“I have a proposition for you,” Ilse replied, one eyebrow raised though it didn't cause the slightest crease in her perfectly smooth, perfectly white forehead. Disgusting. She's like a china doll. “This town has been run by the men for far too long, and it's about time we ladies make our mark. This isn't the frontier. We're a real town, have been for over a decade, and we need to assert our civilizing influence.”
That's sure a whole lot of words that don't mean anything. “All right, Miss Jackson, you pose an interesting point. However, I'm not sure I agree that the men are completely in charge around here. After all, plenty of local businesses are run by women. But I'm listening.” Get to the point. I've been up since three this morning and I want to close down the café and rest. Lydia bit her tongue to prevent bitter words from spilling out. Ilse might be an obnoxious brat, but as long as she was being relatively polite, Lydia could match her.
“I'm proposing we found a Ladies' Council. So many times my father has told me there's no money in the town budget for the activities and events I think are important. But if all the influential women in town pool their resources, we don't need to worry about what they think. We can do what we need to do regardless of their opinion.”
“It's an interesting notion,” Lydia said cautiously. And with her father running for mayor, it's no surprise he's keeping a tighter hold on the town's purse strings. His years as president of the town council aren't marked by generous spending anyway. “Tell me more.”
“I've approached all the wives and daughters of all the influential families in this town.” She ran through a list of names, ending with a sour expression as she added, “And of course Kristina Williams and the Spencer sisters. You were last on my list.”
Lydia blinked. “Well then. I'm not sure if I qualify as the daughter or wife of anyone influential, but I am quite certain I own the most successful female-run business in town.”
“That's true. That's why I'm here.” Ilse's lips puckered to lemon sourness. Lydia couldn't decide whether to smack her or offer her a sugar cube. “That and we need a place to meet. If you would volunteer your café… and maybe some refreshments, that would be appreciated.”
“So, let me make sure I understand,” Lydia replied. “You want me to volunteer my place of business and give away free food to an organization you aren't sure you want me in, that I haven't agreed to join yet?”
Ilse didn't even have the grace to look sheepish. She merely nodded.
“And what would be the items on the agenda?” Lydia demanded.
“Let me use the café and you'll find out. Next Tuesday. 3:00pm, so you should be closed by then, right?”
“Yes, I close up at three. You know that.” Lydia sighed. I'm usually resting at that time. “Very well. I'll let you use my café this once, and I'll even volunteer a few treats. But whether this becomes an ongoing thing will depend on how the meeting goes. Agreed?”
Ilse gave her a strange look, as though uncertain of Lydia's sanity, but shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose. See you then.”
Ilse bustled out of the room in a noisy flurry of skirts, seeming not to realize she hadn't even had the courtesy to thank her host for the generous offer.
“Little brat,” Esther commented from behind the counter. “Glad I wasn't invited. That busybody's up to no good, I guarantee it.”
“I agree,” Lydia replied. “I'm only offering in hopes of staving off some ill-conceived disaster that might affect us all.”
“You're a brave woman, Lydia,” Esther said fervently.
“Did you get any word?” Dylan blurted the second he rounded the doorway into the bank's tiny office. Wesley Fulton's head shot up from the pile of paperwork he was laboriously inscribing on his desk. Then he quickly tucked his pen back into the inkwell before it could drip on the pages. Rising, the young banker approached the sheriff and stuck out his hand.
“Hello, Sheriff. No, sorry to disappoint you. I sent Jesse a letter, but he roams so far it's hard to track him down.”
“You sure he's a good candidate?” Dylan asked for the hundredth time.
Wesley raised one eyebrow. “Yeah, I'm sure. He's from here. He knows every man woman and child over five who lives in this town. He's also been in law enforcement for years. He's just the experienced small-town deputy you need.” Then Wesley paused to ponder. “Well, if he gets the letter… and if he decides to come.”
This time, Dylan's eyebrows rose. “He might not come?”
