Chapter Eleven
Abigail glanced up at the knock. The ladies in her sewing circle were all seated. She wasn’t expecting deliveries. Even better, that Clay Winslow man had been sent home hours ago by her father. If the Pony Express rider was smart, he’d be on his way back to Sacramento by now.
She glanced up from her embroidery hoop. The very voice she hadn’t wanted to hear echoed in their foyer. Staring, waiting for him to walk in, she stabbed her finger instead of the cloth and grimaced. Damn man. He was a tornado in human form.
Clay strolled into the parlor. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’ve heard this is one of the best sewing groups in town and my skills need refining.”
“As if you have sewing skills,” Abigail mumbled. She tried to ignore how the blue-checkered shirt brought out the color in his eyes. Or how the white checks deepened his tan. She sniffed. Only field hands were so sun kissed.
Claudette stood, frowning at her sister. “I’m sorry for my sister’s rudeness, Mr….”
He smiled at the younger Miss Sterling. “Winslow. You can call me Clay.”
Abigail glanced up at him, turning back to her sewing after catching his stare. The extra color from being a rider did suit him. He seemed a lot more healthy and rugged than most of the men her age. She frowned and tried to ignore the slight flutter in her heart. “This isn’t a classroom, you know. We’re serious about developing our skills.”
“Oh.” Claudette looked at her as they all exchanged glances. “If you stayed, I suppose we could teach you a thing or two.”
She seized upon giving Clay a real lesson on butting in where he didn’t belong. Abigail smiled and offered, “Yes, we can. Do have a seat, because I’m feeling extra instructive today.”
The smile slid from his face as he found a chair next to Liese. “Very well. I know how to sew on a button, but that’s all. I’d like to learn more.”
Rachel leaned toward him. “As in?”
He shrugged. “Nothing as elaborate as a dress or quilt. How to add a pocket. My leather bag needs one to keep my book safe.”
“Your book? What are you reading?” Liese asked.
“Oh, now, that’s an interesting question,” Abigail retorted. “A romance, I’ll bet. One he has no business reading.”
Clay gave her a shamefaced smile. “If A Tale of Two Cities has romance, I haven’t found it yet.” He turned toward Claudette. “I don’t get much chance to read while riding full speed. By the time I’m at a postal station, I’m too tuckered out to do anything but snore.”
“Abbie, you didn’t tell us he was a Pony boy,” Rachel said. She set aside her embroidery hoop. “Did you know, Claudette?”
“I did because I’d heard Father talking about him after Abigail threw him out.” She addressed Clay. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Winslow. Abbie can be horrible when she’s upset.”
She glared at her sister. “I can speak for myself, thank you.” After a sigh, she said, “I suppose since you’re determined to pester us, you should know who you’re bothering. Oh, wait. I forgot. You do happen to know who we are.”
He grinned, his face a little redder than a second or two ago. “I do.” He nodded at her sister. “I’m assuming this lovely young woman is Claudette, since you two favor each other.”
“We are.” Claudette pointed to the remaining two ladies. “Now tell us who is who, if you can.”
Abigail’s frown deepened. The letter she’d sent with a photo didn’t have the image included in the envelope. This entire game was a sham, since he’d obviously kept their likenesses for himself. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. I wrote our names underneath each of us on the photograph he’s kept.”
Liese frowned. “I thought you didn’t find our photo in Mr. Crandall’s letters.”
“I didn’t.” She glared at Clay. “I wonder why.”
He cleared his throat, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen the image. Most likely he still carries the photograph in his pocket.”
Tears filled Abigail’s eyes at the mental image of Richard buried deep in the earth. The poor man. She tried to not imagine him suffocating or being crushed. “Oh. How very sad.”
The group was silent for a moment before Clay said, “I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s important to know he carried your image to his grave.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Apologies were never easy, but in this case she swallowed her pride. “I’m sorry for my rude behavior today.”
