Free Never Love a Lawman by Jo Goodman

reluctance to get out of bed. On any other morning, it would have been because the floor was cold, but today it was the thought of going through her routine knowing as an absolute truth that Clinton Maddox was dead.
    Did her mother know? she wondered. Rachel couldn’t imagine that she didn’t. There wasn’t much that Edith Bailey didn’t know about the Maddox family. It was because she had that breadth of knowledge that she sanctioned, even encouraged, Rachel’s departure. This morning Rachel felt the separation from her mother even more acutely than she usually did.
    She found her thoughts drifting to her sister, Sarah. Sarah and her husband, John, had been every bit as adamant as Edith that Rachel should leave. Rachel could hardly blame them for their firmness on the matter. They had their twins to consider, and Sarah hoped to have another child someday. There would never be peace if Rachel stayed.
    But it was also a fact that her mother and sister had each other to turn to. She was the one on her own. She didn’t doubt they missed her with an ache that left a lasting impression on their hearts, because she felt it in the very same way. Yet it didn’t mean she could easily put aside the envy she experienced, knowing they were still a family and she was gone to them.
    It hardly mattered that leaving had been the right decision. She was safe. And to the best of her knowledge, so were they. As long as they never traded a single card, letter, package, or telegram, it would remain that way.
    Rachel realized she had to turn away from that thinking if she was ever going to get out of bed. Her head was beginning to pound and knowing she was facing a cold floor didn’t help, either. What did give her the impetus to throw back the covers and jump to her feet was the sound of wood being split in her own backyard.
    Ignoring her slippers, Rachel yanked her robe over her shoulders on her way to the window. She threw back the curtains and stared through the murky blue-gray light at the two figures standing in front of her woodshed. One of them cast a shadowed profile exactly like Wyatt Cooper’s and was raising a maul over his shoulder, while the other one wore his coat collar turned up to protect his jug ears just like Ned Beaumont and was sitting on a short stack of wood with his feet resting comfortably on a stump.
    Rachel opened her mouth to yell at them, then thought better of it. “It would serve him right if he amputated something,” she muttered. She didn’t weigh much, but she managed to make every pound of her thunder on the way to the back door. Grinding her teeth, she stuffed her feet into a pair of work boots, then flung the door open and continued her punishing march to the woodshed, bootlaces dragging.
    Ned Beaumont sat up straighter, but Wyatt Cooper didn’t miss a beat. He brought the maul down in a graceful arc on the log and split it cleanly in two. Satisfied, he threw them one at a time at Ned, who stood to catch them, turned to set them neatly on the stack, and then sat right back down again.
    Wyatt hefted the maul so the handle rested on his shoulder and turned to Rachel. He looked her over and liked what he saw. “It’s easy to see why Adele’s been pining for some of that Belgian lace.”

Chapter Three
    Rachel heard herself actually stutter and realized her brain was doing the same thing as her sewing machine: slipping a gear. Her tongue tripped over itself as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said to her.
    “What in—? Did you just—? Belgian lace?” She followed the direction of his gaze to look down at herself. Her robe, which she’d no time to close securely, was gaping open, and the delicate ecru lace border of her nightgown’s neckline was what had provoked his comment. She was hardly immodestly covered, but Rachel closed her robe and belted it anyway. Wyatt, she noted, had already turned his attention to her face. It was Ned sitting a few feet back that was having a difficult