by Jo Goodman
Rose responded with a measured smile of her own. “Is there any other kind?”
“I don’t suppose so,” said Will. He glanced around. “Do you have somewhere private that we can talk?”
“Do you see anyone else around?”
He shook his head. “I guess this will do.” He shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other. “You heard about the attempt to rob the bank, I imagine. Two of your girls knew something about it.”
“Yes. I heard, the same as them.”
“Did you know Miss Adele was gone during that time?”
“Of course I knew. She left with one of her—” Rose stopped and put a hand to her head. “Don’t tell me that he was one of the bank robbers.”
“Afraid so, leastways that’s what Miss Adele’s telling me. She says he asked her to take a walk with him, promised her lunch, but when they were out, his friend shows up and joins them. Not long after, she says, they’re draggin’ her behind Wickham’s Leather Goods and makin’ it real clear that she needs to get the bank manager for them.”
“What are you saying? She helped them?”
“I don’t think they gave her any choice. I thought you should know. She’s real upset about it, and I had to ask her a lot of questions on account of there being two men in jail. Hard for her to settle her nerves. Mr. Caldwell gave her something he swore would calm her down since it worked fine on Miss Bailey. Mr. Reston’s not blaming her—Adele, I mean, not Miss Bailey—no one else is, either, for that matter, but I figure you know her best, and if she was really part of it—the planning and all—well, I figure you’d know.”
Rose decided she needed to sit. She jerked on the train of her gown, lifted it so she could drape it over her forearm, and perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “How does Miss Bailey figure into your story?”
“She doesn’t really,” Will said. “She was just passing Longabach’s with the sheriff when he noticed somethin’ was wrong inside.”
“Oh.” She supposed he thought that explained it all because he didn’t seem inclined to tell her more. She decided not to pursue it. “Deputy, if you’re asking me if Adele Brownlee is capable of planning a robbery, then the answer is no. That girl’s idea of a plan is laying out her Sunday clothes on Saturday night. She’s got a good soul, too, not just a good heart, and her worst fault is that she’s too trusting. There’s probably not another girl here that would have accepted an invitation out with a man she’d just met, no matter how flush he seemed.”
“No one tried to stop her?”
“Doesn’t seem like, does it? I didn’t see her go. I only heard about it afterward.” Gold and silver flashed as Rose pressed her long-fingered hands together. “Is that all you needed, Deputy?”
“It is, ma’am.”
“God, but you make me feel like an old whore.”
Will blinked. His cheeks went bright red. “Ma’am?”
“Stop calling me that. I’m your age, maybe younger. Call me Rose, or Miss LaRosa, but stop tiptoeing around me like I was your maiden aunt.”
“Sorry, ma’—Miss LaRosa.”
Rose rolled her eyes. “Is there something wrong with you, Will Beatty?”
“Wrong?”
“Never mind. I don’t suppose you’d admit it anyway.” She gave him a dismissive wave. “Go on. I need to look after Adele. If she’s in a bad way, then I should be with her.” She stood up and turned to go, only to be brought up short by that no-account Beatty boy’s hand on her arm. She looked down at his hand, then at him. Her expression could not have been more disdainful.
Before she drew another breath, his mouth was on hers. The kiss was deep and fiery and went on just about as long as two people could make it last and still stay on their feet. When he drew back, he gave her a look that was as penetrating as his kiss. He returned his hat to his head, tipped it slightly.
“Just in case you were wonderin’, Miss LaRosa.” Then he left her, damn sure he’d answered her question.
Rachel felt as if someone had stuffed her head with cotton batting. She rolled slowly onto her back and lay very still, aware of nothing so much as her breathing and an odd tightness in her chest. She ran fingertips over her midriff and identified the problem. She was still wearing her corset.
In fact, she was still wearing her dress. She tried to recall if she’d ever fallen asleep wearing anything but a nightgown and nothing came to mind. In her present position, with the steel stays pressing tightly against her, even her ability to heave a deep and satisfying sigh was restricted.