“As I am for mine. I can read a page in a flash. After your first letter, I became interested in a group of ladies.”
His voice, though quiet, seemed louder in the quiet room. Abigail reread her own writing and while embarrassed at how floridly she’d been, she couldn’t blame him for being curious. She had to admit. “Probably for the same reason we were all interested in Mr. Crandall’s advertisement.”
Clay grinned. “Exactly so. Curiosity is a powerful thing. Plus, you’re such an excellent writer. I was hooked from the first sentence.” He gave her a mischievous look. “In fact, one could say my regrettable and deeply shameful snooping was all her fault.”
She opened her mouth to argue and protest him even being here. To say his interest in learning to sew was an obvious sham to harass her further. Except, he had spent his time so far sewing a button on a shirt, and quite well from what she could see from where she sat. “What is that you’re working on?”
He held the button in progress up so everyone could see. “This? I had one of the station ladies sew a button on my leather bag. She decided I needed to learn how to sew for myself and gave me a shirt with a missing button.”
Liese leaned forward, examining the stitching he’d done so far. “Hm, you favor the ‘X’.”
“I do.” He tilted the work closer to her. “It seems stronger to me, and is fun to crisscross.”
She frowned at the other three ladies making a fuss over Clay’s sewing. Tailors sewed men’s clothes all the time and these three didn’t stand at the shop window in awe. Abigail gave a sneaking glance at him as he concentrated on his work. The others occasionally asked him questions about his ride to St. Joe. She listened far more attentively to his answers than she liked. As he’d said about her, she couldn’t help it if he was an interesting person.
“You know, Mr. Winslow, church is tomorrow morning and I’m sure you don’t have a spiritual home yet.”
“My family does, but I don’t.”
“Lovely. You can walk Abbie and me to services tomorrow.”
“He can’t,” Abigail said, far sharper than she’d intended. She’d wanted to nip Claudette’s suggestion in the bud, not abuse the poor man any further. She tried to explain. “I mean, I’m sure he’s too busy with the ponies and other tasks. He’s probably tired, and needs to rest up before going back home.”
“I don’t mind. I’d be honored to escort you to church.” He turned to the other two. “Do you attend with them?”
“I do,” Rachel offered. “But Liese doesn’t.”
“That’s both good and bad.” He smiled at Liese. “We could plan an outing later so you’ll be included.”
“I’d like that, thank you.”
Scowling gave a girl ugly lines, her mother had always said. Abigail struggled to keep the frown at bay and besides. She wasn’t jealous of Clay asking the other ladies to activities. She couldn’t be, and the idea was preposterous. Still, she took a quick peek at him as he smiled over some silly joke her sister had made. She couldn’t blame Claudette. If she weren’t still grieving Richard, Clay appearing on her doorstep would crowd out everything else.
She sighed and added thread to her needle. He laughed over some silly thing Liese said and Abigail glanced up at him. With him focused on her friend, she was able to study him. Clay really was quite handsome. His clothes seemed much nicer than yesterday’s, and his blue eyes seemed to glow in his tanned face. He’d had his black hair trimmed and combed in the few hours since they’d first met, too. And every time h
e smiled at her? Abigail’s heart fluttered even now. She really couldn’t blame the others for being smitten. “I suppose walking to church with you tomorrow is fine.”
“What?” Claudette asked. “Oh, yes, that. I accepted on your behalf several minutes ago. We’re now discussing next week’s picnic. I’ll accept for you then, too.”
Served her right for woolgathering. “Very well. I suppose I shouldn’t carry on grieving for Richard and skipping my social outings with near strangers. After all, it’s been an entire two days.”
Clay stood, folding his shirt. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure, but I have another appointment to attend to. If you’ll excuse me?”
“I’ll see you out,” Claudette offered as she set aside her embroidery and stood. “We’ve had a lovely time with you today.”