Wes shrugged. “He said he wasn't coming back. His sweetheart died in the cholera epidemic that wiped out half the town. That outbreak is the reason you're here, Sheriff. The reason Cody is here too, and Kristina – she would never have stayed if her mama had lived – but I figure, it's been five years. Time fades memories and pain. Maybe he's ready to face what he lost.”
Dylan didn't ask Wesley whether he'd ever faced his losses. It seemed the young man had a penchant for moving on without reflection. Don't judge. He may move his life forward too quickly, but you surely take too long. Not wanting to cloud the conversation with unrelated thoughts, Dylan returned to his main objective. “So you sent a letter, but you have no idea if it will reach him, or when, or if he'll come when he receives it, or if he'll even respond? Wes, I can't wait on finding a deputy until your friend decides to answer, if he does. I can't keep watch over the whole town with only one deputy. Neither of us is getting any sleep and the jail goes unguarded half the time. I need a man now, not 'sometime'.”
“I know, I know.” Wesley held up his hands in apology. “I don't mean to make your life harder, Sheriff. I just think Jesse West would be perfect for the job. If you can find someone else, fine. Go ahead. I know even with the volunteer watches at night there's too much to do. But maybe he'll come. I hope you'll consider him.”
“Wes, if your friend turns up, I'll talk to him,” Dylan promised. “Even if I have already filled the position, there might be something else he could do around here, and I wouldn't mind having a lawman in town. But I won't wait on him. I can't. Okay?”
“Fine,” Wes agreed.
Eyeing the dark-haired man, Dylan saw Wesley's handsome face settle into a pout. He's been more miserable than usual lately, he thought. I would have expected, having married his childhood sweetheart, with a baby due in a few months, he'd be happier. Of course, Wesley Fulton had always been a bit of a spoiled mama's boy, and if there was one person old Mrs. Fulton couldn't stand, it was Wesley's wife Allison, née Spencer. Grumpy, displaced mother and grumpy pregnant wife. Maybe his scowl is justified.
“See you later, Wes,” Dylan said, stepping out of the cubicle into the main area of the bank. It seemed the young man's sour mood had rubbed off on him. Or maybe it's the pressure to replace Deputy Charles. I wish I didn't have to, poor fella.
An animated, well-modulated female voice drew his attention to the teller window. At first a line of sweaty patrons obscured the view, but Dylan persisted, and sure enough, his suspicious dissolved into the reality of Lydia Carré making her daily deposit of the café's earnings.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said to the young teller – one of many Fulton boys, and a cousin of Wesley's.
“You're welcome, Miz Carré,” the youth said, writing slowly on a slip of paper and then handing it to her. “Here's your receipt.”
She accepted the scrap and tucked it into her reticule, an intricately beaded pouch in a soft shade of pink. It's the same color as her lips, Dylan realized. His face burned as he realized what a besotted reflection he'd just made. Yes, I'm attracted to her, he admitted to himself, not for the first time, but…
He let the thought drift away. Lydia, however, would not be allowed to do the same. “Afternoon, Miz Carré,” he said in a rumbling undertone. The words seemed to draw her eye like a magnet.
“Sheriff Brody,” she replied. That was it. No further words passed between them. None were needed. Instead their intense connection flowed between their eyes. She drew in a deep breath, her nostrils flaring,
and drew the lip he'd just been admiring into her mouth. Dylan wanted to groan.
Instead, he closed the distance between them in two long-legged strides and offered his arm. “Watch your step,” he said, voicing what had to be the inanest comment in a century. “It's a long way down.”
Despite the fact that she'd navigated the steep entrance into the bank every day for the last five years, without ever tripping once that he knew of, she took his arm. “Thank you.”
Titters erupted behind them, and the burning in Dylan's cheeks intensified, but he ignored the spectacle he was creating, because the scent of Lydia Carré – of freshly baked bread, lily-scented soap, and something else he couldn't define but would know the moment he took it in, even if he couldn't see her – filled his being. He swallowed hard as the front of his trousers suddenly felt much too tight.
He heaved a sigh and led Lydia out the door, away from prying eyes.
The sunlight sparkled bright and hot outside the bank, transforming stuffy closeness into biting heat that seemed to have sprouted fangs and claws.
