by Jo Goodman
Rachel carried the equipment carefully, making certain she didn’t bang it against the door frame as she left the darkroom. “It’s heavier than I thought. Do you want to take it now?”
Wyatt didn’t require a second invitation. He quickly removed it from Rachel’s shoulder and put it on his own. “There’s a plan, I imagine.”
“I want to take it home. You can teach me how to make photographs.”
“And that’s all?”
“Well, as long as it’s there, I thought you might like to use it yourself.”
“Hmm.”
“When the weather’s improved you could take it with you. It had cobwebs on it, Wyatt. That’s really a very sad state for something that can capture so much beauty.”
“Are you thinking I’m going to argue with you?”
“Well?”
“Get the lamp, Rachel. I’ll carry this home today, but the other things I need will have to wait.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’ll see. I need some sort of darkroom.”
“All right. We’ll think of something.”
He believed her, but if she thought he was going to mix chemicals in the pantry, she was mistaken. “The lamp,” he said again, jerking his chin toward the door behind her. “And then home.”
The meeting took place around the dining room table. Abe Dishman was present to report on the progress of clearing the pass, and Sid Walker and Henry Longabach each had information on various aspects of the mining operation. Wyatt came with notes on what he and Will had learned about every stranded stranger in town, and Rachel had a journal with questions that she’d scribbled down since their last meeting.
“Have you considered that Foster Maddox will attempt to buy the answers he wants?” she asked.
Henry took out a handkerchief and cleaned his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Sid and I discussed it. We don’t think there’s anyone that’s likely to be tempted.”
“They’d be givin’ up more than they’d be gainin’,” Sid said, absently rubbing his shoulder.
“What about Miss LaRosa and her girls? They’re relatively new to town. It’s my understanding that none of them have been here more than five years. They don’t have the same investment in the mine as the families who have been here better than twenty. Could they be bought?”
Every man at the table simply stared at her.
“What?” she asked. “Did I misspeak?”
Abe, Henry, and Sid all swung their heads in Wyatt’s direction.
Wyatt’s mouth twisted wryly. “Now I know how Caesar felt in his final moments.” He shook his head at them, feigning disgust at their cowardice. “I guess it’s up to me.” He saw that Rachel was looking at him expectantly, and he addressed her. “The town supports one brothel. Only one. It began in the days when there were hardly any women in Reidsville. The men, well, the men got lonely and…they…well, they decided they—”
“They decided they would operate their own establishment,” Rachel said. “Is that right?”
“More or less,” Wyatt said. “They built the house and furnished it; then they hired a madam to run it. Paid her good money to keep a nice place and fill it with girls that were friendly and accommodating.”
“I’m sure.” Rachel wasn’t certain how she managed to appear unaffected by what she was hearing. It helped that Abe, Sid, and Henry were all blushing deeply. She supposed one or two of them had been accommodated by that first wave of friendly girls. “I imagine those women are all married now.”
“I imagine they are,” he said carefully. “And the ones that came after them.”
“And so on,” said Rachel. “Yes, I see how it works. Like Virginia Moody and Ezra Reilly. They eventually marry and end up with a claim in the mine.”
“That’s right.”
“So the short answer is precisely what Mr. Walker said about everyone else in town: they’d be giving up more than they’d be gaining.”
Wyatt nodded, and this time he was joined by the other men as they sharply turned their heads in unison toward Rachel.
“You might have just said so.” Rachel coolly checked off one of the questions she’d jotted in her book and continued with another. She didn’t dare ask publicly which of the town’s upstanding women first made an impression on their husbands when they weren’t standing up, and she wasn’t even certain that she wanted to know. She was reminded again of Wyatt telling her that whether a woman was once a man’s mistress just didn’t matter a lot in this town. Here was the proof of it, in spades. “All right, gentlemen, if people can’t be bought, can they be threatened?”
The meeting went on for several hours as they parried questions and answers. Determining their preparedness to have Foster Maddox in town without hinting at the mine’s success demanded a certain amount of deception, and they all agreed that Reidsville was peculiarly suited to carry it out. The citizens had been engaged in an elaborate charade for more than a score of years, making certain their wealth was sustainable, not, as they liked to say here, a flash in the pan.
By the time Rachel and Wyatt saw their guests out it was after ten. They stood arm in arm on the porch until the men were through the gate. Snow flurried in front of them, most of it being swept up from the existing drifts. Sid had warned them not to expect another storm that would delay Foster’s arrival. The snow that they could anticipate would be measured in inches, not feet.
“What do you think?” asked Rachel as they stepped inside. “Are we ready to welcome Foster Maddox?”
“Welcome him? I don’t think I would say that. Weather him is more like it.”
“Weather him. Yes, that suits.”
“Do you still have doubts?”
Rachel considered that. “No, not really. I only wish I knew more about what he wants.”
“That’s not much of a question in my mind. He wants everything.”
She moved closer to Wyatt. His arms went easily around her. “Well, he can’t have it,” she said quietly. “I won’t let him.”
Wyatt rubbed his chin against the crown of her hair. “Let’s go to bed.”
