Never Love a Lawman (34 page)

“When I look back,” he said, “I wonder if I suspected, and that’s why I resisted her pleas to stay behind. She was going to tell me, I think, and I didn’t want to hear.”

Rachel sat back on her legs and reached for the quilt. She dragged it toward her and wrapped it around her shoulders. Wyatt looked as if he couldn’t feel the room’s chill. “What would a child have meant?”

Her ability to go straight to the heart of it no longer caught him off guard. “Boston,” he said. “We would have returned. I know that. Her family. Mine. It was like swimming against the tide. I’d have sold my interest in the mine to the town and settled into a law practice.”

Rachel ached for him. She imagined there had been a moment, something even smaller than a moment, when it had crossed his mind that Sylvie’s death, and the death of their child, meant he didn’t have to go back to Boston, and in that infinitesimal span of time he had known relief. Guilt had been crushing him ever since.

“Do you think it’s wrong to be selfish?” she asked.

Wyatt blinked. She’d pulled him suddenly from a very dark place. He regarded her, thoughtful, but uncertain. She peered at him with the intensity of his most formidable law professor, the one who insisted that questions be considered from all angles, like a jeweler admiring the facets of a diamond, looking for flaws with his loop.

“Wrong to be selfish?” he repeated. “No, not wrong. Not in the abstract, at least.”

“And when it’s concrete?”

He was silent.

“Perhaps it’s that you and Sylvie weren’t selfish enough. Maybe it was the marriage that needed to be sacrificed, not one of you for the other.”

Wyatt let his head fall back against the headboard and briefly closed his eyes. “You may be right,” he said at last.

“I don’t know, Wyatt. There were no simple choices, not one among them that would have made things right for everyone.”

He nodded faintly. “You’re the only one besides Doc and me that knows about the baby. I made Doc tell me, but sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”

“I understand.”

Wyatt studied her face for a long moment. “I believe you do.”

Rachel leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth. She felt his arms come up, but before he could embrace her she moved outside his reach. She held up her index finger to indicate she needed time, then scrambled out of bed. Gathering up the photographs that lay scattered at the foot of the bed, including Sylvie’s portrait, Rachel put them in the chest, then moved the chest to the floor, this time putting it beside the dresser, not under the bed.

Wyatt lifted the blankets for her when she was ready to return. They slid down together, each seeking the other for warmth and comfort. She rubbed her feet against his legs.

“Are you trying to start a fire?” he asked.

Rachel’s laugh stayed at the back of her throat. “If only I could. Quick. Take my hands.”

He did, placing his own firmly around them. “Better?”

“Mmm.” She stopped fidgeting. “Infinitely.”

Much later it occurred to her that perhaps she had started a fire, but that didn’t come to her mind when Wyatt began to make love to her. She was overwhelmed, first by his tenderness, then by his hunger. He demanded nothing from her in the beginning, took everything in the end.

It suited her exactly, this long spiraling climb to pleasure. His mouth followed the trail of his hands. He lingered as he pleased, and he was often pleased to do so. His kisses were by turns deep and drugging, then tempered by his teasing, and he always drew a like response from her.

The damp edge of his tongue dipped into the hollow of her throat and darted over her nipples. He made a track from her breasts to her navel, then lower, lifting her knees and settling his mouth between her thighs. Her fingers threaded in his hair, then splayed stiffly as he flicked her swollen clitoris. She released him, and her hands fisted in the sheets on either side of her.

She came noisily, though she was hardly aware of it. He told her once he was seated deeply inside her, and her doubt became his challenge. She heard herself the second time in spite of pressing the fleshy ball of her hand against her open mouth.

What began sweetly ended on a decidedly different note, one that was deeply and abidingly satisfying. They fell asleep in a tangle of limbs that was only comfortable because of its novelty. By morning, they were cramped or numb, depending on which one of them had a limb trapped under the other’s. It was the stiff climb out of bed and the first hobbling steps to their respective destinations that made them collapse back on the mattress in paroxysms of laughter.

That their laughter was out of all proportion to the experience only made it seem that much richer. Rachel found herself gulping for air. Wyatt’s need to breathe was equally severe. They had tears in their eyes and lay sprawled on top of the covers as their breathing eased. His hand found hers, and he squeezed it lightly. She turned her head sideways to look at him, a question in her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

Rachel didn’t ask why he was thanking her, understanding it in a way that was not easy to put into words for either of them. She simply nodded.