Rachel opened one eye, then the other. Her bedroom was dark. A slim strip of light coming from another room defined the opening between her door and the frame. She turned her head to the window and saw the curtains had not been drawn. It was darker outside her room than in it, and she was alert enough now to realize she’d slept for hours.
From somewhere beyond her room, the low hum of voices was carried back to her. Curious, rather than concerned, especially as she recognized one of them immediately as Wyatt Cooper’s, Rachel sat up, pushed aside the quilt, and eased her legs over the side of the bed, careful to make as little noise as possible.
Her feet touched the floor. She congratulated herself for at least having the good sense to remove her boots before she climbed into bed; then the sliver of light revealed the pair she’d been wearing were resting on the seat of a caned chair—a place she would never have put them—and she had reason to wonder if she had any sense at all.
Rachel’s footfalls were cushioned by her stockings. She put her ear to the opening in the doorway, listening for the direction of the voices before she nudged it enough to allow her to slip through.
She couldn’t see into the kitchen from her place in the hallway, but it was no longer so difficult to make out the conversation or identify the owner of the other voice. Her immediate sense was that they hadn’t been talking long. There still seemed to be some settling in to do, and she thought it was even likely that Will Beatty’s arrival at her home was what had awakened her.
Rachel didn’t dwell on why she wasn’t announcing her presence to them, but if she had she would have concluded that she wasn’t the intruder here. They were. Justified or not, she listened without a qualm.
“Careful, Will, that coffee’s hot. You saw me just pull it off the stove.” Wyatt handed his deputy a towel to wipe up the table where he’d just sloshed some over the rim of his cup and saucer.
“Doesn’t she have any mugs?” asked Will. “Why do ladies like these little cups? I’m always afraid I’ll break one. They hardly hold more than a mouthful anyway.”
Wyatt scowled. “Here, give me that towel. You’re making a mess.”
“When did you get so fussy? Ow!” He rubbed the red welt on his wrist where Wyatt had expertly snapped him with the towel. “What did you do that for?”
“For calling me fussy.” Wyatt unwound the towel and tossed it behind him at the sink. “And keep your voice down, Will. I told you that Miss Bailey’s sleeping.”
“And that’s another thing,” said Will. “If she’s sleeping, what are you still doing here?”
“Waiting for her to wake up.”
“You know that doesn’t make no sense.”
“It does if you’d seen her at Caldwell’s. He must have used a ladle to measure the laudanum. Someone has to be here to make sure she’s all right.”
Will tried his coffee again. “Hey, this is good. How come you don’t make it like this at the office?”
Wyatt ignored the question. “Since you’re here, who’s minding the store?”
“Ed Kennedy agreed to spell me. Sam Walker stopped in and said he’d keep Ed company. Our prisoners aren’t going anywhere.”
“Good.” Wyatt warmed up his coffee and took a swallow. “What about Adele? Did you get her back to Rose’s?”
“Sure did. Just about the last thing I got done. I had to wait for Doc Diggins to show up and look her over. She was still jumpy and weepy, and Mrs.
Longabach looked about ready to give her a mercy slap, so Doc sent me next door for a bottle of laudanum. Of course, the doc just spooned it in her mouth. Miss Adele calmed right down, and I took her home before it wore off.”
“Good thinking. What did Rose say?”
“Just what you thought she would, that Adele could have easily fallen in with Morrisey and Spinnaker but couldn’t have been part of the planning.” Will shook his head at Adele’s naiveté. “What I can’t figure out is why those two wanted to make it seem like it was all her idea.”
“Maybe to avoid an abduction charge. Who knows? Maybe they think the jury will go easier on them if they say they were struck stupid by a woman.”
Will was quiet a moment considering this. “Do you think that can happen?”
“No, the jury’s going to be—” Wyatt stopped because Will was shaking his head. He regarded his deputy with a growing sense of disbelief. “What? You’re wondering if a woman can strike a man stupid?”
