Never Love a Lawman by Jo Goodman Page B

givin’ folks a nod.”
    Rachel finished turning to face Estella once again. Her eyes were troubled and the small smile she forced was uncertain. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You’re kind to say so.”
    Estella’s eyebrows rose halfway to her dark widow’s peak. “Lookin’ at you now, I’m wonderin’ if I should have said a thing. I don’t think you know how to hear a compliment, ’cause that’s what it was. Meant what I said in the kindest way, and that’s the truth.”
    “Well, thank you, then,” Rachel said with more conviction this time.
    “That’s better. Now I’m going to shut my eyes and think about a shell-pink batiste, and if I can get Paris proper in my mind again, I’ll be draggin’ Henry into one of those cafés with me.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Rachel waited. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds, and she counted fifty-two before Mrs. Longabach opened her eyes.
    “Well,” Estella said firmly, “the shell pink isn’t going to do at all, is it?”
    “No.”
    “No sense putting brass buttons on confectionery. But then, you knew that.”
    “It was important to me that you realize it,” Rachel said. “Now, if you’d like me to show you some fabrics in other colors, like indigo blue or burgundy, or some plaids similar to what I’m wearing, I’d be happy to bring them by.”
    “What about the moss-green material that I ordered?”
    “It will work, of course, but the dress you picked out for it is really the perfect choice.”
    “Are we talkin’ about three dresses now or two?”
    “We’re talking about as many as you’d like, Mrs. Longabach.”
    Estella’s gaze was both shrewd and appreciative. “Let’s see. I’m hearin’ the burgundy and brass for stopping Miss LaRosa in her tracks, the moss green for every day, and the shell pink for…Now, what do I need the shell pink for?”
    “It’d make a lovely nightgown.”
    Chuckling, Estella picked up her cup. “Aren’t you the quick one, Miss Bailey, but I’m forty-two years old with about as many curves as a string bean, and in a Colorado winter I prefer flannel.”
    “Does Mr. Longabach?”
    Estella’s laughter was strangled by the fact that she was trying to swallow a mouthful of tea. She recovered before Rachel could lend assistance. “I’m fine,” she said. “That was unexpected, is all. But I trust your instincts and your needlework. I’ll find that pattern book for us.” Standing, she sighed. “Don’t know that anyone else could have made me think I needed three new pieces. You have a gift, Miss Bailey.” Then, just to make certain Rachel understood, she added, “That’s a compliment.”
    “I know. Thank you.” And this time there was no doubt that she meant it.
     
    Rachel paused, looking up from the fabric she was cutting as Molly Showalter entered through the back door. “Put a kettle on, Molly,” she called, going back to work. “We’ll have tea when you want to take a break.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Do you have a list of chores for me?”
    “It’s on the kitchen table. Come here first. I want your opinion.”
    Molly only poked her head into the workroom. “My opinion, Miss Bailey?”
    Rachel glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Of course. You have them, don’t you?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Come on. Over by the table. You can’t see anything from where you’re hiding.”
    Molly made a slow, cautious approach and stopped when she was still a few feet from the table. “My hem’s been a magnet for dust today, Miss Bailey, and I have ink on my hands. I was cleaning my father’s office, and I knocked over an inkpot. I don’t want to touch anything in this room.”
    “Hold them up. Let me see.” Rachel set down her shears and regarded Molly’s hands. “Oh, yes. You look as if you’ve been picking blueberries. I have something on my vanity that might remove that. I’ll get it for you in a little while. First, tell me what you think of this.” She reached for the leather