by Trinity Ford
Sheriff Lockhart stood up. “Well, I’d best be getting home to Millie and the babies,” he said. “This shift’s already run way past quitting time.”
“You tell Millie hello for me,” Hank said, seeing the sheriff to the door. “I’ll get you a quote on the calaboose early next week.”
Hank returned to his desk and straightened the paperwork he’d been immersed in before Sheriff Lockhart’s visit. Every morning, after his initial check in at the construction company, he’d stop by the bank to make a deposit and then make his rounds to each of the businesses he owned, checking in on everything and popping in to see if they needed him for any major decisions or issues.
He set off down the block for his first stop at the bank. Inside, Milton Tidwell immediately exited his office and hurried over to Hank. “Mr. Hensley,” he said. “Please allow me to handle your deposit today so you don’t have to wait in this inconvenient line.”
“Oh, it’s no bother,” Hank said. He enjoyed standing in line, visiting with everyone. When it came to money, there wasn’t a soul in Fort Worth who didn’t respect his ability to take something small and get a big return on it—a skill he’d learned directly from Floyd. They would regularly ask Hank’s advice about how to succeed, and he freely shared it—even with his competition.
“I insist,” Milton said, quickly grabbing the bundle of money with his long, bony hands and scurrying around to the teller’s window before Hank could object.
Hank strolled over to the window, looking out at the street while he waited for his transaction to be finished. The town of Fort Worth was growing every day, and he was amazed at how much had changed since Floyd first brought him here. He loved the town, and the fact that he’d grown up right along with it, even if it had matured more quickly than he’d allowed himself to. Hank glanced around at the lobby of the bank and noticed Milton quickening his gait as he returned to Hank with the record of deposit. “So I hear you’ll be a married man soon,” Hank said.
“Ah yes,” Milton said. “I’ve sent for the little parcel already and she’s arrived, although I haven’t had the chance to meet her just yet. Tomorrow, we’re having supper with Mabel and Pastor Littlejohn to finalize the agreement.”
‘Little parcel?’ Hank repeated in his mind. He wondered what type of woman would marry Milton Tidwell. What a sterile marriage, Hank thought. It’s bad enough to agree to wed someone before meeting, but to look at the situation as no more than a business transaction…well, I’ve seen enough of that my whole life to know better than to go that route. “Know much about her?” Hank asked.
“Only that she’s broke and jobless after the fire in Massachusetts,” Milton sneered. “She’s looking for financial support, which I’ll be able to provide, assuming she upholds her end of the deal and performs her wifely duties of homemaking and hosting of celebratory engagements.”
Hank had never met a more blatantly shallow man than Milton Tidwell. Just the look of him was off putting—so pointy and superficial, he resembled a large thorn on a dry cactus. But all that could have been overlooked if he’d had just a shred of common decency. Oh he was polite enough to those he served in the bank—nicer to you the more money you had—but you just knew, deep down, he would sell his own grandmother if it meant a penny in his pocket. Hank felt sorry for any woman coming to Texas expecting to find a loving husband and instead, getting married off to a weasel like Tidwell. “I wish you luck with it,” Hank said, straightening his hat to head back outside.
“You let me know if I should call it off,” Milton said.
“How would I know that?” Hank asked.
“Well she’s working over at your General Store,” Milton said. “Della Owens.”
“She is?” Hank asked. “I had no idea. Will do.” Hank had given Roy the power to hire help when he needed it, and he knew Pastor Littlejohn often brought the brides-to-be here to work for a while before getting married, but he wasn’t aware that this one would be on his payroll. Curiosity got the better of him and he changed his route slightly to allow him to visit the store first today. He just had to see the kind of woman who would allow herself to be blindly married off to a man like Milton.
Hank crossed the dirt road and stepped up onto the uneven wooden planks lining the storefronts. It was a beautiful day, although windy, and the streets were scattered with men and women lingering outside to enjoy the fresh air. He greeted most of them by name, stopping briefly to chat about the weather or an upcoming event, but eventually he made it to Hensley’s General Store. Through the window, he could see the slight figure of a woman in a plain brown dress with an apron tied in the back. She was facing the opposite way, organizing the shelves and cleaning the dust off the products.
Hank pushed the door open, causing the bell to ring. “Welcome!” a pleasant voice said from across the room. Hank had to let his eyes adjust before she came into focus.
“Howdy,” Hank said. “Roy here?” The woman turned around, holding a box as she wiped the dust off of it. Hank’s eyes grew wide. This woman wasn’t at all what he was expecting. Her golden hair was loosely bundled at her shoulders, and even in a room with bad lighting, her blue eyes reflected back at him like precious, sparkling gemstones. Her face was barely made up, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. And shine it did—like the finest porcelain Hank had seen in the homes of some of the wealthier citizens of Fort Worth. This woman is going to marry Milton? He thought immediately. She must be very desperate.
