God, was he good looking. And that cowboy hat did things to her insides, the way he wore it low, shadowing his eyes in the glare of the afternoon sun. Still waters,she thought, taken by the way he sat with one finger under a page, so unmoving she wished she were a fly so she could land on his nose. What a nose. Long instead of pug like some she knew. Nice mouth, too. Ooo, would she like to get into that.

He leaned forward to write something and she ran her eyes all over him, down his tapered chest and slim hips to the cowboy boots beneath the table, back up to his crotch. He dropped his pencil and sat back, giving her a clearer profile shot of it.

Lula felt the old itch begin.

He sat there reading his book the way all the "brains" used to read in school while Lula thought about bettering herself. When she could stand it no longer she took Beethoven over and dropped it on the table across from him.

"This seat taken?" she drawled, inverting her wrists, leaning on the tabletop so that her breast buttons strained. His chin rose slowly. As the brim of the cowboy hat lifted, she got a load of deep brown eyes with lashes as long as spaghetti, and a mouth that old Lula had plenty of plans for.

"No, ma’am," he answered quietly. Without moving more than his head, he returned to his reading.

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Go ahead." His attention remained on the book.

"Watcha studyin’?"

"Bees."

"Hey, how about that! I’m studyin’ B’s, too." She held up her book. "Beethoven." In school she’d liked music, so she pronounced it correctly. "He wrote music, back when guys wore wigs and stuff, you know?"

Again Will refused to glance up. "Yeah, I know."

"Well…" The chair screeched as Lula pulled it out. She flounced down, crossed her legs, opened the book and flapped its pages in rhythm with her wagging calf. "So. Haven’t seen y’ around. Where y’ been keepin’yourself?"

He perused her noncommittally, wondering if he should bother to answer. Mercy, she was one hard-looking woman. She had so much hair piled onto her forehead it looked as if she could use a neck brace. Her mouth was painted the color of a chili pepper and she wore too much rouge, too high on her cheeks, in too precise a pattern. She overlapped her wrists on the table edge and rested her breasts on them. They jutted, giving him a clearer shot of cleavage. It pleased Will to let her know he didn’t want any.

"Up at Mrs. Dinsmore’s place."

"Crazy Elly’s? My, my. How is she?" When Will declined to answer, she leaned closer and inquired, "You know why they call her crazy, don’t you? Did she tell you?" Against his will, he became curious, but it would seem like an offense against Mrs. Dinsmore to encourage Lula, so he remained silent. Lula, however, needed no encouragement. "They locked her in that house when she was a baby and pulled all the shades down and didn’t let her out until the law forced ’em to-to go to school-and then they only turned her loose six hours a day and locked her up again, nights." She sat back smugly. "Ah, so you didn’t know." Lula smiled knowingly. "Well, ask her about it sometime. Ask her if she didn’t live in that deserted house down by school. You know-the one with the picket fence around it and the bats flyin’ in the attic window?" Lula leaned closer and added conspiratorially, "If I were you, I wouldn’t hang around up there at her place any longer than I had to. Give you a bad reputation, if you know what I mean. I mean, that woman ain’t wrapped too tight." Lula sat back as if in a chaise, letting her eyelids droop, toying absently with the cover of Beethoven, lifting it, letting it drop with soft repeated plops. "I know it’s tough being new around town. I mean, you must be bored as hell if you have to spend your time in a place like this." Lula’s eyes made a quick swerve around the bookshelves, then came back to him. "But if you need somebody to show y’ around, I’d be happy to." Beneath the table her toe stroked Will’s calf. "I got me a little bungalow just four houses off the town square on Pecan Street-"

"Excuse me, ma’am," Will interrupted, rising. "Got some eggs out in the sun that need selling. I’d better see to ’em."

Lula smirked, watching him move to the bookshelves. He’d got the message. Oh, he’d got it all right-loud and clear. She’d seen him jump when her foot touched his leg. She watched him slip one book into place, then squat down to replace the other. Before he could escape, she sidled into the aisle behind him, trapping him between the two tiers of shelves. When he rose to his feet and turned, she was gratified by his quick blush. "If you’re interested in my offer, I work most days at Vickery’s. I’m off at eight, though." She slipped one finger between his shirt buttons and ran it up and down, across hair and hard skin. Putting on her best kewpie doll face, Lula whispered, "See y’ round, Parker."

As she swung away, exaggeratedly waggling her hips, Will glanced across the sunlit room to find the librarian’s censoring eyes taking in the whole scene. Her attention immediately snapped elsewhere, but even from this distance Will saw how tightly her lips pursed. He felt shaky inside, almost violated. Women like Lula were a clear path to trouble. There was a time when he’d have taken her up on the offer and enjoyed every minute of it. But not anymore. Now all he wanted was to be left to live his life in peace, and that peace meant Eleanor Dinsmore’s place. He suddenly felt a deep need to get back there.

