The Seamstress (Dry Bayou Brides Book 2)

by Lynn Winchester

  “Do you do that often?” Hank’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

  “Do what?”

  He pointed to her forehead. “Touch your scar like that when you’re deep in thought.”

  Sure enough, her finger was tracing the small, crescent-shaped scar over her left temple. She immediately tensed and pulled her hand down, hiding the offending appendage in her skirt.

  The tops of her ears burned. “I don’t know. I never think about it,” she snipped.

  He frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just curious.” His apologetic tone touched her heart.

  It wasn’t his fault she was suddenly feeling defensive. She didn’t know what to think or how to feel about the new and very charming Hank. She was so used to dealing with the utterly horrible kid she grew up around.

  People change. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” Be honest. “I’m not used to the Hank that takes me on walks, plans a picnic, kisses my scar—”

  Why had she mentioned that? She thought she’d wiped that delicious memory from her mind. Apparently, Hank remembered it, too. His hard gaze was unsettling and his lips were set in a hard line.

  The same lips that had kissed her scar so gently… She remembered the warmth of his breath and the pressure of his mouth on her face. And she remembered the heat and tingling that flooded her body at his nearness—the same heat and tingling flooding her now.

  She forced a carefree smile. “So, what’s in the basket?” Changing the subject seemed the safest course of action. Tilly knew, without a doubt, he was thinking the same thing she was and she was strangely invigorated by it.

  Hank opened the basket. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I had the hotel cook pack the basket with several items from the menu. We’ll have to pick through it to see if there’s anything that looks delicious,” he said. Then his gaze darted back to her mouth before settling on the basket in front of him again.

  Hank emptied the basket, arranging all the dishes neatly on the blanket. There was an array of bread, cheese, and fruit.

  Her stomach let out a humiliating groan and she caught the glitter of humor in Hank’s eyes.

  “Don’t you dare say a word, Hank Bartlett,” she warned. The last thing she needed was for him to tease her about food.

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t think of it, my dear.” He grabbed a plate and filled it with food, then handed it to her.

  “I hope you enjoy it,” he said, then lifted a fried chicken leg to his mouth.

  She watched him chew, transfixed by the workings of his jaw and the glint of grease on his bottom lip. I wonder what it would taste like… No, stop doing that. This is Hank Bartlett! Somehow, her determination to keep Hank from her most intimate thoughts was failing.

  She looked down at the plate in her lap, picked up her fork, and sampled the mashed sweet potatoes. They melted in her mouth, the savory butter and dash of cinnamon and nutmeg was the best she’d ever tasted.

  Groaning with delight, she took another forkful. Before she knew it, the pile of sweet potatoes was gone and she was starting in on the toast squares, soft Brie cheese, and grape tomatoes. That’s when she realized how nice it was to be with Hank. The delicious food and beautiful scenery only made it better. She took a moment to look at Hank, really look at him, while he seemed intent on rummaging through the basket for a napkin.

  When he bowed his head, his golden hair fell over his eyebrows, which was incredibly adorable. His cheekbones were angular, nose straight, and his eyes were wide and rimmed in laugh lines. His mouth, the mouth she’d apparently been focused on subconsciously, was currently slanted in a show of good-natured frustration.

  “Well, darn, I guess they forgot to pack napkins,” he announced, then turned to wipe his fingers in the grass.

  Tilly caught sight of the two gnarled knuckles on his left hand. “What happened?”

  He eyed his hand. “That? Boxing.”

  He climbed into a ring and pummeled another man for sport? “Boxing?” What kind of skill did that take? Tilly studied his wide, strong shoulders, well-muscled arms, and flat stomach. Boxing kept Hank physically fit.

  “When I wasn’t studying or working, I was boxing. A country boy in the big city needs something to help dispel some of the pent up energy,” Hank replied, thankfully ignorant of the direction of Tilly’s thoughts.

  “You mentioned working?”

  “I worked in printing,” he informed her.

  “Oh? That sounds interesting,” Tilly said. “Though not as interesting as being a doctor. When do you expect to take over for your father?”

