Mary McBride - The Marriage Knot

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Well, at least he knew and treasured the blasted animal. Ezra hardly ever said two words to Delaney that I know of.”

“The sheriff earned his gratitude for saving his life, I guess.” The older man tucked his napkin under his plate and then pushed his chair back from the table. “I can’t explain it to you, Hannah. I only know what Ezra said in his will.”

She’d known Abel Fairfax long enough to know when the man would not be pressed. Right now his mouth was drawn tighter than fence wire, so Hannah kept silent. She wasn’t finished, though. She’d have her explanation. Somehow.

In the week that followed, Hannah didn’t leave the house. Not once. She sent Nancy, the hired girl, to the grocery store instead of going herself, and she asked Florence Green to return her book to the library and to choose a new one for her. It didn’t matter what. Hannah couldn’t concentrate enough to read anyway.

Her disbelief at Ezra’s will turned first to dismay, and Hannah found herself wandering from room to room in the house she had shared with Ezra for nearly a decade. It was so easy to picture him in his favorite reading chair in the back parlor, or coming through the front door and tossing his hat onto one of the porcelain hooks on the hall tree, or climbing the stairs with his big hand curved around the polished walnut bannister.

She missed him. Dear Lord in heaven, she missed him so very much.

But then her dismay seemed to settle into a profound, piercing anger. And there was, Hannah readily admitted, more than a little self pity, too. How could there not be? How could Ezra have done this to her? How could he have left this house—truly the only home she’d ever known—to somebody else? To Delaney!

And just where was Delaney, anyway? She hadn’t seen him since the afternoon Abel had read the dratted will. In the beginning, for a while, she’d entertained the faint hope that the sheriff would knock on the front door, smiling, hat in hand, when he told her it was obvious, just plain as day, that Ezra hadn’t been thinking straight and that she shouldn’t worry for one second about his taking property that was rightfully hers.

It hadn’t happened, though. A week had passed and there had been no word from the man. Not a peep. In this case, Hannah didn’t believe for a minute that no news was good news. More than likely, he was probably just waiting for her to do or say something, to make the first generous gesture so he wouldn’t appear to be such a greedy, grabby beast. That was obviously his plan. Let Hannah Dancer make the first move. As in move out all her worldly goods.

Ha!

Let him wait. Hell would freeze over first.

To say that Delaney spent that week not thinking about the Dancer house wouldn’t have been exactly true. He tried not to think about it. Every time the notion cropped up in his brain, he did his damnedest to ignore it. The trouble was that it cropped up so often that trying to ignore it was actually thinking about it.

After he’d considered every angle of the absurdity of the bequest, he got to thinking about what a stroke of good fortune it was. Pure luck. Pure dumb luck. But things like that happened. He knew they did. Why not to him?

Just a few years ago in Abilene a cowhand had been nearly killed in a saloon brawl, then was nursed back to health and happiness by a whore named Ruby Tree. It turned out that he was some rich English duke or earl or something, and—for her nursing skills—Ruby Tree was now the Duchess of Something on Trent.

Things like that happened. Delaney had saved Ezra Dancer’s life. That was a fact. Why shouldn’t he inherit his house?

So, after not thinking about it all week, Delaney found himself knocking on Abel Fairfax’s door late one afternoon, determined to resolve this inheritance one way or another.

“I figured I’d be seeing you sometime soon,” Abel said, gesturing to a chair littered with papers. “Sit down, Delaney. What’s on your mind?”

The sheriff sat, his shotgun balanced across his knees. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think you have to be a confounded lawyer or even a genius to figure out what’s on my mind, Abel.”

“No. I suppose not.”

“What the devil was Dancer thinking?”

Abel shrugged. “Who knows? It’s not like he didn’t provide for Hannah, you know. The contents of that house are worth plenty.”

“Yeah, but...”

“Plus there’s cash,” Abel added.

“I know that, but...”

“What, then? You feel like you’re stealing from the widows’ and orphans’ fund or something?”

“Maybe.” Delaney shifted in the chair. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Turn it down, then.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”

“And?”

“I’m still considering it,” Delaney said. “I just thought you might have some advice.”

“Talk to Hannah.”

The sheriff blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if your conscience is bothering you so much over this, then talk to Hannah and see if you can’t resolve it somehow between the two of you.”

The suggestion, logical as it was, took Delaney completely by surprise. He’d spent so many months avoiding Ezra Dancer’s wife that the thought of seeking her out now—intentionally!—for conversation struck him as preposterous. And what the hell would he say to her anyway that wouldn’t make him sound even more foolish than he felt?

Sorry about your house, ma’Vam. But a will’s a will, you know. Legal and all that. Plus, a man would have to be a total fool, a stumbling idiot in fact, to turn his back on such good fortune.

“Talk to her,” Abel said again.

“All right.” Delaney stood up. “I’ll do that. I’ll do just that. Thanks, Abel.”

Someone was knocking on the front door with such force and persistence Hannah was sure the wood was splintering beneath that big fist.

Where the devil was Nancy? she wondered. That dratted girl was never where she was supposed to be. After another series of thunderous bangs, she put her teacup down and went to the door herself. She muttered a curse as she jerked it open.

“Oh.”

Delaney was so tall that she found herself staring into the knot of his black silk tie. Her eyes flashed up to his face.

“Sheriff Delaney.”

“Mrs. Dancer.” He nudged his hat back, then took it off entirely. “We need to talk.”

Hannah wasn’t sure she could. Her heart was pressing up into her throat the way it always did whenever she was within several feet of this man. She felt her face going up in flames.

“Come in.”

Hannah stepped back, and then retreated some more as Delaney crossed the threshold. He stood there a moment, silent, his gaze encompassing the vestibule, and then, with a quick and fluid flick of his arm, he lobbed his black hat onto a porcelain hook on the hall tree.

Hannah stifled a little gasp. The gesture reminded her so much of Ezra. It was so... so... proprietary. No! Not proprietary, she corrected herself. It was presumptive. It was rude and arrogant. This wasn’t his home, after all.

Not yet.

Not ever!

“I was just having tea in the back parlor, Sheriff.” Hannah turned on her heel, abruptly walking away from him. If he wanted to converse, he could damn well follow her. If not, he could damn well leave.

With her stiff skirts swishing down the hallway, she couldn’t hear his footsteps behind her, but when she sat and rather imperiously picked up her cup of tea, Delaney was right there. Close by.

“Have a seat, Sheriff.” Hannah gestured rather grandly to a chair. She was, after all, the duchess of this domain, and she intended to remain so. “Would you care for some tea?”

He sat, said nothing. As before in the vestibule, his gaze slowly encompassed the room, and then it settled, frankly, perhaps even boldly, on Hannah.