She’d have to be careful she didn’t let him wander around the house, marking territory.
“Did you say something?” asked Wyatt. He slathered butter on a warm biscuit.
“Hmm? No. No, at least I didn’t mean to. I was just thinking.”
“A penny, then.”
“It’s not worth that much.”
Wyatt let it go. “Ned and I made a pretty good start on the wood you’ll be needing.”
“About that, Sheriff Cooper, I—”
“Wyatt.” When she just looked at him, he added, “Wyatt. Most folks call me that.”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
Biting into the biscuit, Wyatt let it melt over his tongue. As the first taste slowly made its way to all of his senses, he was tempted to simply close his eyes for the sheer fine pleasure of it. “Well, they do,” he said around a mouthful. “Lord, but this is good. Why did you let me think you were all thumbs in the kitchen?”
“Please don’t make me responsible for what you think. I had problems yesterday with the eggs. I never said I couldn’t make a biscuit.”
“No, you didn’t, did you?” He nudged the honey jar toward him and drizzled a curlicue on what was left of the biscuit in his palm. The sweetness made the last two bites just about sinful. “I promise not to tell anyone you can cook like this as long as you fix them for me from time to time.”
“Now, why would I care if you told anyone?”
“First off, because they’d know you were entertaining me and that’s bound to make for speculation, and second, Abe Dishman will take it as a sign that you’re wavering in your old maid ways and is likely to lead the charge to your front door. There’s no hope I can beat back all your suitors.”
“Old maid, Sheriff?”
Wyatt didn’t answer. He picked up a forkful of eggs instead.
“Old maid, Wyatt?”
He lifted an eyebrow as he gave her a sideways look. “You’re just about the oldest unmarried woman in Reidsville. That pretty much defines old maid here.”
“I was only twenty-four my last birthday.”
“When was that?”
“March.”
“Twenty-four and one-half. You’re making my point for me.” He used his fork to indicate her plate. “You better eat. You’re going to need your strength to fight off Abe and everyone else who wants their name on your dance card.”
Rachel rolled her eyes, but she picked up her fork and tucked in. “Where did you get the wood that you were splitting?”
“Ned has a lot of it behind his place. He gathers it up, hauls it in from all around, and delivers it to most of the businesses. He’ll give you a good price.”
“All right,” she conceded, though not graciously. “I knew I needed it. I just wish you’d talked to me first.”
“I thought I did.”
Her mouth flattened briefly to communicate that her own thinking was at odds with his. “We have to settle this matter of your agreement with Mr. Maddox.”
“Mr. Maddox and I settled that. I don’t see that you have any say in it, but the offer’s still there to read over the contract. Come by my office today if you have a mind to. I’ll take you over to the bank.”
“Or I could go to the bank by myself.” She bit into a biscuit. They were good. “I do know where it is.”
“Jake Reston won’t allow you to see my private papers without me being there.”
Knowing that he was right, Rachel surrendered. “Very well. I’ll come by around two, if that’s not inconvenient. I promised Mrs. Longabach I’d schedule a fitting with her. I can see her afterward.”
“Around two’s fine.” He gave her a narrow smile. “Feel better now that that’s settled?”
It was uncomfortable to realize she had such an expressive face. There was no other explanation for how he was able to read her mind. “A little, yes.”
“Good, but don’t expect to feel much relieved when you read the contract. I’d have brought it around for you to see even if you hadn’t asked, but I’m fairly confident that you’re not going to like it.”
Her slight smile held no humor. “I’m fairly confident that you’re right.”
Silence settled between them. It wasn’t precisely uncomfortable, so neither of them was moved to fill it. For Rachel’s part she found it confusing that she’d managed to keep people like the sheriff, most particularly the sheriff, at arm’s length for fifteen months. Now, with Clinton Maddox’s death, she’d entertained him twice in her kitchen, had him fetching water and cutting wood, and had arranged to see him again this afternoon. If he really thought she was a danger to someone else, he surely was putting himself in harm’s way.
Watching her, Wyatt was struck again by the stillness she could affect. It suited her, this quiet. Not that he didn’t enjoy sparring with her, but that had been the surprise. He was used to seeing her in town, engaging, but not engaged. She was unfailingly polite, always pleasant, but those qualities were also a product of good manners and breeding, not necessarily fundamental to her character. The stillness was.
It was easy to imagine her with needle and thread, enjoying the solitary pursuit of creating something by her own hand, realizing a vision that was in her mind. He was moved by that.
He wondered if he’d ever tell her so.
“I don’t suppose that it matters much that I was someone’s mistress,” she said quietly.
The abrupt resumption of conversation startled Wyatt as much as what was said. “In Reidsville? No, not much. Maybe it did in Sacramento. It sure as hell would in Boston. But here?” He shook his head. “I like to think we’re the better for it. There must be lots of reasons why a woman agrees to become a man’s mistress.”
“Most people assume it’s money.”
“That’s probably the most popular.”
She nodded absently. “Probably is.”
“Have you thought any more about the biscuits?” When she merely stared at him blankly, he said, “Remember? You fix them for me and I keep your secret?”
“Oh, that. I can’t say that I like being blackmailed.”
“Imagine how I feel resorting to it. People around here expect me to be above such things.”
“But you’re not.”
“Sadly, no. Your biscuits prove that.”
Rachel shook her head, mildly exasperated. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”
“Some.”
Her eyebrows knit as she gave him the skeptic’s eye. What he gave her in return was the uncomplicated expression of innocence. Convinced now that he was cunning beyond easy comprehension, Rachel acknowledged that the best she could likely do was make the game interesting.
“Once a month,” she said. “Once a month I’ll make biscuits for you.”
He chewed on a strip of bacon while he pretended to consider that offer. “No,” he said finally. “Once a week on Thursdays and every other Sunday.”
“I don’t think