dining room. There were only a few other diners and two large potted ferns shielded them from being immediately noticed. Still, Rachel kept her voice low. It was her color that remained high.
After getting Grace Showalter’s blessing for Molly’s dress and assuring her that she’d come by with the latest fashion book and her sketch pad, Rachel walked back into the telegraph office and was dismayed to find it crowded with the Admiral’s solemn-faced and silent crew. She’d swallowed her discomfort and pressed forward after Wyatt made the introductions, assuring the men that she meant to learn about the operation and make certain it remained as efficient and profitable as it had under Clinton Maddox’s direction.
Immediately following that meeting, Wyatt had whisked her away from the Showalters and taken advantage of the first sanctuary offered—in this case, the Commodore—and escorted her inside before she’d built up a full head of steam.
“To waylay me like that.” Her jaw tightened just thinking about it. “That was unconscionable. Did it occur to you that I had given the matter of an introduction some thought, and had determined that I would greet the 473 and the Admiral this very week? Can you imagine why I hadn’t already done so?”
Wyatt knew the value of silence in response to a rhetorical question, so he simply waited for her to continue.
“It will shock you, I believe, but I wanted to speak to you first.” She touched three fingers delicately to the side of her head. “Whatever was I thinking? Oh, yes, apparently I thought you might be helpful in facilitating the introduction, rather like you did this afternoon, except it would have been with my full knowledge!” She’d heard her voice rising steadily but was unable to rein it in. The urge was there to look around and see if she’d drawn the attention of any of the other diners or the wait staff. She managed to resist it for herself, but asked quietly, “Are people looking at us?”
Wyatt’s eyes shifted from Rachel to points elsewhere in the room. He paused several times and nodded politely in the direction of the other tables.
“You’re pretending,” she said under her breath. “There’s not a person looking at you.”
Lifting one eyebrow, Wyatt asked, “Are you sure?” He watched a muscle jump in her jaw, but she didn’t take the bait he dangled. “Do you want an explanation, or do you want to continue your harangue?” In the event it was going to be the second choice, Wyatt picked up the menu card and began reading.
“What are you doing?” she said, teeth clenched.
He regarded her over the top of the card, his expression perfectly bland. “I’m trying to decide between the potato soup with the boiled fowl or the Irish stew with dumplings.”
“I want your explanation.”
Wyatt placed the menu at the corner of the table and motioned to the waiter. “You only had to say so,” he said pleasantly. “Do you know what you want?”
Because she hadn’t glanced at the menu since they’d been seated, Rachel shook her head.
“I’ll have the vegetable soup,” Wyatt told the waiter. “The veal cutlets. Mashed potatoes and the creamed limas. Coffee.”
Rachel stared at him. “I thought you were trying to decide between…oh, never mind.” She gave her menu to the waiter. “Tea, please. Honey, not sugar.” When the waiter was gone, she turned back to Wyatt and found him looking at her as if she were completely unfathomable. “I had red velvet cake with Mrs. Showalter,” she said. “And a sandwich before I left home. Tea will suit me fine, thank you. But, please, you go ahead and eat like a bear coming out of hibernation.”
“I wasn’t going to order dessert,” he said.
It was his mildly defensive tone that almost roused Rachel’s smile. She caught herself, certain nothing good could come of giving him an inch. “The explanation?” she said.
“I’ve been out of town since I left Thursday to make my rounds. I only got back a couple of hours ago.” He saw her sit back in her chair as if pressed there by invisible hands. Her chin came up a notch and her brow puckered. Her expression suggested to him that, as he suspected, she hadn’t known he’d been gone so long. “I wondered if you asked after me,” he said. “I guess I know the answer.”
“Today is the first I’ve been out of the house.”
“And today’s the first I’ve been inside one.”
She took in a sharp breath, steadie
d herself, and said evenly, “I’m not going to feel sorry for you.”
“I should hope not.”
She would not tell him how many times she’d stood at the window looking out for him. It was a gesture with no meaning. She hadn’t left home to inquire after him. Concern that her questions would bring unwanted attention from others or be misinterpreted by him had kept her silent—and alone. “Are you all right?”
“I will be once I get something in my belly besides Gracie’s cake.”
Rachel flushed a little. “What happened that you were gone so long?”
“I was tracking and got stranded above the tree line. It took me a while to work my way back to where I could make a shelter and hunker down.”
“What were you tracking?”
“Two men on horseback without a brain between them. Their mule had enough sense to stay down on the mountain.” His smile was self-mocking. “Of course, I don’t like to think what it says about me that I went after them.”
Rachel had been thinking the same thing. “And?” she asked.
“And…” His voice softened; then he collected himself and shrugged. “I found them. I thought they might have been up to something, but it turned out they were just stupid.”
It was then that Rachel understood how he’d found them. Knowing they’d died on the mountain, she let it be. The waiter’s arrival was timely. He set vegetable soup in front of Wyatt and served her tea from a silver teapot that he left on the table.
Wyatt spooned a few mouthfuls to remove the sharp edge of hunger; then he offered the explanation that Rachel had asked for. “I never set out to overstep, but I’m not denying that’s what I did. When I got back into town, I took just enough time to clean up before I went to see Artie. I needed him to send a message off to the Denver marshal about the bodies. I had some information about the men that might help someone identify them. While I was there I mentioned the dress you wanted to make for Molly and asked Artie if he’d seen the sketch. Since he hadn’t, I took it on myself to tell him about it. He liked the idea just fine, but he knows his wife, and since Gracie was making a mess reorganizing his back room, he sent me in to give her something else to think about. I sure as hell didn’t expect you to show up, and you looked like I was the last person you wanted to see, so I figured it was just a chance meeting. When you went back with Gracie, I noticed the time, realized the Admiral would be arriving soon, and seized an opportunity for you to meet John Clay and his crew since Artie assured me you hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”