Clint didn’t push Handy. After his meeting at the Tin Pot, if it yielded nothing, maybe he’d go back and try applying some pressure. Handy didn’t like his cousin, the sheriff, but he was also careful. Another man who was from a bygone time.
He decided to go to Hannah’s to kill the time until the meeting. When he entered, only one table was taken, and Hannah was waiting on the man herself. Ben was nowhere to be seen.
“Mr. Adams,” she said, facing him with a coffeepot in her hand. “Just the man I want to see.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Coffee while we talk?”
“If it comes with a piece of pie.”
“Peach?”
“Of course.”
“Have a seat.”
She went into the kitchen, came out with a slice of peach pie and a fresh pot of coffee. There was already a cup on Clint’s table. She filled it, put the pie in front of him, then sat across from him. It was his first good look at her face. She was a pretty woman, but did nothing to enhance it. She was a hard worker, probably concerned only with paying her bills and raising her son. Beneath her apron was a womanly, almost matronly figure. Nothing unattractive about that, at all.
She stared at him with frank and very brown eyes.
“What have you got my son into?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “He’s so excited to be helpin’ the famous Gunsmith. So what have you got him into?”
“Nothing much,” Clint said. “He’s asking some questions for me.”
“The kind of questions that will get him hurt?”
“I doubt it.”
“The kind of questions that will keep him from his job here?”
“He said no.”
“I see.”
Clint looked around.
“Doesn’t look busy. Maybe he’ll be back for the rush.”
“The rush is over, and he was here,” she said.
“Then there’s no problem, is there?”
“Maybe not,” she said. “Maybe that remains to be seen.”
She looked over at her other customer, who seemed to be finishing up.
“Let me take care of this customer,” she said. “Enjoy your pie.”
“I will.”
She stood up, walked to the other table, and settled up with the gentleman, who seemed very satisfied with his meal.
“Everybody seems to leave here happy,” Clint said when she came back.
“Is that so?”
“Seems to be the case.”
“What about you?”
“I leave happy every time.”
She stared at him, a new look in her eyes. She was appraising him, measuring him.
“You know,” she said, rubbing her palms along her hips, “I work very hard.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I have a lot of stress.”
“You’re running a business,” he said. “Comes with the territory.”
“I don’t get very many opportunities to . . . relax.”
“Does Ben live with you?”
“He does, and it’s a small house.”
“What about here?”
“He’s usually here all the time,” she said, “but tonight he’s not.”
She reached behind her to untie the apron and let it fall to the ground. The dress she wore beneath it was cheap, the material thin, and it clung to her, showing off her hips and breasts. She wasn’t making any secret what she had on her mind.
“What do you say, Mr. Adams?” she asked. “Want to help me relax? No obligations afterward?”
“I think we better lock the door.”
“I think so, too.”
She walked to the door, closed it, locked it, and pulled the shade. Then she pulled the shades down over the other windows. She turned to face him and shrugged off her dress. He stood up, staring at her. Her breasts were pendulous, with large brown nipples and aureoles. Her hips were wide, thighs almost chunky. She was not built to be a saloon girl in a gown, but her body was perfect to be naked in a man’s bed.