Will nodded. “You think that’s possible?”
“Possible? I’m wondering how you got to be twenty-seven and not know it for a fact.”
“I guess I never thought about it. Women…” He dragged his fingers through his hair and shrugged a bit sheepishly. “Women, they just seem real fine to me. It’s like…”
Wyatt waited, but Will seemed to be stuck for a metaphor and finally just shrugged again, ending his speculation.
“Are those cookies in that tin?” he asked.
Amused by Will’s wandering attention, Wyatt pushed the tin closer to his deputy. “Molasses. Don’t eat them all.” He watched Will embrace the tin before he opened it, and when his deputy lifted the lid and the aroma was released, his eyes just about rolled back in his head. That no-account Beatty boy had been struck stupid, all right, but apparently it was cookies that did the trick. “I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” Wyatt said, holding out his hand. “Give me another one of those.”
Will chose one from the tin and put it in Wyatt’s palm; then he took one for himself. He continued to embrace the tin as he took a big bite of his cookie. “So tell me again how you knew something was wrong at Longabach’s. People are going to be talkin’ about that for a while, and I want to be able to set them straight.”
“People need to find better things to talk about.” When Wyatt saw that Will wouldn’t be moved from this subject and now had the food he needed to sustain him, he reluctantly gave in. “Henry was at the till, and Estella wasn’t around. Johnny, either. I told you all that.”
“You did, but there’s more. I’ve been your deputy long enough to know there’s more.”
“Well, Abe had a string of jumps set up on the board, and he ignored them in favor of making a nonsensical move that gave Ned the advantage. Not only didn’t Ned bite, but he moved a double stack right where Abe could take it.”
“So they were rattled?”
“Rattled? I don’t know. More likely they were trying to tell me that something was wrong.” Wyatt dunked his cookie and quickly took a bite. “Have you ever seen Jake Reston or Andy Miller taking a meal together on a Saturday afternoon?”
“Never seen them sharing a table any day of the week.”
“Exactly. On Saturdays, Jake goes directly home as soon as the bank closes at noon. He didn’t speak to me when I poked my head in, which is hardly his usual greeting. Andy never looked up, and his face was about as green as his soup. Most telling, though, was Adele. She was sitting alone at her table.”
Will whistled softly. “That would have gotten my attention. She’s never by herself.”
“That’s what struck me first; then she gave me a coy look, and that confirmed everything I’d just seen.”
“Why? Adele flirts with everyone. She can hardly help herself.”
“Now, there you’re wrong. Adele never gives me a look like that. Rose says she’s scared of me.”
“Well, ain’t that something?”
Wyatt ignored that. “Did you go see Artie like I asked?”
“Sure I did. I got your reply right here.” He started to reach inside his vest for it, but Wyatt told him to just tell him what it said. “Mr. Clay and Mr. Kirby will be at the Commodore tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“That have something to do with the spur?”
“It does. Miss Bailey wants to learn as much as she can about the operation.”
“She’s takin’ it real serious, ain’t she?” Will plucked another cookie from the tin. “I have to say I admire that.”
“That cookie or her determination?”
Will grinned. “Both.” He took a sizable bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Seems to me that one complements the other.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I expect her cookies are just that good because she’s determined that they should be.”
Wyatt stared at that no-account Beatty boy.
“What?” asked Will. “What did I do?”
“Nothing.” Wyatt rubbed the underside of his chin with his knuckles. “Sometimes you just surprise me, is all.” He eased the tin away from Will’s territorial hug and pushed it to the far side of the table. “Do you want me to bunk down at the jail tonight?”
“No reason for you to do that. I don’t expect they’ll get rowdy. They weren’t even talkin’ to each other when I left. Ed said he’d stick around if I need him.” He hesitated. “Ah, are you goin’ to be…that is, um, are you…”
“Say what’s on your mind, Will.”