“My lands, it's hot,” Lydia complained. He glanced her way as he helped her off the bank's high porch into the dusty brick street. She wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead and fanned her face with her hand. Her eyes narrowed, squinting against the painful brightness, and Dylan was charmed again by the sight of the tiny creases in the corners of her eyes. No innocent young miss, Lydia Carré is all mature, enticing woman. I could wish she was mine.
“It is,” he agreed amiably, but the intensity of his tone drew her eyes to his again and another sizzling lightning bolt of attraction passed between them. The expression on her lovely face moved from untempered longing and desire to disappointment. She wants you too. You know she does. Unsure what to do with their mutual interest, Dylan firmly returned their conversation to the mundane. “I'll be glad when the heat breaks. Fall can't come fast enough to suit me.”
“Me either.” A wry twisting of her lips revealed her displeasure. She tugged at the collar of her dress to allow a hot, stale breeze in. “I love what I do, but even before the sunrise the kitchen is miserable.”
Dylan tried to imagine and his mouth turned down to mimic the curve of his mustache. “Sounds terrible.”
She nodded. “Those crisp October mornings, I love warming the kitchen with the scent of bread and pastries. It's so lovely.” They moved down the sidewalk past the church, where muted organ music roiled and bellowed. “And my pumpkins are going to be spectacular this year.” They paused in the meager shadow created by the bell tower.
“Mmmm,” Dylan hummed as they began moving again. His mouth watered. “I dream all year about your pumpkin spice cake. Will you save me a piece when the time comes?” He pleaded, sounding like an eight-year-old kid and not caring. “It would do wonders for my pitiful supper.”
They sighed in unison as a tiny cloud passed over the sun, momentarily killing the heat. “Why do you say pitiful?” Lydia demanded, groaning softly as the beating sun reappeared.
As he considered his answer, Dylan regarded the row of multicolored, single story structures that made up the main street of town, interspersed with businesses. The steeple of the church and the Occidental Hotel seem to tower over the street. “I can't cook,” he replied at last. “Usually after work I'm so tired I fall asleep and burn it up. You don't want to see what happens to a can of baked beans after two hours boiling on a hot stove.” He chuckled at the memory.
Lydia froze in front of her café and gasped. “Oh, Dylan, please tell me you're not eating canned food.” The horror on her face struck him as far too significant for such a commonplace admission. And after all, how many thirty-something widowers don't eat canned food?
“Almost every night,” he replied, puzzled by her vehemence. “Why?”
She frowned, her chocolate brown eyes filling with disgust. “I grew up near the canneries back east. Sometimes the workers ate at my parent's restaurant. The stories they told.” She shuddered. “I've heard things about those places that would make you sick, if the food already hasn't. Please promise me you won't eat any more of that. Only accept jars from people you know personally, ones who know what they're doing.”
Dylan patted her hand. The warmth of her overheated and sweaty skin still felt pleasant, despite the discomfort of the blistering July day. “I don't know what I should do instead, Miss Lydia. You're closed in the evening and the hotel is too expensive for everyday eating. At least for a public servant such as myself.”
Lydia's frown turned to a guilty giggle. “If you ever get served anything, that is,” she said, mocking the shoddy service for which the hotel dining room was famous. “What about the boarding house? I know June Fulton is a fine cook. We worked together on last year's Christmas pot luck.”
“I feel bad eating with her now that I have my own place,” he replied. “She has all those mouths to feed and she won't let me pay.” And her pleading looks drive me insane. June is a sweet woman, but five kids, including a grown son who's slow in the head and will never leave home? I just can't do it. Looking at Lydia, he knew it wasn't Billy Fulton, who despite being slow was one of the nicest people in town, or his three rambunctious younger brothers, or his sister born just a bit too long after her mother's husband's passing that made June beyond consideration. I know what I want. I just don't know how… or even if I should try.
She regarded him with those soulful eyes, eyes that seemed to have seen things no sheltered young lady would understand. An ocean of sorrow lies beyond the chocolate warmth. A river of pain. And an endless pool of compassion. It would be so easy to drown. Something about Lydia touched long-dormant parts of his soul. His maudlin thoughts snapped him out of the hypnotic whirlpool. Damn it, man, you're a sheriff, not a poet.
