Trixianna rushed past him. She hurriedly packed a bag with clothes and a few other essentials, then put a yowling Angel in a covered basket. She was just walking back into the parlor when she heard a voice calling to Chance. She came to stand in the doorway. He’d stepped off the porch and stood waiting.
“Chance, I’ve been looking all over town for you,” the panting female voice continued. “You are certainly hard to keep track of.”
He stood up, removed his hat and held it in his hand. He ran his fingers through his thick hair and cleared his throat. As soon as his hand left his head, a raven lock of unruly hair fell forward across his forehead. “Fanny.”
The woman from the tintype stood before him trying to catch her breath. Young and abundantly wholesome, with big dew-kissed brown eyes, enormous buck teeth and round cheeks, she reminded Trixianna of a beaver. What a dreadful thing to think, but it was true. She was pleasingly plump; some might even say fat. Trixianna thought she would bear the sheriff many fine, pink-cheeked children. She wanted to detest the woman on sight, but the earnest smile she gave Trixianna was contagiously friendly.
“Why, you must be Trixianna. I’m Fanny Fairfax. My, but you’re the talk of the town today.” She bestowed a toothy grin upon Trixianna as she patted a lace handkerchief against her cheeks, then began waving it at her face. “You shot my Chance here, but it was all a mistake. Tildy told me. Thank the Lord he’s going to be all right. They say he insists you robbed the Dena Valley bank, but I just don’t think you look like a bank robber.”
She gave Trixianna an assessing gaze, then turned her stout body toward Chance and tapped him on the forearm with a pudgy hand. The lacy hanky flapped between her short fingers.
Chance had yet to speak. Actually, he looked overwhelmed.
“Thank you, Miss Fairfax,” Trixianna said. “That’s kind of you to say.” Why couldn’t Fanny be stupid or mean? She so wanted to dislike her.
“Oh, call me Fanny. Everyone does. My father—he’s the mayor of Grand Fork—he says I’ve never met a stranger.”
Of course, he would marry the mayor’s daughter, thought Trixianna. If it weren’t for bad luck, Trixianna would have no luck whatsoever. She suppressed a sigh of resignation.
“Why, you can say that twice and mean it,” a male voice said.
A gray-haired, older gentleman dressed in a suit of fine broadcloth approached from the direction of town. He stepped up beside Fanny. His face was round and red, and he wore a buck-toothed, bucolic grin. Spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose.
Of course, this had to be Fanny’s father. She was his spitting image. And he was the mayor of Grand Fork.
“Frank.” Chance acknowledged the mayor with a nod of his head.
“Hear you’re having a houseguest, Sheriff.”
“How’d you find out already?” He shook his head. “No, don't tell me. Tildy.”
The mayor laughed.
So the man knew Trixianna would be spending her nights beneath the roof of his affianced daughter’s beloved. He was certainly understanding, or at the very least, very accommodating.
Trixianna wondered why Chance hadn’t spoken to Fanny. Not even a kiss hello. Perhaps he was shy around her, although he didn’t seem self-conscious about much of anything else, particularly where Trixianna was concerned.
“I understand you fainted, son.” A jovial chuckle leapt from the mayor’s lips. His belly, pushed tight against his plaid waistcoat, quivered with laughter.
A shadow of annoyance crossed Chance’s face. He glowered at Trixianna before turning back to the man. “I did not faint.”
Trixianna ducked her head to hide the grin that threatened to become all-out laughter. If she ever got out of this pickle, what good stories she would be able to tell Jonathan and Georgette back in Abilene. If Georgette ever forgave her. She swallowed hard against the pain of remembrance.
She looked up to find Chance, the mayor and his daughter watching her with expectant faces. She realized with a start that they were waiting for a reply from her. “I’m sorry, my mind drifted. Did you ask me something?”
“Were you figuring out how you could escape from my evil clutches?” Chance asked.
“Chance!” cried Fanny. “That is no way to speak to a lady.”
“Fanny, that is no lady,” he replied, his voice thick with frustration.
“Now, son, we don’t know for certain.” The mayor rocked back on his heels. He studied Trixianna with a speculative gaze.
