Never Love a Lawman by Jo Goodman Read Free Book Online Page B

“You’re a regular termagant, aren’t you?”
    She took a deep swallow. There was considerably more whiskey than tea in her cup, and she felt the liquor’s heat all the way to the pit of her stomach. “Termagant. There’s a word I don’t hear every day.”
    “It means shrew.”
    “I know what it means. I didn’t expect you would.”
    “I’ve been studying up on words. Passes the time. There’s not a lot of criminal activity in Reidsville in case you hadn’t noticed.”
    “I noticed you don’t wear a gun.”
    “Most days it seems like a bother.”
    “Your deputy wears a gun.”
    “It must not bother him.”
    A small vertical crease appeared between Rachel’s eyebrows as she considered this. She couldn’t possibly be having this conversation, and yet she was certain that she was.
    “Are you all right, Miss Bailey? You’re looking a little peaked.”
    “Pike’s Peaked?”
    “Uh-huh,” he said slowly, watching her carefully. “When did you last eat?” The fact that she had to think about it did not give him confidence. “Did you have breakfast?”
    “I did.” Her frown deepened. “Coffee. I burned the eggs.” She cast a sour glance at the stove, then brightened a little. “Your socks are done.”
    Wyatt looked over his shoulder. Not simply done; his woolen socks were smoking. He jumped up from his chair and plucked them off the stove top. He held one between the fingertips of each hand and gave them a frenetic wave, hoping he did not cause them to burst into flame.
    Watching him, Rachel was put in mind of a coquette energetically waving her handkerchief as she bid farewell to a parade of departing soldiers. Even if she were sober, the image would have amused her. The warm spread of whiskey in her blood guaranteed that she would laugh out loud.
    Pausing, Wyatt explained expressionlessly, “They’re my favorite socks.”
    “Oh.” Rachel placed three fingers over her mouth to quell her laughter and hide her smile. “Then, by all means, continue.”
    He dropped them on the seat of his chair. “I’ve lost my enthusiasm for it.” He retrieved his boots, examined them, then let them thump to the floor.
    Rachel leaned over and whisked his socks from the chair before he sat on them. She quickly thrust them in his hands.
    “Thank you,” he said. He regarded her a moment before he sat, wondering if her action was made clumsy by the alcohol or her natural reluctance to be close to him. Most likely, it wasn’t one or the other, but both. He drew up his left leg, settled it crosswise over his knee, and put on one sock. When he reversed position, he caught her staring at him. “You must have seen a man put on his socks before.”
    “I must have,” she agreed.
    Wyatt was aware that she was parroting him rather than offering a direct response. There was also a faint singsong quality to her voice that he recognized as the whiskey’s influence. She apparently heard it, too, but decided that the cure was more of the same. He didn’t try to stop her when she reached for the bottle and poured two thick fingers of liquor into her empty teacup. Shaking his head, he slipped on his other sock. “You might want to take your time with that.”
    Rachel’s defiance of his suggestion made her gasp and brought tears to her eyes.
    “Or,” he said with complete equanimity, “you can knock it back like a sailor.” He set his foot down, shifted in his chair, and slid his legs under the table. Each movement was deliberate and communicated his intent to stick around for a while longer.
    Frowning, Rachel cast a sideways look at his boots. “Aren’t you going to put those on?”
    “Don’t see the point.” He folded his arms across his chest. “About what you had to eat today. All I heard was coffee.”
    “Burned the eggs,” she said.
    “That’s been established. What else?”
    She thought back. “There was a plate of cookies at the telegraph office. Mrs. Showalter made them for her husband. He offered