it can. Contract’s in the safe at the bank, if you care to look at it.”
“I do care.”
Wyatt gave the onions another stir. “Why do you suppose he did that, Miss Bailey? Make sure you were looked after even when he was gone?”
So they were back to that, she thought. “I don’t even know that he did do that. You’re asking me to accept your word.”
“It was good enough for Mr. Maddox.”
Rachel had no reply for that.
Wyatt found plates, silverware, and napkins and set them out. “I’ve been giving it some thought,” he said, “and it occurs to me that he considered you might be a danger to yourself. Maybe someone else. I don’t know that I would have put much stock in it if I hadn’t seen how you wielded that bucket.”
“Oh, but that I would have found my target.”
The drama she made of her disappointment brought his wry grin to the surface. “Were you an actress back in California?”
“An actress? No. Never.”
“Might be that you have the talent for it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff, in the event someone in Reidsville opens a real theater.”
“Good.” He rinsed the potato slices, patted them dry with a clean towel, then spooned them into the skillet with the onions and covered them. He leaned back against the dish cupboard and folded his arms. “So, which is it? A danger to yourself or someone else?”
“Your mind is a single track, very narrow gauge.”
“Could be you’re right.” He fell silent, waiting her out.
“For pity’s sake,” she said, feeling those predatory eyes boring into her. “Perhaps he thought I was both those things.”
Wyatt considered that, nodded. “Did you know him long?”
“Long enough.”
“Sorry,” he said, retreating a bit. “Curiosity’s my worst fault.”
“Who told you that? And how did they ever choose?”
“Yep,” he said after a moment, “I’d say you’re feeling all right. You always been a fighter?”
“When I’ve had to be.”
“I don’t know how it worked for you in Sacramento, but it’ll serve you here.”
“How it worked for me in Sacramento is the reason I’m here.”
Wyatt didn’t miss the trace of bitter sadness in her voice. He had no doubt she hadn’t meant to say what she had, nor to lay bare her feelings about it. He deliberately changed the subject. “You never asked how Mr. Maddox died.”
Rachel leaned forward at the table and reached for the teapot. “Could I have another cup, please? Mine still has liquor in it.”
Wyatt got her a cup and placed it on the table. He resumed his position, waiting for her answer.
“I think you mean well, Sheriff,” she said, pouring her tea. “But from my perspective your interest feels a bit like an interrogation, or worse, an inquest.”
“Point taken.”
It wasn’t precisely an apology or an assurance that the conversation wouldn’t go on as it had begun, so Rachel accepted it for what it was: an acknowledgment that he’d heard her. “I’ll tell you this much,” she said, rising from the table. “I didn’t ask how he died because I know. It doesn’t matter to me what the newspapers report or what anyone present at his deathbed says to the contrary, I know the truth.”
Wyatt thought she would say more, give him what passed for the truth in her mind. She didn’t, though. She disappeared into her workroom and came back a few minutes later with a large glass globe oil lamp that she lighted and placed on the kitchen table. “It was getting too dark in here. The lantern’s fine when I’m alone.”
“That helps,” he said, unwrapping the cured ham. He lifted the lid on the skillet, stirred, and added the meat to warm it. “Let me hang the lantern over here.”
She passed it to him. “It smells good,” she said, sidling up to the stove. She put her hand out for the lid, but he knocked it away.
“Careful. That’s hot.” He pulled his towel free and handed it to her. “Use this.”
She did, inhaling deeply. The fragrance of sweet, browning onions and the moist aroma of the potatoes tickled her nose. “I didn’t think I could eat anything, but I’m hungry now.”
“Good.” He took the towel and lid from her and replaced it.
Rachel returned to the table and opened the jar of applesauce. She spooned some onto each of their plates, then sat and waited for him to finish at the stove. “Do you cook often?”
“Just often enough to hold my own. Mostly I eat at the hotel or Longabach’s.”
She’d seen him there sometimes. “How did you learn?”
“Necessity. How did you learn?”
“My mother taught me. Mrs. Farmer, also. She was our cook when I was growing up.”
“Well, my mother definitely did not teach me. I’m not sure she knew where the kitchen was, and Monsieur Gounod suffered no one to enter that he could not abuse with a wooden spoon and a tirade.”
That caught Rachel’s attention and confirmed a suspicion she’d been harboring since she first met him. “New England,” she said. “I keep hearing something in your speech. Massachusetts. Boston? A Brahmin, I imagine. Oh, but that’s a good one.” She smiled when she saw him flush. It might have been the steam coming from the skillet that turned his sharply defined features ruddy, but she didn’t think so. She’d embarrassed him. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You have a good ear.”
“You do a credible job of disguising it, but Mrs. Maddox was from Boston. I was around her for a lot of years.” She stopped him when he looked expectantly at her, as if she might comment further. “That wasn’t an invitation to talk about me or that family. We were talking about you and yours.”
Wyatt lifted the lid, turned the meat over, then put the lid to one side altogether. He gave the skillet a shake, flipping the potato slices. “My mother’s family could properly be called Brahmins. A couple of brothers and my sister, also. As for me, it’s generally held by the family that I take after my father.”
“But that’s a compliment, isn’t it?”
“Not if you heard my grandparents say it.” He removed the skillet from the stove and divided the contents evenly between them, ignoring Rachel’s protests that he should take the lion’s share. “You could stand to eat my portion as well,” he told her. “Colorado winter’s not kind if you have no meat on your bones.”
“I’ll sit closer to the stove,” she said dryly.
Wyatt tossed the skillet and spoon in the dishpan and sat. He motioned to her to pick up her fork and waited until she’d had her first bite before he did the same. “All right?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Better than that. Delicious.” She intercepted his skeptical look. “No, really. It is.”
“This is pretty standard fare. You must burn a lot of eggs.”
She ducked her head a shade guiltily. “Seems like.”
“You should try soft-boiling them.”
Rachel quickly took another forkful of potato and onion and avoided looking at him.
“Oh,” he said, drawing out the single syllable. “You