“That she’s a lady or that she’s a bank robber?” Chance asked.
The mayor flushed as he offered Trixianna an apologetic look.
”Good Lord, Frank.” Chance’s voice was tight with anger. “Have you seen the wanted poster in my office? It looks just like her.”
“I may look a bit like that awful woman,” Trixianna replied. “But she has squinty eyes and a rather large nose.”
They turned as one to inspect her nose. She now knew how a past-its-prime mule felt on auction day.
Chance shrugged his shoulders. “She’s the one,” he said smoothly. He glanced at the mayor. “And I can’t believe you and these meddling townsfolk won’t let me leave her in jail where she belongs.”
“There’s no privacy for a woman in that jail, Chance, and you know it.”
Chance frowned, his mouth clenched. Trixianna saw a muscle jump at his jaw. “All right then, let’s head over to my place. You got everything you need, Miss West?”
Trixianna nodded. “Miss Lawless,” she reminded him, even knowing it was futile to do so. He would go on thinking she was Mad Maggie West until the woman herself showed up in Grand Fork.
Fanny must have missed the exchange, for she went on as if nothing were amiss. “I’ll be over tomorrow,” she gushed. She waved the hanky clutched in her pudgy hand, and tapped Chance on the arm.
“Fine.” He shrugged his shoulders, then grimaced, as he settled his hat on his head. He nodded in farewell to the mayor and Fanny. He reached for Trixianna’s baggage.
“Your shoulder,” she reminded him. He frowned but didn’t say anything more when she tucked Angel’s basket beneath one arm, and her valise under the other. With his good arm he began pulling her down the street.
As Fanny waddled away, she called over her shoulder. “Bluebeard sends his regards.”
Chance flushed a deep red, and released a vivid oath beneath his breath, but he didn’t acknowledge her remark about Bluebeard, whoever that might be.
Trixianna’s stays pinched her ribs and cut off her air supply as she attempted to keep up with the sheriff’s suddenly aggressive pace. She lengthened her stride, hoping she wouldn’t collapse before they arrived at their destination. Her mind kept muddling over his odd demeanor towards his bride-to-be.
Trixianna’s mind whirled with myriad possibilities. Why had he never once looked, really looked, at Fanny throughout their entire conversation? Baffled by his peculiar behavior, she wondered how he’d ever worked up the gumption to ask the young lady for her hand in marriage.
His rapid progress through the streets of Grand Fork and her own polite manners kept Trixianna from questioning him although she dearly wanted to. Curiosity killed the cat, she reminder herself.
He stopped suddenly, giving her a chance to catch her breath. For a brief moment he studied the house in front of them. She couldn’t see his eyes, hidden beneath the brim of his hat, but she saw the satisfied set to his mouth.
He pushed open a squeaky gate and pulled her up the walk. She got a brief glimpse of the house before being hauled up two steps and onto the wide front porch.
The simple clapboard house was painted white and had another smaller porch on the side. Two tall narrow windows on either side of the door looked out over the dusty street. The yard was neat, the house newly painted, and a wooden swing swayed to and fro on the porch.
Before they went into the house, Trixianna said, “Thank you for putting me up here, Sheriff. I know you didn’t want to.”
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Chance stopped on the threshold and stared down at her. “I don’t like being told how to do my job by everyone in town, but I’ve got little choice.”
“I want to thank you anyway.”
“Hmmf. I’ve got an extra room, just a bed and dresser, but you’ll have your privacy. I reckon even an unsavory criminal such as yourself deserves as much. There’s a kitchen you can use and an outhouse out back. I keep my life simple, so there’s nothing fancy such as the minister has in his home.”
He leaned down and looked her square in the eye. He gently tapped a finger on the tip of her nose. “Just remember, I sleep light with a cocked pistol at my side, and I’m not the only one watching you. Grand Fork has its eye on you as well, so don’t even think about trying to run off.”
“I won’t.” His nearness robbed her of coherent thought. His broad shoulders blocked the doorway; his breath caressed her cheek. His thigh touched one of her legs, and even through layers of cloth a jolt shot through her. She swallowed hard and shook her head.
