by Gina Welborn
His chin dipped down, and he gave her a sideways look. “You went the wrong way,” he said with a smug half grin that made her feel warm to the tips of her toes. “You do that when your mind is distracted.”
Emilia said nothing in response. She did have her pride after all. There, to the left of the ballroom entrance, was the landscape painting beside the washroom door. Head held high, she continued on past him.
He fell into step.
Emilia kept walking. “Is there something you wish to say?” she asked, her gaze on the open French doors leading to the back lawn.
“You weren’t dancing.”
“I’m a widow.”
“Mrs. Hollenbeck is a widow.”
“Because her husband died after forty years of marriage instead of one day?” Or was it because Mrs. Hollenbeck had become a wife after becoming a bride? Something Emilia hadn’t. That she was a widow wasn’t why she wasn’t dancing. But it was better that was what he believed.
Emilia stopped just outside the patio doors. She looked up at Mac, standing next to her. “You never do anything without a purpose. Is this the beginning of your plan to rescue me from my self-imposed wallflowerdom?”
He regarded her for a moment, long enough so that she felt uncomfortable. “Do you wish to be rescued?” The question was low and even.
The breath left her body.
Yes, she wanted to be rescued. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to feel connected to someone. She wanted to know without a doubt that he would always be there for her, no matter what. Heaven help her, she wanted what she would have had if Finn hadn’t died. A friend. A lover. A champion to go to battle for her. What girl didn’t?
Easing a step away, she looked beyond the potted plants and trees framing the patio, out to where the lawn had been filled with cloth-covered tables. The empty serving table remained, piles of white cloths on top. A nicely dressed man stood next to it, talking to a maid as she folded a white tablecloth. Every time he tried to assist with the folding, the maid shot him an angry glare. Why? The man was only trying to help.
Be cautious because people aren’t always what they present themselves to be. But also be compassionate because people aren’t always what they present themselves to be. Finally, be wise enough to know the difference.
Did Mrs. Hollenbeck not think she knew the difference?
Maybe the maid had good reason to refuse the man’s help. Maybe the man was pressing his unwanted attentions. Maybe they were a couple having an argument. Maybe the maid was tired and wished to be left alone. Or her dog had died that morning. Or her mother was ill. Or she was afraid of relying on someone else to be there to help because she knew one day he wouldn’t be there and she’d be left alone to manage it all.
Just like Da had done.
Just like Finn.
She blinked rapidly to stop tears from forming.
Emilia stepped farther onto the paved patio to put needed space between herself and Mac. He followed. Not that she heard his footsteps. She could feel him. There, standing within arm’s reach, not too close to be improper, yet close enough to make her skin tingle, heart pound, and breath—Goodness, she couldn’t breathe quite right.
“Please leave,” she whispered, hugging her arms to her body, “your presence is needed in the ballroom.” Not here. Not with me.
* * *
She was looking down, looking away, and it took all Mac’s strength not to trace the curve of her neck. The air thickened around them, trapping them in an enchanted place where no one and nothing else existed. He wanted to twist the curling tendril of hair falling over her ear around his finger, to take hold of her shoulders and turn her to face him so he could bend his head until their lips met.
Because he’d been wrong.
When he’d danced with Luci, she said Emilia was using her widowed state as an excuse because she didn’t know how to dance and would be too embarrassed to show it in front of everyone. So Mac watched her, waiting until she left the crowded ballroom to speak with her alone.
And then she asked if he’d come to rescue her from—how had she described it?—her self-imposed wallflowerdom. It confirmed Luci’s statement. More than that, it was another move in this silent dance he and Emilia were engaged in. The flirting, the near kiss, the questioning: two steps together, one step apart.
Now for the twirl.
He swallowed hard and took a step closer so they stood side-by-side. “Emilia? I asked if you wanted to be rescued.”
She turned her head and lifted her chin, bringing her gaze to his, a confused look in her caramel-colored eyes. She was so close, he could touch her if he desired.
