Never Love A Lawman. Jo Goodman

on her side, Rachel saw a needle’s width of light slipping between the curtains. It wasn’t dawn, just the precursor to it, when the margin of the ink-blue sky began to fade in narrow increments.

      She knew a certain reluctance to get out of bed. On any other morning, it would have been because the floor was cold, but today it was the thought of going through her routine knowing as an absolute truth that Clinton Maddox was dead.

      Did her mother know? she wondered. Rachel couldn’t imagine that she didn’t. There wasn’t much that Edith Bailey didn’t know about the Maddox family. It was because she had that breadth of knowledge that she sanctioned, even encouraged, Rachel’s departure. This morning Rachel felt the separation from her mother even more acutely than she usually did.

      She found her thoughts drifting to her sister, Sarah. Sarah and her husband, John, had been every bit as adamant as Edith that Rachel should leave. Rachel could hardly blame them for their firmness on the matter. They had their twins to consider, and Sarah hoped to have another child someday. There would never be peace if Rachel stayed.

      But it was also a fact that her mother and sister had each other to turn to. She was the one on her own. She didn’t doubt they missed her with an ache that left a lasting impression on their hearts, because she felt it in the very same way. Yet it didn’t mean she could easily put aside the envy she experienced, knowing they were still a family and she was gone to them.

      It hardly mattered that leaving had been the right decision. She was safe. And to the best of her knowledge, so were they. As long as they never traded a single card, letter, package, or telegram, it would remain that way.

      Rachel realized she had to turn away from that thinking if she was ever going to get out of bed. Her head was beginning to pound and knowing she was facing a cold floor didn’t help, either. What did give her the impetus to throw back the covers and jump to her feet was the sound of wood being split in her own backyard.

      Ignoring her slippers, Rachel yanked her robe over her shoulders on her way to the window. She threw back the curtains and stared through the murky blue-gray light at the two figures standing in front of her woodshed. One of them cast a shadowed profile exactly like Wyatt Cooper’s and was raising a maul over his shoulder, while the other one wore his coat collar turned up to protect his jug ears just like Ned Beaumont and was sitting on a short stack of wood with his feet resting comfortably on a stump.

      Rachel opened her mouth to yell at them, then thought better of it. “It would serve him right if he amputated something,” she muttered. She didn’t weigh much, but she managed to make every pound of her thunder on the way to the back door. Grinding her teeth, she stuffed her feet into a pair of work boots, then flung the door open and continued her punishing march to the woodshed, bootlaces dragging.

      Ned Beaumont sat up straighter, but Wyatt Cooper didn’t miss a beat. He brought the maul down in a graceful arc on the log and split it cleanly in two. Satisfied, he threw them one at a time at Ned, who stood to catch them, turned to set them neatly on the stack, and then sat right back down again.

      Wyatt hefted the maul so the handle rested on his shoulder and turned to Rachel. He looked her over and liked what he saw. “It’s easy to see why Adele’s been pining for some of that Belgian lace.”

      Chapter Three

      Rachel heard herself actually stutter and realized her brain was doing the same thing as her sewing machine: slipping a gear. Her tongue tripped over itself as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said to her.

      “What in—? Did you just—? Belgian lace?” She followed the direction of his gaze to look down at herself. Her robe, which she’d no time to close securely, was gaping open, and the delicate ecru lace border of her nightgown’s neckline was what had provoked his comment. She was hardly immodestly covered, but Rachel closed her robe and belted it anyway. Wyatt, she noted, had already turned his attention to her face. It was Ned sitting a few feet back that was having a difficult time putting his eyes back in his head. In spite of both those things, she managed to collect herself.

      “It’s at least ten minutes before daybreak. You’re standing in my yard, splitting wood. Mr. Beaumont’s…well, I’m not certain what Mr. Beaumont’s doing, but I—”

      “I’m stackin’,” Ned said helpfully.

      “He’s stacking,” Wyatt said. “You were going to hire him, weren’t you?”

      “Yes, but—”

      “Well, he can’t split wood, now, can he? I told you about his injured leg.”

      “Yes, you did, but—”

      “Can’t split wood,” Ned interjected. “Can’t plant my feet proper and throw my shoulder into it.”

      “Thought I could help him,” Wyatt said. “You don’t have to pay me, just him.”

      Rachel looked at the throne Ned had made for himself out of Wyatt’s labor. “Pay him for sitting.”

      Wyatt and Ned objected with one voice. “And stacking.”

      Rachel was certain her brain slipped another gear. She took a steadying breath. “Why are you here now?”

      “Sorry about waking you,” Wyatt said, setting up another log. “Ned’s got a second job to do this morning, so we thought we’d come early and get a decent start on this one.”

      “Actually,” Ned said, sliding off the stack, “I need to be goin’. Joe Morrison’s got some shelves that need repairin’ at the emporium. Told him I’d be there before he’s set to open.” He tipped his hat at Rachel. “Don’t worry about paying me now, Miss Bailey. I’ll come back round for it later.”

      Rachel stared after him, her lower jaw a tad slack with disbelief as Ned loped off, favoring his injured leg. When she looked back at Wyatt, she saw his features were so seriously set that he could only be suppressing a howl of laughter. “I su-p-pose you think you’re f-funny,” she said, thrusting her hands deep in her pockets to keep them warm.

      “Go on back inside. You’re cold.” He swung the maul, driving the wedge cleanly into the wood and splitting it in three pieces this time. “I’ll be in when I’m finished here and you can make me breakfast. That’ll even things out between us.” He set another foot-long length of wood on its end and took aim. Just before he swung, he spared a glance for her. “Scrambled eggs, if you don’t mind.”

      Rachel decided the best response was not to make one. She pivoted smartly and marched back to the house. If she owned a shotgun she’d use it to point out the direction of Longabach’s restaurant, then shoot him with it if he didn’t take the hint. She liked the idea so much that she entertained herself with plans to buy a shotgun. That kept her occupied while she washed up, pinned back her hair, and dressed for the day, but when she went to put a pot of coffee on, she saw he was still cutting and splitting wood. In spite of the briskness of the morning, there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his face and throat. She watched him pause once, lift his hat, and wipe his brow with a kerchief, then go right back to work.

      It shouldn’t have softened her toward him. Rachel reminded herself that she hadn’t asked him to do anything for her and, in truth, had made several attempts to direct him elsewhere. She sincerely doubted this was what Clinton Maddox had in mind when he arranged for Wyatt Cooper to look after her.

      Rachel wondered if she could find a way to better explain her opinion on the matter over breakfast.

      Wyatt stomped his feet as he came in the door, alerting Rachel to his presence. The combined hearty aromas of bacon and coffee made him hope that she intended to feed him. He hung his coat and hat by the door and stepped into the kitchen. It was a consequence of the appetite he’d worked up that the first thing he noticed was that there were plenty of eggs and bacon in the skillet. She’d even made some biscuits that were now staying warm on top of the stove. Evidently she’d elicited the great black beast’s cooperation this morning.

      “Smells