by Jo Goodman
“Because I told him to make certain you stayed put. I might have suggested the method of ensuring it as well.”
“Might have?”
“All right. I did suggest it. I didn’t know he’d be so liberal with the dose.” He pointed a finger at her. “You agreed that you wouldn’t leave the drugstore.”
“I don’t remember it quite like that, but I know you were trying to live up to the letter of your contract.”
Wyatt swore softly and made no apology for it. “I never thought once about that damn contract. I needed you to stay off the street and out of the way, and I told you that I’d come for you when it was over.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not the only person I had to—” He stopped, finally hearing her apology, and regarded her suspiciously.
“I am sorry. I meant to do exactly what you said. The waiting…well, the waiting was interminable. I was unprepared for how…how intense it was. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I began insisting that I needed to leave. I will apologize to Mr. Caldwell tomorrow for placing him in such an unenviable position.”
Wyatt realized he was having some difficulty regaining his footing. “I imagine he’d appreciate that,” he said carefully.
“Still,” she said, “you took an absurd liberty when you advised him as you did.”
His predator’s gaze narrowed. “You don’t expect an act of contrition from me, do you?”
“No,” she said softly, an amused smile playing about her lips. “I don’t expect that.”
“You’re a hard person to figure out, Rachel Bailey.”
“A conundrum?”
Taking stock of her slightly hopeful expression, Wyatt realized she wanted to be that much of a puzzle to him. It made him wonder about all the things she had yet to reveal. “You’re exactly like that.”
She thought she probably should not be so pleased, but his answer made her feel safe, as if she still might have secrets, and that, in turn, warmed her. She pointed to the cookie tin. “Did you and your deputy leave any for me?”
Wyatt nodded and pushed the tin toward her. “Not as many as I meant to.”
Simultaneously, they said, “That no-account Beatty boy.”
Rachel laughed. “Poor Will. Why does everyone call him that?”
Wyatt didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “No one’s told you?”
“I never asked.”
“You know the Beattys?”
“Some of them. There must be at least four or five families with that name in town.”
“And they’re all related. Two brothers begat eleven children; they begat upwards of thirty offspring. There’s a lot of begetting with the Beattys. The boys are mostly miners. The girls generally marry miners. Mrs. Easter was a Beatty. So was Sid Walker’s wife. Once you become familiar with the family, it’s easy to see the commonalities.”
“There are a lot of redheads, aren’t there?”
“That’s right. Widely spaced eyes, most of them green, and they’re all on the wrong side of tall. I don’t know as there’s ever been a Beatty that stood as high as my chin.”
Rachel frowned. “Will’s as tall as you are.”
“And his eyes are blue, he’s got hair like silk on a corncob, and a pair of dimples that no one can figure out where they came from. What everyone agrees to is that on no account is he a Beatty boy.”
“That’s it?” she asked, incredulous. “He’s carrying around that name because he isn’t one of them?”
“Oh, he’s one of them, just not one of them by blood. His mother was one of the town’s early working girls, and when she died of childbed fever, it was Janet Beatty that agreed to suckle him. No man ever stepped forward and claimed to be the father, so John and Janet raised him with their own.”
Rachel realized she was reaching for a second cookie and pulled her hand out of the tin. “What a curious town this is,” she said, pensive. “Unexpectedly rich.” She waved a hand airily. “I don’t mean wealthy, though that seems to be true, but abundant in character.”
“And characters.”
“Certainly.”
“You like it here, don’t you?” said Wyatt. “I think that surprises you.”
“I do,” she admitted. “And, yes, it surprises.”
Wyatt tipped his chair to rest on the back legs and watched Rachel wince as he found his balance. He crossed his arms. “Why?” he asked, continuing to study her.
“I suppose because when one has no expectations everything surprises.”
He considered that. “And doesn’t disappoint.”
“Yes. That’s true also.”