They went through the house together, extinguishing the lamps and setting the fires in the stoves. Rachel removed cups and dishes from the table while Wyatt wiped it down. She drew the curtains, he checked the doors, and then they took turns in the washroom preparing for bed.
Rachel was shivering by the time Wyatt joined her. She immediately rolled into him and fairly hummed with pleasure as she warmed herself.
It wasn’t an unpleasant experience for Wyatt, either. “Better?” he asked when she finally settled.
“Warmer, anyway.”
Wyatt’s deep chuckle had a wicked edge. He turned on her, tickling her until she was gasping for breath and beyond helpless to defend herself. Hovering over her, he asked, “Better?”
“Much warmer.”
He kissed the smug smile off her face.
His playful teasing was a revelation to Rachel, not only for what she learned about him, but for what she learned about herself. It seemed to her that this turn in bed was more representative of their relationship outside it. She almost told him then, but he was making a sweep of her neck with tiny, lapping kisses that made her want to laugh and bat him away like a pesky puppy.
He nuzzled her throat, then pressed his open mouth against her skin and blew hard. His lips vibrated and the noise was like a bugle blast.
“Wyatt!”
He raised his head, both eyebrows lifted innocently. “What?”
She set her mouth primly, the whole of her expression admonishing. It had absolutely no impact. “Oh, very well. If you must.”
“I really must.” He grinned, unrepentant, and began working his way along the neckline of her nightgown. It was tempting to tear it right down the middle, but he used what sense he had left to unfasten the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons.
Rachel pushed herself up on her elbows and watched his fingers flick over the front of her gown. She let him keep
going because he planted a kiss on every patch of skin he revealed. He didn’t necessarily do it immediately. Sometimes he made her wait. He’d run his index finger over her skin, circling a spot for no apparent reason except that he could. Sometimes he’d press the tip of his fingernail just hard enough to make a crescent, branding her, she thought, then placed his lips flat against the tiny mark.
“Wyatt.” She whispered his name this time.
“Hmm?”
“You’re taking a lot of time.”
“There are a lot of buttons, Rachel. Each one deserves attention.”
“What if I helped?”
That brought his head up. “I think I’d like that just fine.” He slid onto his side and propped himself on an elbow, prepared to watch. “I wish you’d offered earlier.”
Rachel rolled her eyes as she sat up.
“Oh, no.” He put one hand on her shoulder and pushed her back to the mattress. “Now you can help.”
It should have been cold with the covers thrown off, but Rachel discovered that her skin was deliciously warm. She walked the fingertips of one hand between the narrow opening in her gown until she reached the button below her navel. It wasn’t necessary to watch what she was doing. Watching Wyatt’s eyes darken was enough to know that she was doing it exactly right.
She teased him a little by taking her time, slipping her fingers under the fabric so he couldn’t quite see how they were engaged. She did it again and again until her gown was open and her hand lay over her mons. Then she surprised them both by tentatively touching herself.
Wyatt’s elbow collapsed, and his head hit the pillow. His breath almost seized. Both actions were only slightly exaggerated. “You’re trying my patience.”
“Am I?” She was ridiculously pleased by the notion. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
Growling softly, dangerously, Wyatt slid over her. His face hovered inches above hers. “In this case, maybe.”
They never quite abandoned their play or their laughter, even when the tenor of their teasing changed. It was always there, just beneath the surface as they began to learn about each other in a way they hadn’t done before. They fell into new positions, sometimes by accident, sometimes by design. They appreciated the awkwardness of certain moments when they grappled but never quite fit. The tangle they could make amused them both. Wyatt’s leg cramp amused only one of them.
They were swept up separately and climaxed within moments of each other. This time it was Rachel who fell weakly across Wyatt. He clasped his hands behind her back just above the curve of her buttocks. She hugged him.
“Don’t move,” he said.
It wasn’t possible to be perfectly still. Small contractions still tugged at her, but he didn’t seem to mind those. Her breathing quieted. He released her long enough to pull the blankets up to her shoulders.
After a few minutes, they parted and got comfortable together, finding their fit easily. His arm slipped around her waist, and she laid her hand over it, keeping it in place.
Rachel closed her eyes. She thought about what she’d wanted to tell him earlier, and she hesitated again, wondering how it would be received.
“What is it?” he prompted.
She didn’t ask how he knew to nudge her. It was something she could simply accept now. “I’ve been thinking…we’re friends, aren’t we?”
Wyatt didn’t answer immediately, giving what she said the consideration it deserved. “I suppose we are.”
Rachel remained quiet, stroking his forearm with her fingertips, content with his response.
Wyatt couldn’t recall that he and Sylvie had ever been friends. They had too many expectations, perhaps, while he and Rachel had almost none. He thought about what Rachel had said, that his marriage to Sylvie was often about sacrifice. He couldn’t think of anything he’d given up for Rachel. He couldn’t think of anything that she’d asked him to.