He straightened up and shoved away from her. “Well, then, come on in. I’m too damned tired to stand here and engage in parlor talk with a wanted criminal.”
Chance left her in the extra bedroom and sauntered back to the kitchen. A glass of buttermilk and a slice of cornbread sounded like just the thing before he went to bed. He lit a lamp and set it on the round wooden table. He was surprised when it clattered against a canned jar of peaches. He was even more surprised to see that the kitchen table was covered with more baking supplies including pie tins, lard, sacks of sugar and flour and more things a bachelor such as himself sure as hell couldn’t identify. Chance recognized the hand of Bertram Sinclair in this. Damn this town and their meddling ways! Muttering to himself, he walked back down the hall to tell the woman.
She must have forgotten to close the door as it stood slightly ajar, allowing him a shameless chance to glance inside and watch her unobserved. She stood by the window brushing her long hair. Bathed in the amber glow of an oil lamp, she looked angelic, as if she were not of this world. She had her back to him staring out at the night while tending her hair. With slow strokes, her graceful hands swept the brush down the length of her thick, auburn locks. He watched her intently, his heart in his throat.
When her hand reached the end of her hair, he noticed her apparel. Or lack of it. His stomach joined his heart in the region of his throat.
The light behind her shadowed her slender figure, and made her silk nightgown of palest pink almost transparent to Chance’s own personal perusal. He allowed himself to slowly scrutinize every inch of her without her knowing. A narrow waist gave way to gently rounded hips. Just a shadowed glimpse revealed the cleft between. As he lowered his gaze, he noticed how her hips tapered into long, unending legs. Legs that gave his imagination free rein. Why he’d ever thought her limbs were short and stubby, he couldn’t recall. His pulse quickened. He dropped his gaze and saw tiny feet peeking out beneath the hem of her gown.
She whirled, as if she’d sensed him standing there. He lifted his gaze, only to behold more of her wonders. From full high breasts, taut nipples jutted against the pink fabric. He fought for composure, gulping in air.
Their eyes met, hers wide with surprise. He couldn’t shake the overwhelming need to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. He clenched his hands into fists. It was a struggle to remain calm and remind himself just who and what she was.
“I thought you’d gone to bed.” Her husky voice rasped against his raw nerve endings.
“I had,” he said in a choked voice. He cleared his throat. God, what he wanted to do to her. And didn’t dare.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
– 19th century proverb
CHAPTER FOUR
“I JUST came to tell you that—” Chance cleared his throat again. “That Sinclair fella brought over your cooking things. I guess the money-grubbing crook expects you to keep baking pies for his restaurant while you’re in my custody.”
“All right,” she said. “Is that all you wanted?”
No. “Yeah.” He turned on his heel and yanked the door closed behind him. He shut his eyes, and leaned his aching head against the wall. He drew in a deep breath, surprised to find his hands shaking, his pulse pounding and his knees as weak as a newborn foal’s.
He took himself across the hall to his own room where he shed his boots, unbuttoned his shirt and lay down on top of the bed, his hands folded across his belly. He stared at the ceiling, longing for what could never be.
He told himself it had been one hellish day; a person wasn’t shot every day. He told himself he was just plain worn out; he’d been up since before sunup. He told himself he just needed a good night’s sleep, it was his mother’s remedy for whatever ailed you.
He lay awake a long time telling himself that just because a beautiful woman slept beneath his roof, he had no rights to her, especially when she was a wanted criminal. And he was an engaged man.
He fell asleep not believing a word of it.
Trixianna put pen to hand before retiring for the night. She’d find a way to mail her missive tomorrow.
Mr. Jonathan Lacina
Abilene, Kansas
Dearest Jonathan,
I sincerely hope you have rectified the situation with Georgette. I know her temper is somewhat fierce, but my sister has a sweet side, which I’m sure you’ve discovered in your four months of marital bliss.
She is probably not yet over her pique with me, and that breaks my heart. I hated to leave Abilene under such trying circumstances, but I feared for your life as well as mine. Were you able to glue together the lovely dove statuette? I suspect that Georgette isn’t ready to accept the gift just yet. Maybe in time.
