Page 11 of In Her Sights

He twisted toward her and urged her face around with a crooked finger beneath her chin. "Guess you'll just have to make it up to me by letting me take you for ice cream after work tomorrow. Spoil your dinner in exchange for spoiling my favorite shirt."

"Deal." The mist in her eyes turned to a twinkle as she wrapped his bandana around his arm and tied it off. "But I fully intend to repair your shirt. A man shouldn't be deprived of his favorite shirt when his lady has the skill to restore it."

His lady. Jackson liked the sound of that. A lot.

Tessa spun away again. "Let me just collect my things." She strode for the schoolhouse, but her steps faltered when she reached the spot where her pistol lay in the dirt. She started to bend, then straightened, clearly unsettled by the prospect of retrieving the little gun.

"I'll take care of that," Jackson offered. "You tend to your . . . scarecrow."

He glanced toward the flannel-clad target she'd taken shots at before he arrived, only now realizing the shirt matched the one he wore. Same fabric, same style, except for an odd, heart-shaped pocket on the left side. Before he could get a better look, she dodged between him and the schoolhouse and fluttered around as if trying to hide something from him.

He raised a brow. "Is that supposed to be me?"

"Don't be silly." She waved without turning around, her voice pitched higher than it had been a moment ago as her hands tugged furiously at the scarecrow's shirt.

Jackson chuckled. It was supposed to be him. "I didn't realize I'd frustrated you to the point where you felt the need to use me as target practice."

She finally managed to tear the shirt free of the frame and wadded it close to her belly before spinning around to face him. "That wasn't it at all. I wasn't angry with you or frustrated. I was . . ." He hadn't thought it possible for her cheeks to redden further, but they did. "I was aiming for your heart."

Jackson stared at the woman before him. One whose beauty and spunk could earn her any man she wanted. Why she wanted him, he'd never understand, but it seemed she was a better marksman than she gave herself credit for.

A yearning ache pierced his chest as he met her gaze. "I think you might have hit your target."

The next two weeks were the happiest of Tessa's life. She'd spoiled her supper more than once, visiting the ice cream parlor with Jackson. He'd escorted her to church, they'd taken strolls around the courthouse square, and he'd even treated her to dinner one night at the Addison Hotel, where they'd enjoyed delicious venison steaks, likely taken from one of the deer Jackson had provided. Better than the outings themselves, however, were the conversations. They talked about everything. Their families. The difficulties they'd faced while growing up. The people who'd influenced them and shaped who they'd become.

She shared her dream of opening a dress shop, told him of the clothing she wanted to design, not for high society but for businesswomen and wives of reasonable means. Jackson sought her opinion on the notion he'd been considering of late, about trying to get into law enforcement. Use his guns for something other than hunting and possibly redeem his name in the process.

Tessa wasn't too fond of the idea of Jackson putting himself in harm's way, but she had to admit that he'd be well suited for such a position. He worried that having a felon for a father would disqualify him, but she'd heard tales of outlaws being hired as lawmen. Surely if actual felons could become lawmen, Jackson could hurdle any obstacles close-minded folks thought to place in his way.

Unfortunately, more than a few people fit that description. Including Mrs. Winslow, Tessa's boardinghouse proprietress. When the weather turned too cold for Tessa and Jackson to linger on the swing on the front porch of the boardinghouse, Tessa had invited Jackson inside for tea and cookies in the parlor. They'd forfeit their privacy, but they could postpone saying goodbye as the fire in the hearth thawed them from the early December chill.

Mrs. Winslow, however, had intercepted them in the hall before they could do more than unbutton their coats.

"I'm sorry, Miss James, but the parlor is closed to gentlemen callers tonight. You'll need to bid your guest good night."

The woman hadn't even had the decency to address Jackson by name or look him in the eye. Not ready to bid Jackson good night, and certainly not ready to let Hortense Winslow dictate her actions, Tessa had started rebuttoning her coat at once. But Jackson took one look at her red nose and shivering fingers and stopped her with a hand to her arm.

"That's all right, Tessa. I need to get back to my place anyway. Tomorrow's a huntin' morning, and I'll need to rise early." He'd doffed his hat toward the sour matron and offered a courteous smile. "Good evening to you, Mrs. Winslow."

He'd acted as if her rudeness hadn't bothered him at all as he turned to show himself out, but Tessa had caught the hint of embarrassment in his cheeks and the slight sag in his shoulders. It broke her heart and fired her indignation.

"You had no right to refuse him entrance," Tessa declared in a voice quiet enough not to carry into the next room yet adamant enough to convey her displeasure. "The parlor has never been closed to gentlemen callers before."

Mrs. Winslow drew herself up, her flinty blue eyes chillier than the early December wind. "This is my establishment, and I have the right to deny entrance to anyone I see fit. This house possesses an impeccable reputation for propriety, and I won't have it sullied by the likes of Jackson Spivey."

"Jackson's a good man, a church-going man. How could his presence in your parlor possibly damage your reputation?" The idea was ludicrous.

"He's kin to Sam Spivey, a man well-known for drunkenness, dishonor, and debauchery. That's damage enough right there."

Tessa no longer craved the heat of the parlor fire. Anger at the injustice of the situation heated her from the inside. "Jackson is his own man. It's not right to judge him on his father's misdeeds."

"Blood always tells." Mrs. Winslow sniffed, her disdain obvious. "You should heed my advice, Miss James, and separate yourself from that man before your own good name is tarnished. You're young, and your judgment is clouded by infatuation. Don't throw away your future on an ill-fated romance." Mrs. Winslow's face softened as she placed a hand on Tessa's arm. "You've told me of your professional aspirations, but you're too inexperienced to realize what consequences you will suffer if you continue down this path. You've the talent to be successful, but talent is not enough, my dear. If people doubt your character, they'll never give you their business. Perception is everything."

"I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Winslow, but I prefer to put my trust in truth, not perception." Tessa pulled off her coat, and in so doing removed the older woman's hand from her person. "Jackson is an honorable man, and I care about him very much." She folded her coat over her arm in sharp, staccato motions, then jutted her chin. "I will not turn my back on him simply because a handful of people can't see past his name."

Mrs. Winslow shook her head, the harsh lines returning to her face. "Suit yourself. You'll discover the truth soon enough."

"Yes, I will." As long as that truth included Jackson's love, she could handle the rest as it came. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll turn in. I'm suddenly quite tired." Tessa swept past her landlady, bypassed the parlor, and mounted the stairs that led to her room and the door that could shut out all of that woman's dreadful, unwanted advice.