by Jo Goodman
Rachel offered no comment, and she was careful not to look to Wyatt. She hoped the relief she felt when Foster retreated was not palpable.
“You are looking very well, Rachel.”
“As you are.”
His eyes made a second examination of her, this one more thorough, slightly insolent. “Very well, indeed.”
Rachel could do nothing about the blossom of heat in her cheeks. Far from being flattered by his study, she felt as if fire ants were crawling helter-skelter across her skin.
“Well,” Foster said, looking around the spare office. “A stove. May I? Your husband’s jail is cold. I could stand to warm my hands.”
Wyatt was not sympathetic. “Rub them together. Or better yet, blow on them.”
Foster chuckled, and he continued to address Rachel. “I suppose he is telling me I’m full of hot air. Not a terribly subtle allusion. He is not at all the sort of gentleman I thought you might choose, Rachel. Is it really true that you’re married?”
“It’s true.”
He glanced pointedly at her hands. “No ring, though. Why is that?”
His observation startled Rachel. She glanced at Wyatt for the first time and saw he was similarly struck.
Their brief exchange was not lost on Foster Maddox. “As I suspected. You’re not married at all. Why the ruse, Rachel? What purpose did it serve?”
“It’s not a ruse. Wyatt is my husband.”
“I don’t believe you. I saw how you looked at him. You were surprised. So was he.”
“We were surprised because neither one of us has ever given thought to a ring.” She wondered how to explain that without revealing the unusual circumstances of their marriage. “It was a civil ceremony, Foster.”
“Now I’m certain you’re lying. Do you imagine I never paid attention to the things you said? I know there was very little that you wanted as much as to be married in church.”
“My life is different here.”
“Reidsville has churches, doesn’t it?”
“This is not a conversation I care to have with you. I can offer the proof of our wedding certificate, but that seems excessive. Believe what you like. I can’t see that it matters one way or the other.”
“Oh, it matters,” he said softly. “I always said I would find you.”
“So you did, and so you have.”
“If it’s true that you’re married, Rachel, it seems especially providential that you married this particular man.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s what passes for the law in this town, isn’t that right?”
“He’s the sheriff, yes.”
“The sheriff.” Foster laid his hand lightly on the top of the desk. His fingers were long and tapered, the nail tips buffed and squared off. “Have you told him about yourself, Rachel? All about yourself?”
Rachel’s gaze remained focused on Foster, but she was acutely more aware of Wyatt in her peripheral vision. Although Foster’s question was directed at her, she understood his intent was to raise doubt in Wyatt’s mind. When Wyatt didn’t turn by so much as a hair in her direction, she felt the trust he’d extended to her as a tangible thing.
Rachel sidestepped Foster’s question by asking, “If there is something you’d like to tell my husband, then you should do so.”
Foster rubbed his jaw. “He took violent exception the last time.”
“Actually,” Wyatt said, “it was Ezra.”
Rachel’s right eyebrow lifted a fraction as she addressed Foster. “Then you must have said I was a whore. That would raise Ezra’s hackles.”
“To be perfectly correct, I said you are a whore. I was particular about the tense.”
She nodded. “Is that something you think I should have told Wyatt?”
“Don’t you?”
“It’s really only ever been your opinion, Foster, and it seemed to concern you more that I wasn’t your whore.”
Foster Maddox’s lips twisted in a slight smile. “It won’t surprise you that he spoke of you at the end. His last words were for my grandmother, but he was crossing over by then. His last lucid thoughts were for you.”
Rachel refused to snap at the bait he dangled. “You were with him, then.”
“Yes, of course. So was my mother.”
She closed her eyes briefly against the sting of tears.
“We didn’t abandon him, Rachel.”
It was too easy for Rachel to hear the accusation that went unspoken. She had abandoned Clinton Maddox, allowed him to die with family at his side, but no one who had ever loved him as she had. “I miss him terribly,” she said quietly. “He was a good friend to me. An extraordinary mentor.”
The line of Foster’s mouth became disapproving. “I am endlessly fascinated that you are able to describe your relationship with him as anything but what it was.”
She sighed deeply. “And here we are, returned to this single argument. I can’t imagine that there is one thing to be gained by going over it again. We’re done here, Foster.”
When Rachel started to turn away, Foster reached for her. He had extended his arm only half the distance when it was abruptly caught and pulled hard behind his back. He grimaced, clenching his jaw.
Rachel’s eyes flew to Wyatt’s. “It’s all right,” she said, backing up another step. “Please, let him go.”
Wyatt did, and Foster carefully brought his arm around. He shook it out and made a particular point of tugging on the sleeve of his jacket, then brushing himself off. “Does he always do as you tell him, Rachel?”
She ignored the barb and addressed Wyatt. “Shall I wait for you outside or at home?”
“At home. I won’t be much longer, but there’s no point in you waiting in the cold.”
“One moment,” said Foster. This time he did not put out a hand to stop her. “I have something to show you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Both of you, actually.”
Wyatt indicated that Rachel should stay where she was. “Where is it?” he asked.
“Inside my jacket. May I?”
Nodding, Wyatt moved to the side so he had a better view of Foster’s hands.
