Never Love A Lawman. Jo Goodman

you see it that way, Miss Bailey.”

      They fell quiet until they reached the bank; then Wyatt opened the door for her and ushered her inside. “Here we go,” he said softly, a bit resignedly, and Rachel was moved to wonder if he was speaking to her or himself.

      Jacob Reston was the sort of man that medium was meant to describe. He came in at average for height, weight, and the length of his sideburns. He spoke in carefully modulated tones and was never passionate on any subject. He was genial, unaffected, and comfortable to be around. In matters of finance, he was the agreed-upon expert, and he managed the bank efficiently and with integrity because it was not in his nature to manage it in any other manner.

      Mr. Reston engaged in precisely one minute of small talk, then showed them to the back room where the bank’s safe was located. The words HAMMER & SCHINDLER were set in bold gold-leaf typeface on the door and sides. The brass lock was as big as Rachel’s fist. Mr. Reston stepped in front of the safe and used his body to conceal the combination. It took him mere seconds to find what he was looking for; then he closed the safe and spun the dial.

      He handed an envelope to Wyatt. “You’ll have privacy here,” he said. “Take your time.”

      Wyatt waited until Reston closed the door upon exiting before he gave the envelope over. “Would you like to sit?” he asked, pointing to the ladder-back chair closest to the oil lamp.

      “Yes, I think I would.” She put herself at the corner of the small table and leaned forward so her elbows were resting on the edge. She was peripherally aware that Wyatt had chosen not to join her but was leaning back against one wall, his hands behind him. “I guess I’m a little nervous. Did he write it in his own hand, do you know?”

      “I believe so. I remember thinking the script matched his signature. You’ll know better, but I never doubted it was from him.”

      Rachel nodded once, then slipped her finger carefully under the envelope’s flap where the seal had been broken once and then reset lightly by the pressure of the things placed on top of it. She eased out the contract, set the envelope aside, then carefully unfolded the paper.

      She read.

      Her vision did not blur immediately. She’d prepared herself for that first shock by asking if she’d find Clinton Maddox’s handwriting, so she was able to beat back tears for a while. The content was straightforward, outlining the terms, expressing that she was to have land, a house, and such assistance as she required from time to time to make certain that she would stay in Reidsville. That assistance, he was careful to specify, would have to be offered in a way that did not arouse suspicion. He did not put it to paper in plain words, but it was there between the lines that he thought she was too proud or too stubborn—perhaps both—to accept too many kindnesses, thereby ensuring that she would cut off her nose to spite her face and guarantee that she would decide to leave. The final implication was that she would decide to move back to him, and that was the very last place she was welcome. It was little wonder that Wyatt thought she’d been sent packing, albeit with much consideration and a great many possessions in her trunk.

      Halfway through, she fumbled for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Without looking up, she addressed Wyatt. “I understand why you think you’re required to look after me, but that’s an interpretation, not a condition.”

      “Read on,” was all he said.

      She set down the first page and continued until her breath caught sharply. She stared at the page. “He wasn’t serious.” At first it was all she could think to say. “If you knew him better, you’d know he had a wicked sense of humor. This is clearly a joke or proof of an addled mind.”

      “You knew him very well. Was his mind addled?”

      It occurred to her to lie, but this was Clinton Maddox she was talking about, and she couldn’t bring herself to tarnish his memory. “No,” she said softly. “Anything but.”

      “Which makes it a joke.”

      Relieved, Rachel nodded. “Then you do see it. I’m glad. For a moment I was concerned that—” She bit down on her next words when she glanced up and saw that Wyatt Cooper wasn’t smiling. Not even a little bit. “You certainly don’t have to be worried that I’ll hold you to it. This sort of thing isn’t done any longer. I’m not even sure that it was done in Mr. Maddox’s youth.”

      “A marriage arranged for property and protection?” he asked. “It’s done all the time.”

      “I’m sure you’re wrong.”

      “I don’t think so. I signed the contract, didn’t I?”

      “Well, yes, but it’s not binding. It can’t be, not with such a ridiculous clause. You agreed it was a joke.”

      “I didn’t say that exactly. You should know I put my name to it with a sense of the consequences.” He shrugged. “And now I have myself a mail-order bride.”

      Rachel’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

      “You’ll catch flies that way but not much else.”

      Her mouth snapped shut. She glared at him, rattled the paper in her hand, and continued to read. Clinton Maddox was clear that there could be no marriage while he lived, but at his death, her need to be protected was paramount. He did not outline his reasons, which Rachel knew was quite deliberate. She understood them well enough, though it was clear from her earlier conversations with Wyatt Cooper that he did not. Mr. Maddox had cared deeply for her, enough so that he arranged for her safety, but in the end blood will out. He could not bring himself to leave a record of why she’d been compelled to go in the first place.

      “He must have thought that marriage was the only sure way to…” She let her thought trail away.

      Wyatt picked it up. “To keep you from doing injury to someone?”

      “If you like.”

      “That’s what he implies.”

      “Yes, I read that.”

      He waited to see if she would say more, but on this subject she was obstinately quiet. “Will I have to spend our married life sleeping with one eye open?”

      “Don’t suggest that, even in jest.”

      “What? That you’ll murder me in my sleep?”

      “That I’ll marry you.”

      Wyatt released a pained sigh as he pushed away from the wall. He spun around one of the chairs at the table and straddled it. Placing his forearms across the uppermost rail, he jerked his chin at the contract she still held in her hands. “Finish reading it; then we’ll talk.”

      His expression did not invite argument, although Rachel was sorely tempted. She did as he suggested but only after she made certain he understood it was because she wanted to. Her lips moved slightly as she read, not because she was quietly sounding out the words, but because she was cursing Clinton Maddox.

      When she finished reading, but not cursing, she refolded the contract and slid it and the envelope in Wyatt’s direction. “He mentions the mine,” she said. “And reminds you that I’m to have a half interest in it.”

      “That’s right.”

      “That was his share?”

      “Yes.”

      “Who has the other half?”

      “I have a quarter. The town has the other.” He watched her try to take that in, work out what it meant. “That’s not the important part,” he said before she began to raise objections that would make no difference in the end. “Did you read the paragraph about the spur?”

      “Yes. He means to give me sole ownership of it.”

      “If you marry me.”

      “Yes, I saw that. And since I don’t want the Calico spur,