The corner of his mouth kicked up as he recalled the six weeks of celibacy he’d managed to endure with Rachel always in arm’s reach. Even that wasn’t strictly a sacrifice. It had always seemed more of a strategy. He’d imagined turning the tables on her, wearing her down in so many small ways that she wouldn’t be able to tolerate the limits she set. It hadn’t occurred to him once that she was the weather to his mountain.
Looking back over those weeks, he was struck by how often she’d given him opportunities to talk about himself. Almost reflexively, he turned her questions back on her. He always found ways to change the subject or answer a query by using someone else as an example. She never pressed, never pursued. He thought he was being clever.
And all the while she was simply waiting.
Wyatt nudged Rachel’s hair with his chin. His stubble rasped softly against her scalp, and he breathed in her fragrance, at once exotic and familiar. He felt her push her bottom back against him, fitting herself snugly into the cradle he made for her. He couldn’t tell if her slight movement meant that she was still awake or if it was sleep that made her settle closer.
“Rachel.”
“Hmm?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to say your name.”
Rose LaRosa resisted placing her hands on her hips. Her impatient energy found an outlet in the tattoo she beat against the floor with the toe of her ankle boot. “You can’t sit here all night, Will. Maybe they let you do that in Denver, but here, you’ve got to choose a girl.” She pointed to the plate of ginger cakes on top of the piano. “Besides, you’re making a little too free with the samplings.”
“But I like ginger cakes.” To prove it, he rose from the piano stool and snagged another one. He took an enthusiastic bite as he sat down. “Anyway, I’ve chosen a girl.”
Rose glanced around the salon. Except for Adele Brownlee and Virginia Moody, who were sharing the chaise, the room was empty. Her girls had their heads bent close together as they examined swatches of fabric for Virginia’s ever-expanding trousseau. They didn’t even glance up to observe her exchange with that no-account Beatty boy.
Frustrated, she turned on them. “Which one of you is making the deputy wait?” she asked sharply.
Their heads came up simultaneously. They shared the same blank look.
Rose frowned. “Did the deputy ask one of you to take him upstairs?”
“No, ma’am,” Adele said. She looked at Will. “That’s right, ain’t it? You didn’t change your mind?”
Will’s deep, crescent-shaped dimples appeared as he grinned. “Didn’t change my mind at all.”
Relieved, Adele and Virginia went back to fingering the swatches.
Rose crossed the room to stand at the piano. “Who are you waiting for, then? Sally’s going to be a while. Margaret usually entertains her man most of the night. Jenny’s feeling poorly so I excused her, and Abigail’s singing at the Miner Key.”
“Quiet night for you,” Will said.
She sighed. “You’re not good for business.”
“First I heard of it.”
“Well, I’m telling you. The regulars don’t pay you any mind, but strangers tend to wonder why you’re hangin’ around.”
Will unpinned the star from his vest and slipped it in his pants pocket. “Better?”
“Hardly. Better would be if you were upstairs with one of the girls or on your way home.”
“Is it the money?” he asked. “I don’t mind paying. How much you figure these ginger cakes are worth?”
Rose ignored the titters from Adele and Virginia. They were still examining the fabric swatches, but now they were attentive to her every word. “What do I have to do to get you out of here?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Walk me home.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Will shrugged. He spun the stool to face the piano and began playing. The intricate strains of a Chopin etude emerged from an instrument that was generally used for tentatively picking out the melody of “Oh! Susanna” and “Camptown Races.”
Rose stared at him. Out of the corner of h
er eye she saw that Adele and Virginia had picked up their heads. “You can’t play that here,” Rose said stoutly. “No one knows the words.”
Unperturbed, Will continued to run his fingers nimbly over the keys. “There are no words.”
“That’s worse,” she snapped. It didn’t matter to her that it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard. It couldn’t matter. “You’ll run people off with that kind of music.”
He looked over his shoulder, first to the left, then the right. “Seems they were run off before I started playin’, and them that are here seem to like it just fine. You being the exception.”
Rose considered dropping the lid on his fingers, but the truth was that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Watching his hands was mesmerizing. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
“Same place most kids here do. My ma’s been teaching piano for just about forever. Thought you would have known.”
She looked at her girls for confirmation. They both nodded. Rose’s generous mouth became a flat line that communicated her disapproval. “Well, I didn’t know.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “Now you do.”
If he could play like this, she supposed, it stood to reason that he’d memorized dozens of pieces—none of them with sing-along words. “All right,” she said. “I’ll walk you home.”
Only Will knew that his fingers fumbled on the keys and that for a moment he couldn’t feel the pedals with his feet. “That’s real nice of you, Miss Rose.”
Turning with an abrupt flourish and an unladylike snort, Rose stalked off to get properly dressed.
It was a clear, crisp night that Rose and Will stepped into. Moonlight glanced off the snowbanks, making their route perfectly visible. Music drifted toward them from the saloon, but neither one of them suggested going in to hear Abigail sing. In fact, they didn’t talk at all, a circumstance that amused Will and annoyed Rose. Her stride was long, vaguely impatient, and she never glanced at him. He loped beside her good-naturedly, hands thrust in his coat pockets, his collar turned up to keep the cold off the back of his neck.
