Never Love a Lawman

by Jo Goodman

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m telling you, it’s there in your eyes.”

  Wyatt turned his attention back to the telegraph office near the end of the street. “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  Wyatt shrugged. “What do you suppose she’s doing in there today?”

  Rose glanced over her shoulder at the now empty sidewalk. “I expect she’s takin’ delivery of some packages. Artie Showalter picks up her things at the depot and brings them to his office. She’s been expecting three yards of Belgian lace and a bolt of peacock-blue sateen. She says she gets it faster if she places the order herself instead of asking for it at Morrison’s.”

  “Really?”

  “You couldn’t be at all interested, so why bother asking?”

  “Just making talk, I expect.”

  “Are you sure you’re not fixin’ to court her? Seems like every other single man’s fixed his eye on that prize. Now that I recollect, a couple of married men spun that notion around in what sadly passes for their minds—until their wives spun it back.”

  “I say again, I’m not fixing to court anyone, let alone Miss Rachel Bailey.”

  “Why not? She’s handsome enough, ain’t she?”

  “Handsome enough?” It wasn’t how he would have described her, but coming from Rose, it was a fulsome compliment. “Yes. She’s that.” And more, he thought. A pure pleasure. He nudged Rose with his shoulder. “Who are you trying to marry off? Me or her?”

  “Don’t see that it matters either way. You’re not exactly keeping me in silk and silver, and she’s a nice enough lady. A little sad about the eyes, if you ask me, but not so much that you think she’s about to burst into tears if you look at her sideways.”

  “Huh.”

  That was enough of a prompt for Rose to go on. “I never heard anything that wasn’t gossip and speculation because Miss Bailey likes to keep to herself, but my girls spin a good tale about her pining away. They’re fanciful in that regard, especially on a slow day.”

  “Is that right?”

  Rose ignored that. “Anyway, if you came around more, I might not like seein’ you go, but the way it is now, it’d be all right if you put your hat in the ring for Miss Bailey’s affections. She’s not going to stop making dresses just because she gets married, so I’m thinkin’ that’ll be all right, too. And she does keep me in silk and silver, though, God knows, I pay a pretty price for it.”

  “You’re the best-dressed woman in Reidsville,” Wyatt said. “Probably in Colorado.”

  She laughed. “When I’m wearing clothes.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your birthday suit, but Miss Bailey does right by you.”

  Rose thought it was an odd thing for him to say. Not the first, but the second. She’d never have guessed his watchful, predatory eyes noticed the cut of a woman’s gown or the color of her threads. “You’re a peculiar sort of fellow, aren’t you, Wyatt?”

  Though only one side of his mouth lifted, what he offered his companion was most definitely a grin. “I never thought about it.”

  “Well, I’m telling you, you are. I’ve known you, what? Five years?”

  “Something like that.”

  She simply shook her head. “Peculiar.” Before she could elaborate, she saw Rachel Bailey step out of the telegraph office. “Oh, there she is.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Looks like her packages came.”

  “Looks like.”

  “She’s juggling an armful. Might be she could use an extra pair of hands.”

  “Might be she should have taken Artie up on his offer to help her.”

  “Now, how do you know he offered to tote those home for her?”

  “He always offers. She always refuses.”

  Rose gave him another sideways glance. “You been askin’ after her.”

  Wyatt didn’t confirm or deny her claim.

  Sighing softly, Rose changed the subject. “I hope she’s got the peacock-blue sateen in one of those. That’s for me.”

  “I thought it might be.”

  “Adele’s been waiting for the Belgian lace. She’s been pining for that trim on a nightgown since Miss Bailey showed her a sample.”

  “She sews for your girls, too?”

  “Sure she does. Pays to have them lookin’ real nice. Like I said, if you dropped in more than once in a blue moon, you probably would have realized it. Where have you been anyway?”

  “Around.”

  “Not in town, not so folks have seen you much. You leave that no-account Beatty boy in charge. What do you suppose he’d do if there was trouble?”

  “Same as me. And you shouldn’t call him that.”

  Rose rolled her eyes at his rebuke. “Why not? You do. Everyone does.”