  Hank’s face glowed with pride. “I’ve already taken on a few of his regular patients—nothing too serious, just a fussy baby and an arthritic farmer—but he plans to hand me the reins next month. He’s eager to take a long trip to San Francisco to visit my uncle. They haven’t seen each other in fifteen years.”

  Tilly grinned. “I’m happy to hear it. I think you’ll make an amazing doctor,” she admitted and meant it. She was discovering that she liked Dr. Hank Bartlett. A lot.

  “So, tell me about this dress shop you’re going to open. I know you’ve always designed and made your own dresses. What made you decide to start a business?”

  She couldn’t help but smile as she thought of her little dress shop on the corner. “Yes, I’ve always enjoyed making my own clothes. But it wasn’t until Ray mentioned my doing it for others that I really got to thinking. I know I’m good at it, why not make a living doing it?”

  Hank bit into a grape tomato and it squirted onto his shirt. He brushed it away carelessly. “Why not sell your dresses at the mercantile?”

  That was the question of the year, apparently. Anger and sadness mingled within her. “I don’t want to be tied down by my parents. I want to decide things for a change. I imagine, though you’re taking over your father’s practice, you’ll make changes. You aren’t your father. You think and do things differently. I want the same opportunity.” She ended her impassioned response with a healthy gulp of water, which spilled down the wrong pipe.

  Sputtering, she coughed, then Hank was right there, pulling her upright, encouraging her to breathe through it. His calm voice seemed to do the trick because she was breathing fine and feeling humiliated in the next minute.

  “I’m sorry, that was embarrassing,” she muttered, taking in the sodden mess of her skirt.

  Hank returned to his seat and smiled. “No need to apologize, I’m just glad I was here to help you. We couldn’t have you expiring before I can convince you to marry me,” he said, though the usual teasing tone wasn’t there.

  Thinking it best to ignore his statement, she put her plate back into the basket and dabbed at her skirt with her kerchief.

  Hank sat in silence, watching her, and she felt it with every movement she made. What was he thinking? Did he think she looked like a fool? Did he ever want to kiss her again?

  She stopped her busy movements and met his gaze. There, the teasing look had returned and she was strangely relieved.

  “I’m really glad you came with me today. I would hate to have wasted all this food.”

  A snort escaped before she knew it and Tilly had to struggle to keep her face from breaking into a grin. “Oh, I think wasting this food would’ve been a terrible thing. I am glad I was here to gobble it all down. I must keep up my regular diet of greasy chicken and sweet cakes—mustn’t disappoint ‘The Bully’.” She kept her tone light and she was surprised that the twinge she usually experienced at such teasing hadn’t happened.

  Hank heaved a sigh and braced his elbows on his raised knees. “Don’t you start with me, Tilly. I know you’re trying to drag up old hurts to hide behind so you don’t have to enjoy your time with me.” His accusing tone held a note of pain, but also a hint of frustration.

  “Well, I think you’re being ridiculous,” she harrumphed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re trying to e
rase the past by courting me.”

  “Am I?”

  “Are you what?”

  A slow, utterly devastating grin spread across his handsome face. “Wooing you?” His deep voice was all heat and vibration, thrumming through her blood.

  Her breath caught—uncomfortable and wonderful at the same time. “I—”

  The sounds of a rapidly approaching wagon saved her from having to answer him. Or so she thought. Hank’s darkly glimmering eyes told her that the arrival of the wagon hadn’t saved her. It only prolonged the inevitable.

  Chapter Nine

  Hank left her at her front door with a quick, “Thank you for the memorable afternoon.”

  When Hank mentioned he’d been helping his father, it didn’t cross her mind that he’d become necessary so quickly.

  The approaching wagon that interrupted their time by the lake was driven by the gruff, thickly-bearded blacksmith, Mr. Leo Watkins. He was a widower known for his short temper, his long memory, and his skill with molten metal and a hammer. Mr. Watkins and his late wife had moved to town twenty years ago. Despite the fact he had the personality of a cactus, he was one of the most trusted of Dry Bayou’s citizens.

