looked impressed, but Will knew that money like that didn’t mean much to her. He figured the furniture and gewgaws in this dining room alone cost over ten thousand dollars, what with the silver monster sitting in the middle of the table and the heaps of silver knives, forks and spoons that glinted everywhere like the Comstock lode.
“What did you do with the money?”
“Nothin’...yet.”
This news caused her more astonishment than anything. “I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said ruefully. “Some beat-up, dusty cowboy would piss away his windfall on whores and rotgut inside of a few months.”
“No!” she said immediately, then added, a little shamefaced, “Well, possibly.”
“Jake told me, just before he died, that I was different from a lot of the cattle-punchers.” He shrugged. “Maybe I am. Haven’t quite figured it out yet.”
“I’m glad you haven’t spent the money,” Lady Xavier said, her voice quiet but warm. She looked at him, open admiration in her face. “I’m very glad, indeed. Now, let’s finish our dinner before Cook gets insulted and threatens to quit again. You must be very hungry.”
More than you know , Will thought.
She had never seen her home with someone else’s eyes. As she and Will Coffin moved through the rooms and halls where she had lived for the past eleven years, the configuration, size, shape, and even smell became foreign to her, so that as she entered a different chamber in the house, she could anticipate what he would feel, sense his reaction even before he spoke.
It was curiously intimate, and also unsettling. Not unlike finding a stray animal in the woods and having it follow you home warily, nosing under the furniture and disrupting order and stability with its undomesticated energy.
That was Will Coffin, padding cautiously into the apartments of her house and taking everything in with a feral, perceptive gaze. When they had settled back in the drawing room, she felt strangely awkward. From an early age, she had been trained in the proper forms of what a hostess should do with her guests, but all that seemed like empty, ridiculous ceremony now. Why on earth would Will Coffin, a rough, orphaned man of the Colorado Rockies, want to drink sherry and play euchre? It seemed frivolous, a means to waste time, and from the sound of things, time was short for men like him.
Lately, her own life had been so exhausting, so enervating. Running Greywell’s had always taken her time and energy, and now George Pryce was making things incredibly difficult. It was a lot for one woman to shoulder by herself, almost overwhelming. But having Will Coffin in her home helped all this fade to the back of her mind, if only for a little while.
“Whiskey?” she asked, standing by the decanter.
“Yes, ma’am.” He hunkered down by the fire and stirred the smoldering logs with the poker, his gestures practiced and experienced. He was so focused on his task that she actually caught him off guard when she came to stand next to him, bearing two glasses of single-malt scotch.
“You joinin’ me?” He straightened to his impressive height.
“My late husband used to drink this after dinner, but it was only after his death that I thought to give it a try. It’s not a drink for ladies, but I like it.”
He took a glass from her and winked. “I promise not to tell.”
No one had flirted with her in so long. And certainly not in such a bold fashion. What an incredible feeling, as though she were ten, fifteen years younger.
“To new friends.” She held up her glass for a toast.
He seemed to like the sound of that. “Here’s how,” he said, and their glasses made a chiming sound in the normally still room. She felt it like a ringing bell in her own heart.
“You never answered my question, Mr. Coffin,” she said after taking a sip of whiskey. It slid down her throat and pooled warmly in her
“What did you do with the money?”
“Nothin’...yet.”
This news caused her more astonishment than anything. “I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said ruefully. “Some beat-up, dusty cowboy would piss away his windfall on whores and rotgut inside of a few months.”
“No!” she said immediately, then added, a little shamefaced, “Well, possibly.”
“Jake told me, just before he died, that I was different from a lot of the cattle-punchers.” He shrugged. “Maybe I am. Haven’t quite figured it out yet.”
“I’m glad you haven’t spent the money,” Lady Xavier said, her voice quiet but warm. She looked at him, open admiration in her face. “I’m very glad, indeed. Now, let’s finish our dinner before Cook gets insulted and threatens to quit again. You must be very hungry.”
More than you know , Will thought.
She had never seen her home with someone else’s eyes. As she and Will Coffin moved through the rooms and halls where she had lived for the past eleven years, the configuration, size, shape, and even smell became foreign to her, so that as she entered a different chamber in the house, she could anticipate what he would feel, sense his reaction even before he spoke.
It was curiously intimate, and also unsettling. Not unlike finding a stray animal in the woods and having it follow you home warily, nosing under the furniture and disrupting order and stability with its undomesticated energy.
That was Will Coffin, padding cautiously into the apartments of her house and taking everything in with a feral, perceptive gaze. When they had settled back in the drawing room, she felt strangely awkward. From an early age, she had been trained in the proper forms of what a hostess should do with her guests, but all that seemed like empty, ridiculous ceremony now. Why on earth would Will Coffin, a rough, orphaned man of the Colorado Rockies, want to drink sherry and play euchre? It seemed frivolous, a means to waste time, and from the sound of things, time was short for men like him.
Lately, her own life had been so exhausting, so enervating. Running Greywell’s had always taken her time and energy, and now George Pryce was making things incredibly difficult. It was a lot for one woman to shoulder by herself, almost overwhelming. But having Will Coffin in her home helped all this fade to the back of her mind, if only for a little while.
“Whiskey?” she asked, standing by the decanter.
“Yes, ma’am.” He hunkered down by the fire and stirred the smoldering logs with the poker, his gestures practiced and experienced. He was so focused on his task that she actually caught him off guard when she came to stand next to him, bearing two glasses of single-malt scotch.
“You joinin’ me?” He straightened to his impressive height.
“My late husband used to drink this after dinner, but it was only after his death that I thought to give it a try. It’s not a drink for ladies, but I like it.”
He took a glass from her and winked. “I promise not to tell.”
No one had flirted with her in so long. And certainly not in such a bold fashion. What an incredible feeling, as though she were ten, fifteen years younger.
“To new friends.” She held up her glass for a toast.
He seemed to like the sound of that. “Here’s how,” he said, and their glasses made a chiming sound in the normally still room. She felt it like a ringing bell in her own heart.
“You never answered my question, Mr. Coffin,” she said after taking a sip of whiskey. It slid down her throat and pooled warmly in her
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