“Roy’s gone home to eat a bite with Mary,” she said, setting the box down and wiping her hands on the apron fastened around her waist. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Yes, Hank thought. Tell Pastor Littlejohn I’ve changed my mind about this mail order bride business. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” Hank asked, deciding to see what he could learn about Della Owens before she found out who he was and formed an opinion based on the rumors about him.
She smiled. “Yes, I am—Della Owens,” she said, holding her hand out to shake Hank’s.
Hank grinned at the introduction. He knew she might have already heard a thing or two about him, so he decided to avoid the truth as long as he could. “You can call me Sam,” he lied, taking her delicate hand in his and turning it over to politely kiss the back of it.
Della blushed and pulled her hand back, busying herself with organizing the same shelves he’d already seen her straighten. “What can I get for you, Sam?” Della asked, looking a little flustered.
“Oh Roy knows what all I’m here to get,” he said. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll just hang around and chat a spell until he gets back. So, where’d you say you were from?”
“Florida, originally,” Della said, obviously grateful to have someone to converse with. “But I lived in Massachusetts briefly before coming here.”
“Is your family in Florida?” Hank probed.
A distinct look of sadness crept over Della’s face. “My parents sold our home in Florida and set out on their own. There was no reason for me to stay. My sister lives in Massachusetts, but I don’t really belong there either.” Della had a faraway look in her eyes as she spoke of her family. “I guess you could say I was abandoned,” she said, her voice trailing off.
Hank could certainly empathize with that feeling. There was more to this woman than he’d initially thought and he hated to admit to himself that he’d like to get to know her better.
“What brought you to the frontier?” Hank asked, wanting to change the subject so she’d smile again—and see if she’d tell him the truth.
“I’m to be engaged to Mr. Milton Tidwell,” she said boldly, jutting her chin slightly upward to show how proud she was.
Hank raised his eyebrows at her admission. “Tidwell, eh?” he said. “Heck of a man. How long have you two known each other?” He couldn’t help it. Hank just had to push her boundaries to see when she’d crack. He couldn’t wait to see how this all unfolded, because Della Owens didn’t seem like the kind of woma
n who would shrink silently beside a man whose morals matched those of a hungry street rat.
Della’s shoulders slumped a bit as if the wind had left her sails. “Well we haven’t exactly met just yet—not until tomorrow at church,” she confessed. “But I’ve been told he’s a wonderful man. Being a banker and all, I’m sure he’s a man with strict morals and one who will provide nicely for his family. It’s very important to have a mate who wants the same things as yourself, don’t you think so, Sam?”
“Indeed,” Hank said. “You’ll be very happy with Tidwell. Have you met the owner of the General Store—Hank Hensley?”
“No,” Della said, her bow of a mouth turning downward in a frown. “But I’ve heard detestable things about him. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it!”
“He’s quite a scoundrel,” Hank agreed.
Just then Roy Jennings walked through the door of the store, sounding the bell, and Hank knew the jig was up. “Hank,” Roy said, “You’re here early today. Did you meet Della?”
“You said your name was Sam,” Della said, with a look of shock and fury on her now crimson colored face.
“No, I said you could call me Sam,” Hank chuckled. “I didn’t say that was my name. You can call me Hank if you prefer.”
Della’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed together. “Mr. Hensley,” she said, clearly struggling to maintain her composure. “Now that Roy is here, he can handle your transaction from here on out.” She quickened her pace as she began cleaning, almost furiously.
“Ammo and cigars, Roy,” Hank said, his eyes still fixed on Della. He saw her shake her head slightly—probably disgusted with his purchase, and the fact that she’d actually been nice to him before his true identity was revealed. There were two kinds of people in Fort Worth when it came to Hank Hensley—those who overlooked his bad behavior, and those who couldn’t look past it. The latter were fewer in number, but they did exist—and Hank wasn’t sure if Della would be the type of person capable of getting to know the real him.
Roy was packaging up Hank’s ammo and cigars for the night’s outing when the bell rang again as the door pushed open. A young woman, no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, sheepishly entered the store, obviously aware of the fact that her attire instantly revealed that she worked in the Acre.
Della turned at the woman’s entrance and was noticeably startled by her appearance, but quickly turned professional in her demeanor in front of her two bosses. “How may I help you, ma’am?” she said curtly.
The woman spoke softly, almost as if trying not to call attention to herself. She was new to Fort Worth—Hank was sure of this. He hated to see girls so young getting trapped in the lewd life of the Acre. “I’m in need of a needle and thread, miss,” she replied.
“Right this way,” Della stated as she showed the customer where the items were. “Anything else?”
The woman opened her palm to reveal a small amount of change. Hank could tell she was counting to see if she might be able to afford more. She picked up a small bar of soap and put it on the counter with her other items. “This is all,” she said, giving Della the go ahead to tally up her purchase.
“That’ll be $0.68,” Della said.
The woman shuffled the coins around in her hand, realizing she wouldn’t have enough. “I’m sorry,” she said as she placed the soap back on the table. “I’ll get the soap another time.”
“Nonsense,” Hank said, grabbing the soap and placing it back on the counter. “Put it on her credit.”
