Never Love a Lawman Read Online Free PDF Page A

walnut dining table was no longer visible for the spread of satin, velvet, damask, linen, and lace. The corners of her mouth lifted as she examined the conflict of colors. The bright peacock-blue sateen did not work in concert with the muted, subtle shades of the sage damask and shell-pink batiste. Rather, the colors seemed to be engaged in an argument, not unlike the one that erupted from time to time between the town’s madam and Estella Longabach. Not that there was any real heat or malice between the pair. They seemed to scratch at each other simply because they could, and Rachel had noticed early on that every observer of their little skirmishes not only expected there would be an exchange of words, but found it entertaining, especially Mr. Longabach, who was frequently the subject of their tiffs.
    Rachel poured the heated water into the pot and allowed the tea to steep while she took one of the wooden buckets resting near the back door and went outside to get water from the spring. Depending on how much piecework she had to do, she sometimes hired Mr. Showalter’s oldest daughter to help her with chores, but it was only recently that she’d lowered her guard enough to make this exception for visitors, and then only after Mr. Showalter had assured her most emphatically that his Molly was in no way a gossip like her mother. Thus far, it had proved to be true.
    Rachel held the bucket away from her as she walked back to the house, careful not to let the water slosh over the sides and splatter her dress. It wasn’t that the black-and-white pin-striped poplin would have suffered any permanent damage, but rather that she was naturally fastidious—Molly would have said prissy—and that she was more comfortable when she didn’t have to apologize for hair that was out of place or a stain on her skirt. It was easier to stay clean than make excuses for her appearance.
    After setting the bucket in the tub, Rachel attended to her tea. She drizzled honey into her cup and gave the tea a gentle stir, then leaned back against the table, wrapped both hands around the cup, and enjoyed her first sip.
    It caught her unaware, this fresh wave of loneliness. It came upon her sometimes, but rarely so out of the blue. Perhaps it was because she’d wound the ornately sculpted gold-leaf clock, or run her finger across the scrollwork along the back of the bench, or perhaps it was that Johnny Winslow had made such a gallant offer to carry her packages, but whatever the trigger, she’d felt as if it had been pulled.
    Gut-shot.
    She’d heard people talk about it, understood it was a hard way to die. Slow. Painful. She thought she knew something about what it must feel like, though not from any buckshot or bullet. Loneliness could do that to a body, she thought. Longing, too. When the mood was on her, as it was now, she knew both, mostly in equal, intimate measure, and she bled a little. Always just a little.
    She was assured of living a long life dying.
    “Find your backbone, Rachel.” She saw the surface of her tea ripple in response, proof, she supposed, that there was breath left in her. “Else you’re liable to be mistaken for a”—she paused, considering her options for spineless creatures, and settled on—“a mealworm.” Sufficiently disgusted by that comparison, she drew herself up, finished her tea, then set herself to the task of replacing the gear in her sewing machine.
    She was studying the fit of the parts that she’d removed, frowning in concentration over the gears spread out before her, when the front door rattled hard in its frame. The sound of it was loud and insistent enough to alarm her. She jerked her head upright and sat poised on the edge of her chair waiting to hear it again before she acted. The next time it came, she rose calmly, walked in the opposite direction, and lifted an empty bucket by the back door. Stepping out, she circled the rear of the house and came around the side.
    Her visitor had a distinct