Wyatt let go of her hand and sat up. He made furrows in his hair with his fingertips. “I’ll see about putting some wood in the stoves. You go ahead and use the washroom first.” He could see that she was starting to shiver. “You know, Rachel, it’s cold mornings like this that I wish we hadn’t left the Commodore.”

She crossed her arms in front of her. Her sigh was wistful. “Maybe we could have hot and cold running water here, like at the hotel. It wouldn’t be an extravagance.”

That made him smile. “Come spring,” he said, standing up. “It’s at the top of my list.” He tilted his head toward the washroom. “Go on. Get going before I regret my offer.”

Rachel rolled to the edge of the bed, but she wasn’t quick enough to escape the flat of his hand on her rump. She jumped up, cast him a withering glance over her shoulder, and darted for the washroom before he changed his mind and blocked her path.

Wyatt enjoyed the view, brief though it was. Chuckling softly, he pulled on a pair of woolen socks and a shirt, then padded to the mudroom for a short stack of wood. He caught the parlor stove before it was cold, but he had to fire up the kitchen stove. He started by setting the covers on top, closing the front and back damper, and opening the one to the oven. He turned the grate, let the ashes fall, then carefully removed the pan.

It was when he opened the back door and took notice of eight inches of fresh powder that he truly regretted leaving the Commodore. Bracing himself, he stepped out onto the protected porch just long enough to fling the ashes. They were carried by the wind in a wide arc, mingling with the falling snow. In a matter of moments, the gray and blackened residue was covered.

He was on the point of turning back into the house when he saw movement at the corner of the house. In spite of the cold, he stayed where he was, instantly recognizing the tall bundle of dark wool and leather that came trudging through the snow toward him.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Coffee,” Will Beatty said. “Biscuits, if your wife has any fresh.”

Wyatt held up the ash pan in mock menace. “You’ll take day-old biscuits the same as me. Come on in. Mind your boots. Rachel’s particular about the floors.” He lowered the ash pan and ushered Will inside, barely avoiding the shower of snowflakes that his deputy shook off like a wet, frisky puppy.

He pointed Will to a chair at the table while he set about building the fire. “So, what brings you here? It’s early for a social call.”

Will looked over his shoulder toward the alcove. He raised an eyebrow.

Wyatt understood. “She’s still dressing.”

“Artie woke me up first thing. There was a message this morning from John Clay that Foster Maddox is in Denver. He’d be on his way now if it wasn’t for snow blocking the tracks at Brady’s Bend. Depending on how much we get, it could take a few days, maybe as long as a week, to break through. He thought you’d want to know.”

Wyatt swore. “I was supposed to know if Foster arrived in Cheyenne. You’re sure he’s in Denver?”

“I’m not sure of anything, but that’s what Artie got from John Clay’s message.”

“Well, there’s nothing much to be done about that now. What’s Sid saying about the storm?”

“Last I heard, he was talking a two-day whiteout.”

Wyatt considered that. “Do you think we could get better than a week out of the blockage?”

“Probably. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t made provision for it. Sir Nigel might suffer a bit with the train not running, but he’ll keep the guests he has, so I guess it evens out. Why? What are you thinking to gain by a couple of extra days?”

“Time to hide the mining equipment, for one thing. Shut it all down.”

“Shut it down? That’s going to happen anyway, on account of the snow burying us.” It was not much of an exaggeration.

“We need to make it look abandoned. If he knows about it, he’s going to insist on seeing it. It would be good if folks don’t look too prosperous, either.”

Will glanced around the homey kitchen, then fixed his stare on Wyatt’s sooty hands and the pair of split logs in them. “I’ll tell them they should follow your example.”

Wyatt shot him a wry look, then tossed the wood in the stove. “They could do worse,” he said, opening the dampers. “They could follow yours.”

Not offended in the least, Will grinned. He stood up and waved Wyatt away from the stove. “Go get dressed. I’ll finish. It’s like diving headlong into an avalanche in here.”

Will had coffee ready by the time Rachel appeared in the kitchen. “Mornin’, ma’am.”

