without at
least a comb or brush. Bits of loose tendrils fringed around her
face.
Rummaging
through the oak chest at the foot of the bed, she found a few
feminine items. Holding them up to herself, they were too small for
her, the owner’s figure several inches shorter and much smaller in
the bust. The only items of a suitable size were a pair of pants in
soft cotton and a white, buttoned shirt.
She
quickly donned the new items. The pants, although a bit short, fit
her narrow waist and round hips perfectly. The shirt, she had to
admit, was a bit small. Her full figure strained against the mother
of pearl buttons. Plain and simple, both items were better than her
old dress, so badly torn and stained with Grant's blood.
Walking
across the hall, she peeked in to the other bedroom to see how Grant
had fared while she slept.
“ Did
you have a good rest?” Tom asked quietly, sitting in a chair next
to the bed reading.
Tom
looked much like his brother. They were both tall and had a solid
build. Tom’s hair was darker than the sheriff's, probably the same
color as if his were wet, but the most obvious difference was their
temperaments. While the sheriff appeared to have a short fuse, Tom’s
demeanor was calm and patient. Quiet. One had the knack to ruffle her
feathers, the other soothed.
No.
It was more than that. The sheriff didn’t just “ruffle” her.
Her palms became sweaty and she felt her cheeks flush. Embarrassingly
enough, her nipples tightened at his slightest touch. With Tom, she
felt...nothing. Thankful, maybe. But who wanted to feel thankful when
they kissed you?
She
smiled. “I did rest well, yes.” Her eyes turned to the still form
in bed. Had fever set in? Had the wound started to bleed again? “How
is he?”
“ Sleeping
still. No fever. I think he’ll be fine, but I would expect he’ll
need to remain in bed for several days to let that wound heal up.”
She
closed her eyes in relief. “I'm so glad he'll be all right.”
Tom
patiently nodded. “Hungry?”
Thinking
of food, her stomach gave a decidedly loud rumble. Embarrassed, she
looked to Tom.
“ Come
on, let’s get something to eat,” he replied, laughing.
She
waited by the door. “What about the Sheriff?”
“ I’m
sure he’ll sleep for a while yet.” Tom looked to his brother.
“Don’t worry.”
Tom
led her downstairs and washed up at a white china basin in front of
the window. She followed his lead, then sat down at a weathered
wooden table clearly used for more than meals. It was the focus of
the room, and its worn patina added warmth.
Sunlight
streamed into the kitchen from three windows. The open door let in
warm, fresh air. Tom took two plates covered with dishtowels from the
stovetop, placed one in front of her, then joined her at the table.
“I hope this is still good.” Eggs, ham and biscuits filled each
tin plate. It was hard not to lick her lips in anticipation.
“ When
did you make this?”
“ The
foreman brought it for us, leftovers from the men’s breakfast.”
He
began eating and she followed suit. They ate in silence, but once
their plates were empty, he sat back in his chair, holding his coffee
cup. “What brings you here, Maggie?”
She
dabbed her checked napkin at her lips. She knew the inquisition had
to start sometime. His brother had been shot, she'd been in his lap
on the horse, her dress had been ripped with the sheriff's badge
holding it closed. It was impressive he'd had enough patience to wait
this long for details. “It's quite a long story. I'm not exactly
sure where to start.”
“ Your
name’s Maggie. That, I know. How about your family name?”
“ Atwater,”
she answered.
“ Atwater.”
He thought for a moment, took a sip of coffee before continuing. “I
can’t recall any Atwaters from around this area.”
She
shook her head. It was clear he was trying to wheedle information
from her, but he was being subtle about it. Not subtle enough, as shr
was a master at ways to pull
least a comb or brush. Bits of loose tendrils fringed around her
face.
Rummaging
through the oak chest at the foot of the bed, she found a few
feminine items. Holding them up to herself, they were too small for
her, the owner’s figure several inches shorter and much smaller in
the bust. The only items of a suitable size were a pair of pants in
soft cotton and a white, buttoned shirt.
She
quickly donned the new items. The pants, although a bit short, fit
her narrow waist and round hips perfectly. The shirt, she had to
admit, was a bit small. Her full figure strained against the mother
of pearl buttons. Plain and simple, both items were better than her
old dress, so badly torn and stained with Grant's blood.
Walking
across the hall, she peeked in to the other bedroom to see how Grant
had fared while she slept.
“ Did
you have a good rest?” Tom asked quietly, sitting in a chair next
to the bed reading.
Tom
looked much like his brother. They were both tall and had a solid
build. Tom’s hair was darker than the sheriff's, probably the same
color as if his were wet, but the most obvious difference was their
temperaments. While the sheriff appeared to have a short fuse, Tom’s
demeanor was calm and patient. Quiet. One had the knack to ruffle her
feathers, the other soothed.
No.
It was more than that. The sheriff didn’t just “ruffle” her.
Her palms became sweaty and she felt her cheeks flush. Embarrassingly
enough, her nipples tightened at his slightest touch. With Tom, she
felt...nothing. Thankful, maybe. But who wanted to feel thankful when
they kissed you?
She
smiled. “I did rest well, yes.” Her eyes turned to the still form
in bed. Had fever set in? Had the wound started to bleed again? “How
is he?”
“ Sleeping
still. No fever. I think he’ll be fine, but I would expect he’ll
need to remain in bed for several days to let that wound heal up.”
She
closed her eyes in relief. “I'm so glad he'll be all right.”
Tom
patiently nodded. “Hungry?”
Thinking
of food, her stomach gave a decidedly loud rumble. Embarrassed, she
looked to Tom.
“ Come
on, let’s get something to eat,” he replied, laughing.
She
waited by the door. “What about the Sheriff?”
“ I’m
sure he’ll sleep for a while yet.” Tom looked to his brother.
“Don’t worry.”
Tom
led her downstairs and washed up at a white china basin in front of
the window. She followed his lead, then sat down at a weathered
wooden table clearly used for more than meals. It was the focus of
the room, and its worn patina added warmth.
Sunlight
streamed into the kitchen from three windows. The open door let in
warm, fresh air. Tom took two plates covered with dishtowels from the
stovetop, placed one in front of her, then joined her at the table.
“I hope this is still good.” Eggs, ham and biscuits filled each
tin plate. It was hard not to lick her lips in anticipation.
“ When
did you make this?”
“ The
foreman brought it for us, leftovers from the men’s breakfast.”
He
began eating and she followed suit. They ate in silence, but once
their plates were empty, he sat back in his chair, holding his coffee
cup. “What brings you here, Maggie?”
She
dabbed her checked napkin at her lips. She knew the inquisition had
to start sometime. His brother had been shot, she'd been in his lap
on the horse, her dress had been ripped with the sheriff's badge
holding it closed. It was impressive he'd had enough patience to wait
this long for details. “It's quite a long story. I'm not exactly
sure where to start.”
“ Your
name’s Maggie. That, I know. How about your family name?”
“ Atwater,”
she answered.
“ Atwater.”
He thought for a moment, took a sip of coffee before continuing. “I
can’t recall any Atwaters from around this area.”
She
shook her head. It was clear he was trying to wheedle information
from her, but he was being subtle about it. Not subtle enough, as shr
was a master at ways to pull
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