Outside, the sheriff had already roped two of the drunken cowhands and jerked them to the ground. He had his knee in the back of one and the other trussed tighter than a turkey. If there had been more, they were long gone. Peter had no intention of becoming involved if there was no further danger. He checked the rest of the street, and seeing nothing he could do, he holstered his pistol and headed back to the kitchen.
Janice had already emerged from under the table and was opening the closet for her broom and dustpan. She glanced over her shoulder as he entered. "Sheriff Powell take care of them?"
He noticed she kept the distance of the table between them as he returned to the room. It was unnatural for a beautiful woman like her to be so wary of men. Peter had enough experience in the ways of women to know that much. He didn't have enough experience to know what to do about it.
"He's hauling them off as we speak. You can't be safe out here alone with renegades like that running loose." He was eager for the stew cooling on the kitchen table, but he was more eager for the woman bending over the shards of glass in the other room. He followed just to keep an eye on her.
"I stay out of the front room on Saturday nights," she responded absently, sweeping the glass into the pan. "Mostly, they leave me alone. I suppose Bobby Fairweather had a little too much to drink and got into it with his wife again. Whenever Ellen complains about his drinking, he blames it on me."
By now, Peter had heard enough of the town gossip to know about Bobby and his exceedingly pregnant wife. He took the dustpan from her hand and carried it off to the trash. He heard Janice washing her hands in the basin, but instead of being afraid for her, he was remembering what it had felt like having her under him for those few brief minutes. He needed a woman real soon, but he had a feeling that town gossip would tell this woman the instant he frequented one of the whores. Not that he had any money for whores.
He didn't tell her that he had decided the sheriff would have a full jail and wouldn't miss him if he stayed here for the night. He let her sit back down at the table as if everything was normal between them. But it wasn't. She flinched every time he looked directly at her. She nearly dropped a bowl when they both reached for it at the same time and their hands touched. She kept sending him surreptitious glances when she thought he wasn't looking. By the end of the meal, her hands were shaking ever so slightly as she removed the dishes from the table.
He didn't want to crowd her. Obviously, she didn't usually have men around the house. He didn't know how to let her know he was harmless. He wasn't completely certain he was harmless. He wanted her enough to ache.
The sheriff pounded on the front door while they were putting the dishes away. Drying her hands on a towel Janice hurried to answer it.
"Sheriff, come in. You took care of those rowdies real well. I do believe Mr. Mulloney thought we were under attack." She stood back to let him in.
He remained in the doorway. "Jason would have my head if anything happened to you, Miz Harrison. Just checking to see you're all right. I'll have someone out to fix the window in the morning."
He glanced up at Peter, leaning against the kitchen door frame, and nodded an acknowledgment. "You might be better off camping out tonight Mulloney. The jail's kind of crowded."
Mulloney nodded. "I was figuring that. Any objection if I pitch camp outside Miss Harrison's here? It doesn't seem safe for her out here all alone."
The sheriff frowned. "She's been safe all these years. Reckon she's safe now. Harding won't like it if you go messing with the schoolteacher."
Janice frowned as this conversation took place over her head. "I'll have you remember I'm standing right here, gentlemen. I'm a grown woman, and if I want Mr. Mulloney to camp in my yard, I'll tell him so. And if 1 don't want him there, I believe I'm capable of telling him that also. Now, Sheriff, go on back to your duties. I'm just fine."
She threw a glance over her shoulder to Peter Mulloney and tried not to shiver at what she was certain was a predatory gleam in his eye. "And, Mr. Mulloney, you can put your bedroll out in the lean-to if you want. It looked like rain earlier."
Both men exchanged glances over her head, and Janice uttered a muffled oath. It was like having two adolescent boys sizing each other up before a brawl. Firmly she moved the door to shut the sheriff out. "Good night, Mr. Powell. I'll see you in the morning."
With the thickness of the door between the two men, Janice turned and glared at her guest. "You may leave now, Mr. Mulloney. Dinner is over."
He straightened but made no effort to leave. Stretched to his full height, he towered over her by a head. Janice didn't get any closer.
"Is Harding always so protective of his schoolteachers that he has the sheriff keep an eye on them? Or is it just you who raises his better instincts?"
She didn't like what he seemed to be insinuating, but she didn't intend to give him the pleasure of a reply either. She pointed at the back door. "Good night, Mr. Mulloney."
He gave her an enigmatic look as he turned around and walked out.
Janice didn't sleep any better that night knowing he was out there. Not even a hint of breeze stirred the sticky, humid air while she lay stiff and uncomfortable in her long gown and her narrow bed. The lean-to was quite a few yards away from the house, but she imagined Mulloney sitting outside of it, smoking a cheroot, watching her windows. She didn't know why she imagined him doing such an idiotic thing, but she couldn't keep the image out of her head.
When the first heavy drops of rain hit the tin roof overhead, she felt a pang of guilt. The lean-to leaked. She should have urged him to find better shelter.
She didn't feel relieved when the rain started to pour, and she heard the sound of boots on the back porch. She didn't need to check out her window to know Mulloney had decided the porch was drier. She could hear him moving the tin tub and mop while seeking a dry corner. She ought to offer her kitchen, but she was damned if she would. She had guarded her reputation zealously these last years. Not even Peter Mulloney would slip under her defenses.
By morning, she feared her defenses weren't as strong as she thought. All night she had listened to him stirring restlessly outside her window. She didn't think she'd had a wink of sleep. She couldn't say she felt guilt at leaving Peter Mulloney sleeping on the porch in the pouring rain After living in Mulloney tenant houses with snow drifting in the windows and mold growing up the walls, she felt no guilt at all. She just knew her nightgown felt too warm and she didn't dare take it off.