He desired. So much so his skin burned with it.
She remained rooted to the spot, her eyes narrowing the way they did when she was pondering something. Her head tilted to the side. Her lips moved, as if she were struggling to voice words.
He stepped in front of her—face-to-face—bringing them within an inch of each other . . . so close he felt the heat of her body like a physical touch.
She braced her hand over his heart, not pushing him away but not drawing him toward her either. It was enough. No woman looked at a man the way Emilia was looking at him if she was still in love with her late husband. “Mac?”
“Yes.” Whatever she needed, whatever she asked, whatever she wanted him to be, his answer would always be yes.
And he would always come to her rescue.
“Eli Alderson, would you let go!”
Mac jerked his gaze across the lawn to see Deputy Alderson’s younger brother holding tight to a white cloth that Mrs. Hollenbeck’s newly hired personal assistant was trying to tug from his grasp. He’d been too focused on Emilia to notice that anyone else was outside.
She dropped her hand and turned to leave. “We shouldn’t be alone together.”
He put his hand out to block her path and waited for her to look at him again. “We’re not alone, and we’ve done nothing wrong. Besides, those two”—he tilted his head toward the arguing couple—“could use a distraction, and we’ll need their help if I’m going to teach you how to dance.”
Her mouth gaped for a moment, pink tingeing her cheeks. “Was it that obvious?”
“Not initially.” And not without a little help from Luci.
Emilia sighed.
“Em.” He tried out a new nickname for her—one he hoped would forge a bond between them that was different from the one she had with her family or anyone else. “May I have this dance?”
“On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“If I’m an embarrassingly poor dancer, you will give up on me.”
“Never.” He slipped his hand around hers and led her toward the arguing couple. If he couldn’t kiss her, at least he could hold her in his arms.
Chapter Sixteen
Monday, May 16
Mac twirled the thingamajig between his fingers. He was missing something. Something big. And he wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t solve Finn’s murder or because he couldn’t stop thinking about how Emilia had felt in his arms when they danced. Or how she’d flirted with him while they played croquet. Or how he wanted to kiss her until she melted into him. Or because he couldn’t think of a single, logical excuse to go to The Resale Co. other than he wanted to see her.
He pushed back from his desk. One more minute indoors and he’d shoot something.
Eleven in the morning was too early for lunch, but he needed a break. An apple fritter and decent black coffee was in order. And the bakery across from The Resale Co. made the best of both. On his way out of the office, he grabbed his hat from a hook beside the door.
As soon as he stepped outside, the bright sunshine lifted his spirit. He breathed in and exhaled, stretching his neck from side to side to ease the ache in his muscles, and set out at a brisk pace. Flowers in every hue of the rainbow decorated window boxes, hanging baskets, and repurposed barrels in front of shops along West Main Street. The hard win
ter was over, and people wanted to forget it as soon as possible.
“Yoo-hoo! Sheriff McCall!”
Mac turned around to see Mrs. Halford, the postmistress, waving at him. He walked toward her, his boots echoing against the boardwalk. “What can I do for you?”
“You have a package.” She disappeared inside the post office but didn’t stop talking. “It came a couple of weeks ago, so I . . .” Whatever she said next was lost when the door closed behind her.
Mac didn’t run to catch up. By the time he made it through the post office door, Mrs. Halford would still be talking. He’d mumble an “Uh-huh,” or something equally noncommittal, and she’d think he’d heard everything she’d said. Not his most gallant response, but the woman could talk the ears off a dead horse.
She was also one of the busiest of Helena’s busybodies.
He slowed. Did she know that he’d gone out to the Circle C last week? That he’d danced with Emilia at the wedding two days ago? If so, his decision not to sit with Emilia in church yesterday to protect her from women like Mrs. Halford and her particular brand of nosy had been a futile effort.
After a deep breath to fortify his nerves, he opened the post office door and went inside.