“Why did you come here, Rachel? You didn’t know that you’d be inheriting a mine. You certainly hadn’t anticipated that you’d own a spur, and I imagine if you’d had a hint that marriage was waiting for you, you’d have run for the hills.”
Rachel smiled at the expression. “At the risk of diminishing the majesty of these mountains, I thought that’s what I did.”
Amusement lifted one corner of Wyatt’s mouth. “Point taken.”
Gathering up their cups, Rachel rose and padded softly to the washtub. She set them gently inside, then turned back to Wyatt, resting her hip lightly against the washstand. “Do you play cards, Wyatt? Perhaps know a few tricks with them?”
“Yes to both,” he said.
“Then you probably know how to force a card on someone. That’s what Clinton Maddox did to me. The card I chose was the one he wanted me to have, the only one he really offered. I understand why he did it, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve made peace with it. I don’t know anyone who appreciates being manipulated, even when it’s deftly done.”
“What about Foster Maddox?”
“What about him? He certainly doesn’t like being manipulated.”
Wyatt chided her with a look. “I think you know that’s not what I meant. You told me that Foster Maddox is the reason you left Sacramento, yet you’re saying that it was his grandfather who manipulated you.”
Rachel frowned deeply. “I told you that Foster Maddox is the reason I left? When did you hear me say that?”
“Before you fainted in the Commodore’s dining room.”
“Under those circumstances, you probably shouldn’t give much credence to whatever you may have heard.”
He gave her a long, considering look. “You think that’s clever, don’t you?”
“What is?”
“Casting doubt on my hearing rather than flatly deny what we both know you said.”
“I don’t think it’s that clever,” she said. “But you’re kind to say so.”
“Tell me about Foster Maddox.”
Rachel stifled a yawn. “Pardon me. I suppose I’m still trying to shake the effects of the laudanum, unless it’s the lateness of the hour. What time is it?”
Wyatt set his chair on all fours and consulted his pocket watch. “A quarter after eight.”
“Then I did sleep a long time. I wondered.” She covered her mouth again when a yawn split her jaw so wide that it cracked. “Forgive me. I can’t seem to help myself.”
“I’ll just bet you can’t,” Wyatt said. “Maybe what you need is a turn outside in the cold, or I could pour a bucket of spring water over your head.”
“Neither sounds appealing.”
“They’re not meant to, but one or the other is in your future.” He made a steeple of his fingers and looked at her over the peak. “Once more, tell me about Foster Maddox.”
Rachel stood away from the washstand, rounded the table, and kept on going. She heard Wyatt’s chair scrape the floor as he stood up. “I’m not running from you,” she snapped when she heard his footfalls behind her. “I can’t be idle any longer. I was getting something to occupy my hands.”
Wyatt leaned in the doorway to her workroom. “You might have said as much.”
Not turning around or sparing a glance for him, she said, “I can’t think of a single reason why I should be
accountable to you.” She surveyed the table, looking over the patterns and fabric pieces for something suitable. After she examined several gowns in different stages of completion, she chose Adele Brownlee’s nightgown. Attaching the lace to the neckline was precisely the sort of mindless, almost effortless task she liked to do to keep her fingers busy. “I can do this right here,” she said. “Sit anywhere except beside the lamp. I need that close by so I can see what I’m doing.”
Wyatt recognized the agitation that defined her movements as well as her need to move. He remembered she was also capable of almost unnatural stillness, although there was nothing about her now to suggest it. He waited for her to collect what she required from various baskets and drawers before he joined her at the table.
“We’re partners, Rachel,” Wyatt said. “That’s the single reason you’re accountable to me. And the single reason I’m accountable to you.” He watched her expertly thread her needle. “Back at the hotel you asked me for help with the spur. If that’s changed, if you want to go it alone because it’s yours and it’s your right, then I won’t ask again about Foster Maddox, but if you haven’t changed your mind, I need to know what you know.”
Rachel set the lace against the neckline and began basting. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Perhaps you need to know something about him, but not everything. There’s no one alive who needs to know everything.”
