Thank God Bert Sinclair, even with selfish motives, thought to bring over her own kitchen stores and utensils.
Beside her Angel meowed, having followed Trixianna into the kitchen. He lay on the floor in front of the range, and began grooming himself. She laughed at the feline, who kept both eyes glued on her as if he expected her to disappear at any moment.
Humming, she set to work.
Within a matter of minutes, Trixianna felt right at home. She was comfortable in the kitchen. She kept close to her heart the memories of her and Georgette learning the womanly arts while laughing and gossiping with their mother and Granny Lawless. She missed them all very much.
But she thanked God that for now she wasn’t in jail, and she could cook to her heart’s content.
Sometime during the night Chance died and went to heaven. Or so he thought upon awakening. He lay still as delicious home-cooked smells drifted to him from the kitchen. Cinnamon, sugar, apples. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d never gotten around to drinking that glass of milk and eating any cornbread before bedtime last night.
He sat up, and was immediately sorry. He died all right…died and gone to Hell. He eased back on the bed, his bandaged shoulder on fire, every muscle in his body aching. A tremor raced down his arm and into his fingers. He rubbed his burning eyes and stubbled face, cursing long and loud.
Hell. He’d been shot by a woman. It stung his pride nearly as bad as it pained his body.
He shouted another string of profanity just for good measure.
And she came running.
He heard her tiny booted feet scamper down the hallway. The object of his longing and his dreams…and the outlaw woman who could bring him closer to five hundred dollars reward money. His just desserts. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to throttle her neck or savor it with his mouth. He groaned and closed his eyes.
The door swung open. “Sheriff Magrane? Chance, are you all right?”
He popped one eye open and glared at her. She stood in the doorway, dressed in an ugly gray dress, an apron round her tiny waist. She must favor the color, for every time he’d seen her she was dressed in gray. Her hair was pinned up; thank the Lord for small favors. Hair like that should only be let down in a bedroom.
A smudge of flour dusted the end of her freckled nose. He released a deep sigh. She didn’t look like a hardened criminal. She looked sweet, innocent, and damned beautiful.
He took a deep breath. “I’m right as rain, Maggie. Never better. I—” Just to prove it he shot out of bed, and tripped over the bed coverings. He grabbed the footboard to recover his balance. “Mother of God, what time is it?”
She pulled the timepiece pinned to her bodice away and squinted at the face. “Eleven-fifteen.”
He hadn’t disrobed last night but as he tried to pull his shirt off his shoulder to wash up, he discovered he couldn’t raise his arm. “Hellfire.” He waited for a reaction to the vulgarity, and was surprised to receive none.
Instead, she stepped forward and helped him remove his shirt. Her gentle touch sent a shiver up his spine. She seemed not to notice. “Near the end of his illness, my papa had difficulty dressing and undressing himself, too,” she said matter-of-factly. She took the shirt, folded it and placed it on the bed. “The undershirt?” she questioned.
He nodded, his pride seriously bruised by having to accept her help. Still, he leaned over so she could pull it off. Parts of him trembled, other parts quivered and other, more delicate parts groaned with delight. She had the softest, warmest hands and a considerate touch that belied her no-nonsense demeanor and criminal background. And she smelled delicious—half cinnamon and spice, and the other half, all-over womanish.
She blushed when she asked, “Do you need help with the rest?”
He blushed when he answered. “No.”
She started out the door then turned and questioned him. “Can I fix you a late breakfast?”
Why did the woman have to be so damnably polite? He shook his head. “If that’s pie I’m smelling, I’ll just grab a slice on my way out.”
“Okay, fine. Is cranberry all right? It’s the one I kept for us.”
“I’ve never had cranberry pie, but I’m sure it’ll do. I’m so hungry, my stomach thinks my throat’s been slit.”
She gave him a thin smile, her hands folding and refolding the edge of her apron. “Could you maybe do something for me while you’re out today?”
His fingers stilled on the buttons of his trousers. He looked closely at her. Her eyes darted nervously from his hands to his face. “No.”