She tried to listen as their voices softened once in the hall. They spoke, or rather her sister did, too softly for the foyer’s tile floors to carry the words to her. Clay would end up liking her sister more, anyway. Claudette wasn’t grieving for a lost love as she was. Abigail looked at the clock and counted the hours until they left for services tomorrow.
***
Mr. Sterling put on his hat and led the way down their front steps. “Walk? Why would we when there’s a perfectly good carriage outside?”
Claudette hurried after him. “Father, please. I wanted to get to know Clay a little better.”
“Let’s all ride to church so we’re not late,” Mrs. Sterling offered. She caught up to her youngest and straightened her bonnet. “The children can walk back home if they still choose.”
“All right. Let’s go, then.” Mr. Sterling helped his wife into the conveyance, leaving their daughters and Clay for last. Claudette gave Abigail a little smile while hugging the side of the buggy. “Here, Mr. Winslow, you can help me up before sitting between us.”
“Thank you.”
She watched as Clay first helped her sister and then her before he climbed up. His grin seemed a little too smug for her liking. Especially when she took his hand to let him pull her into the carriage and let her sit far too close to him. She tried to hug the side but failed. The carriage was a tin can with the five of them the sardines.
“I don’t like this. Jacob, you know how I feel.” Her mother looked down her nose at Abigail, saying, “What you’ve done, girl, is exchange one bad idea for another.” She narrowed her eyes at Clay. “What are your plans for the future with our daughter, young man?”
“Mama!” she gasped, horrified at how her parents had swapped one fiancé for another so fast. “We’re merely going to church for Sunday service! Nothing else.”
“I don’t care. You’re my baby girls and I’m not letting just any man come up and run off to God knows where with them.”
Her father chimed in, looking at Clay. “My wife is right. We expect our daughters’ suitors to meet a certain standard.” He checked his pocket watch. “If you’ll excuse me,” he began and when the missus nodded, he added, “I’d suggest you think about the life you’re able to provide our daughter and reconsider this relationship.”
Chapter Twelve
The air stopped inside the carriage. Abigail watched as Clay grinned and leaned back. She looked from one man to the other, waiting for the explosion.
Clay spoke first. “I’ve worked hard and have a little saved up. Not much, but almost enough to outfit a farm back home double the size of most farms in Buchanan County. The work will be hard, and that’s why I have plans to hire employees as needed.”
“Why not just buy slaves?” Mrs. Sterling asked. “Unless you won’t because you can’t take care of them.
His smile faded and his eyes glittered like cold sapphires. “I appreciate the idea, but would rather motivate good employees instead of forcing them to do what I need.”
When Clay turned to look at Abigail, his expression softened and the breath left her lungs. He shared her views, that no man was preordained to own another. Her parents did, too, but didn’t dare be so open in their opinion in the current political climate. She returned his slight smile. “That’s very noble. Unpopular here in our state, but noble nonetheless.”
“I appreciate your saying so.” Clay shifted toward her a little more, saying in a low voice, “I am truly sorry for how we met. I would have preferred to visit you under any other circumstances.”
She bit her lip, holding his arm after a particularly rough jounce by the coach. “I’m beginning to feel the same way.” His arm, warm and strong, tensed under her touch. She looked up into his eyes and couldn’t bear to look away from him.
Mr. Sterling cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let’s see how you feel after a couple of years on property grown over with weeds. You’ll not be able to hire anyone because they’re all prospecting for gold in empty mine fields, or sitting on huge tracts of land, alone, with no one to work for them.”
The buggy stopped before Abigail or Clay could say anything. He whispered in her ear, “I do have plans, solid ones, and don’t plan on riding the Express for more than another couple of years. I have plenty of time to do things right.”
In a daze, Abigail waited until Clay helped her to the ground. As they walked up to the church steps behind her family, she said, “You do sound a lot more prepared than Richard seemed to be. He wrote about rushing out to buy a gold mine already in progress. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it’d been sold to him for a reason, and none of it profitable.”
