Sweetwater Seduction (15 page)

“You do what you have to, Sheriff.”

Fair warning had been given—by both men. Felton pulled his hat down and spurred his horse. When he reached Kerrigan, he reined his mount to a stop. “One more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Stay away from Miss Devlin.”

Kerrigan grinned. “Sorry, Felton. Can't do that.”

“Damn you, Kerrigan. That woman's going to be my wife.”

“She's not your wife yet. You're not even engaged.”

“Leave her alone.”

The smile slipped from Kerrigan's face. “Don't push, Felton. Leave well enough alone.”

Felton started to argue, but something in the rigid set of Kerrigan's jaw told him further talk would be futile. He spurred his mount and headed up out of Sweetwater Canyon, damning Burke Kerrigan the whole way.

Kerrigan stood and watched Felton until he rounded a bend out of sight. Then he turned and looked back the way Felton had come. What had the sheriff been doing down in the canyon? If Felton was perceptive enough to have figured out the rustlers were working here, why hadn't he caught them before now?

Kerrigan swung into the saddle in a lithe move that didn't involve putting his foot in the stirrup, and kicked his horse into an easy trot. Maybe there was some clue down there he hadn't found yet. He would just take a look and see.

The death of Pete Eustes created havoc in Miss Devlin's schoolroom on Friday, because now there was fear as well as anger for her pupils to contend with. She watched the rancher and nester children eye one another with distrust.

Eden didn't have to wait long for a fight to erupt. This time it was two of the girls, Henry Westbrook and Sally Davis. She managed to separate them before anything more damaging than a little hair-yanking occurred. But between hot tempers and cold quiets her schoolroom hardly provided a climate that encouraged learning.

Miss Devlin heaved a sigh of relief when the day ended, hoping that er the weekend she could figure out some way to ease the tensions seething at school.

Unfortunately, her pupils weren't the only ones living with new fears. Eden had been distracted all day with concerns of her own—all of them leading back to that incident at her front door last night when Burke Kerrigan had almost kissed her. It wasn't the kiss she had feared so much as her own feelings. Because, for a moment, she had
wanted
him to kiss her. And that had terrified her.

There was no logical reason for her to be attracted to the man. In light of his similarities to her father, she had every reason to hate him. But the truth was, she didn't hate him. Just as he had claimed, what she really hated was what he made her feel. Desire. Longing. Need.

Eden had believed herself above those sorts of feelings. After all, she had a bright, educated mind. She knew better than to let herself get carried away by the baser emotions. Yet, whenever that gunslinger came around, wants and needs rose up inside her clamoring for the nourishment they had been denied for twenty-nine parched years. It was unsettling, to say the least.

It didn't help to know that Kerrigan had threatened to come for supper tonight. She found it tremendously comforting to know that if he was brazen enough to show his face, Reverend and Mrs. Simonson would be there to act as a buffer.

Eden hurried to the butcher shop right after school, hoping to get a good steak to serve for supper. To her dismay, that nosybody Florence Grady stood behind the counter with her husband. Not that Miss Devlin had anything to hide. But after the day she'd just had, Eden didn't feel like dealing with the town gossip.

“Good afternoon, Miss Devlin,” Florence said with a sly smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Buying beef.”

“What will you have, Miss Devlin?” the butcher asked.

“A three-pound steak, Mr. Grady.”

Florence raised a knowing brow. “Expecting company for dinner, Miss Devlin?”

Miss Devlin was unwilling on principle to satisfy the gossip's curiosity. “If I am, Florence Grady, it's no business of yours.”

“A steak like that would feed a big man,” Florence said.

“Yes, it would,” Miss Devlin agreed with a benign smile. Reverend Simonson was a very big man—from side to side.

“Here you go, Miss Devlin,” the butcher said, handing the paper-wrapped steak over the counter. “Need anything else?”

“Not right now, Mr. Grady.” Miss Devlin turned and left the butcher shop without saying another word.

By day's end, the entire t Sweetwater knew Miss Devlin had invited “someone with a man-size appetite” for dinner.

Felton Reeves never listened much to gossip, but a week's worth of innuendo about “Miss Devlin and the gunslinger,” followed by his encounter with Kerrigan in Sweetwater Canyon, had made its mark. When he heard the rumors about the huge steak the schoolteacher had purchased from the butcher, he decided to pay her a call before he headed out of town on business. But first he had to go by the undertaker and see what kind of bullet had killed Pete Eustes.

Meanwhile, Miss Devlin was less than her usual calm and collected self. Her dinner guests would be walking in the door in an hour, and things weren't going quite as planned.

She had covered the oak pillar extension table (minus the extension) with her best Nottingham lace cloth, and put out her brass candlesticks with new pink tapers. Three places had been set with her mother's china and silver. All the furniture in her house, from the sideboard, to the combination oak bookcase and writing desk, to the birch parlor table that held her Bordeaux lamp, glistened with English Beauty's Best Grade Oil-base Wood Polish. The setting was perfect.

Unfortunately, her mashed potatoes were lumpy and her snap beans had long ago passed from brilliant green to the sickly yellow color of grass that's spent a week under a flower pot. The pumpkin pie planned for dessert had come out of the oven both too soon and too late, because the undone center had sunk far below the burnt crust. There was no hiding her mistake, because she had forgotten to stop by the Davis farm for whipping cream on her way home. She still had some hope for the steak reposing bloodred and raw in the skillet. But after viewing her disastrous efforts with the pie, she had lost confidence in her ability to make the best use of her Acme four-hole coal and wood stove.