She continued as if he hadn’t given her a negative reply. “Would you wire Jonathan Lacina in Abilene? He can verify who I am and that I did not rob the bank in Dena Valley.”
“Is he your lover, or maybe your accomplice?”
If possible, she blushed a deeper crimson. “No, Jonathan is my brother-in-law.”
She left him alone then, pulling the door shut behind her. He heard the sound of her receding footfalls and wondered why guilt ate at him. He knew before the day was over he would send a telegram to Abilene to verify her story.
The man was a beast.
No, he was worse than that. He was dreadful and unspeakably mean. A tyrant.
And as Granny Lawless used to say when Trixianna’s father wasn’t around to overhear, he was a prime specimen of masculinity.
When Trixianna first touched Chance to help him take off his shirt, she could have keeled over from the feel of his body. She’d never laid her hands on a young man in such an intimate way. The softness of his skin surprised her. She’d expected it to be rough like sandpaper. Instead, it was as smooth as a baby’s. A fine down of black hair covered his broad, powerful chest. The silky-soft hair and supple skin on his chest contrasted deeply with his overall fierce appearance.
And his scent. Oh, my. Trixianna could still smell him, and he’d been gone from the house for an hour. Even after sleeping all night, he smelled heavenly, like warm summer sunshine and worn leather and oddly enough, spearmint. She felt close to swooning when she thought of it.
Without thinking, she stuck her hands in a dish pan of dirty dishes and gasped, yanking her stinging hands out of the scalding water. For God’s sake, she’d just poured the water straight from the stove.
“Damn.” A wave of guilt shot through her. She glanced over her shoulder, even knowing she was alone. Men swore all the time. Why couldn’t women?
“Damn,” she repeated. “Damn, damn, damn.”
She knew why men swore. It felt pretty damn good.
Chance’s stomach churned. He sat up straighter. He scratched his chest. His face broke out in a cold sweat and gooseflesh crept up his arms and back. He shook all over like a palsied old man. He rushed outside to catch a breath of fresh air, but when he stepped out on the boardwalk, his stomach convulsed. He dove around the side of the building, raced toward the rear and reached the outhouse just in time to empty the contents of his agitated stomach.
The woman had poisoned him.
It must be her way to escape. His stomach heaving, Chance negotiated his way down the street, only once fleeing the walkway to empty what little was left inside his stomach in the alleyway. He sent two young boys playing there off screaming in horror.
Ignoring strange looks from the Widow Pierce and her sister, the Widow Simmons, out doing their shopping, and another questioning glance from the undertaker, he made it home. By that time, he’d also sent a whimpering dog skedaddling with his tail between his legs.
Exhausted and angry, he stomped up onto the porch, his hat in his hand. Every square inch of his body either itched or prickled or burned like he’d been marked with a cattleman’s branding iron. He was going to murder Mad Maggie West.
* * *
Trixianna jumped when Chance burst into the kitchen startling both her and Fanny. She glanced over to see the smile on Fanny’s face disappear and her features pale. They had been getting to know each ot
her over coffee and slices of cranberry pie. In mid-sentence they stopped talking and looked up in surprise when the sheriff rushed into the room, a murderous look on his face.
“Why, Chance, what happened to you? You look downright ghastly,” cried Fanny. She jumped to her feet, her fingers splayed across her chest.
He waved her away with one hand. She flushed, remaining silent, and retreated to the far side of the table. Trixianna felt sorry for the poor girl. She couldn’t imagine why Fanny would be engaged to such an unfeeling brute.
Chance pointed a trembling finger at Trixianna. “You poisoned me.”
Fanny gasped aloud as she glanced at Trixianna. A look of uncertainty shaded her round face.
Hives covered Chance’s face and neck, and even his hands. Sure as God is in heaven, Trixianna thought with no small amount of amusement, the ugly red wheals must blanket his entire body. Trixianna bit her lip to keep a smile off her face.
