Not the Marrying Kind Read online

  “Thank You, Lord,” she whispered. “Without Your intervention none of this would be possible.” Adding a promise to dedicate all she did to God, Peony threw open the door and stepped into her . . .

  She froze.

  The place was a mess. Dark streaks decorated one wall and the residue of printer ink hung heavy in the air.

  Against her better judgment, she stepped over the threshold into her new life, a life so far removed from New Orleans that it made her smile despite the mess surrounding her. Setting her carpet bag beside the door, she knelt right there and thanked the Lord for bringing her to Cut Creek.

  “Well I declare. Looks like I’ve got me a church-goin’ woman for a neighbor.”

  Peony stumbled to her feet and swiped at the mess she’d made of her already dusty traveling skirt. A woman of fifty-something stood in the doorway, her iron-gray hair pulled off her face and captured in a messy knot atop her head.

  Shaking the older woman’s outstretched hand, Peony offered a smile and a soft “yes, ma’am.”

  “Well now that is an answer to prayer.” She placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Old man Morrison hasn’t gone on the Lord, has he?”

  “Mr. Morrison? Oh no. He’s fine. I last saw him in Dallas. He is working on a book about his travels in Texas.”

  “Is that right?” A broad grin split her lined face. “Well you don’t look much like your daddy but I sure am glad he finally found you.” Confusion must have etched her face, for the woman gave her a sideways look. “You are Tom Morrison’s long lost daughter, aren’t you?”

  “No, ma’am,” she said. “He’s still looking for her.”

  The woman made a clucking sound. “A pity, that situation. I told him he oughtn’t to stop until he finds that girl and her mama.”

  “I told him the same thing.” Silence fell between them, punctuated by the shrill call of the train’s whistle. Funny how just moments ago she had been on that train and now, here she stood in her store with her neighbor.

  Back in New Orleans the decent folk they had for neighbors didn’t speak to Peony or her mama. At least not in public.

  “Goodness, where are my manners? I’m Abigail from next door. I run the diner. Nice to meet ya.”

  “I’m Peony. Peony Potter.” She cringed when she said the name aloud, as she always did. Why Mama hadn’t named her something sensible like Mary or Jane, she would never know. If she ever had daughters of her own, they certainly wouldn’t be strapped with a moniker as silly as Peony Primrose Periwinkle Potter.

  “Where you from, Miss Potter?”

  “New. . .” She clamped her lips tight. Better not to give even a hint of her background. “I just arrived on the train from Dallas,” she said. “And please, call me Peony.”

  Chapter Five

  “You aim to open up another newspaper?”

  Peony breathed a sigh of relief that Abigail hadn’t seemed to give her unusual name or her faltering explanation of her hometown a second thought – or perhaps she thought it rude to comment. She and the older woman would be fast friends if this was any indication of her character.

  “No,” she said. “My intention is to open a dressmaker’s shop. I sew, you see.”

  Well now, isn’t that nice?” She looked past Peony to the room beyond. “Looks like you’ve got a job ahead of you.”

  Nodding, Peony turned to follow Abigail’s gaze. “Yes, well, I wasn’t expecting something so . . . so, well…in need of a woman’s touch.”

  Abigail cackled with laughter. “That it does,” she said. “Actually, I’m thinking it might need some male attention first.”

  “How so?”

  The older woman pointed to the jumble of tables and shelves stacked at the back of the room. “That there used to be where old Tom would put together his paper. If’n you take that big old board down you’ll find a right nice window. And those shelves, well, wouldn’t they look nice up here in front with your goods stacked on them all purty?”

  Peony pictured the changes in her mind. “Yes,” she said. “That sounds wonderful. Perhaps you might know someone with some carpentering skills.”

  Her guest frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t have a husband to help you? A pretty young thing like you?”

  “No ma’am,” she said.

  “You a widow already?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve never been married.”

  “Well, isn’t that something?” Abigail took a step back to stare at Peony. “Looks like you haven’t seen a full plate in a coon’s age. Why, I bet I’ve got something simmering on the stove that’d put some meat on your bones. Why don’t we step next door and I’ll fix you a bite to eat then we can talk about how you’re going to get this little place shining like a new penny?”

  A good meal would be a welcome distraction and a nice beginning to her new life in Cut Creek. “Thank you,” she said as she shouldered her carpetbag. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Set your suitcase down, honey,” Abigail said. “Ain’t nobody going to mess with it. You’re in Cut Creek now. We don’t have any crime. Sheriff Wilson sees to that.”

  “What does Sheriff Wilson see to?”

  Peony looked past her new neighbor to see her doorway filled with a dark-haired man. His uniform told her he was the law in Cut Creek, but his demeanor and slow Texas drawl told her he’d seen his fill of silly woman like her. At least that was the impression she got as she felt his gaze sweep past her to focus on Abigail.

  A lady would have been offended. Unfortunately, she was still learning how to be a lady.

  While she waited for the outrage she knew she should feel, she studied the breadth of his shoulders and the deep dimple in his clean-shaven chin. By the time she focused her attention on his velvet-brown eyes, she knew this was a man who could pose a serious threat. Not only was he the law in Cut Creek, and thus a man in a position to find out much more than she wanted him to know about her past, but he was also a thief.

