Never Love A Lawman. Jo Goodman

      Rachel paused, looking up from the fabric she was cutting as Molly Showalter entered through the back door. “Put a kettle on, Molly,” she called, going back to work. “We’ll have tea when you want to take a break.”

      “Yes, ma’am. Do you have a list of chores for me?”

      “It’s on the kitchen table. Come here first. I want your opinion.”

      Molly only poked her head into the workroom. “My opinion, Miss Bailey?”

      Rachel glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Of course. You have them, don’t you?”

      “I guess so.”

      “Come on. Over by the table. You can’t see anything from where you’re hiding.”

      Molly made a slow, cautious approach and stopped when she was still a few feet from the table. “My hem’s been a magnet for dust today, Miss Bailey, and I have ink on my hands. I was cleaning my father’s office, and I knocked over an inkpot. I don’t want to touch anything in this room.”

      “Hold them up. Let me see.” Rachel set down her shears and regarded Molly’s hands. “Oh, yes. You look as if you’ve been picking blueberries. I have something on my vanity that might remove that. I’ll get it for you in a little while. First, tell me what you think of this.” She reached for the leather portfolio lying on one of the side chairs and unwound the grosgrain ribbon that secured the flap. Her fingers moved quickly over the contents, separating the sketches she’d made until she found the one she wanted. She pulled it out and laid it on the table for Molly to see.

      Molly sidled closer and bent at the waist to peer over the table, her hands set in a fist behind her back. The woman in the sketch had no features to speak of, and her hair was merely a suggestion made by a few bold spiral strokes of a pencil, but what she lacked in detail of face, she was compensated for in detail of form.

      She was a lithe figure, with young curves that promised a full blossom in time, and she held herself with confidence, shoulders back, head erect. She wore a party dress with a square-cut neckline and long, tight-fitting sleeves that tapered to points that lay softly against the back of her wrists. The stiff ruffle that defined the neck was repeated in a tiered cascade that began twelve inches above the hemline. The bodice was flat and plain so the woman’s figure was seen to its advantage rather than disappearing in flounces and an abundance of lace.

      “What do you think?” Rachel asked.

      Molly and Rachel both gave a violent start when a masculine voice behind them answered the question. “Johnny Winslow won’t be able to keep his eyes where God intended.”