“It's kind of you to consider her well-being,” she replied, a wry twist of her lip showing she was aware of June's flirting. “Now then, how can a civic minded lady such as myself ensure our longsuffering sheriff stays healthy…”
“First of all,” he said, a teasing grin toying with his lips, “you can get him out of the hot sun.”
Lydia blushed and let her arm slip out of his, grasping his hand so she could drag him into the suffocating shade of her café.
There really is no actual relief from the summer, he realized. But although the air inside the café seemed to close in on him and steal his breath, the scorching sun no longer gnawed at his skin. He sank into one of the wobbly chairs. Lydia pulled one up beside him, but remained standing. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“I'd be mighty glad of a glass of water,” he replied.
She smiled at him, the curving of her plump lips carving a dimple into her right cheek. Her dark eyes crinkled. “Be right back.”
Dylan settled into the rickety chair and surveyed the café for the millionth time. After taking breakfast and lunch there most days, he knew the interior by heart. Wide open windows, normally sparkling clean, but caked with dust from the recent heat and wind. Tables and chairs deliberately left in a rough state, sturdy enough to sit on, but self-consciously humble. A long, scarred wooden counter opposite the exterior door and beside the entry into the kitchen where Lydia had just disappeared. A heavy iron cash register gleamed, though not brightly, in its natural shade of metallic black. The walls had been whitewashed rather than painted and the floorboards sloped and curled up in the corners. Overall, it looked like a homey eatery, comfortable for those who lacked pretention. Most of the townsfolk preferred it to the hotel, which was their only other choice apart from eating at home, and the passers-through who exited the noon train in search of sustenance sometimes complained about the shabby décor, but those who put up with it enjoyed a tasty and inexpensive meal nonetheless.
The kitchen door swung open and Lydia stepped into the space. Their eyes locked and she paused, captured once again it seemed, by the potent lure of their mutual, if unexpressed, attraction. The doorway seemed to frame her, as though the vibrant, vital woma
n had become a portrait of herself, one Dylan could commit to memory. Heavy black hair pulled into a huge braided coil on the back of her head, the sides curling and bending in the heat. Round, pale face with a few freckles across the nose and those arresting brown eyes framed with lush lashes and thick, dark eyebrows. Yes, her nose had some girth and length to it. Some might call it big, but to Dylan it gave character to a face that might otherwise be too beautiful, too angelic to be real. Plump pink cheeks, one dented with a dimple every time she smiled, set his heart pounding. Full lips begged to be kissed, though he hadn't tried it yet. The collar of her dress sat close to her slender neck, though he'd managed to catch a peek at her collarbones when she tugged it. And below… ah, below the perfection of a female figure in full bloom. Her bosom was large enough to bring him to aching readiness, just seeing it push out the bodice of her dress. Her narrow waist flared to round wide hips he would sell his soul to grab hold of. But though the long loose skirt gave no indication of what lay between her hips and the dainty black boots on her feet, he could imagine plump, soft thighs. Dylan swallowed hard, but, lacking enough spittle to accomplish the task, he choked. Choking on air, he thought wryly as the spell shattered once again. She hastened across the room, deftly avoiding tripping over a loose board, and handed him the water. He gulped and the cool beverage moistened his dry throat enough to end his coughing spell. Eyes watering, he regarded his companion in consternation. “Thank you,” he gasped.
Lydia patted his hand. Her rueful smile spoke volumes.
Her fingers remained resting on top of his. Is this the moment? Should I speak? Is it right for me to do? And then too many ugly memories welled up like water from a bitter spring and flowed over his words.
Lydia's open face shuttered and she removed her hand from his.
Be patient, sweet lady. Please, wait for me, Dylan begged silently. There's a gulf you can't imagine between us and I'm trying to cross it, but it's hard. Life's been rough and my heart isn't young and fresh. It doesn't spring back.
High Plains Passion Page 2
