Never Love a Lawman by Jo Goodman Page A

hard as you work, Mrs. Longabach, it’s more likely you’ve lost some, and a fraction of an inch here or there, well, you can understand that it makes a difference in the fit of the dress.”
    Nodding, Estella made another study of Rachel’s dress. “I sure like what you’re wearing today. I don’t remember seeing that in the pattern book you lent me. I’m sure it would have caught my eye.”
    “It’s my own design, but there are dresses similar to it in the book.”
    “Well, I like yours. It looks, hmm, I don’t know, like maybe you could lead a charge in it. What’s the name of the French girl that fought the English?”
    “Do you mean St. Joan? Joan of Arc?”
    “That’s her. Your dress puts me in mind of her. Not sure why because you couldn’t really ride a horse in it, now, could you?”
    Laughter parted Rachel’s lips. She smiled warmly. “No, it’s not practical for horse riding or swinging a sword. I think you’re noticing the double-breasted cuirass. It feels a bit like I’m wearing armor, I can tell you, but then I wanted to dress for battle today.”
    “Well, it sure is pretty, that’s what I know. Must’ve made every man in town sit up and take notice.”
    “It’s a friendly town,” said Rachel, realizing she’d spoken those same words to Wyatt earlier.
    Estella snorted. “Friendlier to some than others, I’ve seen.”
    “I’m sorry. Did I—”
    “I’m not talkin’ about you.” She waved one hand dismissively. “I’m talkin’ about that LaRosa woman. I swear she thinks she can get her painted claws into my Henry.”
    Rachel wasn’t certain that there was a correct response to this statement. She hurriedly took a shortbread cookie from the tray Mrs. Longabach had set between them and bit into it. Her hostess didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t replied or even made sympathetic noises.
    “Course, if I was wearin’ a dress like yours, Miss LaRosa would know I was serious about wantin’ her to take a step back. I like the idea of dressing for battle.”
    The dress was something Rachel felt that she could talk about. “Why don’t we look in the pattern book and see what would suit you best?”
    Estella pointed to Rachel’s tailored cuirass. “That’s what I want. What about that shell-pink batiste I ordered? Couldn’t you use that?”
    “It’s a beautiful piece of fabric. I looked it over yesterday and wished I’d ordered more, but it doesn’t really work for this dress. I’ll tell you what, I’ll stand up and you take a few moments to study my dress, concentrate on the particulars you like, and then I want you to close your eyes and try to imagine your lovely piece of shell-pink fabric cut and styled and detailed in exactly the same way.”
    Estella set her cup aside and laid her hands flat on her lap, prepared to concentrate. “This is a new one on me,” she said. “Is this how they do it in those Paris salons?”
    “I don’t know,” Rachel said, rising to her feet. “I’ve never been to Paris. What made you think I had?”
    Estella shrugged. “Just my imaginings, I suppose. You don’t really talk much about yourself, so I fill in the gaps on my own.”
    “But Paris?” asked Rachel. “That gap’s the Atlantic Ocean.”
    Estella twirled her finger, indicating that Rachel could start turning. “I saw paintings of Paris when Henry and I still lived back East. Oh, that was years ago now, but I never forgot them. Seemed like a place I’d like to visit someday, though it was always hard to picture myself there exactly. You, though, I could see you real easy in those paintings. Think of it every time you come glidin’ down the street in one of your pretty dresses, standin’ out of the background like you were movin’ through the painting, strolling on one of those boulevards with the little shops and cafés. Sophisticated, like. Just a bit separate from the crowd, you know. But real nice, too, ’cause you always make a point of smilin’ or