Rachel smiled warmly at him. “Wyatt says you came for biscuits.”

“And coffee,” he said, holding up a dainty cup, his little finger extended.

She laughed. “I have mugs, you know. You don’t need to affect airs.”

“I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I’ll take a mug.”

Rachel got him one from the back of the china cupboard, then took another out for Wyatt. She chose one like Will had used for herself. “Is everything all right?” she asked, handing over the mug. “Not that I mind you coming for biscuits, but I happen to know that Estella’s are better than mine.”

“You aren’t getting me to say one way or the other. Wyatt would trade my ass for a mule—pardon the expression—if I got caught in that trap.”

“Is that right? So how many days is it exactly before Foster Maddox gets here?”

“About seven, maybe nine.” That no-account Beatty boy clamped a hand over his mouth in dramatic fashion. His eyes went almost perfectly round.

“Too late.” She called to Wyatt in the bedroom. “Seven to nine days.” His chuckle drifted back into the kitchen just ahead of him. “That,” she said to Will, “is the sound of my husband preparing to trade your ass—pardon the expression.”

Wyatt grinned. He caught Rachel by the waist, tipped her back, and kissed her with such thoroughness that she
and
Will were blushing when he set her on her heels again. “Better than washing your mouth out with soap.” He glanced at Will. “You, I’ll use soap.”

“I didn’t mean to tell her.”

“No one ever does.”

“You already said something to her anyway,” Will said defensively.

“Yes, but you didn’t know that.”

Rachel set her hands on her hips. “Stop it. You’re like children.” That had the desired effect of bonding them immediately. “Like brothers,” she said for good measure. She watched them grin at each other, evidently satisfied with this comparison. “Set the table, Will. Wyatt, pour us some coffee. I have biscuits and sausage gravy to warm.”

They resisted saluting her and took up the tasks as she directed, trading good-natured barbs and asides until the meal was hot on the table before them. That was when they sat down to the business of what to do about Foster Maddox.

“I suppose it depends on what he’s learned,” Rachel said, when Will asked her if Foster would be coming alone. “If he knows anything at all about the mine, then he’ll have surveyors and engineers with him. People he trusts.”

“Cromwell?” Will asked Wyatt. “Do you suppose Ben will come up from Denver?”

“Couldn’t say. Lawyers?” he asked Rachel.

“Yes. Probably Mr. Davis Stuart to advise him, perhaps another to review Colorado law. Foster would have gotten rid of his grandfather’s private attorney by now. There will be at least one accountant. I can’t say who that might be. George Gravely was the one Mr. Maddox trusted the most. He’s had the position since my father’s death.”

Will tucked into his biscuits. “That’s good. He’ll arrive like the cavalry. No surprises there. We can be ready.”

Wyatt didn’t share his deputy’s easy confidence. He glanced at Rachel on his right and saw his caution was warranted. “How about getting a list of the Commodore’s guests from Sir Nigel? Do the same at the boardinghouse. I don’t imagine it would hurt to inquire after Rose. I assume you’ll want to do that, too. She’s speaking to you, isn’t she?”

“Sure, but mostly she spits exclamation points at me. It’s like she has a mouthful of darts.”

Rachel lifted her cup to hide her smile. Over the rim, she saw Wyatt check his.

“Maybe you can sweet-talk her, Will,” said Wyatt. “And if you can’t, tell her it’s because of Rachel that you need the names of anyone new in and around her establishment. She’ll give them to you.”

“If it’s all the same,” Will said, “I think I’ll start by mentioning Rachel.”

“Do what you think’s best.”

Will lifted a forkful of biscuit and gravy to his mouth. “Can Maddox take back the spur?”

“Not without a fight.”

“Saloon?”

“Court,” said Wyatt, quelling the gleam he’d seen in his deputy’s eyes. “Not as viscerally satisfying perhaps but more widely respected.”

Will took the bite hovering at his lips, chewed slowly as he considered how a court battle might favor them in Colorado. “What about the mining?”

“Harder to say. I’m not certain what he knows about it, but I’ll be talking to Sid and Henry. Rachel, too, obviously. We’ll reach consensus about the best way to protect our investment. Making it all look played out is only a first step.”