“Trust me. The sickness won’t go away for a while, and I’m low on everything from beans to bacon.”
Her face knotted and he wondered what he’d said wrong until he heard a sound that reminded him of a stream bubbling over smooth stones. When she tilted her face up to the sun, he realized she was laughing. How long had it been since he’d taken pleasure in a woman’s good humor? “What’s so funny?” he asked.
The widow tilted her face to his and poked him in the chest. “Don’t ever say bacon to me again. Just the thought turns my stomach.”
Ethan grinned. “So we’ll eat sausage instead.”
The widow got the giggles, and the next thing he knew, the spot she’d touched on his chest was burning, but he was laughing at the same time. The joke hadn’t been that funny, but she had tears streaming down her face, and so did he. Laura used to say that a belly laugh was good for the soul. Except he didn’t have a soul. He’d lost it in Raton. As quickly as it started, his laughter faded into a grunt. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
She looked confused, as if he’d blown out a lantern and left her in the dark. “Mr. Trent?”
Ethan stared straight ahead. “What is it?”
“Will you tell the sheriff I need to speak with him?”
She wanted to tell the sheriff about Dawson, but she didn’t want to share that problem with Ethan. Given his foul mood, he could understand her reluctance. “I’ll do that,” he replied.
“There’s one more thing.”
Ethan flinched. “What?”
“You are going to pay for that bacon remark.”
God help him, he smiled. “Am I now?”
“Definitely. When you least expect it. I’ll sew up your sleeves. Or—”
“Put salt in the sugar jar?”
She shook her head. “You don’t use sugar in anything.”
It was true. He hadn’t eaten so much as a cookie in two years, but this morning his mouth watered at the thought of something sweet—maple syrup on cornbread or a stick of peppermint candy.
With the widow leaning on his arm, he steered her to the cabin and left her by the door with her back pressed against the coarse wood. Then he climbed into the wagon, picked up the reins and doffed his hat.
“I’ll be back around dusk.” Thinking of Dawson’s letter, he added, “There’s a pistol in the cigar box on the mantel.”
Her eyes flickered with curiosity, then in the way of mothers-to-be, she touched her belly. “I’ll have supper waiting for you.”
He gave the reins a shake and took off down the trail. How would it feel to come home to a hot meal and a woman’s company? Probably good, and that was a problem for a man who couldn’t be happy.
Aside from his quick trip to report Dawson’s body, Ethan hadn’t been to town in weeks, but it hadn’t changed. A train in the station was working up a boiler full of steam, and the rattle of wagons filled his ears as he drove to the livery stable.
Glancing at the sky, he saw that it was close to noon. He’d had a hell of a time getting here. The wagon had gotten mired three times and he and his horses were covered with mud. If he had been alone, he would have ridden the roan and just filled up his saddlebags. Yet with a pregnant woman in his care, he needed more than a few bags of flour, coffee and beans.
But no bacon. He could still hear that laughter. It had charmed him, and his own chuckle had been a shock. So was the pressing need in his gut to get back before nightfall. Leaving her alone with a man like LeFarge on the prowl made his skin crawl.
Ethan stopped the gelding in front of the livery stable. He’d thought about keeping the widow’s mare until she was ready to ride, but he’d decided against it. The man who ran the livery had an ailing wife and six children to feed. The mare was income he wasn’t taking in. As he untied the horse, Ethan glanced around for the stable boy. The kid wasn’t around so he left the horse tied to a post. Not answering questions suited him just fine.
Next he visited the Midas Emporium. All two hundred pounds of Mrs. Wingate loomed behind the counter. “Mr. Trent! How are you today?”
Ethan ignored the question. He’d been studiously unfriendly to the town busybody, but in addition to everything else in her cluttered store, she sold books. She’d been the one to shove the dime novels into his hands, so Ethan put up with the chatter.
“Here’s my list,” he said.
He handed her the paper and browsed through the store as she put the order together. The shelves were full of trinkets meant to catch a woman’s eye and he stiffened at the sight of ribbons and fancy buttons. He thought of Laura’s box of doodads, but then a bolt of sky-blue gingham caught his eye.
The widow had one outfit to her name. He had no business noticing, but she’d look pretty in blue. Cautiously fingering the fabric, he wondered what Mrs. Wingate would do if he plopped it on the counter. She would probably bust a gusset with curiosity, but this wasn’t the time to make mischief, not with LeFarge looking for Dawson’s widow.
That meant he couldn’t fetch her trunk, either, so he settled for a plain wooden hairbrush, some white ribbon that could be used for anything, and a pair of trousers and a shirt that were too small for him. He didn’t want to think about her unmentionables, but that had to be an issue, so he picked up a bolt of white cotton. If Mrs. Wingate asked about it, he’d growl at her.
The clerk met him at the counter. “Can I get you anything else?”
Ethan glanced down at the small stockpile. It was enough to support a single man for a couple of months, but a pregnant woman had different needs. Gossip aside, he had another mouth to feed, or two if he counted the baby.
Pulling out his billfold, he said, “I want another twenty-five-pound sack of flour, three more cans of Arbuckle’s, a ten-pound bag of sugar, cornmeal, whatever tins of vegetables you have, dried apples, three dozen cans of milk and a bag of lemon drops.”
“Did you say three dozen cans of milk?”
“Yes, I did.” He slapped a few more greenbacks on the counter. “I’ve had a craving lately.”
Mrs. Wingate arched her eyebrows, but she didn’t say another word as she piled boxes on the floor. Then she glanced at the cotton and stared down her nose. “How many yards of this would you like?”
“All of it,” he said, scowling. He had no idea how much material it took to make a pair of ladies drawers, but it was clear Mrs. Wingate wasn’t going to back down. “I’m reseeding the garden. This is to keep off the frost.”
As if that made any sense. Any sane person would use old flour sacks, but Mrs. Wingate didn’t say another word as he loaded the boxes into the wagon and rode away.
The sheriff’s office was four blocks to the north. A flat-roofed adobe set apart from the storefronts, it was the oldest building in town. Ethan tied the gelding to the rail, hopped down from the seat and walked through the door. His gaze locked on Sheriff Handley who was sitting at his desk reading the Midas Gazette. As the hinges creaked, Handley lowered the newspaper and scowled.
“I’ve been wondering about you, Trent. Did that damn fool woman make it back to your ranch?”
Ethan had planned to tell him that the widow was alive, but Mrs. Dawson wasn’t some “damn fool woman,” and the sheriff had a spiteful glint in his eye. It seemed wise to find out more about LeFarge and the circumstances before he revealed the widow’s whereabouts, so Ethan frowned. “She was a pain that day.”
As Handley rocked forward in his chair, the front door opened again, stirring the air as Ethan looked over his