Never Love A Lawman. Jo Goodman

I think she’s setting up to rob the bank.”

      “She’s not setting up to do any such thing, and you know it.”

      “Do I?”

      “Course you do. Folks that rob banks come and go. Fast. She’s been here a year now.”

      “Fifteen months.”

      “There you go.” Rose belted the loose ties of her bloodred silk robe, then turned and leaned back against the rail. She glanced sideways at Wyatt. “She does all right for herself without robbin’ the bank. She made this robe for me.”

      “It’s a fine piece of work.”

      Rose snorted. “Like you would know. You hardly looked at it.”

      “Like you better out of it.”

      “Ain’t that just like a man?”

      “I hope so.”

      Rose allowed her glance to slide over Wyatt. He was taller than many men of her acquaintance, and it was a plain fact that she was acquainted with many men. In profile, he was all smoothly sculpted angles and edgy watchfulness, more than a little aloof but not so cold that you could see his breath when he spoke. He was surely the most contained man she knew, not exactly comfortable in his own skin, but making the best of the fit. From where she stood, she had no complaints about the fit. He’d dressed carelessly: loose fitting trousers, half-tucked shirt, and bare feet. Only one suspender strap was hitched over his shoulders. The other dangled in a loop at his side. The clothes, though, did not make this man. He was narrow-hipped and tautly muscled across the chest and abdomen. The stiff brace of his arms made them as hard as iron rails. He had long legs, tight buttocks, and, damn him to hell, prettier feet than she’d seen on most women, including her own.

      He never exactly issued an invitation when you came at him straight on. He’d tip his hat, nod politely, always say hello, yet you got the sense it was all form and no feeling. At least she got that sense, and the improbably named Roseanne LaRosa counted herself as a fair judge of such things. Her profession demanded it. Her life could very well depend on it.

      Impulsively, Rose reached out and brushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen across Wyatt’s brow. Her fingers lingered a moment, separating threads of sunshine gold from his thick thatch of light brown hair. He cocked his head to look at her, one eyebrow slightly raised, and she whipped her hand away as if she had reason to feel guilty—or in danger.

      “You ought not look at a body like that,” she said sharply.

      “Oh?” His eyebrow kicked a notch higher, and he made a point of looking at her body exactly like that.

      Rose’s mouth twitched. “That isn’t what I meant, though I suppose you think you’re flattering me. As if you could with eyes like a wolf’s.”

      “A wolf’s? Because of the color?”

      “Because when they’re not all still and watchful, they’re squinty.”

      “Squinty.”

      “Yes. Don’t say it like you don’t know. There you go again. Squinty-eyed and accusing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

      “I didn’t say you did.”

      “You don’t have to. I’m telling you, it’s there in your eyes.”

      Wyatt turned his attention back to the telegraph office near the end of the street. “If you say so.”

      “I do.”

      Wyatt shrugged. “What do you suppose she’s doing in there today?”

      Rose glanced over her shoulder at the now empty sidewalk. “I expect she’s takin’ delivery of some packages. Artie Showalter picks up her things at the depot and brings them to his office. She’s been expecting three yards of Belgian lace and a bolt of peacock-blue sateen. She says she gets it faster if she places the order herself instead of asking for it at Morrison’s.”

      “Really?”

      “You couldn’t be at all interested, so why bother asking?”

      “Just making talk, I expect.”

      “Are you sure you’re not fixin’ to court her? Seems like every other single man’s fixed his eye on that prize. Now that I recollect, a couple of married men spun that notion around in what sadly passes for their minds—until their wives spun it back.”

      “I say again, I’m not fixing to court anyone, let alone Miss Rachel Bailey.”

      “Why not? She’s handsome enough, ain’t she?”

      “Handsome enough?” It wasn’t how he would have described her, but coming from Rose, it was a fulsome compliment. “Yes. She’s that.” And more, he thought. A pure pleasure. He nudged Rose with his shoulder. “Who are you trying to marry off? Me or her?”

      “Don’t see that it matters either way. You’re not exactly keeping me in silk and silver, and she’s a nice enough lady. A little sad about the eyes, if you ask me, but not so much that you think she’s about to burst into tears if you look at her sideways.”

      “Huh.”

      That was enough of a prompt for Rose to go on. “I never heard anything that wasn’t gossip and speculation because Miss Bailey likes to keep to herself, but my girls spin a good tale about her pining away. They’re fanciful in that regard, especially on a slow day.”

      “Is that right?”

      Rose ignored that. “Anyway, if you came around more, I might not like seein’ you go, but the way it is now, it’d be all right if you put your hat in the ring for Miss Bailey’s affections. She’s not going to stop making dresses just because she gets married, so I’m thinkin’ that’ll be all right, too. And she does keep me in silk and silver, though, God knows, I pay a pretty price for it.”

      “You’re the best-dressed woman in Reidsville,” Wyatt said. “Probably in Colorado.”

      She laughed. “When I’m wearing clothes.”

      “There’s nothing wrong with your birthday suit, but Miss Bailey does right by you.”

      Rose thought it was an odd thing for him to say. Not the first, but the second. She’d never have guessed his watchful, predatory eyes noticed the cut of a woman’s gown or the color of her threads. “You’re a peculiar sort of fellow, aren’t you, Wyatt?”

      Though only one side of his mouth lifted, what he offered his companion was most definitely a grin. “I never thought about it.”

      “Well, I’m telling you, you are. I’ve known you, what? Five years?”

      “Something like that.”

      She simply shook her head. “Peculiar.” Before she could elaborate, she saw Rachel Bailey step out of the telegraph office. “Oh, there she is.”

      “Mmm.”

      “Looks like her packages came.”

      “Looks like.”

      “She’s juggling an armful. Might be she could use an extra pair of hands.”

      “Might be she should have taken Artie up on his offer to help her.”

      “Now, how do you know he offered to tote those home for her?”

      “He always offers. She always refuses.”

      Rose gave him another sideways glance. “You been askin’ after her.”

      Wyatt didn’t confirm or deny her claim.

      Sighing softly, Rose changed the subject. “I hope she’s got the peacock-blue sateen in one of those. That’s for me.”

      “I thought it might be.”

      “Adele’s