The Marriage Knot. Mary McBride

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      The Dancers’ property took up a whole square block, nearly an acre of elm trees and shady grass and sunlit gardens. Ezra, or so the story went, had made his fortune outfitting—and perhaps even outwitting—hordes of gold-seekers in California back in the fifties. The house in Newton was said to be an exact replica of his previous abode in San Francisco, complete with arched doors and windows, fancy Greek columns, and fat, hand-carved balusters on the wide wraparound porch.

      There was enough gingerbread on the building to decorate an entire village. Every outside nook and cranny was filled with some carved doodad or other. Even the trim had trimming of its own.

      It was the damnedest house Delaney had ever seen. Not that he’d spent a lot of time looking at it, though. Whenever he passed by, on foot or on horseback, he trained his gaze elsewhere. Away. He was a practical man, if nothing else. Far from a dreamer, he saw no use in looking at what—or who—he couldn’t have.

      “Well, Ezra won’t be climbing these anymore,” Abel Fairfax said as the two men made their way up the broad front steps. When one of the boards groaned beneath their feet, he added, “Hannah’s going to have to find herself a decent handyman now, I guess.”

      Delaney didn’t respond. He’d never been inside this imposing residence before, and quite suddenly he felt as if he should have soaped up some after awakening that morning or at least put on a fresh shirt instead of the one he’d been wearing all week. He passed his fingertips along his jaw, vaguely wishing he had shaved.

      Fairfax pulled open the screen door and motioned with one hand. “After you, Sheriff.”

      Delaney stepped over the threshold and damned if the temperature didn’t feel as if it had dropped a dozen degrees in the distance of those few feet. The vestibule in which he found himself was papered in green brocade and dappled by sunshine pouring through the fanlight and through a stained glass window on the landing just ahead.

      He took in a long breath, sweetened by eucalyptus and cloves and maybe a tad of cinnamon. Until now, the finest place he’d ever seen had been Corina White’s fancy house in Fort Smith. Compared to that, the Dancer house looked like Buckingham Palace. He glanced down at his boots, knowing they weren’t shiny, but hoping at least they weren’t clotted with dirt and that his spurs weren’t tearing up the Persian carpet.

      He heard soft conversation to his right, then looked into the dining room where the plump little schoolteacher and the thin fellow who worked at the bank—both of them boarders here at the Dancers‘—sat across from each other at a large table, sipping coffee and taking bites of toast. It was still breakfast time. The thought surprised Delaney. He felt as if he’d been up half the day already.

      “Hannah usually doesn’t come down till nine or so.” Abel Fairfax stood at the foot of the staircase, craning his neck upwards as if he could look around the landing and down the hallway on the second floor. “Hannah,” he called softly. “Hannah, are you up?”

      Delaney checked the big inlaid clock on the vestibule’s far wall. It tinkled out a quarter chime just then. Eight-fifteen. Maybe Hannah Dancer was still asleep. Maybe he’d go on back to the jailhouse, have a cup of coffee and collect himself, then return in half an hour or so. Or maybe...

      “Yes, Abel. I’m up.”

      Her voice preceded her down the staircase like a warm, luxurious breeze.

      “What in the world is going on at this hour of the morning?” A tiny trill of laughter—like the music of wind chimes—punctuated her question, then there was a flurry of bright silk and a glimpse of a delicate slipper before Hannah herself appeared on the landing.

      Delaney’s stomach clenched when he saw that she wasn’t dressed yet, but wearing a gayly flowered wrapper that clung to every natural curve of her, and her hair wasn’t done up yet in its customary auburn knot. Instead it fell in a cascade of damp curls over her shoulders and bodice. She stood dabbing at those curls, almost caressing them with a small towel while sunlight through the stained glass window decked her from lovely head to dainty toe in rubies and sapphires and emeralds.

      “Abel, what...?”

      Even as she spoke her gaze latched on Delaney at the foot of the stairs. “Sheriff?”

      Their eyes locked, and—as always—Delaney could feel his stomach tighten again when he perceived the quick jolt of desire in Hannah Dancer’s expression. Then, just as quickly, the desire was replaced by a different sort of recognition. In rapid succession came blinking bafflement and finally white, wide-eyed fear.

      She knew, Delaney thought. Not a word had been spoken, but somehow she knew!

      The towel fell from her hand as Hannah wobbled and reached out blindly for the bannister. Delaney propped his shotgun against the wall and took the flight of stairs in three long strides to keep her from tumbling down. Hannah sagged in his arms like a doll stitched in silk and stuffed with the downiest of feathers.

      By now the schoolteacher and the banker had abandoned their breakfast and were standing, wide-eyed as well, in the vestibule with Abel Fairfax.

      “Good Heavens! Mrs. Dancer’s fainted,” the young woman cried.

      “I’ll go get Doctor Soames,” the banker quickly volunteered, and he was out the door before anybody could say it probably wasn’t necessary, and the door had hardly closed behind him before the plump little schoolteacher rucked up her skirts and came charging up the stairs.

      “Thank heaven you were here, Sheriff Delaney,” she said. “My stars! Mrs. Dancer might have fallen and broken her poor neck, otherwise.”

      If it weren’t for him, Delaney thought, and whatever she had witnessed in his expression, Hannah wouldn’t have fainted in the first place. “Maybe you could show me where I might put her down, ma’am.”

      “Down the hall and to the left,” Abel Fairfax called. “You go ahead and show him to Hannah’s room, Miss Green.”

      “Yes. All right. Sheriff, if you’ll just follow me.”

      She bustled ahead of Delaney, until farther down the hallway, she opened a door. “In here,” she said. “You can put her on the bed.”

      Delaney angled Hannah Dancer’s lax body through the doorway and lowered her gently onto the huge carved walnut bed that dominated the room.

      Miss Green produced a linen hanky, moistened it in the washbowl, and began to smooth it across Hannah’s forehead, crooning a little and murmuring soft words of comfort.

      Feeling helpless at best, Delaney just stood there. Rather than stare at Hannah’s fragile form on the bed, he let his gaze wander around the room. Her room, to all appearances. Hers alone. There wasn’t a single masculine touch he could discern. Not a pipe rack or an errant boot or so much as a cuff link on the dresser.

      Instead there were silver hairbrushes, delicate tortoise combs, perfume bottles that captured the sunlight in prisms and sent it spilling across the carpet and over stray garments of cream-colored silk tossed here and there. The lamps were painted with roses to match the paper on the wall. The whole room, in fact, smelled like a rose garden. Lush and sweet and... Well, pink. No, not pink. It was richer than that. It smelled rose. A rich, deep and full-bodied rose.

      The door to the wardrobe stood СКАЧАТЬ