She stayed far away from her bedroom window as she dressed. She could hear him take the bucket out to the pump, heard him as he splashed in the cold water. She ought to give him some warm water from the stove, but she didn't want him to know she knew what he was doing. It seemed so intimate somehow, knowing he stood on her porch, probably half naked and shaving. She would prefer to remain in ignorance.
She was dressed and at the stove when he came in carrying a load of kindling. She managed a "Good morning" while not looking at him, but she couldn't help noticing him when he brushed her skirts to get to the kindling box. She caught a glimpse of the way his dark shirt strained over his shoulders when he bent over the box, and she hastily looked away.
"Will hotcakes be all right this morning?" she asked—foolishly, because she already had them cooking.
"I'd just about get down on the floor and beg for hotcakes. Is there anything I can do to help?"
She was having a hard time getting used to someone underfoot in her kitchen besides Betsy. She had her own routine, her own procedures that kept everything moving smoothly. She had difficulty slicing off part of that routine and handing it to someone else. But she'd rather keep Mulloney on his toes than sitting at the table watching her.
"Get the dishes down and set the table. And there' syrup in the pantry. These will be ready in a minute."
She thought it might be a trifle unusual for a man to help with these chores. Even after her mother died, her father had seldom trespassed in the kitchen. Janice had always had that one room at her command. She couldn't think of any of the men she knew actually setting a table. She watched from the corner of her eye as Mulloney laid out plates and silverware. He didn't seem certain where to put each utensil, but he did seem to recognize that they had certain places. She held a smile as he lined all of them up on one side and hid them with a napkin.
"Is there any place around here that takes in laundry? I'm down to my last clean shirt." He threw this over his shoulder as he looked in the pantry for syrup.
Janice waited until he was back in the kitchen before answering. "Molly Magee does laundry, but she comes high. I'll be doing my wash tomorrow. Why don't you leave your things on the porch and I'll get them when I do mine?"
He took the heavy skillet from her hand. When confronted directly, she could only stare at the buttons on his shirt. He hadn't fastened the top one. 5he could see a patch of sun-darkened skin and the edge of a dark curl. She shivered and stepped hastily back.
"I can't let you do that without paying for your services. I don't imagine the sheriff will go so far as to pay for a prisoner's laundry."
He carried the empty skillet to the sink, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the distance between them widened. "You can help me haul water and empty the tubs." She almost said that she wasn't used to doing that without Betsy's help, but something made her hold her tongue. She wasn't ready to explain about Betsy yet. "That's the hardest part."
Mulloney pulled out a chair for her. "That sounds fair, but I'm not sure a maiden lady ought to be doing for a man. It's not just shirts that need washing."
She colored. She actually grew red. She hadn't been embarrassed since she was fifteen years old. This was ridiculous. Firmly setting her missish emotions in check, she reached for the stack of hotcakes. "Don't be foolish, Mr. Mulloney. I've washed my younger brother's clothes for years. There might be women out there silly enough to sort a woman's underthings from the men's so they don't mingle in the water, but I haven't time for that nonsense. Whatever needs washing, put on the porch."
He sat across from her and helped himself to a generous stack of the hotcakes. "I didn't know you had a brother. Where is he now?"
She couldn't say "Cutlerville, Ohio." Then he'd know she knew who he was. She sliced a neat wedge in the steaming stack of hotcakes. "He's back East learning to be a newspaperman."
"Any other brothers and sisters?"
He was bound to hear about Betsy sooner or later. Janice shrugged. "Two sisters. One is staying with friends this summer. The other is going to be married shortly."
He looked around with curiosity. "They live here?"
She was growing annoyed with this line of questioning. "Betsy does. How about you, Mr. Mulloney? Any brothers and sisters?"
Peter chewed his hotcakes slowly, hesitating over his answer. He was inordinately relieved to know that the schoolteacher was staying here alone for the moment. He'd heard something of the sort back in town, but he'd wanted to verify it for himself. She was looking at him now as if he were a particularly repulsive specimen of cockroach, but he didn't think she found him unattractive. He'd apparently just grazed too close to a subject she didn't want to talk about. She'd evened the score by asking about his family.
"I come from a family of four boys," he replied evasively. The fact that he'd grown up with only two of his three brothers didn't have to be mentioned.
"That should have made your father a proud man."
Was that a note of sarcasm he heard? Peter shot her a sharp look, but she was serenely cutting her pancakes into tatters. He had the feeling this woman didn't particularly like men. "My mother would have liked it better if there'd been a few girls."
She smiled faintly at that, whether recognizing it as the riposte it was or not, he couldn't tell. He was having difficulty balancing the sharpness of her wit against his lust for her body. He was used to separating the two. The women who usually decorated his bed didn't have much more going for them than big breasts and long legs.
He wasn't inclined to talk to women who considered themselves his equal, but when he did, he generally didn't consider them as candidates for his bed. He couldn't say he was attracted to the schoolteacher's rather sour outlook on life, but her attitude did add a little spice to the contest. He really needed to find some way to get between her sheets soon. He could scarcely keep his eyes away from the slight V formed by her unbuttoned collar.
They both managed to survive breakfast without revealing more of themselves than necessary. Peter thought their relationship might be like two caged dogs sniffing around each other and waiting for the other to make the first move. He wasn't certain how dogs decided whether to fight or hump, but he definitely hoped to make it the latter.
A little while later Peter was disconcerted to discover that he was expected to attend church services since all of his workmen had abandoned him for the Sabbath. He hadn't seen the inside of a church since he'd left home, and these weren't exactly the kind of churches he attended. When the schoolteacher offered to take him to her church, he almost declined in favor of working on the school by himself. Instead, seeing her all fancied up in hat and gloves, he warily agreed and went to fetch his wrinkled coat and cravat.