  One look at him and he’d stolen her breath. What would five minutes in his presence do?

  Perhaps she should leave now, walk out of Cut Creek with her finances in ruin but her heart still intact. She’d only had to hear Mama’s story of lost love, desperate circumstances, and wrong choices once to know that retreat was often the best option.

  Luggage in still in hand, she should march right back to the depot and forget she’d ever seen eyes that brown and hair that blue-black. If the Lord got her out of New Orleans, getting her out of Cut Corner, Texas, would be simple.

  Getting that dimple out of her mind, well, that would probably take a bit longer.

  What am I thinking?

  Peony clutched the carpetbag to her chest and stared at the ink-streaked floorboards beneath her feet. This was her dream, her destiny. Whatever this silly feeling of butterflies in her stomach meant, it surely wasn’t going to keep her from what the Lord meant for her to do.

  No, she would not take off running like a scalded cat just because some man turned her mind to mush and set her heart beating double time. Unlike Mama, she planned to set down roots and live a respectable life earning a respectable living without turning the fool over a man.

  Peony squared her shoulders and stared head on into the face of the man she would have to begin thinking of as the enemy – the enemy of her heart anyway. She’d already sunk her savings into this little piece of Cut Creek; she had nowhere else to go. All she had to do was learn to avoid Sheriff Wilson at all costs and she would be fine.

  “Well now,” Abigail said. “You see what I mean. Speak of the law and there he is. Come here, Rafe Wilson, and meet Miss Potter.” She turned to Peony. “Miss Potter, this here is Sheriff Rafael Wilson. He’s in charge of keeping the peace in Cut Creek.”

  * * *

  “Ma’am.” Rafe tipped his hat to the piece of fluff then returned his attention to Abigail, who’d obviously just paused to take a breath. Uh oh. She looked like she’d caught hold of an ide
a and was just about to let loose with it. Probably ought to head back where I came from. He knew from experience that when Abigail chewed on something she stayed at it awhile.

  “Miss Potter’s gone and bought this building from Tom Morrison. She’s gonna make a dress shop out of this place. Aren’t you, hon?”

  The woman smiled and nodded but said nothing. Interesting. A female who didn’t rattle on. And a pretty one at that.

  “Rafe here’s been the sheriff for, well, how long’s it been?”

  He jabbed his fists into his pockets and forced a smile. “Nigh on to seven years now.”

  “Seven years,” Abigail repeated. “My how time does fly.”

  Seven years of presiding over a town where the most exciting thing that happened was the occasional drunk rolling out of the saloon to shoot up a couple of windows or a pig getting stuck in a well. While other sheriffs were dealing with Indian uprisings or outlaws, all Rafe Wilson had to worry about was whether the loose nail in his chair was going to poke his backside during his afternoon nap.

  Abigail’s giggle drew his attention away from the new dressmaker. The older woman shrugged. “Has it been that long? Seems like yesterday we were holding church up the street for the first time and thanking the Lord we didn’t have to live in tents anymore.”

  Abigail stopped her jawing and took a step backward, crossing her arms over her chest. For a second she studied the both of them, and then she grinned.

  Something was up and Rafe already knew he didn’t like it. Time to make his escape.

  He thrust his hand in the dressmaker’s direction in an attempt to make good on his exit. She lifted her gaze to collide with his and he felt the jolt down to his toes. At that moment, something inside him shifted and his heart did a big old flip flop while his throat froze up tighter than a puddle of milk at the North Pole.

  He couldn’t be sure what it was or why it happened, but Rafe knew that trouble was brewing. What sort of trouble remained to be seen, but he felt confident it had everything to do with the new dressmaker.

  A chorus of male voices tumbled toward them on the east wind. The object of his thoughts raised her pretty brows then turned her pink lips into a frown. Dropping her carpetbag, Miss Potter moved toward him.

  Rafe scooted out of the way just as she brushed past to step out onto the sidewalk. She smelled pretty, this little lady, and it was all he could do not to inhale deep one more time after she’d passed by. Instead he followed her outside like a pup on a rope. When she stopped, so did he.

  “What are they doing?” she asked in an even and agitated tone.

  “Hmm, what?” He followed the direction she pointed.

  A few feet away Pop and his Ranger friends had set their pickle barrel and board contraption up in a small sliver of sunshine. At that moment, Creed Creedwith and Sully Sullivan were busy setting up the domino game. Pop and Swede Almgren stood nearby jawing about whose turn it was to cut firewood for the church stove this Sunday morning.

  “Looks like a regular Tuesday morning in Cut Creek, ma’am.”

  “Gambling and wayward men? Is that what this town supports? Well I never.”

  Pop caught sight of him and waved, and Rafe returned the gesture. “Wayward men? Those four? Hardly.”

  Rafe smiled down at the feisty female, hoping to either rile her further or placate her. Both options promised to offer an entertaining result.

  What was left of his good humor began to fade as all four former Rangers turned to stare in his direction. Pop said something to Creed, who needled Sully. All four roared with laughter.