“I didn’t poison you. As you can see, Fanny and I have been enjoying the cranberry pie ourselves with no ill results.”
“Yes, it’s quite good, Chance. You should try a piece.” Fanny gave him a bright smile.
“I did,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
Her smile disappeared.
Suddenly, his face paled and he jerked away, racing out the door. It slammed against the wall with a loud thud, then bounced back shuddering on its hinges. Fanny exchanged a pained look with Trixianna. The anguished sound of Chance’s retching, followed by a mournful groan, reached their ears.
Fanny’s eyebrows rose in amazement, her eyes wide. As she slid onto one of the kitchen chairs, she whispered, “Goodness.”
Trixianna nodded in agreement.
When Chance came inside, a slick sheen of perspiration covered his blotchy face, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Trixianna opened her mouth to speak. He shushed her with a shake of his head. “Maybe you didn’t poison me, Miss West.” He gave her a pointed look. “I can see you’re both eating that god-awful stuff, but I feel like I’m about to die.”
“You look just like a big, plump strawberry.” Fanny giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He gave her a humorless smile. “Now what do I do?”
“Have you got any calamine lotion?” Trixianna asked.
He nodded. One of his hands reached inside his shirt to scratch his belly; the other one rubbed his forehead making it, if possible, more red and irritated. He was a sight, all right. Trixianna agreed with Fanny—he did look like a giant strawberry. It was all she could do to keep from laughing.
“I think—” she said. Her voice sounded unnaturally high to her own ears. She started again. “I think that’ll help the itch. For the, uh, stomach upset, I do believe it’ll just have to work its way out of your system, that is…”
“I think I can figure it out.” He spun on his heel, flinging his shirt aside as his fingers dug furiously into the broad expanse of his back, which was covered with long underwear. The last thing she saw was a blue shirttail flutter to the hall floor.
The bedroom door banged shut, rattling the dishes on the table. Fanny, who had been leaning around the table, watching his exit, exclaimed, “He seems a bit perturbed. It’s not dangerous to his health, is it?”
“Oh, no,” Trixianna promised with a shake of her head. “Aside from a fearsome need to itch, the only thing you’ll have to worry about is his temper.” Trixianna’s lip trembled with the need to grin. She exchanged a look of amusement with Fanny; then they both burst into peals of laughter.
Fanny quieted, the smile slowly fading from her features. Her right brow rose a bit. “What do you mean, all I’ll have to worry about is his temper?’”
Trixianna shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll be caring for him, won’t you?” She certainly couldn’t help the man. Chance would rather have a rattlesnake in his bed than have Mad Maggie West in his bedroom.
“Why, I certainly won’t,” Fanny said matter-of-factly. “That would be scandalous. I’d be the talk of Grand Fork.”
“But you’re engaged,” Trixianna countered. “And besides, I’m the talk of Grand Fork.”
Fanny stood to leave. She reached for her hat and reticule. She pulled lace gloves from her bag and yanked them over her pudgy fingers. She tugged on the bodice of her lilac gown, the buttons strained over her abundant bosom. “That may be, but I simply could not help him. Why, I get nauseous at the sight of blood.”
“Blood?” What blood?
A look of supreme discomfort crossed Fanny’s placid face. “I’m simply not tending him. Goodness, I’d have to touch his person.” She shivered from head to toe, as if she found the mere thought of laying a hand on the sheriff’s body repugnant.
Touch his person? What did Fanny mean she couldn’t touch him? Caring for Chance while he was under the weather took precedence over propriety, and besides, they were engaged. Indeed, this was a strange relationship. Trixianna’s curious nature kicked in again. No, no, no. She gave herself a mental shake. It was none of her business. “What about his aunt?”
“Tildy?” Fanny made her way around the table. She stood at the door and smiled, then patted her hat in place over her simple brown-haired bun. “Why, I do believe Aunt Tildy left on the afternoon train for Wichita. Her sister, Martha, isn’t well. She’s got the arthritis and sometimes needs a bit of help. Tildy’s been planning that trip for a week or so.”