Foster showed his amusement. “It’s not a weapon.”
“I know it’s not,” said Wyatt. “All the same, I’ll watch.”
“Of course.”
Rachel frowned slightly, suspicious of the turn in Foster’s demeanor. There was a certain civility to his tone that made her brace for the blow.
“Right here,” Foster said, producing a folded document from his pocket. He held it up with his fingertips. “Sheriff?”
“Why don’t you just tell us what it is?”
“Naturally, if that’s what you want, but I don’t flatter myself that you’ll believe me.” He placed the paper on top of the desk and tapped it lightly with his index finger. “It’s a warrant. It authorizes me to take Rachel back to California, specifically to Sacramento.”
Rachel’s stomach clenched. She stared stonily at Foster. “Why would any judge authorize that?”
“I imagine because my lawyers presented a compelling case.”
“They lied for you, you mean.”
“I don’t mean that at all.”
Wyatt stepped in and asked calmly, “What are the charges?”
“Theft and attempted murder.”
Rachel blanched, but Wyatt went on without blinking. “Tell me about them.”
“If Rachel has revealed anything of her true nature to you, they should be painfully obvious. She took advantage of my grandfather’s bedridden state and stole a great many items from his home when she left. Most of the things were gradually secreted away in preparation of her departure. Furniture. Jewelry. China. Silver. I left behind a full accounting of the items on the train. I expect to find most of them here in Reidsville.”
Wyatt’s expression remained shuttered. “And the attempted murder?”
Foster shrugged lightly. “I confronted her about the thefts, and she tried to kil
l me.” He lifted his hand slowly and rubbed the back of his head near the sandy-colored crown. “Twenty-two stitches.”
“You waited a very long time to bring your charges forward.”
“Two reasons. I did not want to distress my grandfather, and I didn’t know where Rachel was. His death finally eliminated the first impediment and eventually provided me with the answer to the second.”
“I see.” Wyatt did not argue either of Foster’s points. He turned his attention to Rachel instead. “Go on home. I’ll be along directly.”
Rachel was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing out her hair, when she heard Wyatt come in. She called to him to let him know where she was but didn’t get up to greet him. She continued to apply the brush, counting out the strokes, while she listened to him preparing the stoves for the night. For the first time, she found herself wishing these last chores took longer to complete than they did. No amount of brushing could diminish this final vestige of dread.
She looked up in anticipation of his entrance as the last lamp was extinguished in the parlor. Her smile was in place when he appeared on the threshold.
Wyatt looked her over and shook his head, unconvinced by what he saw. “Foster should have charged you with fraud.”
Rachel’s smile faded, but there was some relief in knowing that she hadn’t fooled him. “I didn’t know what to expect from you.”
“You should have,” he said, unbuttoning his vest. “I was thinking earlier that you knew me at least that well.” He approached the bed, took the brush from her nerveless fingers, and set it on the nightstand. Bending, he kissed her cheek. “It’s going to be fine, Rachel.”
“How can you know that? He has a warrant.”
He straightened, shrugged out of his vest, and laid it over the top of a ladder-back chair. “He has a document that he’s calling a warrant. It’s signed, but there’s no raised seal to attest that it’s from the court. To execute it in this state, it requires at least that much authenticity, and as I am the person charged with serving it, I have to be certain of its origins.”
“But you track men all through these mountains with no more than a telegraphed notice from the detectives’ association.”
“That’s entirely different. I trust every member. I don’t trust Foster Maddox.” He sat down to pull off his boots. “Are you trying to talk me into sending you back to Sacramento?”
“No!”
The right side of his mouth lifted. “He could have written that document himself, Rachel. I don’t believe he did, but I don’t think it has the authority of the court, either. I imagine he had an attorney draw it up for him. It’s just a ruse to justify his appearance here.”
Rachel remained silent, thoughtful.
“He would be happy, I think, to have you accompany him back to California, but happier yet if he can wrest control of the spur from you on the return.”
“I didn’t understand what he meant when he said it seemed providential that you were the man that I married. He thought he would have the cooperation of the town’s sheriff when he came here.” Her smile was wry. “It explains why he tried to hit you when you told him we were married.”
Wyatt pushed his boots aside and began removing his socks. “Imagine how angry he’ll be when he learns that his own grandfather arranged the match.”
“Does he have to know?”
“I don’t see how it can be helped. He’s going to ask to see the papers.” Wyatt stood, unfastened his shirt. “What about that concerns you?”
Rachel hadn’t realized her distress was so transparent. She paused in turning back the covers. “He’ll think our marriage isn’t real.”
That caught Wyatt’s attention. “Are you saying it is?”
She was quiet.
“Rachel?”
“Isn’t it?” she asked softly.
From memory, he quoted her, “A marriage is generally defined by the usual practices of sharing a common dwelling, coital relations, and raising children together. That’s what you told me. Do you remember?”
She did, and the recollection pained her. “I was as ignorant as I was arrogant.”
Wyatt moved to sit beside her. “You were terrified.” He caught her chin and tilted her face toward him. “And arrogant.”