The postmistress was facing away from him. Talking. “. . . didn’t want this to get lost in the messages and things that must have piled up for you after three weeks of being gone. Such a terrible business you must have had this year with all the foreclosures.” She turned around and thrust a package wrapped in brown paper toward him. “I suspect it’s another book. Those seem to be about the only thing you ever have delivered.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mac tugged the package from her grasp. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
“I thought you were more of a poetry man.” Her eyes went wide, and she pressed her lips into a flat line. Her look of consternation confirmed what he’d long suspected: Mrs. Halford opened packages to see what was inside before sealing them back up for delivery. She leaned sideways to retrieve an envelope stashed below her counter. “This is for Mrs. Collins. Return address is from someone named Stanek in Chicago. A relative, I suspect.”
And she’d kept it within reach so, as soon as she got him inside the post office, she could see what he’d do with it.
“I’ve had it for a few days,” Mrs. Halford continued. “She works so hard, you know. It’s difficult for her to stop by.” She waved the letter like a fan.
It was a test . . . and the whole purpose behind her tracking him down on the sidewalk. If he took the letter, she’d have a juicy tidbit to share with her friends confirming the relationship. If he didn’t, she could say there was trouble in Paradise or some such nonsense.
Either way, he wasn’t getting out of the post office without inspiring more gossip, so he might as well use the excuse to go see Emilia. It was what he wanted to do anyway.
“I’ll see that it gets delivered.” Mac took the letter and tucked it inside the string wrapped around his book. He tipped his hat to the postmistress then set off toward The Last Chance Café instead of the bakery. If he was bringing Emilia a letter, he might as well bring her lunch, too.
* * *
Gripping a sack lunch and a jug of cider, Mac stepped inside The Resale Co. Emilia was helping a gaggle of women, her back to the door. One of the ladies looked at him and then at the lunch sack. He gave her his most nonchalant nod and headed straight back to the storeroom so she’d assume he was having lunch with Isaak.
At least he hoped that was the assumption she’d make. The less gossip he inspired, the better.
Isaak stood with Martin Wegman who was extolling the virtues of a battered travel trunk that had come overland in a Conestoga wagon back in ’69.
“I realize it’s an heirloom in your family, sir.” Isaak kept his tone polite, but his toe tapped against the floorboards. “That doesn’t mean I’m willing to pay more than the cost of a new one. Eleven dollars.”
Mac set the lunch bag and jug of cider on a nearby crate. He was no expert, but the trunk didn’t look like it would fetch more than seven or eight dollars.
Wegman held himself rigid, staring up at the young man towering over him. “I paid twenty dollars for it, and it’s worth every penny of that, ya ken?”
Poor man. He’d worked as a stockman for the Diamond S, one of the big ranches that had reported a loss of fifteen thousand cattle. Much of that was exaggeration. The Diamond S—as well as a large number of the other big ranches—practiced a loose kind of accounting for stock growth. Though they said it was because herds of fifty to seventy thousand were hard to count, Mac suspected it was more about keeping their taxes low. But no matter the reason, the huge number of cattle lost over the past winter resulted in hundreds of men like Wegman losing good-paying jobs.
“All right, twelve dollars. But that’s the best I can do.” Isaak’s tone remained firm.
Wegman nodded and held out a trembling hand. As soon as the older man left, Isaak lifted the heavy trunk and set it beside a six-foot-tall cupboard much like the one in Finn’s cabin. “What can I do for you, Mac?”
“I have a letter for Mrs. Collins.”
“I see.” Isaak stared at the lunch bag and jug of cider. “And you’re wondering if I can spare her for half an hour?”
“Something like that.” Mac shifted under Isaak’s continuing stare. “It’s just lunch.”
“Mm-hmm.” Isaak dug a notebook and pencil from the pocket inside his suit coat. “And I just lost a bidding war.”
So all that bartering had been to save Wegman’s pride.
