night."
Walker nodded once. "I'll have the Colt ready."
CHAPTER 8
Walker waited for Lacy to return to pick up the old gun she thought would protect her. He let one cat in, the other out. He'd taken to calling them both Andy because he couldn't remember the other cat's name. Not that it mattered. Cats didn't know their names anyway.
He made sure there was enough wood to last the night. Double-checked the locks and verified the old Colt the sheriff had given Lacy was fully loaded. He knew she'd never need it, but if he broke his word to her, she had every right to shoot him.
Finally, he dug the old law book he'd carried over half the state out of its leather bag and tried to relax. After talking with her, it would be a long while before he could even think about sleeping. He liked getting to know her. Spending time talking to a woman was something he'd never done. He'd flirted with a few officers' daughters and single sisters, but the talk had always been polite, never real. The couple of times he'd visited ladies of the evening there had been no talk at all except about the price, and he'd felt empty when he'd left.
But with Lacy, there had been no pretend. He didn't even think she knew how to flirt. She was enjoyable to listen to, but mostly he liked watching her talk. There was a gentleness about her when she wasn't all fired up over something.
Walker closed the book, realizing he hadn't read a word. He felt like a man hypnotized by a fire; one minute it warmed him, the next he knew it would burn him, but he couldn't walk away.
When she opened the door of her bedroom and poked her head out, she startled him. He felt as if his thoughts had taken form.
He'd pulled off his boots and uniform jacket and settled atop his bedroll, planning to read by lamplight. He started to stand, but she stopped him with a raised hand.
Walker didn't move, thinking she might be afraid of him coming near, but to his surprise, she opened the door wider and hurried out of the bedroom, carrying a blanket in her arms.
He fought down a smile as he noticed her bare feet at the hem of her nightgown. She wasn't the type of woman he thought of as beautiful—too short, too rounded—but he couldn't deny her charm.
"I brought you something." She knelt beside his bedroll.
Her hair hung over her shoulders in a cloud of walnut brown. He fought the urge to hold it in his hands. Instead, he held his book with a tight grip.
"When your father died, I didn't know what to do with his clothes. He had several suits. Most were worn, but some of the material was still good." She opened a quilt made of browns and blues. "So I cut all the good pieces out and made this." Her ink-stained hands spread over the gift, removing wrinkles.
Walker couldn't believe it. His father must have never thrown away a thing, for he recognized several squares. The brown trousers he always wore on Wednesdays so the dirt wouldn't show when he unloaded paper at the railroad station. The blacks he wore on printing days so that any ink smudges blended. The black coat and trousers he saved for church and funerals. His father's life wove amid the threads of each square.
"From his trousers and vests I cut all the watch pockets out. Most of the other pockets were too frayed or stained with ink, but I don't think your father ever carried a watch."
"He didn't," Walker remembered. "He believed in working until the job was done and sleeping until he woke each morning." Walker had forgotten his father's habit. "He would have never made it in the army."
Lacy spread the blanket out. "Maybe not, but his quilt will keep you warm tonight."
"Thank you," Walker said, touched by her kindness. "But don't you need this?"
"Oh, no, I packed it away to give to you. It's good to have something to remember your father by."
He didn't have to ask. He knew she had nothing of her parents'.
"If you can't take it with you when you travel, you can leave it." She hesitated. "It will be here if you need
Walker nodded once. "I'll have the Colt ready."
CHAPTER 8
Walker waited for Lacy to return to pick up the old gun she thought would protect her. He let one cat in, the other out. He'd taken to calling them both Andy because he couldn't remember the other cat's name. Not that it mattered. Cats didn't know their names anyway.
He made sure there was enough wood to last the night. Double-checked the locks and verified the old Colt the sheriff had given Lacy was fully loaded. He knew she'd never need it, but if he broke his word to her, she had every right to shoot him.
Finally, he dug the old law book he'd carried over half the state out of its leather bag and tried to relax. After talking with her, it would be a long while before he could even think about sleeping. He liked getting to know her. Spending time talking to a woman was something he'd never done. He'd flirted with a few officers' daughters and single sisters, but the talk had always been polite, never real. The couple of times he'd visited ladies of the evening there had been no talk at all except about the price, and he'd felt empty when he'd left.
But with Lacy, there had been no pretend. He didn't even think she knew how to flirt. She was enjoyable to listen to, but mostly he liked watching her talk. There was a gentleness about her when she wasn't all fired up over something.
Walker closed the book, realizing he hadn't read a word. He felt like a man hypnotized by a fire; one minute it warmed him, the next he knew it would burn him, but he couldn't walk away.
When she opened the door of her bedroom and poked her head out, she startled him. He felt as if his thoughts had taken form.
He'd pulled off his boots and uniform jacket and settled atop his bedroll, planning to read by lamplight. He started to stand, but she stopped him with a raised hand.
Walker didn't move, thinking she might be afraid of him coming near, but to his surprise, she opened the door wider and hurried out of the bedroom, carrying a blanket in her arms.
He fought down a smile as he noticed her bare feet at the hem of her nightgown. She wasn't the type of woman he thought of as beautiful—too short, too rounded—but he couldn't deny her charm.
"I brought you something." She knelt beside his bedroll.
Her hair hung over her shoulders in a cloud of walnut brown. He fought the urge to hold it in his hands. Instead, he held his book with a tight grip.
"When your father died, I didn't know what to do with his clothes. He had several suits. Most were worn, but some of the material was still good." She opened a quilt made of browns and blues. "So I cut all the good pieces out and made this." Her ink-stained hands spread over the gift, removing wrinkles.
Walker couldn't believe it. His father must have never thrown away a thing, for he recognized several squares. The brown trousers he always wore on Wednesdays so the dirt wouldn't show when he unloaded paper at the railroad station. The blacks he wore on printing days so that any ink smudges blended. The black coat and trousers he saved for church and funerals. His father's life wove amid the threads of each square.
"From his trousers and vests I cut all the watch pockets out. Most of the other pockets were too frayed or stained with ink, but I don't think your father ever carried a watch."
"He didn't," Walker remembered. "He believed in working until the job was done and sleeping until he woke each morning." Walker had forgotten his father's habit. "He would have never made it in the army."
Lacy spread the blanket out. "Maybe not, but his quilt will keep you warm tonight."
"Thank you," Walker said, touched by her kindness. "But don't you need this?"
"Oh, no, I packed it away to give to you. It's good to have something to remember your father by."
He didn't have to ask. He knew she had nothing of her parents'.
"If you can't take it with you when you travel, you can leave it." She hesitated. "It will be here if you need
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