“All right,” he said. “Let’s begin with that. With something.”
“You make it sound as if it should be simple.”
“Do I? I don’t mean to. I can see you find it troubling.”
Troubling? she thought. She found it painful. “He disliked my association with his grandfather. He said it was because I influenced him, which was ridiculous of course, because no one held sway over Clinton Maddox. I simply spent more time in his company than Foster did.”
“Did Foster live with his grandfather?”
“For years, yes. His mother is Cordelia Rice. When she married Benson Maddox, she moved into the mansion with him. I’ve always been given to understand that Benson and his father got along exceedingly well, but when Benson was killed in the war, Mrs. Maddox moved out and naturally took Foster with her. He would have been twelve or thirteen then. I’ve been told that Mrs. Maddox blamed her father-in-law for Benson’s death. She believed he could have done more to stop Benson from going. For whatever reason, she held her husband harmless for his decision and placed the responsibility squarely on Mr. Maddox’s shoulders.”
“So she punished him by removing Foster from his influence?”
Rachel looked up from her needlework. “I can’t speak for her motivation. Mr. Maddox’s wife died shortly after Benson and Cordelia were married, so Cordelia had taken over the reins of managing the home. She was the hostess for all the important functions held at the mansion and looked upon by her society as the arbiter of fashion and manners. She was extraordinarily well regarded.”
Wyatt stretched his long legs under the table as he leaned back in his chair. “Where did she go?”
“Back to her parents’ home. Her father’s a merchant who made his fortune supplying goods to the miners during the rush. Mr. Rice and Mr. Maddox were never competitors in any business venture, but neither were they partners. I think there was a time that Mr. Rice wanted to invest in the C & C, but Mr. Maddox wanted to keep it private. I don’t know any of the details.”
Rachel bent her head and returned to her stitching. “I do know that there was no love lost between the two men. Cordelia’s presence in the Maddox home formed a bridge of sorts between the two families, and Benson’s death changed that. I think Cordelia was strongly encouraged to return home, but that is only my opinion. Mr. Maddox certainly never said as much. In fact, he rarely mentioned Cordelia.”
“Did Mrs. Maddox try to keep Foster away from his grandfather?”
“I don’t know. I’m not certain that Mr. Maddox was very curious about Foster when he was young. I don’t think he knew what to make of children. It was his view that they were the responsibility of women until they were of school age; then they became the charges of tutors and teachers. He once said that Benson was not particularly interesting until the summer he took a laborer’s job on the railroad. I know he wished Foster had done something like that. He thought Foster dismissed certain types of work as being beneath him, and Mr. Maddox believed that a man who places himself above work—any work—has already lost his soul.”
“Do you believe that?” asked Wyatt.
Rachel did not answer immediately. Her fingers stilled as she considered her answer. “I must believe it,” she said finally. “Foster Maddox is the most soulless man I know.”
Wyatt watched her hands begin to move again. “You mentioned Cordelia’s father was a merchant. Was there ever a plan for Foster to be involved in the Rice family business?”
“Cordelia Maddox has two sisters and a brother. Two of her nephews were groomed to take over. Mrs. Maddox was firm that the railroad was Foster’s birthright and her father championed that.”
“Perhaps as a way of becoming a partner in the line?”
“That certainly occurred to Mr. Maddox,” Rachel said. “He didn’t want to see the industry of his life turned over to Charles Rice.”
“Is there a possibility that Foster will do that?”
“Not if Mr. Maddox addressed it properly in his will. He led me to believe that he had.” Her lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Foster Maddox is also extraordinarily selfish. It might be that the provisions in Mr. Maddox’s will were unnecessary.”
“When did Mr. Maddox start to include Foster in the rail operations?”
“Sometime after Foster finished his studies at William and Mary.”
“William and Mary? Really?”
“Mr. Rice came to California from Virginia. He paid for Foster’s education, not Mr. Maddox. It came to that when Foster didn’t go to Yale.”
