view of her gliding toward him.
Give or take a few minutes, she was right on schedule. He didn’t have to look away from her to confirm that he wasn’t alone in his appreciation. He could safely predict there were upwards of a dozen men loitering on the wooden sidewalk between Morrison’s Emporium and Mr. Redmond’s Livery. Abe Dishman and Ned Beaumont were almost certainly glancing up from the checkers game they played every afternoon in front of Easter’s Bakery. Johnny Winslow would have set himself to sweeping out the entrance of Longabach’s Restaurant just about now, whether or not Mrs. Longabach needed him scrubbing pots or hauling water. Mr. Longabach, too, generally found some reason to wander outside the restaurant, even if it was only to remind Johnny not to dawdle.
Jacob Reston managed the bank and employed two tellers, both of whom had surely moved quietly from behind their cages to crowd the doorway. Jacob had the best view, a consequence of the position of his desk, the window, and the convenience of a chair that swiveled. Ed Kennedy had likely stopped pounding out a shoe in his blacksmithing establishment long enough to watch her take her daily constitutional, and because Ed liked to impress the ladies, he’d be standing almost at attention, making the best of what God and hard work had given him: broad shoulders, upper arms like anvils, and hands as big as dinner plates.
Wyatt’s fingers tapped out the steady cadence of her walk as she passed Caldwell’s Apothecary and the sheriff’s office. She slipped out of his sight when her path took her under the sheltering porch roof in front of the Miner Key Saloon, but Wyatt kept tapping, and she reappeared at the precise moment he predicted she would, just as his index finger hit the downbeat.
She was within moments of reaching her destination when he was joined at the rail. He didn’t pretend he was doing anything but what he was, and the fact that he didn’t try to hide it brought a throaty chuckle from his companion.
“I don’t suppose you have a jealous bone in your body, Rose,” Wyatt said.
“And I reckon I don’t have any reason to be jealous. Purely wasteful emotion.” She matched Wyatt’s pose at the rail. The ruffled hem of her petticoats fluttered as a light breeze was funneled down the street. Small eddies of dust rose and fell between the bordering sidewalks, but they were no kind of nuisance compared to the muddy puddles that appeared after a rainstorm. “Are you fixin’ to court her?”
“No.”
“Why not? You watch her the same as every other man in town.”
“Maybe I think she’s setting up to rob the bank.”
“She’s not setting up to do any such thing, and you know it.”
“Do I?”
“Course you do. Folks that rob banks come and go. Fast. She’s been here a year now.”
“Fifteen months.”
“There you go.” Rose belted the loose ties of her bloodred silk robe, then turned and leaned back against the rail. She glanced sideways at Wyatt. “She does all right for herself without robbin’ the bank. She made this robe for me.”
“It’s a fine piece of work.”
Rose snorted. “Like you would know. You hardly looked at it.”
“Like you better out of it.”
“Ain’t that just like a man?”
“I hope so.”
Rose allowed her glance to slide over Wyatt. He was taller than many men of her acquaintance, and it was a plain fact that she was acquainted with many men. In profile, he was all smoothly sculpted angles and edgy watchfulness, more than a little aloof but not so cold that you could see his breath when he spoke. He was surely the most contained man she knew, not exactly comfortable in his own skin, but making the best of the fit. From where she stood, she had no complaints about the fit. He’d dressed carelessly: loose fitting trousers, half-tucked shirt, and bare feet. Only one suspender strap was hitched over his shoulders. The other dangled in a loop at his side. The clothes, though, did not make this man. He was narrow-hipped and tautly muscled across the chest and abdomen. The stiff brace of his arms made them as hard as iron rails. He had long legs, tight buttocks, and, damn him to hell, prettier feet than she’d seen on most women, including her own.
He never exactly issued an invitation when you came at him straight on. He’d tip his hat, nod politely, always say hello, yet you got the sense it was all form and no feeling. At least she got that sense, and the improbably named Roseanne LaRosa counted herself as a fair judge of such things. Her profession demanded it. Her life could very well depend on it.
Impulsively, Rose reached out and brushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen across Wyatt’s brow. Her fingers lingered a moment, separating threads of sunshine gold from his thick thatch of light brown hair. He cocked his head to look at her, one eyebrow slightly raised, and she whipped her hand away as if she had reason to feel guilty—or in danger.
“You ought not look at a body like that,” she said sharply.
“Oh?” His eyebrow kicked a notch higher, and he made a point of looking at her body exactly like that.
Rose’s mouth twitched. “That isn’t what I meant, though I suppose you think you’re flattering me. As if you could with eyes like a wolf’s.”
“A wolf’s? Because of the color?”
“Because when they’re not all still and watchful, they’re squinty.”
“Squinty.”
“Yes. Don’t say it like you don’t know. There you go again. Squinty-eyed and accusing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You don’t have to. I’m telling you, it’s there in your eyes.”
Wyatt turned his attention back to the telegraph office near the end of the street. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
Wyatt shrugged. “What do you suppose she’s doing in there today?”
Rose glanced over her shoulder at the now empty sidewalk. “I expect she’s takin’ delivery of some packages. Artie Showalter picks up her things at the depot and brings them to his office. She’s been expecting three yards of Belgian lace and a bolt of peacock-blue sateen. She says she gets it faster if she places the order herself instead of asking for it at Morrison’s.”
“Really?”
“You couldn’t be at all interested, so why bother asking?”
“Just making talk, I expect.”
“Are you sure you’re not fixin’ to court her? Seems like every other single man’s fixed his eye on that prize. Now that I recollect, a couple of married men spun that notion around in what sadly passes for their minds—until their wives spun it back.”
“I say again, I’m not fixing to court anyone, let alone Miss Rachel Bailey.”
“Why not? She’s handsome enough, ain’t she?”
“Handsome
