your time and your input, Miss Grainger. When do you suggest that we put our plans into motion?”
She squared her shoulders. “Well, July is more than half gone, and Labor Day will be here before we know it, so the sooner the better if we hope to make enough progress before then to keep our positions. I’ll try to get some letters off today and I’ll speak to Hattie, as well.”
A thoughtful expression filled her eyes. “Cilla is at a precarious age—no longer a little girl and not yet a young lady. Her emotions are all a jumble.”
Colt blew out a breath. “You’re right about that. Some days it’s like she’s all grown up and others, she bursts into tears over nothing.”
“I recall those years as being quite vexing, as I believe most young girls do, but now that we both have a better grasp of the problem, I believe we’ll work through this.”
Though he wasn’t happy at the prospect, he said, “I’ll do my best, but you may have to spell things out for me.” He stood, reaching into his pocket for some money. “I’ll catch up with you later today or tomorrow,” he said. “Or feel free to stop by the jail to talk over any ideas or suggestions if you’re over that way.”
“Thank you. I will. And thank you for the breakfast.”
* * *
After Allison hugged her sister and niece goodbye, she and Colt parted ways. He watched her cross the street and head toward the mercantile, her back ramrod-straight. Unlike her sister, there was not one bit of sway to her hips.
Grunting in frustration, he headed toward the jail, thinking about the time he’d just spent with the spinster teacher. After talking to her, he was convinced that she was concerned about the children, and with her optimistic attitude, he even felt a seed of optimism himself that they might be able to bring about a much-needed change. He hoped so.
As a lawman, he was pretty good at reading between the lines and piecing together things that might seem unrelated but often led him in the right direction when it came to capturing the bad guys, like Elton Thomerson and his buddy. Unfortunately, that talent seemed absent when it came to his kids.
During the time spent with Miss Grainger, he had noticed some very interesting things. For instance, her outward composure was a front that hid a lot of insecurities. He’d seen it in her eyes when she’d talked about her beautiful sister, and he’d heard it in her voice when she’d made the offhand comment that he wasn’t interested in her as a wife, and again when she’d said that some men were interested in more than looks. That lack of confidence had been obvious from the droop of her shoulders and the sorrow in her eyes when she’d talked about understanding what Cilla was going through.
Clearly, she was sensitive to the fact that she was not as attractive as her sister. Ellie was tall and curvaceous; Allison was short and plump, thus her skimpy breakfast. Her hair wasn’t the pretty auburn of her sister’s. Allison was a carrottop, and she kept her unruly hair scraped back into a severe knot, as if she were afraid that one loose tendril would mar her image of respectability. Like Ellie’s, her face was oval and her skin was just as creamy and smooth and flawless, except for the overabundance of freckles, which were nothing but a light dusting across her nose.
Her eyes, perhaps her best feature, were a warm brown, framed with long, curling eyelashes that were shades darker than her hair. Her nose was nice, too—one of the few features she and her sister had in common. And the little indentation in her left cheek when she smiled was very eye-catching.
He stopped in the middle of the street. Why was he even thinking about Allison Grainger’s physical appearance? Was he so desperate to find a wife that he was even looking at the town’s spinster teacher as a prospect? No way! It was just a natural thing for a man to look a woman over and catalog her good and bad qualities. He did it all the time. Not that Allison’s flame-red hair and freckles were bad qualities, or even unattractive when taken one by one. There was actually a cuteness about her that some men might find appealing. Just not him.
Then what was that little twinge you felt when she made the offhand comment about you not being interested in making her a stepmother?
Colt gave a grunt of consternation. She’d actually sounded appalled by the idea of being his prospective wife. He didn’t think he was conceited, but neither was he accustomed to ladies looking dismayed at the notion of being linked to him. It was downright demoralizing. He wondered what kind of man she’d loved and what she’d been like before he’d broken her heart.
Forget it! he thought, stomping up onto the wooden sidewalk. He wasn’t in the market for a woman like her. No doubt in time she would find another man who would care for her, someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by her intelligence, as many would be—himself included. Someone who didn’t mind that his woman was...well, dowdy.
While it was admirable that she made her own clothes, her sense of style left much to be desired. He was no expert, but even someone as unschooled in fashion as he was knew that the styles she favored were not at all flattering. Flounces and ruffles and gathers! He supposed she was trying to hide her plumpness, but all she was doing was enhancing it. She’d looked much slimmer in her cleaning clothes the day before.
Oh, well, he thought, pulling open the door to his office and stepping inside. Her style or lack of it was no concern of his.
He found Big Dan Mercer, his deputy, sitting at the desk, reading the latest St. Louis paper.
“Did you and Miss Grainger get things figured out?”
“We came up with a plan of sorts,” Colt told him. “It remains to be seen if it works or not.”
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