Lula was gone, cleats clicking, by the time Will reached the main desk.

"Much obliged for the use of the paper and pencil, ma’am."

Gladys Beasley’s head snapped up. The distaste was ripe on her face. "You’re welcome."

Will was cut to the quick by her silent rebuff. A man didn’t have to make a move on a hot-blooded woman like that, all he had to do was be in the same pigeonhole with her. Especially-Will supposed-if he’d done time for killing a whore in a Texas whorehouse and people around town knew it.

He rolled his notes into a cylinder and stood his ground. "I was wonderin’, ma’am-"

"Yes?" she snapped, lifting her head sharply, her mouth no larger than a keyhole.

"I got a job. I’m workin’ as a hired hand for Mrs. Glendon Dinsmore. If she’d come in here and tell you I work for her, would that be enough to get me a library card?"

"She won’t come in."

"She won’t?"

"I don’t believe so. Since she married she’s chosen to live as a recluse. I’m sorry, I can’t bend the rules." She picked up her pen, made a check on a list, then relented. "However, depending upon how long you’ve been working for her, and how long you intend to stay, if she would verify your employment in writing, I should think that would be enough proof of residency."

Will Parker flashed a relieved smile, hooked one thumb in his hind pocket and backed off boyishly, melting the ice from Gladys Beasley’s heart. "I’ll make sure she writes it. Much obliged, ma’am." He headed for the door, then stopped and swung back. "Oh. How late you open?"

"Until eight o’clock weekdays, five Saturdays, and of course, we’re closed Sundays."

He tipped his hat again and promised, "I’ll be back."

As he turned the doorknob she called, "Oh, Mr. Parker?"

"Ma’am?"

"How is Eleanor?"

Will sensed that this inquiry was wholly different from Lula’s. He stood at the door, adjusting his impression of Gladys Beasley. "She’s fine, ma’am. Five months pregnant for the third time, but healthy and happy, I think."

"For the third time. My. I remember her as a child, coming in with Miss Buttry’s fifth grade class-or was it Miss Natwick’s sixth? She always seemed a bright child. Bright and inquisitive. Greet her for me, if you will."

It was the first truly friendly gesture Will had experienced since coming to Whitney. It erased all the sour taste left by Lula and made him feel suddenly warm inside.

"I’ll do that. Thanks, Mrs. Beasley."

"Miss Beasley."

"Miss Beasley. Oh, by the way. I got a few dozen eggs I’d like to sell. Where should I try?"

Exactly what it was, Gladys didn’t know-perhaps the way he’d assumed she had a husband, or the way he’d rejected the advances of that bleached whore, Lula, or perhaps nothing more than the way his smile had transformed his face at the news that he could have a library card after all. For whatever reason, Gladys found herself answering, "I could use a dozen myself, Mr. Parker."

"You could? Well… well, fine!" Again he flashed a smile.

"The rest you might take to Purdy’s General, right across the square."

"Purdy’s. Good. Well, let me go out and-Oh-" His thumb came out of the pocket, his hand hung loosely at his hip. "I just remembered. They’re all in one crate."

"Put them in this." She handed him a small cardboard filing box.

He accepted it, nodded silently and went out. When he returned, she asked, "How much will that be?" She rummaged through a black coin purse and didn’t look up until realizing he hadn’t answered. "How much, Mr. Parker?"

"Well, I don’t rightly know."

"You don’t?"

"No, ma’am. They’re Mrs. Dinsmore’s eggs and these’re the first I’ve sold for her."

"I believe the current price is twenty-four cents a dozen. I’ll give you twenty-five, since I’m sure they’re fresher than those at Calvin Purdy’s store, and since they’re hand delivered." She handed him a quarter, which he was reluctant to accept, knowing it was higher than the market value. "Well, here, take it! And next week, if you have more, I’ll take another dozen."

He took the coin and nodded. "Thank you, ma’am. ’Preciate it and I know Mrs. Dinsmore will, too. I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello."

When he was gone Gladys Beasley snapped her black coin purse shut, but held it a moment, studying the door. Now thatwas a nice young man. She didn’t know why, but she liked him. Well, yes she did know why. She fancied herself an astute judge of character, particularly when it came to inquiring minds. His was apparent by his familiarity with the card catalogue, his ability to locate what he wanted without her assistance and his total absorption in his study, to say nothing of his eagerness to own a borrower’s card.