What made her failure so frustrating was the fact she knew she could be a good cook if she had a little more practice at it. Unfortunately, she had never spent much time cooking for herself. It didn't seem worth the effort.

She had learned today, to her chagrin and surprise, that it wasn't as easy as she had thought to make everything come out just right. It didn't help to know that she had let herself get distracted reading and completely forgotten about the food on the stove.

Now that she might have a husband to cook for sometime soon—assuming Felton's courtship came to fruition—Eden realized she couldn't afford to be quite so cavalier in the future about her cooking.

However, what was done was done. She would simply have to make the best of the situation. All that remained was for her to contrive a way to entertain her guests in the parlor while she cooked the steak in the kitchen. She realized now that a wiser woman would have prepared a pot roast that could have been ready to eat when her guests arrived. It was woefully apparent that Miss Devlin hadn't entertained much, just the reverend and his wife now and then, so thankfully they were prepared for a dinner charred around the edges.

Right now, all she wanted to do was get this supper over with so she could lie down and indulge the painful headache pounding behind her eyes.

Suddenly she realized the pounding sound in her head was not her headache but someone knocking at the door. It was way too early to be her guests. For a second she thought of Kerrigan's threat. Surely he wouldn't dare come here tonight. She shook her head at the thought. Probably the Simonsons had come early after all.

She reached around to untie the allover gingham apron she had worn to protect her dress while cooking, then realized she would only have to put it back on again to fry the steak. She looked down at the unsightly smudges of pumpkin and flour and eggs and butter on the checked material, and wished fervently that she owned a dainty white lawn apron with a nice ruffle or two. But being such a practical woman, and ruffles not being in the least practical, she didn't.

In a rash of indecision, she finally yanked her apron off, telling herself her action had nothing at all to do with the possibility she might find Burke Kerrigan standing on her doorstep.

Eden spent the entire trip to the door fiddling with a few recalcitrant curls that had escaped the bun at the base of her neck. A deep breath, an exhaled sigh, and she opened the door with complete calm—to find herself facing Sheriff Felton Reeves.

“Why, Felton . . . what a surprise! How are you?”

“Cold. May I come in?”

The growing scowl on Felton's face made it plain Miss Devlin was hesitating too long before answering. Recovering her wits, she said, “Why, of course. Come in. I thought you were going to be out of town tonight. I can set another place—”

“I only stopped by to say hello.”

He walked over to examine the table set for
three.
So much for the gossip. He decided it couldn't hurt to ask anyway. “Seen Kerrigan lately?”

“Why, yes. He came by last night.”

Felton looked ready to kick his own dog.

Resigned to an unpleasant interview, Miss Devlin asked, “Is there something I can do for you, Felton?”

“You can stay away from Kerrigan.”

He was angrier than she thought he had a right to be, under the circumstances. “Who I choose to entertain is none of your business.”

“I'm making it my business.”

“You can—” Miss Devlin bit her tongue. In Felton's shoes, she might have been equally frustrated and angry. It would be imprudent to say things that would shut the door on any hope of a future relationship with this man. Now that she owned that silver baby spoon (which she had decided not to return after all), she had begun to have all sorts of fantastical ideas about herself a

There were many ways to deal with an angry man, and Miss Devlin used the conciliation that had worked so well to turn aside her father's wrath, saying, “I certainly didn't invite Kerrigan here. He just showed up.”

Felton wasn't listening.

Eden followed him as he made his way to the kitchen, where he stood staring down at the raw meat in the skillet. “Doesn't look like twelve pounds of steak to me,” he muttered.

“Twelve pounds!”

“That's what I heard,” he mumbled, his angry blue eyes daring her to laugh.

“Listen, Felton, it never occurred to me that you would be upset by—”

Loud knocking interrupted her carefully planned speech and left Miss Devlin staring in the direction of the front door, hoping that was the rest of her company.

“You going to answer that?” a surly male voice demanded.

Miss Devlin hurried to the front door and opened it to discover Burke Kerrigan standing on the doorstep. “You!”

“Supper ready yet?”

“I told you not to come here.”

Felton arrived at the kitchen door in time to see Kerrigan step inside and close the front door.

Miss Devlin stood stunned while the gunman slipped a sheepskin coat off and dropped it on the sofa. Kerrigan was wearing a three-piece black suit with a starched white shirt and collar, which somehow did nothing at all to make him seem less dangerous. He was carrying a black Stetson, and although his Colt was nowhere in sight, she had no doubt the derringer was tucked in his boot.

It was easy to note the instant he realized Felton's presence, because suddenly the fact he was wearing a suit did nothing to keep him from looking like a wild thing trapped in too-close confines. Eden could almost see his neck hairs bristle, feel the tension in his muscles build until they threatened the seams of his suit. The civilized man was gone. In his place stood a barely leashed feral animal, ready to claim what was his.

Only she didn't belong to him, any more than she belonged to Felton Reeves.

“It looks like you already have company,” Kerrigan said.

“Felton just stopped by—”

“For supper,” Felton finished.