Longarm and the Diamondback Widow by Tabor Evans Page B

the door behind him and leaned into it as though she were too tired to stand without assistance.
    Longarm turned to her, frowning, puzzled. “And you’re . . . ?”
    Still leaning against the door, the young woman turned to him, the light of a single lit lamp on a side table reflected in her eyes, which seemed to own a perpetual sheen of tears. “Mrs. Rainey. Mrs. Desmond Rainey.”
    â€œOh.”
    She quirked her mouth corners, though no humor touched her sad eyes. “I know—I’m considerably younger than Des was.”
    â€œWas.”
    â€œOh, he’s dead. I thought maybe you’d figured that out by now. I’d heard from Mrs. Fletcher that you were a marshal.”
    â€œDeputy marshal.”
    â€œWhatever.” She turned from the door and leaned against it, sliding her shoulders back slightly. He couldn’t help glancing at the full bosom jutting toward him, though a pang of guilt shot through him for noting it. The poor woman was obviously a wreck, and here he was admiring her tits.
    If that wasn’t just like him.
    â€œI’m sorry . . . Mrs. Rainey.”
    He knew he must have looked like he’d swallowed a horseshoe. Nothing could have surprised him more than finding out that the sheriff of Diamondback, who’d been nearly as old as Chief Marshal Billy Vail, was married to such a striking, young beauty.
    Mentally he tried to shake off his confusion and get down to brass tacks.
    â€œHow?” he asked.

Chapter 11
    Mrs. Rainey turned her head toward the door as though listening. “I think Mrs. Fletcher has gone to bed. The only other boarder is a traveling salesman, and I’m sure he doesn’t care about any of this.”
    She turned to Longarm again and drew a heavy breath. “You won’t be needing the rifle, Marshal. Can I offer you a drink?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    She moved to the side table on which the single lantern burned. Longarm leaned his rifle against the wall by the door, looked around, and saw that he was in the sitting room of what appeared to be a two-room suite.
    This parlor area, papered in purple above dark-stained pine wainscoting, was about twice the size of Longarm’s room. It was simply, comfortably furnished with a couch, a brocade-upholstered armchair, and a rocking chair arranged around a stylish area rug.
    A charcoal brazier glowed in a corner. The door to the bedroom was open, revealing an unmade bed with a candle burning on a near table. The bed was rumpled, covers thrown back. Longarm had a feeling that Rainey’s bereaved widow had been spending a lot of time in it.
    Her hands shook slightly as she splashed amber liquid from a cut glass container into two short water glasses. She brought one of the glasses to Longarm.
    â€œBrandy,” she said. “Probably not the appropriate glass, but my husband never stood much on form, which was one of the things I loved about him.”
    Her voice quavered and tears oozed into her eyes. She smiled as though to try to cover the emotion, and swung around quickly. She walked over and retrieved the other glass and then walked over to the rocking chair. Turning to Longarm, she held out her arm and said, “Please. Have a seat.”
    She sat down in the rocker. She appeared to be struggling to maintain composure.
    She knew what he wanted to know, so Longarm sat down in the armchair, sipped his brandy, and waited. She sipped her own drink and crossed one leg over the other.
    â€œHe was shot,” she said, staring at the floor between them, rocking a little in the chair.
    She drew a breath, steeling herself. “I saw it happen. I was here, waiting for him as I always do, every afternoon. We always went to supper together downstairs or we’d walk over to Abigaile’s. Five-thirty every evening. I knew he’d ridden out of town earlier, and I’d been worried all day. I had a . . . I don’t