“We do credit?” Della asked, turning to Roy for clarification.
“Give her a $100 store credit,” Hank instructed, smiling at the woman whose eyes were tearing up with thanks.
Della shrugged. “Here you go, miss…?” she asked, needing the name for the line of credit.
“Weaver,” the woman replied as she picked up her belongings and turned to Hank. “Thank you, sir.”
Hank tipped his hat and walked to the door to hold it open for her. Della was busy writing down the line of credit and adding the charges to it. When the door shut behind the woman, he approached the counter and reached for the line of credit. “We won’t be needing this,” Hank said, tearing it in half. “If she comes ‘round again, give her what she needs. Bill it to me.”
Della’s mouth gaped open. Roy was obviously used to this type of behavior from Hank and simply handed him his package. “You’re all set for tonight,” Roy said.
“Thanks, Roy,” Hank said. “Miss Owens? Good luck tomorrow!” He tipped his hat and exited the store. Hank was sure he’d shocked Della—first with his fib about who he was, and later with his fondness for caring about the welfare of someone from the wrong side of town and frequently ignored by others. But he didn’t mind throwing people for a loop now and then. It helped him weed out those who were only nice to his face from anyone who could appreciate and accept that every man is imperfect—and deserving of more than a superficial smile and a handshake.
As he went on his way that morning, Hank couldn’t get the beautiful—and willful—Miss Owens, out of his mind. He felt there was much more to her than she revealed this morning, but what she did say both intrigued and excited him.
Chapter 5
Before she’d even met him, Della had conjured up a plan about how she would interact with Hank Hensley. She would be polite, make the proper introductions, and then never speak to him again unless it was regarding the business of the General Store. She had no intention of befriending such a scoundrel—a man capable of imbibing sinful drinks and gambling away his money in the company of vulgar individuals. The fact that he’d lied to her the second he met her confirmed her decision to keep him at arm’s length.
Della hated being caught off guard and made a fool of—and she hoped she never had to spend another minute talking to that rogue again. It had kept her awake all night—the way her heart had skipped a beat when he first entered the General Store. For a moment, she had hoped it was Milton Tidwell, come to call and welcome her to town. Her first impression was that he was more than she could have asked for—a well refined man whose physical attributes matched the level of his intellect.
When he removed his hat as he entered the General Store, Della immediately noticed the thick, tousled brown hair matched his well-groomed mustache. Beyond that, Della was embarrassed to admit to herself that she took in his muscular frame straining at his clothing and the way his chocolate brown eyes twinkled when he looked her up and down. No one had ever looked at her that way before. It wasn’t the lecherous looks she sometimes saw when men glared at her, but more like sincere admiration for what he saw.
Hank was well dressed but not flashy. He was definitely a western man—boots and all, but not a scruffy cowboy. He was tanned and fit, which Della found curious, considering he owned so many businesses in town and didn’t have to do any of the manual labor. His playful demeanor meant he also had a lighter side that made him spontaneous—different from many of the stuffy businessmen she encountered. Even though he was obviously successful, Della had a feeling it didn’t matter to him if plans had to be rearranged to meet his needs and desires. I might even learn to be a bit more flexible with a man who looked like Hank Hensley, Della grudgingly admitted to herself.
But, deep down, Della knew she would never be content with a man who disregarded all the rules of society. Her initial response when he revealed his true identity was disappointment, then repulsion. But she was also extremely upset that she’d been in town two whole days and her intended husband had made no effort to check on her well-being. That’s what today is for. He’s probably busy tying up loose ends so he can devote more time to me after we meet, she thought.
“Girls!” Roy said as he knocked on the door to Della and Mary’s room. “Time to get up. We leave for church in half an hour.” Della was already awake, but Mary had just opened her eyes.
“Good morning!” Mary said as she crawled out of bed, stretched and began feeling her way around the room t
o get dressed.
“Good morning, Mary,” Della said.
“You excited for church today?” Mary asked. “You get to meet Milton!” Her tone was teasing, but in a playful way—one that Della could appreciate.
“Excited,” Della replied. “But also a little nervous. What do you think about Mr. Tidwell?”
“I’ve never really talked to him,” Mary explained. “He’s around a lot, but not a real friendly type.”
“Hmm,” Della said, concerned a bit about the way Mary described him.
“Oh!” Mary said, suddenly aware of how it sounded, and hoping to correct herself. “I didn’t mean he’s not friendly—only that I haven’t had a chance to witness it, that’s all. He sticks to himself a lot. Maybe that’s why he needs you—to help him come out of his shell.”
Now that was an answer Della could appreciate. She’d always been the type of person who could talk to anyone, say anything, and not feel out of place. If Milton needed a little support being more personable, she could certainly be there for him. That’s probably the reason he was waiting for Pastor Littlejohn to introduce us, she thought. He’s shy. Della smiled, envisioning a man with sweet dimples in his cheeks, whose bashful eyes wavered between the floor and her gaze—a pink hue coloring his face whenever their eyes would meet.