Free A Season Beyond a Kiss by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss Page B

prowl for a mate, if not one long-termed, then surely for the night, but as far as Jeff knew, there had never been anything either now or in the past between Farrell and the women he employed. Throughout his years as a clothier, he had always drawn a line between his business affairs and his personal life. Over time he had courted nearly every young, winsome maiden in the area, much as Jeff had done, without making any lasting commitments.
    Elizabeth Dalton was from the business side of his life and undoubtedly, for that reason, hadn’t fallen into the same category as his light o’ loves. It certainly wasn’t because men found her unappealing. On the contrary, since the death of her husband, Emory Dalton, she had purportedly turned down as many marriage proposals as Farrell had employees, but then, such rumors could not be confirmed since Elizabeth was as mum about herself as she had been about her late spouse.
    In the very early stages of Elizabeth’s marriage, Emory Dalton had taken to gambling and, by the time their second anniversary rolled around, had managed to lose what little he had earned farming and breeding horses as well as everything that his wife had made sewing and had later received from the sizable inheritance her parents had left her upon their death. Emory started drinking along about the time he realized he was squandering their possessions. The more he indulged in strong drink, the meaner he became, eventually working into a habit of slapping his wife around when he became vexed with her or at his ill-fortune at cards.
    On several occasions during this period Jeff had shared a brandy or two with his clothier friend and had lent a sympathetic ear when Farrell had voiced his suspicions about Emory’s treatment of his wife. It was only after actually witnessing such an occurrence that Farrell had severed his friendship with the gambler, which had begun during his early boxing days. That division had come about shortly after the couturier had been summoned to a local tavern where Emory had been creating havoc. The gambler had lost heavily at cards and been so enraged by his circumstances that nothing had been safe within his reach. The barkeep had begged Farrell to take his friend home, and upon their arrival Emory had given the very pregnant Elizabeth the back of his hand with enough force to send her reeling halfway across the room. Enraged by the man’s brutality, Farrell had slammed a fist into Emory’s jaw, all but breaking it and, in the process, rendering him unconscious. The couturier had then carried Elizabeth upstairs to the bedroom she had shared with her husband. He had gently soothed her weeping and nursed her bruised jaw until she finally quieted beneath his tender care. Upon returning to the couple’s parlor, he had found Emory trying to shake off the fog in his head, but the man had become vulgar, accusing Farrell of coveting his wife. A whole string of slurs had followed until Farrell, highly incensed by the man’s insults, had warned his glowering friend that if he ever laid a hand to Elizabeth again in violence, it would be his last day on earth. Hardly a week later, a keen-eyed gambler accused Emory of cheating at cards and when Emory drew a small pistol from his coat, the man shot him through the head, killing him instantly.
    Jeff’s own gaze followed Raelynn as she wandered off to search the other tables for noteworthy fabrics, and he wondered if his own expression revealed the pleasure he derived from watching her. Lest he be caught ogling his own wife, he reminded the clothier, “You said it’s not your seamstresses who worry you, but a widow out to find herself a husband. Is it Elizabeth who vexes you?”
    “Good heavens no, man!” Farrell laughed at such an absurd notion. “She provides the only sanity in my life. I was speaking of a certain widowed milliner whose shop is right across the street. Ever since you sent her over here to buy clothes for Raelynn, she has