Widow Woman by Patricia McLinn Page B

saloon.
    Nick's eyes rose then, as if by instinct. But his gaze didn't go to the Cattle Annies calling to him. It went directly to the narrow second-floor balcony boasted by the town's most genteel establishment, the Pitch Hotel.
    Rachel Terhune stood next to a portly man with a ruff of carroty hair beneath a gleaming bald dome. His brown jacket, vest and pants matched and his shirt's white sparkled. He smiled, though even from this distance Nick could see the sharpness of the man's gaze as he surveyed the cattle heading to the boxcars.
    The man surely was the representative of the buyer. Shortly, he and the owner of the Circle T would tally the cattle delivered and get down to a final reckoning. Shag would be there later, but for now Rachel Terhune stood alone.
    He'd never seen her before in anything but her canvas split skirts, faded calico work dresses or that old-fashioned riding habit she wore now and then. Her honey hair usually was hidden under sunbonnets or a wide-brimmed hat he suspected had been her father's.
    Now she wore a dark dress, with black buttons down the front and beading around a white collar and cuffs as well as the hem. Her movements, with sunlight glinting off beading, showed the dress wasn't as simple as he'd thought. It seemed to glide over her figure, except in back where lifted drapes of material swayed with even her tiniest motion.
    She'd drawn her shining hair up smoothly at the sides, caught there with combs, then gathered it at the base of her neck. Atop her head perched a small velvet bonnet, with its matching black bow tied precisely under her chin.
    A pretty girl like you should be wearing pretty dresses.
    No pretty dress here. But clothes befitting a widow woman. They reminded Nick all the more that the woman inside them was not the pitiful, declining figure he'd envisioned so long ago. She smiled at something her companion said as she turned her head, and her gaze locked with Nick's. A strange, dull ache bloomed in his gut as her smile diminished. He ignored it.
    This was fitting. Rachel Terhune, decked in her widow's weeds, standing high above where Nick Dusaq worked amid sweat and dust and stink.
    He had no call to touch a woman like her, as he'd reminded himself not so many days ago. Had no call to dream of a woman like her, as he reminded himself every night.
    He tugged at the brim of his hat in a farewell salute, then moved on with the cattle.
    * * * *
    "Get cleaned up so you don't frighten the honest folk—and, you, Tommy, get that red mop of yours cut so nobody thinks the town's on fire—then c'mon up to the hotel. Head of the stairs, then to the left,” Shag told the gathered hands after they'd counted and penned the last steer.
    "It's a respectable hotel, so don't go getting too rowdy."
    The Circle T's hands didn't need that warning. If anything, the hotel's propriety and the extreme demureness of two matrons they passed as they trooped up the stairs subdued them into shyness. Even though they'd taken the time to indulge in shaves, haircuts and hot baths that made them look an entirely different crew from the ruffians who'd brought their herd in that morning.
    As they waited to be called in, one by one, to the room where Shag dispensed their wages, there was a good deal of foot shuffling and throat clearing, and not much talk. Those who'd received their money didn't linger, scooting away with promises to meet up with those still waiting at an establishment more in keeping with their temperament.
    They'd scatter soon enough after that, Nick reminded himself. Never see one another again, more than likely. These men, like all the others he'd worked with over the years, were temporary companions, nothing more.
    Nick was the last called in.
    Davis Andresson had left nearly a quarter hour earlier, pausing only to tell Nick that Shag had said there'd be a spot for him at the Circle T come spring if he wanted it.
    The door opened now and Henry, the second-to-last to be called, emerged,