Eddie’s brown eyes got saucer big. “What do you mean, kill? What’s he mean, Alex?” Eddie’s voice was half concerned, half youthful bravado. He puffed out his chest, straining the buttons of his brown tweed jacket.
“Well, then, this is it, I suppose,” Josh said with feigned gravity as he braced one hand on the table and made to stand. Eddie’s gaze was riveted to the gun tied to Josh’s leg.
“Now, wait! Now just a minute. What’s he talking about, a husband?” Eddie’s voice moved up both in volume and pitch.
“Why, Eddie, darling, you mean you aren’t willing to die for me?” Her cousin was always so easy to rile. She’d been teasing him since he was five.
“Well, sure—what! No!” Eddie tugged at his collar. “What the devil are you talking about?” He dropped down in his chair. “Now, see here, Alex,” Eddie sputtered, “I am most empathetically not your husband, and you know it!”
Alex chuckled. “A little louder, Eddie, darling, I don’t think the folks at the table near the window quite heard you.”
“We heard everything just fine,” the man called loudly, and gave them a wave.
Eddie looked mortified.
Josh burst out laughing.
Alex tried to looked indignant but failed miserably.
Soon the whole restaurant was laughing.
“Well—” Josh started, his voice rich with laughter “—am I still invited for dinner?”
“By all means,” Alex confirmed, warming to the game and the man, especially the man. One minute he looked savage enough to carry out his threat of killing, the next he was full of roguish charm. He was a mystery, an intriguing mystery to be sure, but one she didn’t have time to solve, not unless it could be accomplished over dinner.
Josh angled around to face Eddie. “I’m sorry about that. It seems we started this little…game this afternoon. It was unfair of us not to let you in on it.”
Eddie dragged in a breath and let it out slowly. He tugged on his collar again. “Jeez, Alex, give a man apoplexy, why don’t you?”
Alex was still smiling when she reached across the table toward him, her hand not quite reaching his. “Sorry, Eddie. Really. Besides, what would make you think Mr. Colter would kill you?”
“Maybe because the man looks as hard as a whetstone and—” Eddie broke off, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right…Eddie, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Edward Story.”
Well, Josh thought, at least this one wasn’t a Gib’ son. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. I’ve been called worse, much worse, believe me. Besides, I suspect it’s true. This country out here tends to harden a man.”
Eddie offered his hand, and Josh accepted. “I really am sorry. It’s just that this is all a little new to me and seeing you with the gun and the talk about killing…”
Josh sobered. “You have every right to be angry. Killing is something a man shouldn’t joke about. My apologies if I frightened you.”
Apology flashed in Alex’s eyes.
Josh lounged back in his chair, feeling the wooden curve press into his back. “Since I know young Eddie here isn’t your husband, a fact for which I’m eternally grateful—” his smile was lush “—then he’s…”
“I’m her cousin—on her mother’s side,” Eddie said, a grin replacing his earlier frown.
“Ah,” Josh acknowledged. He toyed with the fork next to his plate. So far, so good. Keep it friendly. So, she’s here with her cousin, but why?
“Is your visit to Gunlock business or pleasure?”
“Both,” Alex replied.
Just then the waitress, a buxom woman in her forties, ambled over to take their orders. Josh ordered steak, well-done. Eddie followed suit. Alex ordered the fried chicken. Coffee for everyone was understood, and the waitress brought that first.
There was a minute of awkward silence. The ping of silverware on china, the murmur of voices filtered around them.
Josh sipped his coffee. It was strong enough to float a horseshoe and black as the bottom of a mine shaft. Just the way he liked it. Ignoring the saucer, he put the cup on the tablecloth, holding it lightly between his fingers. “You know, we were never properly introduced this afternoon. I confess I looked on the register. Is it Miss or Mrs.?”
She chuckled. “It’s Miss Gibson.”
So she wasn’t married to the bastard, that was something anyway, he thought, strangely relieved. Why? Why should he care if she was married? He didn’t, he told himself emphatically. This was business, brutal business. She had information that he wanted, and he was willing to do whatever he had to get it.
“So; what brings you to Gunlock?” Absently he traced the curve of the cup handle, the china smooth to the touch.
“Alex is an artist,” Eddie piped up, pride obvious in his voice. “She’s going to be famous after she wins the competition.”
“An artist?” He shifted in the chair, the wood creaking in response. “You’re kidding?” If she’d said she was the queen of the Nile, he couldn’t have been any more surprised.
There was something in the way he said “artist” that pricked Alex’s temper. It was a tone, the barest skepticism, that she’d heard before. It was a sure-you-are tone, as though she couldn’t possibly be competent. “Yes,” she said flatly. “I am an artist.”
He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table edge. “What kind of artist?”
About that time the waitress banged through the kitchen door, loaded down with three plates, and headed straight for their table. She served the meals with all the grace of someone slinging rocks in a pond, although she did stop long enough to refill the coffee.
Josh smiled his thanks, then to Alex, said, “You were saying you’re an artist. What do you paint? Portraits?”
“Occasionally.” Her tone was guarded. “I prefer landscapes.”
Josh put the napkin on his lap and started to cut his steak. “Have I seen any of your work?”
Alex paused, her fork resting on the mound of fried potatoes on her plate. “I doubt that you would. I’ve been working in Europe until recently.”
“What medium do you prefer, oils or watercolors?” Josh took a bite of steak.
“Oils mostly.”
“In the classical or impressionist style?”
“You are familiar with the impressionists?”
Josh chuckled. “I’ve been known to wander into a museum from time to time.”
“You must have wandered a long way, because as far as I know, the closest museum showing impressionists is the Metropolitan in New York.”
“That’s right.” He lifted a forkful of potatoes to his mouth.
“You’ll excuse me if I’m a little surprised.”
“Why?”
“Well, you hardly seem the type. I mean…I thought…”
He