He nodded, letting her lead them to where the Sterlings usually sat. While pausing to let a frail elderly lady get settled, Abigail glanced back at him. He’d been watching her and none of the other young ladies in the building. She turned toward the front again until sitting. Clay did seem to eclipse every other man her age as well. The music began and she said, “After services, I’d like to hear more about your plans for a farm out west.”
Her mother leaned forward in the pew to give her a shushing look. Abigail complied. Another couple, people she didn’t know, came over to sit in their pew. She had to scoot closer to Clay, pressed against him hip to knee. His leg felt as strong as his arm had been. She shivered despite the oppressive August heat.
He gave her a slight grin and asked so only she could hear, “Cold?”
“Freezing,” Abigail retorted, grinning when he chuckled.
“I like you, too,” he whispered to her as the pastor stepped up to preach.
She did her best to pay attention to the sermon, but failed terribly. This close to Clay meant she could smell his hair oil and a slight hint of cloves. Abigail stood and sang the hymn from memory. She smiled and tried not to chuckle when Clay missed a few of the words. A man on the Pony Express probably didn’t make time for church. She wanted to ask him more about his days out on the open prairies as soon as they were driving back home.
The only thing still nagging her was how he’d said he read her first letter at a glance. He had to be lying. No one could read so fast, not even the school superintendent. When the collection plate was being passed around, she opened the hymnbook to a random page. “Mr. Winslow?” Abigail whispered.
“Yes?”
“Take a look at this page.” She let him see the words for the count of three before closing the book. “Now, what was the song?”
“Tarry With Me.” He leaned closer to her and softly said, “If you were so lonely in the evening, I would love to tarry with you.”
“Do you know what tarry means? Have you sung the song before?”
He chuckled and nudged her with his shoulder. “Yes, I do and, no, I haven’t.”
She put away the hymn book and passed the collection plate to him. He put a handful of coins in before handing the plate to Mr. Sterling. Clay had been honest. The man really seemed to read a paragraph at a time. Abigail faced the front and stared at the altar. Could she have the strength he didn’t and resist reading someone’s letters? He had never needed to confess to her and admit he’d read them all. She cut her eyes over at him to find h
e stared at the altar, too.
Two days wasn’t long enough to recover from the loss of a long-distance fiancé, was it? Yet, with Clay here and so close to her, Richard seemed more like an imaginary friend than a real person. She looked over at him again to find he looked at her, too.
His expression softened and he gave her a slight smile. He’d been honest with her, had ridden through dangerous country for days on end, and now stared at her with affection. Her entire world seemed brighter now. As if clouds moved from a warm sun after a long rainstorm. Abigail sighed. She might have been in love with love before. Now, she was in love with Clay.
He gave her an intense look and whispered, “Could we talk alone sometime today?”
“Yes, because we need to discuss how I feel Richard,” she said, and smiled when his expression saddened. The preacher began talking so she hissed, “And how I feel about you.”
Abigail’s mother gave her a glare and she grinned, giving her mother a shrug in apology. The preacher droned on and on. She couldn’t bear to be a lump in church one more minute when Clay sat so close to her.
They sung the final hymn and she had a tough time not singing fast and ending the song in double time. She watched people file out of the pews at their leisure, chatting all the way. She resisted pushing through the crowds. When a handsome young man wanted to talk alone, Abigail wanted to hear what he had to say.
“Dinner will be ready by the time we’re home,” Mr. Sterling said above the noisy conversations around them.
“Will you join us, Mr. Winslow?” Mrs. Sterling added, “Unless you already have plans.”
The young man nodded to her parents. “I would love to, ma’am. Sir.”
Abigail followed Claudette out of the church. The cool breeze stirred her hair and she took a deep breath. Had the church been an oven or was Clay affecting her? He stepped up beside her and held out his arm before they stepped down. She wanted to keep holding his arm when on flat ground, but the action would fuel gossip.
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