  “Great,” Rafe said under his breath. By supper the whole town would know he’d paid a visit to the new dressmaker. Pop would ride him about it for ages. So would Wyatt.

  “Aren’t you going to do something about them?”

  Rafe forced his attention back on Miss Potter. His heart still went ker-thunk when he looked at her but his brain had the good sense to remind him womenfolk were nothing but trouble to a man with one foot on the train to San Antonio and Ranger headquarters.

  Rather than get all riled up, he shrugged. “Like as not someone will complain about someone else taking too long to make a move and the four of them will end up at Abigail’s before noon. Most days that’s how it happens.”

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a look of disgust. “Surely you don’t expect decent folk to be exposed to the likes of those…those…criminals.” Squaring her shoulders, Miss Potter leaned toward him. “You’re the sheriff. Do something.” She turned up her pretty nose as the word left her lips.

  The minute he laughed, Rafe knew he shouldn’t have.

  Chapter Six

  With not so much as a how-do-you-do, the little dressmaker whirled around and headed inside, passing him with such force that his hat went flying.

  “Hold on there,” Rafe called. “What do you expect me to do?”

  The woman practically skidded to a stop then whirled around to stalk back toward him. Stopping inches away from his nose, she rose to her tip toes and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Sir, as the law in this town I expect you to make the streets safe.”

  Rafe cast a lazy glance to the left and then to the right. “Well, Miss Potter, maybe you’d know better than me but I believe the streets look just fine. Course we’ve only got two of them here.”

  For a minute she looked like she might speak. Rafe started thinking of what he’d say in response. Should he point out that the very criminals she was worried about were the same men who’d kept this part of the prairie safe for the better part of three decades? Maybe he ought to tell her real plain that if she didn’t like the daily domino game in front of her shop, she ought to pick another place to set up shop.

  Before he could say a word she turned on her heels and stormed away.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Abigail smile. “What?” he asked as he grabbed his hat off the sidewalk.

  “She’s right. You ought to do something.”

  He watched the swirl of blue skirts swish around the corner and disappear into the back room. “You know well as I do that there’s nothing to be done with the likes of those four.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your daddy and his Ranger friends.” Abigail nudged Rafe then shook her head and pointed inside the dressmaker'. “You really ought to go on in there and do something about her. She’s liable to hurt herself.”

  A crash sounded somewhere in the depths of the future dress shop. Rafe took a step back from the door and whistled under his breath. “Miss Abigail, I’ve never backed down from man or beast, but I believe I’m going to walk away from this fight before I find myself bested.”

  Tipping his hat, he turned to head for Eli’s workshop. If his friend wouldn’t take him on as a part-time employee, maybe he’d turn him loose with a hammer and bag of nails and let him pound away his riled-up temper on the scrap wood out back.

  Another crash and Abigail went skittering toward the diner like a scalded cat. Rafe was tempted to go back and make sure Miss Potter hadn’t buried herself under an avalanche of old newspapers or fallen through the staircase that led up to the storeroom.

  He stopped and waited. The only sound he heard was the cackle of Pop and the men laughing. Then the laughter stopped.

  Rafe watched in disbelief as the town’s new dressmaker appeared in her doorway wielding something that looked like a large stick. No, he decided, that was a broom she held.

  “Gentlemen, I am going to ask you nicely to leave the premises immediately and take your gaming apparatus with you. I intend my dress shop to be a decent establishment and I will not have my customers see such goings-on at my doorstep.”

  To her credit, she spoke nicely but her face and the way she held that broom told another story. The little lady looked capable of breaking up the domino game by force at the slightest provocation.

  Rafe leaned against the hitching post to watch the show. “This just could be the most fun I’ve had a
ll day.”

  Sully rose first and gave Miss Potter a courtly bow. No doubt back in England he’d charmed his share of the ladies. The dressmaker, however, seemed oblivious to his considerable charm.

  “My friends,” Sully said as he collected the dominos, “I do believe it is time to reconvene this meeting of the town council elsewhere as the lady has requested.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Mayor.” Pops lifted the board off the pickle barrel then offered Miss Potter a smile. “Welcome to Cut Creek, ma’am. You sure do pretty up the place.”

  Rafe knew for a fact that Pop did his share of lady-charming in his day. Once again, the lady in question was not charmed, however. Rafe chuckled at the sour face she made.

  “Might I suggest though,” Pop added, “that you take to carrying a pretty little reticule or a parasol of some sort? It’s not that you don’t look fetching holding it over your head like that, but something a little less threatening than a broom might better impress the menfolk.”

  “I give her a week and she’ll be on the train out of town,” Rafe said under his breath.

  Creed gathered up the remaining stools while Sully hefted the pickle barrel onto his shoulder. “Onward, men,” he said as he led his band of brothers across Main Street.

  “Don’t forget it’s my turn,” Swede called.

  She must have seen him laughing, for the dressmaker started his way. Rafe rose to his full height and squared his shoulders. He adjusted his holster then fiddled with his badge to be sure it glittered just right in the morning sun.

  A glance in her direction told him she’d neither slowed her pace nor dropped her broom. Rafe frowned. Surely she didn’t intend to sweep the sidewalk with the sheriff of Cut Creek.