Never Love A Lawman. Jo Goodman

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      Rachel sat in a green-velvet-upholstered side chair in Estella Longabach’s parlor and sipped tea from a fluted, gold-rimmed cup. “I brought my tape measure,” she said. “Just to be certain that what I have in my records at home is still accurate.”

      Estella held out her cup a fraction so she could stare down at herself. “I’m certain I haven’t gained any weight.”

      “As hard as you work, Mrs. Longabach, it’s more likely you’ve lost some, and a fraction of an inch here or there, well, you can understand that it makes a difference in the fit of the dress.”

      Nodding, Estella made another study of Rachel’s dress. “I sure like what you’re wearing today. I don’t remember seeing that in the pattern book you lent me. I’m sure it would have caught my eye.”

      “It’s my own design, but there are dresses similar to it in the book.”

      “Well, I like yours. It looks, hmm, I don’t know, like maybe you could lead a charge in it. What’s the name of the French girl that fought the English?”

      “Do you mean St. Joan? Joan of Arc?”

      “That’s her. Your dress puts me in mind of her. Not sure why because you couldn’t really ride a horse in it, now, could you?”

      Laughter parted Rachel’s lips. She smiled warmly. “No, it’s not practical for horse riding or swinging a sword. I think you’re noticing the double-breasted cuirass. It feels a bit like I’m wearing armor, I can tell you, but then I wanted to dress for battle today.”

      “Well, it sure is pretty, that’s what I know. Must’ve made every man in town sit up and take notice.”

      “It’s a friendly town,” said Rachel, realizing she’d spoken those same words to Wyatt earlier.

      Estella snorted. “Friendlier to some than others, I’ve seen.”

      “I’m sorry. Did I—”

      “I’m not talkin’ about you.” She waved one hand dismissively. “I’m talkin’ about that LaRosa woman. I swear she thinks she can get her painted claws into my Henry.”

      Rachel wasn’t certain that there was a correct response to this statement. She hurriedly took a shortbread cookie from the tray Mrs. Longabach had set between them and bit into it. Her hostess didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t replied or even made sympathetic noises.

      “Course, if I was wearin’ a dress like yours, Miss LaRosa would know I was serious about wantin’ her to take a step back. I like the idea of dressing for battle.”

      The dress was something Rachel felt that she could talk about. “Why don’t we look in the pattern book and see what would suit you best?”

      Estella pointed to Rachel’s tailored cuirass. “That’s what I want. What about that shell-pink batiste I ordered? Couldn’t you use that?”

      “It’s a beautiful piece of fabric. I looked it over yesterday and wished I’d ordered more, but it doesn’t really work for this dress. I’ll tell you what, I’ll stand up and you take a few moments to study my dress, concentrate on the particulars you like, and then I want you to close your eyes and try to imagine your lovely piece of shell-pink fabric cut and styled and detailed in exactly the same way.”

      Estella set her cup aside and laid her hands flat on her lap, prepared to concentrate. “This is a new one on me,” she said. “Is this how they do it in those Paris salons?”

      “I don’t know,” Rachel said, rising to her feet. “I’ve never been to Paris. What made you think I had?”

      Estella shrugged. “Just my imaginings, I suppose. You don’t really talk much about yourself, so I fill in the gaps on my own.”

      “But Paris?” asked Rachel. “That gap’s the Atlantic Ocean.”

      Estella twirled her finger, indicating that Rachel could start turning. “I saw paintings of Paris when Henry and I still lived back East. Oh, that was years ago now, but I never forgot them. Seemed like a place I’d like to visit someday, though it was always hard to picture myself there exactly. You, though, I could see you real easy in those paintings. Think of it every time you come glidin’ down the street in one of your pretty dresses, standin’ out of the background like you were movin’ through the painting, strolling on one of those boulevards with the little shops and cafés. Sophisticated, like. Just a bit separate from the crowd, you know. But real nice, too, ’cause you always make a point of smilin’ or givin’ folks a nod.”

      Rachel finished turning to face Estella once again. Her eyes were troubled and the small smile she forced was uncertain. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You’re kind to say so.”

      Estella’s eyebrows rose halfway to her dark widow’s peak. “Lookin’ at you now, I’m wonderin’ if I should have said a thing. I don’t think you know how to hear a compliment, ’cause that’s what it was. Meant what I said in the kindest way, and that’s the truth.”

      “Well, thank you, then,” Rachel said with more conviction this time.

      “That’s better. Now I’m going to shut my eyes and think about a shell-pink batiste, and if I can get Paris proper in my mind again, I’ll be draggin’ Henry into one of those cafés with me.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Rachel waited. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds, and she counted fifty-two before Mrs. Longabach opened her eyes.

      “Well,” Estella said firmly, “the shell pink isn’t going to do at all, is it?”

      “No.”

      “No sense putting brass buttons on confectionery. But then, you knew that.”

      “It was important to me that you realize it,” Rachel said. “Now, if you’d like me to show you some fabrics in other colors, like indigo blue or burgundy, or some plaids similar to what I’m wearing, I’d be happy to bring them by.”

      “What about the moss-green material that I ordered?”

      “It will work, of course, but the dress you picked out for it is really the perfect choice.”

      “Are we talkin’ about three dresses now or two?”

      “We’re talking about as many as you’d like, Mrs. Longabach.”

      Estella’s gaze was both shrewd and appreciative. “Let’s see. I’m hearin’ the burgundy and brass for stopping Miss LaRosa in her tracks, the moss green for every day, and the shell pink for…Now, what do I need the shell pink for?”

      “It’d make a lovely nightgown.”

      Chuckling, Estella picked up her cup. “Aren’t you the quick one, Miss Bailey, but I’m forty-two years old with about as many curves as a string СКАЧАТЬ