The Outlaw's Lady. Laurie Kingery

stared at him, her lapis lazuli-blue eyes widening. “I never thought that you did,” she began, but he interrupted her before she could deny it further.

      “I will cooperate fully, better than any of your other subjects today, so you will be rid of me in half the time.”

      He enjoyed the flash of amusement that curved her lips upward. He liked the way her lower lip was fuller than the other, and the way she was biting it just now with straight white teeth as if to hold back a laugh. He wanted to make her laugh some more.

      “Well, you’d hardly have to do much to behave better than those Dupree girls, Mr. Parrish. They were fidgety before, but once they spotted you, they became impossible.”

      Was it a test to see if he enjoyed the admiring glances of women? He’d seen the silly chits eyeing him, but they held no appeal. It had been this woman he’d come to meet.

      “Ah, well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there, Miss Hennessy?” he said lightly.

      She met his gaze as if she weren’t quite sure how to take his remark. “Just make yourself comfortable, Mr. Parrish,” she said, gesturing toward one of the two ornately carved chairs she had been using all afternoon for her subjects.

      “We have been introduced, Miss Hennessy. You may call me Sandoval.”

      Tess Hennessy did nothing to indicate she had heard him, merely moved the second chair away from the one in which he sat, and ignored his murmur that he could have done that for her. “I’ll just be a few moments preparing the plate,” she said, disappearing once more under the canvas hood.

      “So you are called Tess, not Teresa, Miss Hennessy?” he asked, trying to keep her talking while all he could see of her, from his vantage point in the chair, was her navy-blue skirt. “It suits you.”

      “By my family. Uncle Samuel is my godfather, so he has that privilege, too.” As you do not on such short acquaintance, he knew she meant. Her voice was muffled by the heavy fabric, but he didn’t miss the starch in it. Sandoval smiled inwardly at her attempt to put him in his place. Tess Hennessy had the tart tongue to go with the fiery hair that the knot at the nape of her neck barely restrained anymore. He settled into a pose, staring back at the camera with a half smile. He let her direct him in how to hold his head, where to put his hands. When she announced that she was finished, he stood and told her he would pick up the finished product in three days at her shop.

      “But…perhaps you didn’t understand. I can have it done by the end of the day for you, Mr. Parrish,” she said, taking a step after him. “It will come complete with a matte and protective folder.”

      “Ah, but your grandfather tells me one can also purchase frames at your shop, custom-made for the picture by your assistant. I would like a frame suitable for the picture, a gilt frame, if that is possible?”

      “Of course, we can make such a frame for it,” she said. “You said you will pick it up on Tuesday?”

      Sandoval nodded. Had he imagined the slight heightening of color in her cheeks when she realized she would see him again? “Would late morning be convenient?”

      “I’ll expect you then, Mr. Parrish.” Her voice was brisk, businesslike. A prelude to goodbye. She stared down at the notebook she’d taken out to note the appointment.

      He wanted more than that from her, despite his realization that mutual interest might complicate things. “If you like,” he went on, “I’d be honored to take you to lunch at the hotel across from your shop. I’m told they have good food.” He said it to gauge her reaction to him. Both of them would be many miles from Chapin by then, if all went according to his plan.

      Her chin jerked up again. “I…I don’t know…I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

      “Very well, Miss Hennessy. Until Tuesday, then.” He felt her eyes upon him as he strode away.

      

      “Aren’t you done yet, Tess?” Amelia Hennessy shouted through the heavy canvas of the developing tent. The sudden sound caused Tess to straighten quickly and bang her head on the support post, exacerbating the pounding headache she already had. She didn’t know why her mother thought she had to shout, as if the canvas were a six-foot-thick adobe wall.

      “No, not quite, Mama, why?” Tess replied, purposefully vague, though she was brushing varnish on the last picture. If she left at the same time as her parents, her mother would insist on critiquing the party with her—who had worn what, who had been flirting with whom, the quality and quantity of the food, and so forth—which would require Tess to drive her vehicle abreast of the victoria. After spending most of a day with social chatter droning into her ears, Tess was looking forward to being alone with her thoughts. She already knew what—or rather whom—she was going to think about.

      “It’s late. Your father and I are ready to leave.”

      Under the canvas, Tess pushed an errant lock of hair off her damp forehead, feeling wilted and sticky. She resolved never again to accept any commissions that involved outdoor photography in the heat of a south Texas summer. It was no longer necessary to protect the photographs from the light, but remaining under the hood allowed her to protect the drying photographs from dust and insects.

      “You go ahead, then,” she said, praying her mother would do so without further questions. “I’ll drive back when I’m finished. I won’t be too much longer.”

      She heard Amelia loose a heavy sigh. “Very well, but be home before dark, won’t you? Have Sam escort you.”

      Tess stifled the urge to remind her mother it was only a mile between the Taylors’ place and Hennessy Hall. She was not about to ask Uncle Samuel to saddle a horse and escort her as if she were six years old and afraid of the dark. Would her mother ever treat her as a grown woman? Why, her sister Bess had been married at seventeen!

      Tess was the youngest child, the only one left at home. Perhaps that explained her mother’s overprotectiveness. She resolved to be more patient with her.

      “You need your rest, Tess. Don’t forget, church tomorrow, and your brother and his family are coming for Sunday dinner.”

      She always enjoyed going to the little church in Chapin they had always attended, and it would be good for her mother to see Robert and his family. They lived in Houston and weren’t able to visit often. Having three lively grandchildren around would distract her mother, and surely Tess could gain some breathing room.

      “Well, aren’t you going to come out from beneath that thing and tell your parents goodbye?” Amelia asked, her tone reproachful.

      It wasn’t as if they were going to be parted for more than an hour, but Tess deemed her last picture dry enough, so she obliged her mother by throwing the flap open and giving her mother an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

      When she drew back, she found her mother staring at one of the portraits she had just finished and pinned up to dry. Sandoval Parrish’s image stared back at them, his eyes dark and probing, as if he wanted to penetrate the soul of whoever gazed at the picture. There was definitely something about the man that disturbed Tess’s peace, though she could not have said how, precisely.

      Amelia’s peace had apparently been disturbed as well. “Sam Taylor introduced you to that man? He must have done it when I wasn’t looking. Why, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” her mother said indignantly, snatching the picture from where it was pinned on the drying board and whirling around.

      “Mama, it’s not completely dry. Be careful!” Tess pleaded, following her and hoping she would not have to tell Parrish her mother had ruined the picture and he would have to sit for it again. She couldn’t help glancing around to see if Parrish was still around and had heard her mother, but she saw no sign of him.

      Her mother, however, had spotted her husband and Taylor standing by the hitched and ready victoria, and was already sailing off in their direction, her bearing rigid with indignation, brandishing the photograph