  “Everyone else doesn’t say it with the same mean edge that you do.”

  “I’m sure you misheard. Is it all right with you if I call him a boy?”

  Wyatt drew back and regarded Rose with interest. “Are you sweet on him?”

  “Sweet on him? Didn’t I just say he was a boy?”

  “He’s twenty-seven. Seems about the right age for a man.”

  “No man as far as I can tell, and my girls have been wonderin’ the same. We’re thinkin’ he’s sweet on you, Wyatt Cooper, and that explains why he never visits us.”

  Wyatt considered all the responses he could make to the particulars of that statement. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose that’s a compliment. Will’s a real fine-looking young man.”

  “You’ve only got five years on him, Wyatt.”

  “But a lot more time in the saddle.”

  “That’s what I mean. No one doubted you were a man at twenty-seven. Will’s still got pink in his cheeks and green behind his ears.”

  Wyatt settled his hip against the rail and folded his arms across his chest. “Will does all right for himself, Rose. He likes Denver women just fine.”

  “Denver women?” Her dark eyebrows arched dramatically. “Whores, you mean. What’s he doin’, goin’ to Denver? What’s wrong with my girls?”

  “Did I say he was bedding whores?”

  “There’s no respectable women in Denver that aren’t married. Is he seeing a married woman?”

  “No.”

  “Ha! Then he’s bedding down in the tenderloin.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Is it losing his business that bothers you or something else? Maybe I was wrong about you not having a jealous bone.”

  Rose’s mouth flattened. “As if I’d give him the time of day.”

  “Maybe not, but you’d wind his clock.”

  Pushing away from the rail, Rose spun around and jerked her chin in the direction of the departing Rachel Bailey. “Shouldn’t you be trailing after her skirts?”

  Having riled her sufficiently to make his point, he merely gave her his laziest half grin. “I know where she’s going.”

  Rose fingered Wyatt’s suspender from his waist to his shoulder. In case the gesture wasn’t obvious to him, she offered a coy come-on. “What about me? Do you know where I’m going?”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  She abandoned the suspender strap in favor of taking a fistful of his shirttail. “Why don’t we see if you’re right?”

  Offering no resistance, Wyatt allowed Rose to lead him back inside her fancy house and into her fancier bed. They were satisfied, as they always were, to make good use of each other.

  Rachel Bailey dropped one of her parcels. Even as she stooped to retrieve it, young Johnny Winslow was bending to scoop it up.

  “Here you are, Miss Bailey.” He held it out to her before he noticed she was having difficulty with her remaining load. As more packages bobbled in her arms, he made another offer. “Better yet, let me take some of these from you. No trouble, I promise you.”

  “That’s kind of you,” she said, “but Mrs. Longabach likely has need of you elsewhere. I can hear her calling for you. Just hel
p me rearrange these, and I’ll be all right.”

  Johnny regarded her with a mixture of skepticism and disappointment. He glanced at the broom he’d set against the restaurant’s window so he could help her. Sometimes he wished Mrs. Longabach would just hop on and ride it out of Reidsville. “Course, miss. I’ll get them settled in your arms just the way you want them.”

  Rachel allowed her arms to relax as Johnny took the weight of the parcels from her. She knew she shouldn’t have tried to carry everything herself, but she’d stubbornly insisted that she could do it even though Mr. Showalter offered one of his boys to share the load. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the kindness; she simply didn’t want the company. She never wanted the company.

  The sudden appearance of Mrs. Longabach made Rachel jump and lose the two parcels that Johnny had already put in her outstretched hands.

  “Heavens! I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Bailey. I came out to learn why Johnny was ignoring me.” Mrs. Longabach’s thin face lost its pinched, disapproving expression as she took account of the scene in front of her. “Well, I can surely see that he’s up to good this time, and I can tell you, it’s a nice change. Go on, Johnny, finish helping Miss Bailey. You take some of her packages and see that she gets home without another mishap.”

  “No, really—” Rachel’s protest fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Longabach had her own reasons for making certain that the parcels arrived undamaged.

