Never Love a Lawman (22 page)

Wyatt let the words lie, absorbing them, appreciating that this was as much a confession of what she hadn’t done as of what she had. He could not tell which troubled her more. “You left everyone behind?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ve had no contact since I left the station in Sacramento. I wrote to my mother and sister and gave the letters to Mr. Maddox to pass to them. I didn’t dare risk seeing them in person. A visit to them would have been out of the ordinary at that time, and I was afraid that Foster would suspect my intent. I told them nothing that would reveal where I was going. My silence was in consideration of their safety and I depended on Mr. Maddox not to reveal anything to them. I’m sure he didn’t.”

“So you thought you were well out of Foster’s reach.”

“Of course I did. I used another name to purchase my tickets. I even used a rival rail line to make most of the journey. I was confident that no one I left behind would be able to give me away. I worried what Foster would do when he realized I was gone, but I had to hope that by sending no letters, no packages, not even a single telegram, he would come to accept that my family were all telling him the truth when they said they didn’t know where I was. I depended on Foster understanding that he’d finally gotten what he wanted.”

Wyatt frowned as he considered this. “What did you think he wanted?”

“For me to be away from his grandfather. He thought I was influencing Mr. Maddox’s decisions, remember? I explained this already.”

“You explained it, but I didn’t realize you actually believed it.” He shook his head, his mouth grim. “Rachel, if only half of what you told me is true, it’s still clear as Pittsburgh glass that he wanted you. Not wanted you out of the way, just wanted you. I don’t think he’s much accustomed to being refused. The one strategy you didn’t try was bedding him.”

Her chin came up. “Not because I didn’t think of it. I could more easily have killed him.”

“It wasn’t meant as a criticism,” said Wyatt. “It’s just an observation.”

“You can keep your observations, then.” She rubbed her hands over her face, agitated. “God, but I wish I hadn’t told you anything. You can’t know what it was like. What he was like. You can never understand.” She placed her palms flat on the table and stood. “What purpose did telling you serve except to satisfy your prurient curiosity?” She could feel herself shaking. Her eyes were dry and gritty. “You asked me to be accountable, and I let you dig at my wounds with a stick. Shame on me for that.” She stared at her hands. “Shame on me.” And although her lips moved around the words, they were largely without sound.

Rachel didn’t see him leave his chair, didn’t know he was standing just beside her until she turned to go and blindly walked into his embrace. She fought it at first, struggling hard, pushing at him in earnest. Her nails scrabbled at his shirt. She twisted and turned and would have clamped down on his shoulder with her teeth if he hadn’t managed to jerk away in time.

He held her fast, his arms so tight around her that she thought she might not be able to draw another breath, and yet she heard herself sobbing deeply, and felt the keening cries like a razor at the back of her throat. Her fingers curled into fists around the fabric of his shirt.

She heard his voice in her ear, his hot breath against her skin. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, couldn’t hear him above her own weeping, but it wasn’t comfort that he was offering. The tenor of his voice was not calculated to soothe or placate her. This was a low growl that was intended to urge her on, as if he knew instinctively that trying to quiet her would have been not merely infuriating, but at the core, disrespectful as well.

His embrace simultaneously confined and shielded her. She was pressed against him intimately, yet the contact felt impersonal. He didn’t try to rub her back or massage her shoulder. He didn’t press his lips to her forehead or finger her braid. He simply took the brunt of her anger and absorbed her self-loathing.

She felt the cadence of her sobs change as they quieted. The pause between shuddering breaths lengthened as she drew air deeper into her lungs. She wept, but almost silently now, turning her cheek against his shoulder and finding the warm curve of his neck. He didn’t try to press a handkerchief into her hands or avoid the discomfort of having his shirt made salty and wet by her tears.

His arms tightened once, briefly, when she could no longer suppress a shiver, but he didn’t belabor the moment by coddling her. His restraint was a revelation to her. He demanded nothing, expected nothing, and when she let herself slump against him, he stood firm.

Rachel found her own handkerchief and pressed it against her eyes and then her nose. When she began to ease away, he let her go. “I think I’d like to lie down now.”

