style="font-size:15px;"> “I’d been led to believe it, yes.”
Rachel’s brow puckered. It was vaguely unsettling to realize that Clinton Maddox had known well in advance what her decision would be. “The house is really mine, isn’t it?”
“It always has been. He made sure of it.”
Her eyes reflected some of her anxiety. “And it wouldn’t be too easy for others to discover, would it?”
“No, I don’t suppose that it would.”
She relaxed the white-tipped grip on her teacup and took a sip. “It’s odd that he told me so little about the town when it seems as if he must have known it fairly well. I suppose he meant for it to be a secret all the way around. We agreed that when the time came for me to leave I would use the Central line to ship the furniture and all of my trunks.”
“I think that might properly be what’s called an irony.”
The line of Rachel’s slight smile was bittersweet. “And I think you might be right, Sheriff.” She collected herself, took a breath, and let it out slowly. “How did you know he sent me packing?”
“That was in his letter. Not those exact words, of course, but to that effect.”
“I see.”
Wyatt rubbed the underside of his chin with his knuckles, felt the rough stubble of a three-day growth. “He was considerably older than you.”
“He was? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sorry. It’s not my place to comment on your arrangement with him.”
“No, it’s not.”
“There’s one thing I’d like to know, if you don’t mind.”
Rachel was quite sure she didn’t want to hear his question, but she heard herself answer him differently. “I won’t know if I mind until I hear what’s on yours.”
Wyatt wondered how often Rachel Bailey actually drank. There was a hint of provocation in her tone and in the tilt of her head that seemed as if it might be whiskey-proof. “Fair enough,” he said. “I was wondering—since it seems he didn’t want to hear from you again—why you think he made it part of our agreement that I’m supposed to look after you?”
Rachel’s head snapped up. “Look after me? He said that?”
“Drew up an entire document.” Wyatt watched Rachel’s lips part. Whatever she was going to say, she reconsidered it, and her mouth snapped shut. He was disappointed that she wasn’t going to tell him what she knew. He said, “I suppose Maddox thought he had his reasons.”
“I suppose he did.” Her dark eyes wavered, then fell away from Wyatt’s flinty pair. She began to reach for the teapot, stopped, and reached for the bottle of whiskey instead. She poured a generous shot for herself, then nudged the bottle toward Wyatt.
Wyatt just pushed it aside. He imagined one of them should remain clearheaded. He tried again to prompt her to talk, wondering if the whiskey would work in his favor. “So what do you think his reasons were, Miss Bailey? If you had to make a guess.”
“Do I?”
“Do you what?”
“Do I have to make a guess?” She bit off every word as if it were its own sentence. “Really, Sheriff, try to follow your own lead.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up a fraction. “You’re a regular termagant, aren’t you?”
She took a deep swallow. There was considerably more whiskey than tea in her cup, and she felt the liquor’s heat all the way to the pit of her stomach. “Termagant. There’s a word I don’t hear every day.”
“It means shrew.”
“I know what it means. I didn’t expect you would.”
“I’ve been studying up on words. Passes the time. There’s not a lot of criminal activity in Reidsville in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed you don’t wear a gun.”
“Most days it seems like a bother.”
“Your deputy wears a gun.”
“It must not bother him.”
A small vertical crease appeared between Rachel’s eyebrows as she considered this. She couldn’t possibly be having this conversation, and yet she was certain that she was.
“Are you all right, Miss Bailey? You’re looking a little peaked.”
“Pike’s Peaked?”
“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, watching her carefully. “When did you last eat?” The fact that she had to think about it did not give him confidence. “Did you have breakfast?”
“I did.” Her frown deepened. “Coffee. I burned the eggs.” She cast a sour glance at the stove, then brightened a little. “Your socks are done.”
Wyatt looked over his shoulder. Not simply done; his woolen socks were smoking. He jumped up from his chair and plucked them off the stove top. He held one between the fingertips of each hand and gave them a frenetic wave, hoping he did not cause them to burst into flame.
Watching him, Rachel was put in mind of a coquette energetically waving her handkerchief as she bid farewell to a parade of departing soldiers. Even if she were sober, the image would have amused her. The warm spread of whiskey in her blood guaranteed that she would laugh out loud.
Pausing, Wyatt explained expressionlessly, “They’re my favorite socks.”
“Oh.” Rachel placed three fingers over her mouth to quell her laughter and hide her smile. “Then, by all means, continue.”
He dropped them on the seat of his chair. “I’ve lost my enthusiasm for it.” He retrieved his boots, examined them, then let them thump to the floor.
Rachel leaned over and whisked his socks from the chair before he sat on them. She quickly thrust them in his hands.
“Thank you,” he said. He regarded her a moment before he sat, wondering if her action was made clumsy by the alcohol or her natural reluctance to be close to him. Most likely, it wasn’t one or the other, but both. He drew up his left leg, settled it crosswise over his knee, and put on one sock. When he reversed position, he caught her staring at him. “You must have seen a man put on his socks before.”
“I must have,” she agreed.
Wyatt was aware that she was parroting him rather than offering a direct response. There was also a faint singsong quality to her voice that he recognized as the whiskey’s influence. She apparently heard it, too, but decided that the cure was more of the same. He didn’t try to stop her when she reached for the bottle and poured two thick fingers of liquor into her empty teacup. Shaking his head, he slipped on his other sock. “You might want to take your time with that.”
Rachel’s
