by Stacy Henrie
“Very well.” She offered him half a smile. “You’re forgiven.”
He dipped his head in a stoic nod, though she detected more relief in his demeanor than he was letting on. “I believe I’ve decided on what to buy. Do you happen to stock nails?”
She allowed herself to smile fully. “Of course. Which size do you need?” She swept through the opening in the counter to show him where she kept the nails inside a handful of wooden boxes. The various sizes tended to get mixed in with each other, but her customers had never complained about having to pick through several containers to find what they needed.
As he searched for the correct nails, they talked amiably about life in Idaho City, the surrounding mountains, and the spring weather. By the time Bram was finished, Tempest had nearly forgotten his remarks about her hair and the scattered papers. It had been years since she’d spoken with a handsome young man who was more interested in talking to her than he was about her family’s money.
And she greatly hoped to see more of him. Perhaps even tonight, at the party the Stanburys were hosting. She debated asking him to join them as she rang up his purchase. Would Bram think her forward, or see an invitation as her simply being neighborly?
“Seeing as you’re new in town,” she said, making a decision, “you might enjoy the musical party my friends Lydia and Calvin Stanbury are throwing this evening. Calvin is the postmaster. It’ll be a small affair, but you’ll have the opportunity to meet a few more of the townsfolk and enjoy a private performance from a visiting opera singer.”
“Are you sure your friend won’t mind one more?”
Tempest brushed another unruly curl from her eyes. “Not at all. You’d be more than welcome.”
“Then I accept,” he said, shooting another warm smile her way. “Thank you.”
Pleasure at the thought of seeing him again, and soon, wound through her as she shared the details of the party and then watched Bram exit the store. Her day, and now the upcoming evening, had taken a definitive turn for the better.
• • •
Bram charged into the street, heedless of the traffic, his bag of unneeded nails gripped inside his hand. He hadn’t expected his competition to be a woman. And certainly not one as passionate and pretty as Tempest Blakely. When she’d leapt up from behind the counter, brandishing that hammer like some fierce Roman goddess, he quite forgot his purpose in entering the store in the first place.
“Watch out,” a voice barked.
He reared back at the last minute to avoid colliding face-first with a horse and wagon. Shaking himself to alertness, he nodded apology to the driver and moved at a more sedate pace to the building across the way from the mercantile. Tempest’s mercantile. But in a matter of days it wouldn’t be the only one serving the people of Idaho City.
Pausing on the sidewalk, Bram locked his hands behind his back and gazed at his wooden building, a sight he felt certain he would never tire of. The sound of hammering rang from inside, where several craftsmen were installing more shelving.
“Do you know what’s goin’ on with the old saloon?” A scraggly-bearded man who appeared to be in his fifties came to a stop beside Bram.
“It’s being renovated,” he answered with satisfaction.
The older man’s gray eyes lit up. “Renovatin’, huh? You gonna put a new saloon in?”
Bram chuckled until he realized the man was serious. “No, it’s going to be a mercantile.”
“But we already got one.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Tempest’s store. “Even if it is run by a woman. A body can’t never have too many saloons though.”
A prick of conscience irritated Bram’s excitement at the mention of Tempest and her store. He liked her and was more than pleased to accept her invitation to her friend’s party. And yet, he had no intention of changing his plans or making his business anything less than a success. His mercantile would be the greatest in the Boise Basin—it had to be. More than his livelihood and entire life’s savings were at stake. His self-respect was too. No one admired a man who’d served as a soldier in the war but hadn’t seen a single battle. But a prosperous merchant would command respect wherever he went.
“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend.” Bram hoisted the bag of nails and slapped them into his other palm, shooting the old man a grim smile. “But the old mercantile is about to meet her match.”
Chapter 2
Tempest knocked on Lydia’s door, then smoothed a hand over the waist of her blue silk dress. Her stomach roiled a bit with nerves and excitement. Would Bram come as he’d promised? She shot a surreptitious gaze down the street, but she didn’t see him.
The door opened, and Lydia stood there, a warm smile on her face, her blond hair as perfectly coiffed as always. “Tempest, come in. Come in.”
Sweeping through the doorway, she embraced Lydia. “I invited one more guest,” she said, easing back. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. If she enjoys opera, she is more than welcome.” Lydia shut the door and gestured for Tempest to join the knot of guests already assembled in the parlor.