  “My batiste came today, didn’t it?” As if she could divine the contents, Mrs. Longabach looked over the plainly wrapped parcels with an eager and eagle eye. “The moss green? Oh, I dearly hope it was the moss green.”

  “The moss green and the shell pink.”

  Mrs. Longabach’s eyes brightened. “Well, isn’t that just grand? I swear, Miss Bailey, you have the greatest good fortune when it comes to getting what you want.”

  Rachel’s smooth brow creased. “I do?”

  “Your material, dearie. Seems to me like the train from Denver runs to Reidsville just for you. There’s always something waiting for you when it reaches our end of the line.”

  Rachel considered that. “I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t realized.”

  “Course the train runs for all of us, doesn’t it just? I’m not the first one to say that we don’t know what would become of Reidsville if Clinton Maddox hadn’t decided we were worth the cost of rails and ties.” Mrs. Longabach tucked a frazzled tendril of nut-brown hair behind her ear. “None of that’s neither here nor there, is it? I don’t imagine you ever give it any thought, what with you being so new to our town and all.”

  “I’ve been here more than a year now,” Rachel reminded her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Johnny Winslow’s arms were beginning to sag under the weight of her parcels. She snatched two from the top of the pile and shored up the others. “But you’re right, Mrs. Longabach, I never gave it a thought. That doesn’t speak well of me, I’m afraid.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a criticism, Miss Bailey.” Her hands fiddled in the folds of her calico apron. “You shouldn’t think I meant it like that.”

  Rachel hardly knew what to say. Rather than be caught in an endless circle of apologies where not even one was required or desired, she pointed to the armload that Johnny was barely balancing. “I should see to these, Mrs. Longabach. I’ll call on you when I’ve sorted through the material and schedule a fitting.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’ll look forward to that. Go on with you, Johnny. Miss Bailey doesn’t need you dawdling, and I certainly need you back here. There’s pots, pans, and a kitchen floor that needs scrubbing. Now scat.”

  Rachel noticed that Mrs. Longabach was primarily speaking to Johnny’s back, because as soon as she’d said “go,” the boy made a dash for it. “Good day, Mrs. Longabach.” She offered a brisk wave and took off after Johnny, lengthening her stride until she caught up with him in front of Wickham’s Leather Goods. “Whoa, Johnny. There’s no point in making a race of it.”

  Johnny slowed his step so Rachel could fall in beside him. “Sorry, miss. Mrs. Longabach, well, sometimes I don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’ when she’s around. Mister says that he just circles her and that seems to work most times.”

  That no-account Beatty boy stepped out of Wickham’s. “Hey, Johnny. Miss Bailey. You need some help with what you got there?”

  Johnny Winslow thrust out his chin, immediately defensive. “I got it.”

  For Johnny’s benefit, Rachel was careful to temper her smile, but her response was no less firm. “We can manage, Deputy Beatty. Thank you.”

  “But you don’t mind if I tag along, do you?”

  Rachel did mind. Very much. The trouble was she couldn’t think of a single credible reason to keep the deputy from joining her. She hoped Johnny would be inspired to offer an objection, but he’d just struck a resigned, sullen pose. “If that’s your pleasure,” she said. She was polite but unenthusiastic, and judging by Will Beatty’s quick grin he didn’t fail to notice. Nevertheless, he was undeterred and loped along beside them, his long and lanky arms swinging at his sides.

  “Shall we cross the street here, gentlemen?” she asked. “Unless I am mistaken, that’s Mr. Dishman taking a stretch from his checkers game and he looks set to join our parade.” She didn’t need to mention that Abe Dishman, a widower of some ten years and at least thirty years her senior, was one of her most ardent, persistent admirers. Everyone in Reidsville knew that Abe made a marriage proposal to her on or around the seventh of every month. Today was the fifth, too close to Abe’s chosen date for Rachel to risk a public declaration. She’d been setting herself to the problem of how to turn him down this time, and since she hadn’t quite worked it out in her mind, she judged it was better to avoid him.

  “Too bad for Abe that checkers is his game,” Beatty said, looking up and down the street before they made the diagonal crossing.