That made her smile, though the edges of it wobbled a bit. There was an aching press of tears behind her eyes. “I love you, you know.”
He released her chin and let his hand rest lightly on her knee. “How about that.”
She laughed a little at what she thought was his quiet conceit. “I suppose you thought it was inevitable.”
“Inevitable?” Wyatt shook his head. “Maybe you remember exchanging vows differently than I do.”
“No, I’ve come to recall every word I barely spoke.” She laid her hand over his. “I wish now that I had been able to say them with my heart.”
“It was honest,” he said. “Was Foster telling the truth? About you wanting a church wedding?”
She shrugged, and then because he waited her out, she nodded. “He must have overheard me talking to Mr. Maddox. Foster wasn’t part of the conversation. It was just idle talk while I was working on someone’s bridal gown.”
Because it was clear that she did not want to make too much of it, Wyatt let it go. “Under the covers. You’re starting to shiver.”
Rachel’s hands and feet were still cool to the touch when Wyatt finally joined her. She tucked them under his body to warm them and sighed agreeably. “This was unexpected,” she said, cozying up to him. “No one told me about this part of marriage. It’s really quite nice.”
“It’s lumpy.”
Unperturbed, she left her hands and feet where they were until she judged them sufficiently warmed. “Better?” she asked.
“I never said it wasn’t good.” Wyatt turned onto his back and took Rachel into the crook of his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about this matter of a ring.” He felt Rachel begin to lift her head to look at him, but he threaded his fingers in her hair and drew her back gently. “Hear me out.”
She nodded, though not without a sense of unease.
“I have one of my grandmother’s rings,” he said. “That’s my grandmother Cooper. She died shortly before my father and had already made provision for him to have her ruby. I’m not entirely sure why. She was as unhappy about the decisions he made as anyone in my mother’s family, but lately I’ve been thinking that perhaps the ring represented a change of heart. And if that’s the case, then there’s no one who deserves to wear it more than you.”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Don’t you?” he asked. “You changed my heart, Rachel.”
She felt her throat constrict, making any reply impossible.
“Rachel?” Her silence rarely made him uncomfortable, but this time he had no clear view of her features and no way to gauge her reaction. He wondered if he should have made a more straightforward declaration. “Did you hear me say I love you?”
She turned her cheek into his shoulder. “I heard you.”
He gave her a corner of the sheet to dab at her eyes. “Are you going to cry when I give you the ring?”
“Probably.” She sniffled. “Why?”
“Just wanted to make sure I have a handkerchief.”
Wyatt produced the ring at breakfast, having awakened Jake Reston at dawn to open the safe at the bank. Rachel stared at the ring for several long moments before she extended her hand and allowed him to slip it on her finger. The ruby appeared flawless to her eye, resting in an exquisite platinum filigree and raised a mere fraction so that it seemed to float above the setting.
Turning her hand this way and that, Rachel admired the deep claret color through eyes that watered just enough to lend the stone a dozen more facets than it had. She only accepted Wyatt’s handkerchief when he dangled it in front of her.
Throughout the meal, her eyes strayed to her hand so often that Wyatt had to tap his fork on his pl
ate to focus her wandering attention. “Would you like more coffee?” he asked when she finally lifted her eyes to him.
Rachel was surprised to see that he was holding out the coffeepot so that it hovered over her cup. “Please.” By way of explanation for her distraction, she added, “I don’t recognize my own hand.”
Wyatt leaned back to set the pot on the stove. “My grandmother didn’t wear it all the time, probably for the same reason.”
“I’d rather get used to it,” she said, “though I don’t imagine it’s practical when I’m washing dishes or working with lace.”
He grinned. “Probably not.” Reaching in his pocket, he produced a black velvet bag no bigger than his palm and handed it to her. “This is for those times, so you don’t lose it.”
“Perish the thought.” She placed the bag beside her plate and smoothed the velvet with her fingertips. “Where were you keeping this?”
“The bank.” He told her about rousing Jake Reston from his slumbers. “I sent Sylvie’s jewelry back to her family, and I buried her with her wedding ring, but this was never hers. I couldn’t think of a better place to keep it than the safe at the bank.” His tone became wry. “Men like Morrisey and Spinnaker aside.”
Chilled at the reminder of those men, Rachel wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. “I don’t imagine Mr. Reston opens the bank early for just anyone,” she said, changing the subject. “There are certain advantages to being sheriff, I suppose.”
“Perhaps, but nothing is more persuasive than owning the bank.” When Rachel’s stare went from blank to accusing, Wyatt held up a hand as though he could deflect it. “Not me. I don’t own it. That would be my family.” He saw this announcement had no palliative effect. “I know I told you they’re all bankers on my mother’s side. They wanted me to become one of them, remember?”
“You might have said something like that,” Rachel said slowly, drawing on a maddeningly elusive memory. “Perhaps when you told me about Sylvianna’s expectations that you would remain in Boston, but you never hinted that the Reidsville Bank had anything to do with you.”
“That’s because I have very little to do with it. My father established the bank right after the first gold strike. It was more than merely practical. He saw it as a way to get my mother to join him. He even named the town after her.”