“Of course. I’ll let myself out.”

She nodded. When he didn’t move, but merely regarded her patiently, Rachel glanced down and saw she was gripping his forearm. Some part of her was astonished that she didn’t release him immediately. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Nothing’s changed about that. For me, that is. I’d still like you to be there when I meet with Mr. Clay and Mr. Kirby.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Her fingers unfolded slowly and she watched as his arm settled against his side. Her smile was a bit watery and uneven. “I’ll still owe you biscuits.”

“I know. I like being owed.”

“Maybe I could—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you when I want to collect them.”

She hesitated, then finally said, “All right.”

Wyatt nodded and started for the kitchen. “Do you have any trousers?”

“Trousers?” She stared at his back, her eyebrows fiercely knit. “Me? Why would I have—”

He held up one hand, staving off her questions as he lifted his coat from the peg rack with the other. “You’ll need them tomorrow. I figure we’ll only be in the meeting an hour or so, and there’ll be plenty of daylight left for what I have in mind.” He looked her over with a critical eye. “I expect Ted Easter’s oldest boy is about your size. I’ll see if he won’t lend me a pair of dungarees.”

“I’m not wearing Theo’s dungarees.”

Wyatt chuckled at her affronted expression. “We need to do some hiking. Not far, just to get beyond the town limits. There’s a law on the books that makes it a crime to throw lead in town.”

“Throw lead?”

“Shoot.”

“You’re going to take me into the hills and shoot me?”

“Mountains, remember? And I thought I’d teach you to shoot first before I aimed my weapon at you. It’s more sporting that way.”

Rachel knew her jaw was slack, but closing it seemed inappropriate in light of what she was hearing. “You’re serious?”

“About teaching you to shoot, yes. As for shooting you, I sure as hell wish you hadn’t put the idea in my head.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll see you in church, Rachel.”

Rachel kept her eyes on the minister and her thoughts on everything but what he was saying. Reidsville’s population numbered 782. There were only two places of worship: the Lutheran church and the meeting hall on Pine Street for the practice of the religions that weren’t Lutheran or Catholic. The Lutherans had services at eight thirty and ten. The meeting hall was used by the Presbyterians at nine, the Methodists at ten thirty, and about thirty-eight citizens who liked to read and interpret the scriptures for themselves at noon.

The slate-gray roof of the Lutheran church boasted the year it was built with white-painted tiles embedded into each of the steeply pitched sides. The fact that it was located on Tent Church Road spoke to its humble beginnings when miners slogged in the mud to stand under a tarp and listen to Pastor Duun. The Norwegian immigrant, late of Minnesota, delivered a rather dour message that appealed to them after a week of hard labor and a night of harder drinking.

Pastor Duun, well into his sixties now, could still be relied on to offer a grim sermon come Sunday morning. Rachel surmised that it was this reliability that remained a comfort to his congregation.

When the offering plate was passed, Rachel came out of her reverie long enough to place a few coins on it, then stood with the rest of the congregants to participate in prayer. With her head bowed, she surreptitiously glanced sideways to where Wyatt Cooper stood flanked by Ned Beaumont on one side and three members of Will Beatty’s family on the other. He was leaning forward just enough that she could make out the line of his cleanly defined profile, and the tilt at the corner of his mouth that made her think he knew she was watching him.

Rachel lowered her gaze immediately and prayed that she’d be forgiven for thinking about that mouth and not doubly damned for thinking about it pressed against hers. As far as she was concerned, the benediction could not come quickly enough.

When the service was over, Rachel stood in line to shake Pastor Duun’s hand and compliment him on his message. She purposely set herself behind Sir Nigel Pennyworth and in front of Grace and Artie Showalter and made a point to engage them in conversation as they shuffled toward the door. She would never be able to say how Wyatt managed to put himself directly at her back before she reached Pastor Duun, and she held out no hope that he’d tell her how he did it. She suspected the Showalters of being actively complicit, while she thought Sir Nigel’s habit of long-winded discourse merely provided a convenient diversion.