Tempest blushed. “I believe he does.”
“He?” Her friend whirled around and stared at her with wide, twinkling eyes. “Who? Where?” She linked her arm with Tempest’s and guided her to a corner of the room. Ever since Lydia had married Calvin last year, shortly after Tempest had met her, she’d been intent on matchmaking. But none of the men her friend pointed out to Tempest had stolen her breath or her attention the way Bram had, especially in so short a time.
“Well, he’s newly arrived in town.” Tempest couldn’t keep a smile from pulling at her lips. “And he came into the store earlier today. I was actually looking for my ledger again and I found it under my hammer. So I lifted it and . . .” Her gaze wandered over the faces of Lydia’s guests, but it stopped on a now-familiar one. Bram locked eyes with her over the glass of punch he was drinking. Tempest’s pulse began to sprint.
“And?” Lydia pressed. “What about the hammer?”
Tempest leaned close to hiss, “He’s here.”
“Who?” Her friend frowned in confusion, her voice rising. “Who’s here?”
“Shh. The man I’ve been telling you about. He’s over there talking to Calvin.”
Lydia glanced in the men’s direction, but instead of grinning, her consternation increased. “That can’t be him.”
Tempest turned to face her friend. “But it is. That’s Bram Wakeman. I met him earlier today and invited him to the party.” She threw another look at Bram. “He’s really quite charming and likes the name Tempest, even though he did say it fit me. Something about my hair and the mess I’d made—”
“Tempest,” Lydia said in a low voice as she squeezed her arm. “Do you know who Mr. Wakeman is?”
Their conversation was growing more puzzling and irritating by the moment. “Of course I know who he is. He’s the man I met today who is new in town and who I invited to come this evening.”
“I think you’d better sit down.”
“Lydia, what’s going on?” she asked as her friend steered her toward a chair, away from Bram, and practically pushed Tempest into it. She crashed onto the velvet seat with a huff. “What is the matter with Mr. Wakeman and how can you possibly know him?”
Wringing her hands, Lydia shot a glance at the men. “I only met him tonight, but Calvin met him this afternoon. He invited him to the party and Mr. Wakeman said a friend of ours had already invited him. I didn’t realize that friend was you.”
Tempest shifted in the stiff chair—it had never been her favorite in Lydia’s parlor. “I don’t understand the problem.”
“Did he tell you why he’s here in Idaho City?”
She thought back over their conversation, but she couldn’t recall Bram explaining his reason for coming to town—only that he was new and not a miner. “No, he didn’t. But why ever should that—”
“He’s renovating the vacant saloon.” Lydia put a cons
oling hand on Tempest’s shoulder. “And he’s turning it into a mercantile.”
Tempest blinked, certain she hadn’t heard right. The town already had a successful mercantile—hers. There was no need for two. “Ar-are you certain? He didn’t say a thing . . .”
She moistened her dry lips as a measure of panic crept up her spine. Competition could mean the loss of profits, and a loss of profits could mean the loss of her store, and the loss of her store could mean the loss of her independence, freedom, and solitude. She’d have little choice but to return to living like a permanent houseguest in the home of one of her brothers.
“I’m so sorry,” Lydia said, her eyes snapping with the same indignation beginning to smolder deep down inside Tempest. “When Calvin asked about your store as competition, Mr. Wakeman said if Idaho City ended up with only one mercantile again, he strongly hoped it would be his.”
Her anger surged from a slow burn to all-out flames. She’d been taken in completely by his handsome looks and appealing manners. And all the while, Bram Wakeman had only been a wolf trussed up like an innocent lamb.
Tempest charged to her feet. “Excuse me, Lydia.” She set her sights on Bram’s guiltless, smiling face across the room. His nerve to accept her invitation . . .
“What are you doing?”
“Advancing on the enemy.”
• • •
Bram watched Tempest move through the small crowd with as much deadly force as her name warranted, her brown eyes as cold as frozen leaves. She knows. He’d hoped to ease her into a conversation regarding his true reason for coming to town, but it seemed Calvin’s wife had beaten him to it.
Swallowing past his suddenly parched throat, as if he hadn’t emptied his glass of punch just now, he set the cup down and made his exit from the conversation. He met Tempest halfway through her determined charge. Thankfully she’d left her hammer back at her store.