“Since I don’t need you at the jail, does that mean you’re bunkin’ here tonight?” When Wyatt just stared hard at him, Will’s hands came up defensively. “You said I should—”
Wyatt interrupted him. “I’m trying to decide what I regret more: encouraging you to speak up or leaving my rifle at the back door.”
“I can see how that’d be a…what’s that word you were tellin’ me about…means a puzzle?”
“Conundrum.”
“That’s it. You have yourself a regular conundrum.”
“I’m leaning hard toward getting my rifle.”
Rachel stepped out of the hallway and presented herself in the alcove to the kitchen. Her glance darted from Wyatt to Will, then back again. “I think that’s a very good idea, Sheriff.”
Chapter Seven
Startled, Will leapt to his feet. His chair tipped on its back legs and would have crashed to the floor if Wyatt hadn’t reached around the table and caught it.
“Easy there, Will. I think she means to aim that rifle at me.”
Will Beatty studied Wyatt’s face for some sign that he was kidding and couldn’t find a twitch or a twinkle. It was more of the same when he looked at Rachel. “Well, all right, then. I’ll just be goin’ and leave you two to sort it out. I’ll talk to the one that’s still alive in the mornin’.”
Judging that the most direct route out of the kitchen was to squeeze behind Wyatt’s chair, that’s what Will did. He nodded at Rachel. “Excellent cookies, Miss Bailey. Good day.”
“I’ll be talking to you tomorrow, Deputy.”
That assurance made Will glance back at Wyatt and offer a sympathetic smile; then he slipped into the mudroom and took up his coat, gloves, gun belt, and hat. He was still putting them on as he stepped outside.
From where she was standing, Rachel could see Will leave. When the door closed behind him, she turned her attention to Wyatt. “That no-account Beatty boy must want your job, Sheriff. He didn’t trouble himself to take your rifle.”
“I imagine getting out of your way was his first priority. It’s hard to fault his sense of self-preservation.”
Rachel nodded, approaching the table. “Is there coffee left?”
“Mm-hmm.” Wyatt reached behind him and took the pot off the stove while Rachel got a cup and saucer. He poured when she held the cup out across the table.
“I’ve always favored a dainty cup,” she said. “I suppose because it lends itself to grace and good manne
rs.”
Wyatt paused in the act of returning the pot to the stove. “Well, that answers my question about how much you heard.”
She smiled, the placement of her lips both sweet and insincere. “I thought it might.”
Wyatt set the pot down and swiveled back around. He pointed to the chair she usually sat in when they were together. “Will you consider joining me?”
It went through her mind to tell him he was in her chair, but she caught herself before she challenged him in such a petty way. He would move, of course, even be gracious about it, and she would be the one diminished by her spite. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”
Wyatt waited until she was settled. “Are you warm enough? You don’t have your shoes.” She hadn’t taken the time to pin up her hair again, either, but he didn’t mention that for fear she’d do something about it. He liked the way it fell in waves all the way to the small of her back, though he didn’t mind at all when she drew it over her right shoulder and began to loosely plait it. She had beautiful hands, long, slender fingers and buffed, elegantly tapered nails. They didn’t look as if they ever chopped wood or hauled water or did any of the score of other tasks that made up the routine of her day. They were the hands of a woman who was flanked by servants, not one who occasionally employed a seventeen-year-old girl.
Rachel’s fingers lost their deftness when she became aware of Wyatt’s curious interest in her hands. She stopped plaiting but kept her fingers in place on the braid. “Is there something wrong?”
“No.”
“You’re staring.”
He resisted the temptation to continue and lifted his eyes to hers. “Am I?”
Rachel simply arched an eyebrow, observed that Wyatt was utterly shameless in his denial, and sighed. She quickly finished with her hair and brushed the braid behind her back. Taking up her coffee, she asked, “Can I assume there’s no laudanum in this?”
Wyatt’s response was a grimace.
Rachel smiled, lifting the cup to her lips. “Why would Mr. Caldwell put laudanum in my tea?”
