Never Love A Lawman. Jo Goodman

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      “All right,” she conceded, though not graciously. “I knew I needed it. I just wish you’d talked to me first.”

      “I thought I did.”

      Her mouth flattened briefly to communicate that her own thinking was at odds with his. “We have to settle this matter of your agreement with Mr. Maddox.”

      “Mr. Maddox and I settled that. I don’t see that you have any say in it, but the offer’s still there to read over the contract. Come by my office today if you have a mind to. I’ll take you over to the bank.”

      “Or I could go to the bank by myself.” She bit into a biscuit. They were good. “I do know where it is.”

      “Jake Reston won’t allow you to see my private papers without me being there.”

      Knowing that he was right, Rachel surrendered. “Very well. I’ll come by around two, if that’s not inconvenient. I promised Mrs. Longabach I’d schedule a fitting with her. I can see her afterward.”

      “Around two’s fine.” He gave her a narrow smile. “Feel better now that that’s settled?”

      It was uncomfortable to realize she had such an expressive face. There was no other explanation for how he was able to read her mind. “A little, yes.”

      “Good, but don’t expect to feel much relieved when you read the contract. I’d have brought it around for you to see even if you hadn’t asked, but I’m fairly confident that you’re not going to like it.”

      Her slight smile held no humor. “I’m fairly confident that you’re right.”

      Silence settled between them. It wasn’t precisely uncomfortable, so neither of them was moved to fill it. For Rachel’s part she found it confusing that she’d managed to keep people like the sheriff, most particularly the sheriff, at arm’s length for fifteen months. Now, with Clinton Maddox’s death, she’d entertained him twice in her kitchen, had him fetching water and cutting wood, and had arranged to see him again this afternoon. If he really thought she was a danger to someone else, he surely was putting himself in harm’s way.

      Watching her, Wyatt was struck again by the stillness she could affect. It suited her, this quiet. Not that he didn’t enjoy sparring with her, but that had been the surprise. He was used to seeing her in town, engaging, but not engaged. She was unfailingly polite, always pleasant, but those qualities were also a product of good manners and breeding, not necessarily fundamental to her character. The stillness was.

      It was easy to imagine her with needle and thread, enjoying the solitary pursuit of creating something by her own hand, realizing a vision that was in her mind. He was moved by that.

      He wondered if he’d ever tell her so.

      “I don’t suppose that it matters much that I was someone’s mistress,” she said quietly.

      The abrupt resumption of conversation startled Wyatt as much as what was said. “In Reidsville? No, not much. Maybe it did in Sacramento. It sure as hell would in Boston. But here?” He shook his head. “I like to think we’re the better for it. There must be lots of reasons why a woman agrees to become a man’s mistress.”

      “Most people assume it’s money.”

      “That’s probably the most popular.”

      She nodded absently. “Probably is.”

      “Have you thought any more about the biscuits?” When she merely stared at him blankly, he said, “Remember? You fix them for me and I keep your secret?”

      “Oh, that. I can’t say that I like being blackmailed.”

      “Imagine how I feel resorting to it. People around here expect me to be above such things.”

      “But you’re not.”

      “Sadly, no. Your biscuits prove that.”

      Rachel shook her head, mildly exasperated. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

      “Some.”

      Her eyebrows knit as she gave him the skeptic’s eye. What he gave her in return was the uncomplicated expression of innocence. Convinced now that he was cunning beyond easy comprehension, Rachel acknowledged that the best she could likely do was make the game interesting.

      “Once a month,” she said. “Once a month I’ll make biscuits for you.”

      He chewed on a strip of bacon while he pretended to consider that offer. “No,” he said finally. “Once a week on Thursdays and every other Sunday.”

      “I don’t think so. But I’m curious, why Thursdays?”

      “That’s when I ride out, make a sweep through the passes to make certain no gangs have moved. There are a lot of hideouts in these parts. I also check on the folks that live farther up or out, take them mail if they have any and supplies if they’ve told me what they need.”

      “Doesn’t your deputy ever go in your place?”

      “That no-account Beatty boy strikes out on Mondays.”

      “Oh.” She turned this over in her mind. “Well, I imagine I can make biscuits for you every other Thursday and one Sunday a month.”

      “Two Sundays. Two Thursdays. Alternating. And on Sundays I get to eat them here.”

      “Absolutely not. Two Sundays. Two Thursdays. And I’ll see that you get them.”

      “All right,” he agreed. “Just so you know, I strike out pretty early on Thursdays.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.” She went to take another bite of food and realized she’d finished off her plate. She set her fork down. “I didn’t know I had such an appetite.”

      “You want another biscuit? Here. I’ll split this one with you and call it my sacrifice for the day.”

      That made her smile. “Thank you. I will.”

      Wyatt sliced the biscuit, buttered both halves, then held them in his open palms and let her choose top or bottom.

      Rachel chose the bottom. She settled back in her chair as she ate. “How long before I arrived was my house built?”

      “About six months.”

      That meant Mr. Maddox was making arrangements for her departure long before she’d decided to leave, perhaps before they had first discussed it together. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he saw the handwriting on the wall before she did. He’d made his fortune anticipating the mood of the country and the strategies of his peers. She considered herself prescient if she could guess what soup would be served at luncheon.

      “How did you explain that you were building a house?” she asked.

      “Told everyone it was for me.” He shrugged. “That didn’t cause stir, though some folks were surprised when I didn’t move in.”

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