when Laurel starting asking questions, she was told not to worry her pretty little head. I don’t believe Townsend is very good at his job as James’ and Sheriff Anders murders aren’t the only ones unsolved in Crystal Springs. Mrs. Rawlins at the boarding house lost her husband about a year ago.” Though she promised Laurel she wouldn’t repeat what the woman had told her, she trusted Chase.
She poured coffee, handed him his cup and took her seat once again. With a touch of anxiety, Kathryne watched him take a sip.
He choked on the brew.
It was bitter, no matter what she did. Heat rose from her chest to warm her neck and face as her hands clutched her cup. “I’m sorry. It’s not very good. I’m still learning how to use the stove. And cook. And make a decent pot of coffee.” She pushed the sugar bowl and a can of condensed milk toward him. “Maybe this will help.”
“No, it’s fine.” Chase insisted and to prove it, took another sip. His lips twisted into a grimace once again. “Oh, I take it back, Katie. I’ve had bad coffee before but this…this will curl your hair.” He grinned. “If you wouldn’t mind, I can show you how to make coffee.”
“No, please do.” Kathryne laughed with him, although feelings of inadequacy jumbled in her head. She couldn’t help herself. She had to explain why at the age of twenty-five, she couldn’t brew a simple pot of coffee. “Mother didn’t let me near the stove after I singed off my eyebrows when I was eight so I never learned how to cook. I love a good cup of coffee, but I can barely tolerate the stuff I make. Either it’s too weak or it’s too bitter.”
She watched him just as intently as he had watched her and couldn’t help wondering about the man. He instructed her as he had instructed Walter earlier in the day—with patience, tolerance and good humor, so at odds with the reputation he carried around town.
“Canady?” Chase prompted as he poured fresh coffee into their cups a short time later and brought them to the table.
Kathryne took her seat once more. “They came out of the shadows between the bakery and the barber shop. I tried to push past them, but they wouldn’t let me.” A shudder rippled through her as she recalled their rank odor and their intentions, which gleamed so wickedly in their eyes. “I thought…I knew what they wanted and it wasn’t Laurel’s stew. When Beau grabbed me, that’s when you came along. And I’m so thankful you did.”
“It’s all right now,” he said, his voice calm though she sensed the anger beneath his words. “They won’t bother you again. I’ll see to it.”
She believed him. With effort, she stilled her trembling hands and took a sip of coffee. “Oh, now that’s heaven. Where did you learn to make coffee so well?”
He didn’t answer. He simply watched her, piercing her with the intensity of his eyes, which were no longer a soft gray, but more like polished pewter. No smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “What are you doing here, Katie?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t belong here. You belong in New York or San Francisco, not this godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere. You belong at balls and soirees and the opera. It’s evident in the clothes you wear, the way you speak, the way you carry yourself.” He released her hand. Intense and forceful, he seemed to be staring into her soul, into her heart. “Go back to where you came from.” His voice hardened as his eyes narrowed. “Now.”
Startled, Kathryne didn’t know how to respond, but his attitude rankled. Deep in her bones. Beneath his steady stare, heat rose to her face. Who was he to tell her what to do? Order her to go home? He wasn’t her father. He wasn’t her husband. He had no right. And she didn’t have to listen.
She opened her mouth, ready to tell him what she thought of his order, but couldn’t. She never could. She’d never been
She poured coffee, handed him his cup and took her seat once again. With a touch of anxiety, Kathryne watched him take a sip.
He choked on the brew.
It was bitter, no matter what she did. Heat rose from her chest to warm her neck and face as her hands clutched her cup. “I’m sorry. It’s not very good. I’m still learning how to use the stove. And cook. And make a decent pot of coffee.” She pushed the sugar bowl and a can of condensed milk toward him. “Maybe this will help.”
“No, it’s fine.” Chase insisted and to prove it, took another sip. His lips twisted into a grimace once again. “Oh, I take it back, Katie. I’ve had bad coffee before but this…this will curl your hair.” He grinned. “If you wouldn’t mind, I can show you how to make coffee.”
“No, please do.” Kathryne laughed with him, although feelings of inadequacy jumbled in her head. She couldn’t help herself. She had to explain why at the age of twenty-five, she couldn’t brew a simple pot of coffee. “Mother didn’t let me near the stove after I singed off my eyebrows when I was eight so I never learned how to cook. I love a good cup of coffee, but I can barely tolerate the stuff I make. Either it’s too weak or it’s too bitter.”
She watched him just as intently as he had watched her and couldn’t help wondering about the man. He instructed her as he had instructed Walter earlier in the day—with patience, tolerance and good humor, so at odds with the reputation he carried around town.
“Canady?” Chase prompted as he poured fresh coffee into their cups a short time later and brought them to the table.
Kathryne took her seat once more. “They came out of the shadows between the bakery and the barber shop. I tried to push past them, but they wouldn’t let me.” A shudder rippled through her as she recalled their rank odor and their intentions, which gleamed so wickedly in their eyes. “I thought…I knew what they wanted and it wasn’t Laurel’s stew. When Beau grabbed me, that’s when you came along. And I’m so thankful you did.”
“It’s all right now,” he said, his voice calm though she sensed the anger beneath his words. “They won’t bother you again. I’ll see to it.”
She believed him. With effort, she stilled her trembling hands and took a sip of coffee. “Oh, now that’s heaven. Where did you learn to make coffee so well?”
He didn’t answer. He simply watched her, piercing her with the intensity of his eyes, which were no longer a soft gray, but more like polished pewter. No smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “What are you doing here, Katie?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t belong here. You belong in New York or San Francisco, not this godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere. You belong at balls and soirees and the opera. It’s evident in the clothes you wear, the way you speak, the way you carry yourself.” He released her hand. Intense and forceful, he seemed to be staring into her soul, into her heart. “Go back to where you came from.” His voice hardened as his eyes narrowed. “Now.”
Startled, Kathryne didn’t know how to respond, but his attitude rankled. Deep in her bones. Beneath his steady stare, heat rose to her face. Who was he to tell her what to do? Order her to go home? He wasn’t her father. He wasn’t her husband. He had no right. And she didn’t have to listen.
She opened her mouth, ready to tell him what she thought of his order, but couldn’t. She never could. She’d never been
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