Ducking into the Cattleman, he sought out young Simon, Will’s hotel porter. Since Constance had already met Simon, she wouldn’t be alarmed to see him riding onto the property. He arranged for the boy to pick up lunch from the Cowboy Café and take it out to her, assuring the boy the errand wouldn’t get him in trouble with his boss. Will was responsible for Constance’s presence; he could spare his employee for a couple of hours.
By the time five o’clock came around and another deputy, Timothy Watson, showed up to relieve him, Noah was antsy to return to the ranch. As instructed, Simon had reported back to him, saying that Mrs. Miller had seemed surprised but pleased with the delivery. Simon hadn’t seen Abigail, which meant she must still be confined to bed. He’d let slip something that had Noah worried. He’d said that when he arrived, Constance had been busy cleaning the cabin. The furniture, what little he had, had been pushed against the wall and buckets of soapy water stationed about the living room.
He didn’t want her cleaning, didn’t want her touching his belongings.
What would a woman like her know about caring for a home, anyway? From the looks of things, Constance Miller and her girls had lived a life of extreme ease. No doubt she’d paid people to cook and clean for them.
Saddling up, he pushed Samson faster than usual. Halfway between town and his spread, a small herd of buffalo watched him ride past, shifting nervously at the sight of Wolf loping after him. Wild turkeys scattered when he thundered onto the worn-thin trail leading to his cabin. He slowed when he caught sight of his vegetable garden. The short rows had been weeded in his absence.
Dismounting, he mumbled a prayer for fortitude and let himself inside. Noah’s abrupt entrance startled the two occupants. The bowl in Constance’s hands tipped precariously. Jane’s initial surprise transformed into a welcoming smile. Bounding over to him, she took hold of his hand as if they were longtime friends.
“Sheriff, look what I picked for you.”
Scrambling to make sense of several things at once, he allowed himself to be tugged over to the table, where the girl was chatting and waving her hand at the mason jar filled with a combination of orange, blue and yellow wildflowers.
“Aren’t they pretty?” she finally asked, big blue eyes blinking up at him.
“Huh.”
The floors were still damp from their scrubbing. Not a speck of dust littered the mantel. The windows sparkled, the clean glass admitting more light and allowing a clear view of the cottonwoods and the stream.
He registered the smell of grease and chicken the same moment he spotted a bucket of feathers in the kitchen corner. Leaving the girl, he prowled over to where Constance stood at the stove, her skin dewy with exertion and tendrils of chocolate-hued hair skimming her cheeks. Chin lifted, she stiffened with apprehension.
Noah plucked a feather that had gotten caught in the lace of her dress. “What did you do to my chickens?”
The sheriff examined the feather, drawing it through his blunt fingertips, a look of incredulity on his face.
Grace floundered for a response. Because of his height, his hard, muscled chest filled her vision, as did the strong, tanned column of his throat, the warped flesh on the left side disappearing beneath his shirt collar. His body gave off the scent of honey and something floral, a unique combination.
Not knowing what to expect, she sent Jane outside to gather more flowers.
“Don’t you like fried chicken?”
His gaze traveled from the feather to the platter on the counter, then to her. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch. His assessment made her conscious of her disheveled appearance. She’d donned her most basic skirt, navy with thin white stripes, and a coordinating blouse. She hadn’t even bothered with a hoop skirt. After a full day of scrubbing floors, polishing windows, dusting surfaces and tending to Abigail, she was dirty and sweaty and exhausted to the point of light-headedness.
“Did you ask Simon to kill the bird for you?”
“Simon? No. I did it myself.”
“And where,” he drawled, his Southern inflection deepening, “did a woman like you learn to pluck and gut a chicken?”
Annoyance boosted her energy. “A woman like me?”
“A city woman. From the looks of things, you haven’t had to fend for yourself in a very long time.”
“I haven’t always lived an advantageous life, Mr. Burgess. You’re making assumptions again.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. “I know very little about you.”
“And I know only what your friend Mr. Canfield told me about you.”
“It hardly matters, does it?”
Jane burst through the door, waving fresh blooms. “Are these enough, Momma? I’m hungry.”
Noah put distance between them and, taking the bowl of green beans from her hands, placed it on the table. Jane put the flowers into the jar with the others, not a bit intimidated by the brooding sheriff. “There. That’s better.” Lifting the bouquet again, she said, “Smell them.”
Looking disconcerted, he bent his head and sniffed. “Uh, they smell nice.”
Jane smiled in satisfaction and touched a fingertip to one of the petals. “I like the yellow ones best. Momma said I could put some in Abigail’s room later.”
Grunting a noncommittal sound, Noah came back for the chicken. “How’s your other daughter?”
Grace glanced at the closed bedroom door. “Abigail was sick several times during the night, but her fever has subsided.” As she’d worked throughout the morning and afternoon, she’d talked to God, asking Him to ease her child’s misery. A deep well of gratefulness overflowed inside her. “She’s resting comfortably now.”
“Good news.”
Aware that his relief stemmed from an entirely different reason than hers, she helped him carry over the remaining dishes and chose the seat across from him. After a moment of awkwardness, it was decided that Jane would offer grace. When she thanked God for providing her and her sister with a new pa and asked that he be nicer than her first one, Grace wanted to sink through the floorboards. Her face aflame, she avoided the sheriff’s perusal by focusing on filling Jane’s plate.
She expected him to eat in grumpy silence as he had the evening before, so she started at the sound of his roughened voice.
“Did you make these buttered rolls?” He snatched a second one from the pan and bit into it.
“Jane and I baked them.”
“They’re delicious. Better than the ones the café serves.” He pointed to the half-eaten chicken leg on his plate. “Tasty chicken, too. You’re an excellent cook, Mrs. Miller.”
Jane darted her a furtive look, one that