“Chance will have to doctor himself then,” Trixianna insisted.
“I’m sure he can.” Fanny bobbed her head in reply. “That man is perfectly capable of taking care of just about anything.”
She stepped over the threshold and looked over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later then, Trixianna. Perhaps I’ll stop by tomorrow to see if you or Chance need anything. Bye-bye now.”
Trixianna stood in the doorway and waved good-bye. She watched as Fanny made her way down the street. The young woman waved at every buggy in the street, patted each child’s head she passed. She even stopped to pet a stray dog. She was obviously well loved and admired. But what about her and the sheriff? Did he love her? And more importantly, did she love him? Theirs didn’t seem like a love match or even one made in Heaven.
Trixianna shook her head. It was absolutely none of her business, but still, she couldn’t help thinking about it. She stepped back inside wondering…
“Hey!” An exasperated male voice echoed down the hallway, shattering her reverie. She refused to answer to that insulting call.
“Mad Maggie!”
Or that one either. It wasn’t her name and she wouldn’t dignify it with a reply.
“Maggie!”
The window panes rattled. Chance’s deep voice echoed inside Trixianna’s ears.
“Maggie!”
She cringed. She bit her lip.
“Trixianna Lawless! Get your sorry butt in here before I throw you back in jail!”
Trixianna smiled. Sure, he was threatening her, but in his condition she doubted it held much meaning. Besides, it just proved what a little perseverance could accomplish. She hurried down the hall and pushed open the door. “Thank you for finally using my real name. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
He gave a disgusted snort. “I figured it was the only way I’d get you in here, Maggie.” He had the audacity to wink at her. He stood facing her with his hands on his hips, dressed only in short-legged cotton drawers. The unbuttoned shirt-top hung down over his narrow hips. The drawers sagged around his lean waist, but hugged his buttocks and the bulge of his masculinity.
Trixianna’s face heated. Yet she couldn’t tear her gaze away. She found herself staring at his well-proportioned physique with an unladylike fascination.
A physique that was as red as a ripe cherry and as angry-looking as a boiled Boston lobster.
His face was bright crimson, but she figured he wasn’t embarrassed, although had she been dressed so scantily she would have been. Since his uncl
othed body from the tips of his ears to his bare toes was also red, she knew hives covered even those places that were clothed. Such a sight. Bright pink skin even showed through the thin white bandage covering his shoulder wound.
If the look in his eye was any indication, embarrassment was the furthest thing from his mind. His brilliant eyes glowed like bits of blue stone, hard and uncompromising.
Trixianna couldn’t find the words to speak.
“I can’t reach my back,” he grumbled. He turned around and showed her his back. Staring at her over one broad shoulder, he said, “Rub it in.” He pointed to the bottle of calamine on the dresser.
She stepped forward on slow, hesitant feet, ignoring the blatant command. He picked up the lotion and handed it to her. She took it in shaking hands. She hated to admit how much his presence disturbed her. He alternately thrilled and frightened her. She wasn’t sure which emotion scared her more. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“Who else, for God’s sake?” he stormed, an annoyed edge to his voice. He looked out of the corner of his eye at her. “After all, you’re responsible.”
The nerve of the man. She leaned toward him, her fear lessening, and replaced by indignation. “How was I to know you were allergic to cranberries? My cranberry pie gets raves from everyone else.”
“Well, not me. Now, put it on. The itch is driving me crazy.”
She raised up on tiptoes and stared at him.
He angled his head away, his eyes narrowed. “What now?”
“Well, what do you say?”
He shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation, then turned to face her. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve shot me, and poisoned me? Now you want me to beg for your damned help? Haven’t you about humiliated me enough in the last two days?” He ran his hand through his hair. “My God, woman, I’m standing here all but buck naked, itching like I’ve got the world’s worst case of poison ivy. I still feel like pukin’, and there couldn’t be one damn cranberry left in my belly.”