Read Online The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller - Free Book Online Page B

smaller somehow, with him in it, and warmer.
    Much warmer.
    Owen perched on the piano stool. “May I spin?” he asked.
    Wyatt chuckled.
    â€œSpin all you want,” Sarah said, smiling a wobbly smile.
    Owen moved the stool a few more inches from the piano, sat, gripped it with both hands, and used one foot to propel himself into blurry revolutions.
    Sarah felt dizzy and had to look away, but her gaze went straight to Wyatt Yarbro, and that made her even dizzier. He’d shaved, and his cologne had a woodsy scent. His white shirt was open at the throat, and it was not only pressed, but starched, too.
    Wyatt glanced curiously around the well-appointed, seldom-used room. “Where’s Mr. Langstreet?” he asked.
    â€œHe’s been delayed,” Sarah said.
    Owen used his foot to stop the piano stool. He looked happily flushed, more like the little boy he was than the miniature man who blithely referred to himself as a “bastard.” “He got a telegram,” Owen said importantly.
    â€œImagine that,” Wyatt said, though not unkindly.
    â€œIn Philadelphia, we have a telephone,” Owen added.
    â€œDon’t hold with telephones myself,” Wyatt replied, mischief sparking in his dark eyes. “I figure if folks have something to say to each other, they ought to write it in a letter or meet up, face-to-face.”
    â€œPapa says someday everybody will have a telephone.”
    â€œDoes he, now?” Wyatt asked easily.
    As though to speak of the devil was to conjure him, Charles chose that moment to ring the doorbell. Sarah excused herself to answer, and Wyatt stood when she rose from her chair.
    He might have been an outlaw, but someone had taught him manners.
    Sarah was a little flushed when she opened the front door to Charles.
    â€œGood evening, Sarah,” he said, stepping past her when she hesitated to move out of the way. “I apologize for being late. Business. One can never escape it.”
    Doc Venable descended the front stairs, rolling down his shirtsleeves. His hands and forearms still glistened with moisture from the sink upstairs, where he must have washed up for supper.
    Sarah made introductions all around, out of deference to the doctor. Wyatt and Charles had already met; Wyatt’s expression thoughtful, Charles’s elegantly aloof.
    Charles looked down on Wyatt, Sarah realized, as a ruffian, and she felt a swift sting of fury. Her cheeks throbbed with it.
    Supper seemed interminable. Sarah was afraid, every moment, that her father would appear, oddly dressed and confounded.
    â€œI thought you said you couldn’t cook,” Wyatt teased, helping himself to another piece of fried chicken and then adding gravy to his mashed potatoes. “Tastes fine to me.”
    â€œThank you,” Sarah said, inordinately pleased and not a little embarrassed. By some miracle, she’d managed not to burn the chicken, and the mashed potatoes were thicker than the gravy, as they were supposed to be.
    Charles maintained a chilly silence; he clearly resented Wyatt’s presence, tossing a disdainful glance his way every now and then. Finally, he took a sip from his water goblet and condescended to remark, “Very nice.”
    â€œIs Aunt Sarah your sister, Papa?” Owen asked.
    â€œEat your supper,” Charles told him.
    â€œIs she?”
    â€œNo,” Charles snapped.
    â€œThen she must be Mother’s sister. They don’t look anything alike.”
    Sarah stiffened in her chair. Wyatt saw the motion, and stared diplomatically down at his plate.
    â€œIn Sarah’s case,” Charles said, plainly irritated and red at the jawline, “the title of ‘aunt’ is honorary. She’s—a family friend.”
    â€œOh,” Owen said, looking dejected. He laid his fork down. He’d been sawing away at a drumstick for the last twenty minutes; Sarah had wanted to tell him it was all right to eat chicken with his