Never Love A Lawman. Jo Goodman

      Rachel shook her head, then wished she hadn’t. She set her cup in its saucer and placed her fingers at her temples. Closing her eyes, she massaged the twin aches in her head. “I never got around to it,” she whispered.

      Wyatt took the opportunity presented by her closed eyes to sweep aside her cup and the bottle, putting both of them outside of her easy reach. “Sore head?”

      “No. A little dizzy.”

      “Makes sense. The sore head’ll be there for you in the morning.” He smiled when she groaned softly. “It’s not too early for supper. Day’s giving way to night. Why don’t I poke around your kitchen and see what I can rustle up?”

      Rachel held her head very still and risked darting the narrowest glance at him. “I’m not hungry.”

      “I am.”

      “Help yourself, then. There’s some ham in the larder and—”

      “I’ll find it,” he said, interrupting her. Wyatt pushed away from the table, kicked his boots under it, and stood. He’d glimpsed the larder when he came in the back door. Now he had a chance to inspect it and see for himself how she was set for winter. From the number and variety of jars filling the shelves, he could tell that she had been busy over the summer and taken advantage of the bounty of her own garden. She’d pickled cabbage, onions, beets, and cucumbers, and made two different kinds of relishes. She had also canned stewed and whole tomatoes, rhubarb, green beans, and huckleberries, and she had three small jars of venison jelly made with wild grapes and several more of grape marmalade. There was a dry store of potatoes, onions, beans, and apples. Fruits and vegetables that she had canned or preserved were all labeled in her neat, flowing script. Items that she’d bought or traded for carried the labels of Estella Longabach, Mrs. Showalter, Ann Marie Easter, and a few he didn’t recognize.

      He found the ham, chose a couple of potatoes and an onion, picked up a jar of applesauce, and carried it cradled in one arm into the kitchen. Rachel hadn’t moved from her position. Even better, she hadn’t moved either her cup or the bottle. “Still dizzy?”

      “Less than I was.”

      He nodded, set his things down. “Looks like you have enough in the pantry to see you through.”

      “I’m more prepared anyway. Last winter was…well, it was—” She sighed. “I didn’t know what I was doing.” Her regard of him suddenly turned accusing. “It was you. You were the one.”

      “I was?” Wyatt began looking around for the skillet. He found it hanging on a hook above the washtub and took it down. “The one what?”

      “The one who made certain I didn’t go hungry. Or are you going to tell me you weren’t responsible for those baskets that showed up on my front porch just before three feet of snow blew in?”

      “Wasn’t me,” he said. “Maybe one of your hopeful suitors didn’t want to see you waste away, but it wasn’t me.”

      “But you knew about it.”

      “Sure. That’s part of looking after you. Folks around here don’t need me to tell them to help a newcomer out. If they hadn’t done it, I would have stepped in. There was just no need.”

      “But you know who I should thank.”

      “Could be that I do, but none of them are asking for it, and most of them would be embarrassed to receive it, so I don’t figure I’ll be telling you.” He washed the potatoes, sliced them thin, and tossed them in a pan of cold water to soak. Next, he peeled and chopped the onion and threw it into the skillet with some lard. He set the skillet on a trivet on the stove to keep it from getting hot too quickly. He rinsed his hands and dried them on a towel he’d tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “You’re low on wood. I’ll get some from the shed.”

      “I’ll do it.” Rachel actually started to rise, but a combination of his quelling look and her wobbly knees set her right back.

      Satisfied that she saw the error of her ways, Wyatt sat down long enough to pull on his boots. He didn’t bother with his coat or hat; it was a short walk to the shed. He looked over her stacks of wood and kindling, loaded a canvas bag with six logs that looked like they could fit into her firebox, and hauled it back to the house. He scraped his boots on the mat in the mudroom. “You’re going to need more wood cut,” he called to her. “There’s not—”

      He stopped, some sixth sense telling him he was wasting his breath. He stepped into the kitchen and saw his senses hadn’t failed him. Rachel Bailey was no longer sitting at the table. “Rachel?” There was no answer, and no sound to indicate where she’d gone. He dropped the canvas bag, selected one log for the firebox, and pitched it inside; then he went in search of his reluctant, and moderately drunk, hostess.

      He passed through what should have been a dining room but was now clearly Rachel’s work area. Bolts of fabric covered the table and more material was draped over the chairs. The sideboard was stacked with remnants of every conceivable print and plaid. A cabinet filled with spools of thread hung on the wall between a pair of windows. Pins, needles, and more thread filled one basket. Dress patterns were neatly folded in several others. A dressmaker’s doll stood in the corner, the torso of its plain muslin form covered with the beginnings of a cherry-and-white-striped shirtwaist dress.

      He recognized the shape of the form as Rachel’s own. There was no mistaking that long slender line of her back, the narrow waist, and the curve of breasts that was at once high and full. He didn’t have to work hard to imagine what she’d look like come spring when she glided past him—and every other man in town.

      “Pure pleasure,” he said softly.

      The foyer and parlor were also empty. He had more than a passing familiarity with fine pieces of furniture and cabinetry and recognized the work of Chippendale and Alexander Roux. He took a moment to examine the ornate gold-leaf clock, lifting it just above his eye level to check for the name of the Italian craftsman. The porcelain vases, he thought, were probably from Europe, but the decorative glass bowls and pitchers were likely the products of New England and Pittsburgh. It was a curious collection, little of which seemed to suit her in line and form.

      Wyatt wended his way through the parlor, entered the hallway again, and came upon the door to Rachel’s bedroom. It was ajar, so he stepped up to it and cocked his head. He jerked back when the door opened suddenly, but he didn’t know which of them was more surprised. Rachel’s doelike eyes could have been only marginally wider than his own. His small advantage was that he collected himself more quickly.

      “I didn’t know where you’d gone,” he said.

      Still getting her bearings from having almost barreled over him, Rachel merely blinked.

      “Are you all right?”

      “Do you mind stepping away?” He did so, and she swept past. Leading the way back to the kitchen, she said, “Mr. Maddox is dead. Your obligation is at an end, Sheriff. I’m not your responsibility, and you don’t have to look after me.”

      He ignored that. “Are you all right?”

      Rachel wanted to whirl on him, but he was just a half step off her heels, too close to deliver a dressing-down, especially when he had the benefit of height. She returned to her chair at the head of the table instead. “Did you hear me? It doesn’t matter. I’m not your responsibility.”

      Wyatt rounded the table to stand at the stove. “We’ll get to that in a moment.” He used the towel at his waist to carefully remove the trivet from under the skillet, then found a wooden spoon to move the onions around in the hot grease. “Were you sick?”

      Rachel’s heavy, exasperated sigh preceded her surrender. “Yes, I was sick. And yes, I’m all right now.”

      “You only had to say so. It didn’t need to be painful.”

      “I was trying to make the point that it needn’t matter