dry.â
The womanâs name made Frank frown. Heâd been trying to forget about her all evening, but that forlorn look of hers had periodically popped into his mindâpredominantly when heâd been appreciating the songs Pap heralded from the upright. âWhat does she have to do with any of this?â Frank asked, not certain he wanted to know.
âShe was set on marrying Pray until he ran off.â
Frank took a moment to absorb what Pap was telling him. He didnât like it. He didnât want to feel any sorrier for her than he already did. Having sentimental feelings for a woman was bad news, and he made it a practice to write himself out of the headline. Then Papâs meaning dawned on Frank, and he snapped his head toward his friend. âYouâre fixing to go after the piano teacher?â
âThat fanciful notion has crossed my mind more than once, so Iâve decided to act on it.â
âNo shit?â Frank smoked his cheroot a minute. âDamn,â he muttered and lifted his brows. âWell . . . damn. Iâm not anyone to stand in your way, Pap, but Iâve seen warmer women in this town. When Miss Marshall walks, I can hear the ice cracking off her skirts.â
âIâve never noticed.â Pap removed the last fly trap and broke into a leisurely smile. âBut I have noticed how pretty she is. Havenât you?â
âNo,â Frank replied too quickly. But he had noticedâless than twenty-four hours ago. Heâdthought she dressed like a mail-order catalog on foot, but with nice features to go with the rigid trimming.
A sappy expression lit Papâs face. âHer hair is shiny brown. Kinda matches the color of Cobb Weather-waxâs mule. She has velvety skin with no freckles. Probably uses store-bought toilet soap. And her lips look made for kissing.â
âJesus, Pap,â Frank choked. âWhatâs the matter with you?â
âNothing. Iâve just been thinking. Iâm going to be forty this year, and itâs time I find myself a wife. Me and Miss Marshall have a lot in common.â
Frank said sarcastically, âYou donât have hair the color of Cobbâs mule, and frankly, your skin looks sun-weathered.â
Pap put an empty fly trap back on its hook. âI know Iâm nothing exceptional, but Miss Marshall needs someone. Especially after you took her piano.â
Frank jerked his legs off the table, his boots thumping onto the floor. âThatâs a line of bull. I didnât steal the piano from her.â He ground his cheroot under his heel. âAnd who the hell are you to talk? Youâve been drooling ever since you got that upright out of the crate. Guilt hasnât stopped you from playing it non-stop for the past nine hours.â
âWho said anything about guilt?â
âYou did.â
âNo I didnât. I donât have anything to feel guilty about. I didnât take the piano away from her.â Pap walked toward a tall cupboard in the corner. âBut you must be feeling guilty since you brought it up.â
âI didnât bring it up.â
âWell, you must have felt some kind of remorse, else you wouldnât have said she could use this one.â
âI was trying to be accommodating,â Frank insisted, unable to cover his annoyance. âShe looked like she was going to cry.â
âI hope you donât have a call to make her want to cry again, Frank, now that you know my intentions.â
âI . . . hell. Yeah, right.â Frank went for his glass, then remembered the mug was empty. He considered pouring a second Hennessy, but heâd set his limit on one per night. Any man surrounded by liquor for a living could easily suffer from bottle fever, so he never swilled on the job. An evening cognac quenched his thirst, and an occasional beer tasted too good to resist with his breakfast-lunch