Wyatt didn’t speak to her at all, but she was aware of his presence at her back all the while she moved closer to the door. She spoke sincerely of her appreciation for the sermon when Pastor Duun took her hand in both of his and expressed his best wishes for her success with the mining operation. As soon as she could gracefully extricate herself from his firm grasp, she hurried down the steps and across the flat, open yard.

“Liar,” Wyatt whispered when he caught up to her.

Rachel glanced at him, her expression openly perturbed. “Why are you following me? And I’m not a liar.”

His lips twisted wryly. “Tell me what part of Duun’s sermon spoke to your heart. That’s what you told him, isn’t it?”

“You were right there. You know what I told him.”

“I rest my case.” His voice fell to a whisper again, and he bent his head slightly toward hers. “Liar.” He chuckled when she shifted her elbow as if she meant to poke him only to catch herself and draw it back.

Rachel slowed her steps so it would not appear as if she was running from him, which was precisely what she was doing. “I don’t need an escort home.”

“Good, because I’m going the other way.”

“When?”

“Just. About. Now.” Wyatt took a deliberate step sideways as they came upon the hitching post. “Come here. I have something for you.”

She glanced around, then spoke to him with urgency. “Don’t crook your finger at me. There are people here who will surely notice.”

“Then don’t act so furtive. I can guarantee they’ll notice that.” He opened the flap on his saddlebag and drew out a pair of tightly rolled dungarees. “Here. Mrs. Easter says they’re clean, and you shouldn’t worry about giving them back. Theo’s just about grown out of them and the younger boys are nowhere near ready to fill them out.”

Rachel made no attempt to reach for the roll of denim he was holding out to her. She stared at it instead. “I’m not taking that.”

“Now, that’s downright churlish, Rachel. Ann Marie’s a Methodist, but you can be sure she’s going to hear about this. Someone will mention that they saw me try handing a thing to you, someone else will say it looked like denim bolster, and a third person will say you shied away from it like it was a copperhead. Mrs. Easter will figure it all out when the story reaches her.” Wyatt consulted his pocket watch. “I’d say that would be at about one thirty, halfway through our meeting with the Calico engineers. That could be just the thing that would distract you.”

Exasperated, Rachel snatched it out of his hand and tucked it under her arm. “I’m only taking it so you’ll stop talking.”

He shrugged. “That works, too, I guess.”

“I don’t know where people in this town come by the idea that you don’t have much to say.”

“Could be on account of I don’t have to explain everything to them. You’re a little slow-witted that way, aren’t you?”

She must be, she decided, because Wyatt didn’t rush to unhitch his horse and mount, and she still didn’t have a blistering retort by the time he was riding away.

John Clay and Samuel Kirby had been hired by the California and Colorado Railroad when the track was still being laid. Rachel didn’t hide the fact that she was fascinated by their stories of the earliest days. Coming through the mountains, they told her, was slow going. Sometimes only a few miles of track could be put down in a day. There were tunnel failures and landslides. Bridges made for a long week, even month, in one place.

While they knew a great deal about the line in general, they understood everything about the Calico Spur. They told her about the schedule, the shifts, the routine maintenance. They explained where problems with the track were most likely to occur. Over the main dinner course of stuffed leg of lamb with currant jelly and sauce, Anna potatoes and lima beans, and raised hominy muffins, Rachel listened to these men speak so affectionately of the No. 473 and the Admiral that they might well have been speaking of the great loves of their life. They knew the temperament of the engines, the exact point to which the boilers could be pushed, the speed for a safe descent to the plateau where Denver stood, and the speed that disregarded every kind of caution but brought the train in on time in spite of an unexpected delay. They knew the location of the water towers and what was required to keep them in good repair. Ready water for the boilers was a necessity if the engines were going to make the climb to Reidsville. A tower lost to disrepair could stop their beloved locomotives.

Rachel was aware that Wyatt acted as the meeting’s conductor. He knew how to raise a point that enabled her to ask just the right question. Her ability to put matters before them plainly seemed to impress Clay and Kirby, but she understood that she was merely accepting Wyatt’s direction or following his lead.