LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      Her heart quickened. Those eyes—Delaney’s eyes—were the most stunning shade of hazel she’d ever seen. An amazing blend of gold and brown and green. Like sunlight dappling elm trees in October. Like autumn itself. The essence of the season. Quite, quite beautiful.

      She had to clear her throat before she was able to speak.

      “Would you care for a cup of tea, Delaney? Or perhaps you’d prefer coffee? Lemonade?”

      She sounded less like a duchess now than a dizzy dolt of a girl, Hannah thought. This wasn’t like her at all.

      Then, when the sheriff replied, “No, thanks”, for a second Hannah wasn’t quite sure what it was that he was so politely declining. This was no time to get bumble-brained, for heaven’s sake. If there was ever an occasion when she needed to keep her wits—every blasted one of them—about her, it was now.

      She remembered then it was tea or coffee or lemonade that Delaney didn’t want. Fine. Just what, then, did he want?

      He leaned forward a little then, his elbows on his knees and a serious, quite sober expression on his face while a keen light played in his lovely, autumn-colored eyes.

      “About the house, Mrs. Dancer...”

      The house! Hannah stood—snapped to her feet, actually—and at the same time slapped her teacup onto its saucer so hard that the little plate broke in two. The halves landed at Delaney’s feet just as he was rising. He had barely stood straight before she lit into him.

      “The house! It’s mine, Mr. Delaney. And I’ll thank you to get out of it. Now.”

      “If you’ll just listen...”

      “No. I won’t listen. Get out.”

      “But...”

      “Get. Out.”

      He might as well have been trying to have a conversation with a hornet, Delaney thought. Hannah Dancer was stinging mad and too busy buzzing to listen to a word he had to say. How the hell was he supposed to resolve this business if she wouldn’t talk to him? But rather than shout her down, which he felt sorely tempted to do, he decided to take her advice and get out.

      “I’ll be back,” he said.

      Her reply was a very undignified snort, which Delaney took to mean that he’d be even less welcome then than he was right now.

      In his house, goddammit.

      

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