answer.”
Rachel glanced back at the house and then again at the note in her hand. She said nothing.
Wyatt observed Rachel’s indecision. She had never struck him before as someone who could not be moved to act. It was a fact that he didn’t know her well. No one did. But that was because she wanted it that way, and on the whole everyone respected her wishes. He included himself, restraining his curiosity to keep from asking too many questions or joining the speculative discussions that sometimes arose when she came gliding down the street. If anything, he was the one who discouraged others from making assumptions about her. Not that he had to say anything outright. His presence alone was sufficient to quell the beginnings of a rumor.
“You look as if you could use something to settle your nerves.” His remark had the desired effect. She was looking at him now.
“There’s nothing wrong with my nerves.”
Wyatt’s cool blue eyes dropped to where Rachel’s fingers were closing convulsively around the note. He said nothing, merely let the direction of his gaze speak for him.
Rachel’s fist opened and the note dropped to the platform. Before she could retrieve it, an eddy of wind lifted and spun it toward the icy stream. She made a grab for it, missed, then almost toppled into the stream on her second attempt. Her arms circled like sails on a windmill to keep from falling forward, but it was the handful of skirt that Wyatt grabbed that did the trick.
Wyatt pulled her back from the edge, set the bucket down, and waded into the stream to retrieve the telegram. The stream was running swiftly, but he was fortunate that the paper bobbled on the surface and got caught between two rocks shortly after it entered the water. He managed to get it out before the ink ran and the message was no longer legible.
Wading against the current, Wyatt returned to the platform and stamped his feet hard, squishing water out of his boots. He couldn’t help the shiver that went through him. Inside his damp woolen socks, he clenched and unclenched his toes.
“I could stand to get out of these boots,” he said, holding out the note to her. “It wouldn’t hurt to dry my socks, either.”
Rachel regarded him a long moment. She couldn’t very well accuse him of planning this, not when she was the one who dropped the note. It made her wonder if perhaps she had planned it. Could a mind be so devious as to keep its secrets from the one who was supposed to command it?
“All right,” she said. “You can come in.”
It was, at best, a reluctant invitation, but Wyatt didn’t let that bother him. He knew better than to comment on it. Giving her a single opportunity to think better of it could not possibly work in his favor. He picked up the bucket and jerked his chin toward the house, indicating she could lead the way on the narrow path.
The first thing he noticed in her kitchen was the bucket of water sitting in the washtub. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing. She didn’t apologize for her lie about going out for water, but she did have the grace to blush. Wyatt set his bucket beside hers and picked up a towel to dry his hands.
“You can sit right there,” Rachel said, pointing to the chair closest to the stove. “Let me add some wood first and—” She stopped as he began to balance himself on one foot and raise the other. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking off my boot.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I believe I am.” He bounced a little in place as he yanked at the heel.
“I mean, I don’t want you to remove your boots.”
Wyatt used the edge of the oak table to steady himself and continued working the boot free. He asked conversationally, “How am I supposed to dry my feet?”
Rachel shoved a log in the firebox and closed the loading door hard. Her movements had more heat than the meager fire. “If you sit down, you can prop your feet against the stove and dry everything at once. You are familiar with the position. It’s the same one you affect so frequently on the sidewalk outside your office.”
Wyatt continued to shuck his boots. The brim of his hat created a shadow that safely hid the half curl of his mouth. He couldn’t imagine that she’d be calmed by knowing she’d amused him. More likely, she’d try stuffing him and his boots in the firebox.
Rachel jerked a little as Wyatt dropped his second boot on the floor, then turned away, grabbed the kettle, and busied herself filling it while he removed his socks. When she was ready to return the kettle, she saw it had to share space with his boots and socks. She also observed that Wyatt occupied the chair she’d suggested, and that now his long legs were stretched out and angled toward the stove.
And completely blocking her way.
Chapter Two
Rachel determined right then that she would set herself apart from the general populace of Reidsville. She knocked his legs out of her path with enough force to almost unseat him.
“You could have asked me to move,” he said, righting himself. “I would have, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.” She set the kettle down hard. The stove flue rattled. She turned on him and held out her hand. “You may as well give me your hat. Your coat, too, if you’re warm enough.”
Wyatt handed them both over. When her back was turned, he raked a hand through his hair, belatedly remembering how many times Rose had twirled and curled it with her fingertips. It occurred to him that he might still have the scent of sweat and sex on him, or at least the cloying fragrance of Rose’s perfume. She favored attar of rose petals these days. Until he got used to it, it was like bedding down in his mother’s hothouse, and there was nothing at all that appealed to him about that.
Wyatt waited to see where Rachel would sit before he stretched his legs again. She was liable to knock him off his chair the next go around and take unholy pleasure in doing it. She must have been working up to it for a long time, he decided, which was kind of interesting since he’d never been sure that she was paying him any mind. It made him wish he’d come on some other business. He couldn’t take advantage of the fact that she’d tipped her hand. She probably didn’t even know what she’d revealed to him. She was just plain mad.
And scared.
Rachel took a chair at a right angle to his. She’d taken a tartan shawl from the peg rack where she’d put his coat and hat, and now she threw it over her shoulders and loosely tied the ends to secure it. She tugged at the cuff of her long sleeve and removed the crinkled telegram from where she’d tucked it.
Wyatt turned his head just enough to study her without giving the appearance of doing so. He watched her unfold the paper and smooth the creases with the flat edge of her hand. She seemed to read it again, although he was almost certain she’d memorized the words from the first moment they were revealed. How could she not?
“Why did you bring this to me?” she asked.
“That’s not the question you asked me outside. I don’t suppose you thought I’d recognize the difference.” When she said nothing, he went on. “The first time you asked how I knew to bring it to you. That’s far and away different from you pretending ignorance now.”
Rachel wished he had simply shown her the message and gone. She wanted to grieve in private, not show her open wounds to this man. His remote glance saw too much to be as impersonal as it seemed. He was sizing her up without benefit of a tape measure.
Wyatt waited her out. He was in no hurry, and he knew from his experience in the darkroom that it took nothing so much as time to see a picture clearly.
“What do you think you know about this?” Rachel said finally.
It was a beginning, Wyatt decided. He could give her something that would help her be less wary of his intentions. “Mr. Maddox was no stranger in these parts. He visited a few times before he approved the spur that brings the railroad