their own. The flickering gas lantern sending trellised shadows through the mesh against her skin.
Again he blinked. What was it that had triggered all these thoughts of Waverley? It wasn’t good to pine for the old days. He stripped off his vest and shirt and tossed them across the hobnail bedspread. At the washstand he used the pitcher and bowl. Delia had taught him that. She liked her man clean, she’d always said. Since Delia he’d learned that a lot of women liked a clean man, and clean men were so rare they could get a woman to do almost anything for them. It was only one of the sad things he’d learned since he’d lost Delia.
Stop it, Gandy! There’s no goin’ back, so why do you punish yourself?
Toweling his face, he ambled to the front window. It overlooked main street, giving him a view of something that at last took his mind off Delia and Waverley: Miss Agatha Downing limping toward Paulie’s Restaurant to have her supper. The towel stilled against his chin. Her limp was very real, very pronounced. How could he have missed it before? He frowned, recalling her plopping backward in the mud. Again, he almost blushed.
She entered Paulie’s and disappeared. He lunged to the bed and pulled the watch from his vest pocket. Six o’clock exactly.
He glanced toward the street, flung the towel aside, yanked a clean shirt from the chifforobe, and threw it on. There was no logical reason for him to hurry, yet he did. Holding the vest in his teeth, he grabbed up his jacket and hat and hit the stairs at a run, still stuffing his shirttails in. By the time he reached Paulie’s, everything was buttoned and tucked into place.
He saw her immediately upon entering. Her dress was the color of an evening sky and the top of her bustle poked through the back of her chair as Cyrus Paulie stood taking her order. Her shoulders were narrow, her neck long. She was small-ribbed and thin-armed and her dress fit with remarkable snugness. She wore a mountainous hat decorated with butterflies and bows beneath which little of her hair showed.
Gandy moved inside and took a seat behind her, heard her order chicken.
So why was he here, staring at the back of an old, lame woman? All those remembrances of home, he thought. Mississippi gentlemen were raised to have better manners than those he’d displayed today. If his mother were alive, she’d take him to task for his rudeness. And if Delia were alive—but if Delia were alive, he wouldn’t be living out here in this godforsaken cowtown in the first place.
Cy delivered a plate of chicken dinner to Miss Downing, and Gandy ordered the same, studying her back while they both ate. When Cy came to deliver her apple cobbler andpick up her dirty plate, Scott signaled him over.
“How was the meal, Scotty?” Cyrus Paulie was a jovial fellow with a ready smile. Unfortunately, his teeth looked as if someone had opened his mouth and thrown them in without caring where or in which direction they landed. He piled Scott’s dirty plate atop Agatha’s and displayed his sorry collection of snags.
“Meal was fine, Cy.”
“Get you some apple cobbler? Made fresh this afternoon.”
“No, thanks, Cy. I’ll just settle up.” Scott drew a silver dollar from his waistcoat pocket and dropped it into Cy’s palm. “And take out the price of Miz Downin’s supper, too.”
“Miss Downing?” Cy’s eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. “You mean Agatha?”
“I do.”
Cy glanced at the woman, then back at the saloon owner. No sense reminding Gandy he’d set the woman on her rump in the mud that very morning. A man didn’t forget a thing like that.
“Sure thing, Scotty. Coffee?”
Gandy patted his flat belly. “No, thanks. Full up.”
“Well, then...” Cy gestured with the dirty plate. “Stop in again soon.”
At the same time, Agatha took the proper coins from her handbag and caught Cyrus Paulie as he passed her table.
“Well, how was everything, Miss Downin’?” he inquired
Again he blinked. What was it that had triggered all these thoughts of Waverley? It wasn’t good to pine for the old days. He stripped off his vest and shirt and tossed them across the hobnail bedspread. At the washstand he used the pitcher and bowl. Delia had taught him that. She liked her man clean, she’d always said. Since Delia he’d learned that a lot of women liked a clean man, and clean men were so rare they could get a woman to do almost anything for them. It was only one of the sad things he’d learned since he’d lost Delia.
Stop it, Gandy! There’s no goin’ back, so why do you punish yourself?
Toweling his face, he ambled to the front window. It overlooked main street, giving him a view of something that at last took his mind off Delia and Waverley: Miss Agatha Downing limping toward Paulie’s Restaurant to have her supper. The towel stilled against his chin. Her limp was very real, very pronounced. How could he have missed it before? He frowned, recalling her plopping backward in the mud. Again, he almost blushed.
She entered Paulie’s and disappeared. He lunged to the bed and pulled the watch from his vest pocket. Six o’clock exactly.
He glanced toward the street, flung the towel aside, yanked a clean shirt from the chifforobe, and threw it on. There was no logical reason for him to hurry, yet he did. Holding the vest in his teeth, he grabbed up his jacket and hat and hit the stairs at a run, still stuffing his shirttails in. By the time he reached Paulie’s, everything was buttoned and tucked into place.
He saw her immediately upon entering. Her dress was the color of an evening sky and the top of her bustle poked through the back of her chair as Cyrus Paulie stood taking her order. Her shoulders were narrow, her neck long. She was small-ribbed and thin-armed and her dress fit with remarkable snugness. She wore a mountainous hat decorated with butterflies and bows beneath which little of her hair showed.
Gandy moved inside and took a seat behind her, heard her order chicken.
So why was he here, staring at the back of an old, lame woman? All those remembrances of home, he thought. Mississippi gentlemen were raised to have better manners than those he’d displayed today. If his mother were alive, she’d take him to task for his rudeness. And if Delia were alive—but if Delia were alive, he wouldn’t be living out here in this godforsaken cowtown in the first place.
Cy delivered a plate of chicken dinner to Miss Downing, and Gandy ordered the same, studying her back while they both ate. When Cy came to deliver her apple cobbler andpick up her dirty plate, Scott signaled him over.
“How was the meal, Scotty?” Cyrus Paulie was a jovial fellow with a ready smile. Unfortunately, his teeth looked as if someone had opened his mouth and thrown them in without caring where or in which direction they landed. He piled Scott’s dirty plate atop Agatha’s and displayed his sorry collection of snags.
“Meal was fine, Cy.”
“Get you some apple cobbler? Made fresh this afternoon.”
“No, thanks, Cy. I’ll just settle up.” Scott drew a silver dollar from his waistcoat pocket and dropped it into Cy’s palm. “And take out the price of Miz Downin’s supper, too.”
“Miss Downing?” Cy’s eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. “You mean Agatha?”
“I do.”
Cy glanced at the woman, then back at the saloon owner. No sense reminding Gandy he’d set the woman on her rump in the mud that very morning. A man didn’t forget a thing like that.
“Sure thing, Scotty. Coffee?”
Gandy patted his flat belly. “No, thanks. Full up.”
“Well, then...” Cy gestured with the dirty plate. “Stop in again soon.”
At the same time, Agatha took the proper coins from her handbag and caught Cyrus Paulie as he passed her table.
“Well, how was everything, Miss Downin’?” he inquired
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