  “Hmm?” Rachel was unhappily aware that the deputy had placed his palm under her elbow to assist her from the sidewalk to the street. Distracted, she realized she hadn’t heard him. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Standing just behind them, Johnny stared hard at where Will Beatty’s hand rested on Rachel’s arm. “He said, ‘too bad for Abe that checkers is his game.’ Ain’t that right, Will? That’s what you said.”

  Will nodded amiably. “I did.”

  Rachel accepted the deputy’s help until she had firm footing on the dusty street, then gently disengaged herself from his fingers. “Why is that too bad?”

  “Why, Miss Bailey, if he was a chess man, he’d have captured you long ago.”

  “Is that so, Deputy?” She didn’t look at him but concentrated on keeping a step ahead so that when they reached the opposite sidewalk she could take the step up without his help. “Is that your notion alone or the prevailing thought?”

  “Can’t take credit for it. Seems like I heard it somewhere else first. I guess that makes it the prevailing thought. It’s a good one, though, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t suppose the person who observed it was moved to wonder if I play chess.”

  Will Beatty chuckled. His grin spread easily, taking up most of the lower half of his face. Cradling that wide smile and lending it a mischievous, boyish charm were two deep, crescent-shaped dimples. He gave Rachel a nod and what passed for an appreciative salute by tipping his hat back with his forefinger. A shock of hair as light and feathery as corn silk was revealed in the gesture.

  “I reckon you do play chess, Miss Bailey,” he said. “Probably good at it, too, ain’t you?”

  “Do you play?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then let me just say I’m good enough to make the game interesting for my opponent.”

  Beatty tugged at the brim of his hat so it settled securely on his head. “I’ll pass that along.”

  She looked at him sharply. There was a decided lack of warmth in her coffee-colored eyes. “Pass that along?” she asked. “
To whom? I’m sure I don’t like being the subject of anyone else’s conversation.”

  “Now ye’re in for it,” Johnny told Will, clearly relishing the notion.

  “I don’t need a Greek chorus tellin’ me what’s what,” Beatty said.

  “Uh? That don’t make no kind of sense. I ain’t Greek.”

  Rachel’s expression lost some of its chill. “Enough,” she said, sounding more than a little like a schoolmarm charged with settling two unruly boys. “Both of you. Look, here we are.” She stopped on the short flagstone walk leading up to her porch and spared a glance at her home. The sight of it warmed her and helped her draw deeper on her well of patience.

  The small, whitewashed frame house beckoned as a sanctuary. The window boxes held a variety of herbs: dill, mint, thyme, and chive. Around the side was a modest vegetable garden that she’d already harvested and cleared in anticipation that a cold snap would be upon them soon. The greenery of morning glories covered the lattice that she’d painstakingly repaired and painted. She’d forgotten that she’d left the windows open at the front of the house. A breeze had drawn out both pairs of lace panels and they fluttered against the shutters as flirtatiously as a dewy-eyed coquette.

  There was some talk in town when she painted her front door red, but folks had gotten used to it—more or less—and put it down to one of her many eccentricities. Come spring, she would paint the shutters.

  “I’ll take my parcels now,” she said, turning to Johnny.

  Johnny looked a bit longingly past her shoulder to the front porch and the intriguing red door. “It’s no problem, Miss Bailey. I’d be pleased to—”

  “No, truly,” Rachel said, interrupting him. “I’ll see myself inside.” She held her ground, effectively blocking the path for both of her escorts, then held out her arms. “Pile them on.”

  Johnny’s eyes darted to Will Beatty. “Ain’t there some law that says a fellow oughta help a lady?”

  “Suppose we could pass an ordinance or some such fool thing, but that’d take time, and Miss Bailey’s lookin’ fit to be tied. Give her the parcels, Johnny, because neither one of us is goin’ to get on the other side of that red door today.”

  Johnny Winslow’s expression was so perfectly hangdog that Rachel was moved to laugh. “I’m telling you, Mr. Winslow, that your imagination is far superior to anything you’d discover inside my home. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”