I’m living in Grand Fork, Kansas now. My baking enterprise is thriving, although at the moment business is a little slow. I hope that with a few changes, things will pick up.
Grand Fork is a hospitable town and I’ve made several new friends. Alistair Burns, Burnsey to his close companions, is from England and has that wonderful accent. Right now he lives quite close and we are able to converse freely. Annie V., another new friend, owns her own thriving establishment, and she and her colleagues love my apple pandowdy.
I’ve met the sheriff, Chance Magrane, quite by accident. He seems a nice enough fellow, though I believe his health is precarious.
Take care of yourself, Jonathan. I think of you as a brother now. Be patient with Georgette, but until we straighten out this situation, perhaps it would be best that you not mention my letter.
Yours truly,
Trixianna Lawless
Grand Fork, Kansas
When just a smidgen of night still darkened the sky, Trixianna set out with oil lantern in hand to explore the sheriff’s home while he slept.
Granny Lawless’s warning voice whispered in her ear about intruding upon other people’s privacy, but curiosity overcame Trixianna’s qualms and common sense. She prayed that unlike the cat, curiosity wouldn’t kill her. Before she started baking, she wanted to find out more about the man with whom she found herself sharing quarters. And snooping was the best way to go about it.
She put her ear to the sheriff’s bedroom door, heard a light snore, then tiptoed down the hall.
Her feline companion, Angel, followed, hissing and jumping at shadowed corners, the hair on his back on end. She tried to shoo him away in case he woke Chance but he had a mind of his own.
She wondered if the rest of the house was like the room the sheriff had given her. It had no curtains at the window, no wallpaper or paint on the walls, no rug on the floor. Four bare pine walls surrounded a single iron bedstead with chipped white paint and a simple four-drawer maple bureau. Rough linen sheets, a moth-eaten blanket and a flat pillow covered the bed. The dresser drawers had been empty. Late last night, she’d put her clothes away in the chest, and placed her tortoise-shell brush and comb and a scrimshaw box of hairpins atop the dresser so
the room looked more lived in.
Four rooms including her own occupied the simple one-story clapboard home—a parlor, a kitchen and two bedrooms with a narrow hallway running through the middle of the house. As she wandered, she saw a clean, though sparsely furnished, house with some hint of the sheriff’s own indomitable personality. However, as she thought about it, she realized it didn’t really reflect him at all; the man wasn’t frugal with words, only with furnishings. It was something to mull over when she had the time.
The parlor had no rug to warm it, no knickknacks to decorate it, no womanly frills to enhance it. No mementos. No photographs of Fanny or a family. Not even a single small table.
Two ladder-back pine chairs graced either side of the fireplace. A worn serpentine-back sofa in a floral design of faded green, pink and white faced the fireplace and held one clue as to the manner of man who sat there in the evenings. A book. Trixianna picked it up and became so startled by the title that she dropped it onto the sofa. She stared at the cover—Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities. She flipped back the flyleaf and found a dedication—To Chance, No hard feelings, Rider. Although eaten up with inquisitiveness about Rider’s identity, she set the book back as she’d found it. Again the sheriff surprised her—she’d doubted the man knew how to read, much less that he would read a novel by someone like Dickens.
As she turned from the parlor she caught the glint of a shiny object on the mantel. She crossed the room, and picked it up. In her palm, she held a single brass key. She stared at it, wondering if it could possibly be another jail key. Behind her, Angel let out a loud screech that was so startling, she dropped the key in the pocket of her apron. She waited, listening for the sheriff’s bellow. Hearing nothing, she heaved a sigh of relief and sauntered across the hall to inspect the kitchen completely forgetting the key in her pocket.
Yes, thought Trixianna as she prepared to bake her pies, he kept his home simple…including the kitchen. Very simple. The man apparently didn’t know a soup ladle from saddle soap. There weren’t enough supplies to put together a simple supper, much less the kind of baking Trixianna routinely did. Although oddly enough, he had a fairly new enclosed range that was quite expensive and more than sufficient for her meager needs. Maybe he’d purchased it with his new wife in mind.