  So, when the doctor needed someone to fetch his son, Leo Watkins was the one he called on.

  Leo had stopped the wagon a few yards from where Tilly and Hank had picnicked and called out to them.

  Hank helped Tilly to rise and they made their way to the stone-faced, grimy-looking man.

  “Ho there! What brings you out here?” Hank called.

  Leo pinned them with an unapologetically annoyed glare. “Your pa sent me. Told me I could find you out here with her.” He indicated Tilly with a rude tip of his chin.

  Indignation tremored through her, but she kept her mouth shut lest she growl at the creature.

  “Mrs. Hanlon’s gone into labor. Your pa has requested your aide with the delivery.”

  After that striking announcement, they hurried to pack the basket, load the wagon, and return to town. While it wasn’t the ending she’d pictured for her first afternoon out with Hank, Tilly understood the urgency.

  She leaned back into her rocking chair under the shade of the large, old tree and sighed. In that moment, more than anything, she wanted to put Hank Bartlett out of her mind.

  She picked up the book she’d left there earlier. Brushing the red dust off the cover, she reread the words that would pull her into another world, The Showdown in Shadow Valley…

  “Tilly, where are you, girl?” Ray’s voice sounded from inside the house.

  “I’m out here, Ray,” she called back.

  Ray flicked a curious glance over Tilly and offered a crooked smile. “I stopped in earlier to see you, but I had to track your ma down at the store. Come to find out you’d gone steppin’ out with Hank Bartlett.” Ray’s gaze danced over Tilly’s face.

  Tilly stood and gave her friend a hug. Ray’s bright red hair smelled of ranch and cinnamon, which Tilly always thought a strange combination. “Why are you in town? I thought the sheep were keeping you busy.” Tilly’s voice wobbled a bit and she knew Ray heard it, too, because Ray’s expression changed.

  “I had things to do,” Ray answered. “But don’t go changin’ the subject on me,” she clucked. “Spill it.”

  Tilly laughed, then turned and walked back to her rocking chair. “Hank invited me to walk this afternoon. We went to the lake for a picnic and then he was called away to help deliver Mrs. Hanlon’s baby.” Tilly recounted everything with cold precision, not willing to give Ray anything she could use to pester the life out of Tilly.

  “And?” Ray sat on the porch beside the rocking chair.

  “And nothing. That’s what happened.” Tilly rarely told fibs to Ray because Ray was excellent at sniffing out falsehoods…like a coyote scenting an injured hare two miles away.

  Ray snorted. “Don’t go lie to me, Tilda Marie Mosier. I can read you like a book and you know how little I like readin’.”

  Tilly sighed. She knew full well that keeping anything from Ray was useless. “Fine, I’ll tell you.”

  Ray’s face lit up and she scooted closer to Tilly’s chair with the excitement of a child preparing to hear a parent recite a fairytale. “Go on, don’t spare a single detail,” Ray cooed.

  Tilly told her friend everything.

  *

  Hank dropped his soiled shirt and trousers on the floor and settled into the hot bathwater he’d ordered from the hotel porters. After twelve hours, Mrs. Hanlon gave birth to twin daughters, who she’d named Henrietta, after Hank and his father, and Bernadette. The girls were pink, loud, and perfectly healthy.

  He laid his aching head back along the edge of the porcelain tub and pictured the tiny, squalling, beautiful little girls.

  Something warm and heavy filled his heart. He wanted children. Delightful little girls and rambunctious little boys, wonders and terrors to him and their mother…Tilly. She was the only woman who could give him the family he so desperately craved. The only woman who had haunted his soul and dreams for as long as he could remember. The only woman who’d known him at his most despicable moments and his best. She’d charmed him from the top of his head right down to his feet. He was utterly smitten and he didn’t know how to get her to feel the same.

  Heaving a sigh, he rubbed at the ache right over his heart. Suddenly, his father’s words from earlier that evening echoed through his exhausted mind.