“That damn war will never be over.”
Rachel’s eyes darted sideways and saw Wyatt’s gravely set features. “No,” she said quietly, “it won’t.”
Wyatt didn’t feel the need to say anything for a time. He contented himself watching Rachel, finding the repetitive movements of her hands vaguely hypnotic. “How do you fit in, Rachel?”
“Surely you already know. I thought you decided that I was Mr. Maddox’s mistress.”
“I did. You read the agreement. You know why I came to that conclusion. Maddox led me down that path.”
Rachel paused long enough to sweep back the thick plait of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
Wyatt reached over the corner of the table and lifted Rachel’s chin with his fingertips. She didn’t flinch, but her dark eyes mocked him. “I’m saying that I changed my mind a while back about you ever being Clinton Maddox’s mistress.”
“All right.” She tilted her chin away from him and sat back in her chair, putting herself just outside his easy reach.
“Is that it?” he asked. “You don’t want to say more?”
She shrugged. “I asked you once if it mattered around here that a woman was a man’s mistress. You told me it didn’t. I can’t imagine why you’re pursuing the question now. It has nothing at all to do with our partnership.”
It was a new experience for Wyatt Cooper to find himself cornered. He was very sure he didn’t like it. He had expected she would leap at the opportunity to tell him what a thickheaded idiot he’d been for believing she was Maddox’s mistress in the first place. Instead, she’d decided to simply allow him to think whatever he liked. Again.
“Don’t you ever defend yourself?” he asked.
The question raised a flickering smile. “How quickly you’ve forgotten the bucket I swung at your head.”
“You know what I mean.”
“If that answer doesn’t satisfy you, then clearly, I don’t.”
Wyatt’s glance darted sideways to where Rachel kept her
small store of liquor. It was tempting to think she would make more sense to him if he was pouring a third or a fourth shot just now.
Rachel caught the direction of his wandering attention. “Would you like a drink?”
“God, no,” he said feelingly. “If you’re offering, it couldn’t possibly help.”
Choosing not to be offended, Rachel chuckled. “You have a suspicious nature, Sheriff, though perhaps it’s not a failing given the position you hold in this town. I imagine that everyone in Longabach’s today is very glad for your suspicions.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You don’t want to discuss it?”
“You heard everything I had to say when you were eavesdropping.”
There wasn’t a direct response Rachel thought she could make that wouldn’t sound defensive. She said, “I’m grateful that you’re good at what you do.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.” She caught his skeptical look. “Perhaps I should be clearer. I’m grateful for what you do for the town. Your persistent suspicion is not at all comforting when I’m the subject of it.”
“Did Foster Maddox believe you were his grandfather’s mistress?”
Rachel sighed deeply. “Not at all comforting,” she said softly, addressing herself more than Wyatt. “Yes, that’s precisely what he believed. When Mr. Maddox had his stroke, Foster understood the nature of our relationship to be changed in certain fundamental ways, and he decided he wanted what his grandfather had.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t interested?”
She looked up. “Not in the least.”
Wyatt could not mistake the resolve in her expressive eyes. “Foster Maddox has a reputation for ruthlessness.”
“It’s not unfounded.”
“So I imagine he made your situation difficult.”
Rachel pushed her needle into a pincushion and removed her silver thimble. She carefully examined the lace she’d basted onto the nightgown’s neckline. When she was satisfied, she neatly folded the gown and placed it on the table, then turned to Wyatt and regarded him openly.
“Foster Maddox made my situation intolerable. Difficult was when he asked me to accompany him to the theater or the races or some other social event where a woman with my reputation was not only welcomed but desired, and the invitations continued in spite of every one of my firm refusals. It was difficult when he told lies about me to his grandfather, and his grandfather was still so crippled in his speech that all he could do was listen. Hearing him tell Clinton that I enjoyed the attentions of a man who knew what to do in bed was difficult. Standing accused of stealing heirloom jewelry and taking money from the household funds was difficult.”