“It’s just lunch,” Mac repeated, which made Isaak smirk. “And she’ll want a half hour to read the letter.”
“Mm-hmm.” There was a definite teasing undertone to the murmur.
Mac deserved it. “I know. I should have done this long ago.” He snatched the bag and jug off the crate and headed back to the main store.
A chuckle and, “You owe me fifty dollars,” followed him.
The women were gathered around the cash register completing their purchases. Mac waited for them to leave before stepping into view.
Emilia gave him a wary look. “Mac.”
He walked closer and set the lunch bag and jug on the counter. “I was passing by the post office when Mrs. Halford flagged me down.” He dug the letter from inside the twine binding around his book. “Said she’d been holding on to this for a couple of days and wondered if I could deliver it to you.”
Emilia took it from him and gasped. “It’s from Da.” She pressed it against her heart. “Thank you.”
“Mrs. Collins”—Isaak strolled into the main store—“I have an errand to run at one today. Would you mind taking an early lunch?”
“Of course not, Mr. Gunderson.” She smiled brightly. “Mac delivered a letter from my father.”
“Our good sheriff is all consideration.” Isaak’s tone remained bland, but the side of his mouth tipped upward. “If you wish to take a little extra time to read your letter, that’s fine. I just need you back by one.”
Emilia looked at the nearest grandfather clock. “Forty-five minutes is far too—”
“—short for you to re-read your father’s letter more than twice.”
“I was going to say it was far too long.”
Isaak walked behind the extra-tall counter and assisted Emilia down from her stool. “Which is why I cut you off before you could say it.”
Emilia chuckled and turned her blinding smile on Mac.
His fingers tightened around the paper sack. Did she have any idea what that smile did to him? Heaven help him if she did. “Would you like to sit in the storeroom?”
“Sure. My feet could use a break.”
Mac followed her toward the back of the store without giving Isaak Gunderson the satisfaction of a response to the man’s smirk.
They sat on a small bench awaiting a fresh coat of varnish, Mac on the right, Emilia on the left. He set the lunch bag and cider between them. Should he tell her th
at the two of them were inspiring gossip and bets in Doc’s Book of Wagers? No. He didn’t want to give her any reason to stop having lunch with him. Besides, she was forthright enough to tell him if the rumors and speculation ever became a problem for her.
He opened the lunch bag. “Help yourself to whatever you want. There’s too much for one person in there.” He withdrew the book from where he’d tucked it under his arm and picked at the twine wrapping.
Emilia ripped open her letter and read in silence. After a few minutes, she looked inside the bag then withdrew a wedge of cheese.
While she nibbled the cheddar and read, he opened his book to the first chapter. The quiet between them was peaceful. Comfortable. Like a couple who’d been together long enough they didn’t need to speak to enjoy each other’s company.
“Thank you.”
He slanted a grin her way. “You’re very welcome.”
Her return smile made him grateful they were already sitting down. The woman’s lips weakened his knees. She dropped her gaze to his mouth, her smile fading. Pink crept into her cheeks and she looked away.
Ho boy! Was that what he thought it was? Did she spend time wondering how a kiss between them would feel? Because, ever since the croquet game, he’d spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it himself. His heart swelled and pulsed against his rib cage. Should he declare himself? Say out loud that he’d like permission to court her as though she’d boarded the train to come to him? Him! Not Finn.
Mouth dry, Mac picked up the jug of cider and uncorked it. The instant he touched the rim to his lips, he realized his mistake. His breath hitched, sending him into a coughing fit.
“Are you all right?” Emilia pounded his back with a small, ineffectual fist while he hunched over his thighs, hacking.
“Fine,” he wheezed, and she stopped hitting his spine.
Cups! He should have borrowed some cups. His deputies never balked at sharing the same jug when they were out on a posse, but it was different for women.
He set the jug between them and pressed his coat sleeve against the corners of his mouth. “Sorry.”