  There’d been a short lull in Mrs. Hanlon’s labor. The women that Mrs. Hanlon insisted on being there cooed and soothed her through a series of mild contractions during the lull.

  With nothing to do until the contractions grew closer together, Hank and his father walked out onto the porch. They’d been there four hours already, so the fresh air was welcome.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted your time with Tilly. I know you were looking forward to it.”

  Hank’s mind flashed to Tilly’s concerned and disappointed expression as he rode away. Naturally, she was concerned for Mrs. Hanlon, but was she disappointed he had to go?

  She’d looked so kissable with her rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and lips parted just so. It had taken every ounce of control within him to not lean in and press his mouth against hers. And when she’d called their picnic ridiculous and, in the same breath, spoke of his wooing her, he didn’t know if he wanted to crow in pride or whimper in discouragement.

  “No need to apologize. It’s my job, isn’t it? Happy to be of assistance. And, you’re right, I was looking forward to my time with Tilly. And…” How should he phrase the next words?

  “And?” his father prodded.

  “And… I think I might have made a mistake.”

  “Son, I—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I didn’t make a mistake in choosing her—never that—she’s all I’ve ever wanted. I think I made a mistake with the picnic.” He rubbed a hand over his suddenly aching head.

  His father came to stand beside him. He placed a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Son, the past has passed. It should only ever serve as a holding place for all our good, happy memories. It should never be a millstone around our necks, pulling us down, making us feel the weight of our previous mistakes.”

  If only leaving the consequences of past mistakes in the past was as easy as that. Tilly would’ve forgiven him by now, if that was the case.

  The cooling bath water finally pulled him from his memories. He looked down to find his fingers wrinkled and the water cloudy.

  In the five minutes it took to dry off and dress for bed, Hank came to a conclusion.

  If he couldn’t get Tilly to forgive him for the things he’d done to her, he’d have to convince her that he was worth taking a chance on.

  His heart began to ache again; the pain a mix of fear and yearning. He had to succeed, he needed to. He couldn’t imagine what his life would be like if he failed. Tilly’s love was the only thing he ever really wanted and he’d do whatever it took to win it.

&nbs
p; Chapter Ten

  “There you two are,” Ray called out as she entered through the large double doors of the stable.

  Hank and Billy were working to clear out the stalls in preparation for the arrival of two new mares. Ray was holding two glasses of what looked like sweet tea. “I thought you two hardworkin’ cowpokes could use a cool drink.”

  She winked at Hank playfully but offered Billy a smile full of love.

  Hank dropped the shovel he’d been holding for the last two hours. “Thank you,” he said before taking the glass and delightedly sipping the sweet Southern tea. He knew Eva, the Creole cook at Dry Bayou Ranch, was famous for her authentic sweet tea.

  “Mmm, it’s delicious,” Hank declared before finishing the rest of the tea in a single gulp. “That did the trick. Thanks again, Ray.”

  She shrugged. “I was already out gettin’ things ready for Seamus. He’ll be here a few days before the weddin’.”

  Seamus MacAdams was Ray’s cousin. He was moving to Dry Bayou to take over the sheep operation from Ray, who’d taken over after her father died.

  “What’s your cousin like?” Hank asked.

  Ray cocked her head. “I don’t really know him. My pa wrote to him about the operation. Pa told me he’s ornery and hard workin’. Maybe as handsome as the Devil.”

  Hank handed the glass back and then wondered why her smile was suddenly so sly.

  He wasn’t the only one who noticed it. “What’s going on in your head, Baby Ray?” Billy asked.

  Ray immediately turned a glare on her fiancé.

  “Nothin’ you have to worry about, Willem!” She elbowed Billy in the ribs and then took his still half-full glass of tea. “What did I tell you about usin’ that nickname? I don’t like it. And now you’ll just have to die of thirst out here in this hot barn.” The ferocity of her words was dampened by the glimmer of laughter in her brown eyes.

  Billy grumbled and returned to work.

  “I hear you went steppin’ out with Tilly,” she said. “I’d like to know what your intentions are with my friend,” she commanded, an edge of steel in her voice.