“You—you snake,” she hissed, her cheeks nearly as flushed as her hair in the firelight. “You Benedict Arnold. There I stood making a goose of myself and you going on about how you didn’t know what you wanted to buy. I ought to—”
He cut off whatever she felt she ought to do by taking her elbow gently in hand and steering her toward the door. Bram had no wish to cause a scene, especially in front of potential customers. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere, shall we?”
“Unhand me, you villainous traitor. You . . . you . . .”
“Dastardly scoundrel,” he supplied, feeling the truth of every single one of the cutting names.
She looked momentarily surprised that he would join her tirade before her expression hardened again. “Yes, that one works as well. Along with rogue, reprobate, and scalawag.”
“Don’t forget rascal, rake, and cad.”
“And ungentlemanly, dishonest, sneaky . . .”
Each word cut a little deeper and obliterated any hope he’d entertained all day for coming to know Tempest better. But then again, he’d known that wasn’t a possibility the moment he’d left her store, hadn’t he?
Calvin’s wife intercepted them as they reached the doorway, her chin tilted in defiance to him and protection for her friend. “Tempest. Mr. Wakeman. Is everything all right?”
Bram nodded stiffly. “I would simply like to speak with Tempest outside.”
“It’s all right, Lydia,” Tempest said in a limp tone. “I’ve decided to let the blackguard have his say before we never speak to each other again.”
Her friend swept aside, allowing them to pass. Bram dropped his hold on Tempest’s arm as he slipped out the front door behind her. The instant it closed she spun to face him, her countenance furious. “You were spying on me this morning. Getting the lay of the land before you made your move.”
There was no sense in denying it, though it pained him to see the hurt the moon revealed in her eyes. “Yes, I was. And it isn’t an excuse, Tempest, but I didn’t expect the mercantile to be run by a woman. You took me completely by surprise.”
“Then that makes two of us,” she countered. “I didn’t take you for a cheat when I met you this morning.”
“I’m not a cheat,” he voiced with conviction. “I had every intention of telling the store’s owner that he would have some competition and see what was not being offered to the townsfolk that I could supply.”
Tempest crossed her arms over her blue dress, one that emphasized a trim waist and heightened the color of her hair. “And yet you didn’t say a word. That is lying by omission, Mr. Wakeman.”
“Bram,” he urged, wishing to at least keep that tiny piece of familiarity between them. “And you are right. I didn’t say a thing.” He plucked at his perfectly arranged tie for a bit more air. “And for that I am sorry. I should have told you myself.”
“Don’t think because I am a woman that I’m going to make this any easier for you.” She speared him with her gaze. “This store is my life and I will not let it fail. And so it is you, Bram Wakeman”—she jabbed her finger into his chest—“who will have to bow out.”
The smile that began to form on his mouth at her passion died at hearing her words. “And don’t think that because I am a man and you are a woman that I won’t be just as fierce in making my store a success. I, too, have reasons for needing my venture to prosper.”
One eyebrow lifted in a haughty look that made Bram feel as if she were taller and looking down upon him rather than the other way around. “I’m not afraid of a little healthy competition.”
“Nor am I.”
“Good.” She moved to the door and gripped the handle, her wide skirts swinging like a bell around her hips. “Then it will not come as a surprise to you when you’re packing up your shelves and boarding up your newly opened store to return to wherever it is you came from.”
He thought of the disheveled papers and disorganized shelving he’d observed in her mercantile this morning. She greatly underestimated his natural instincts for order and business and his desire to succeed. “Then let the best storekeeper win.”
“Oh, she will,” Tempest intoned in an icy voice as she swished her way inside.
Bram took in a great gulp of night air to ease the tension, and regret, lodged in his shoulders and chest. His eyes went to the stars above. They stood as cold and distant as Tempest herself did now. He didn’t want to see her livelihood shattered, and yet, he wouldn’t back down. He and his store weren’t going anywhere.
Chapter 3
“There’s another . . . eight, nine, ten customers.” Tempest hugged her arms to her waist as she stared out the mercantile window at the commotion across the street. “If you count the little boy with his mother that makes eleven. And if she buys herself something and him some penny candy, then I would certainly count them both. Perhaps I ought to invest in more kinds of candy.” She glanced at the glass jars behind the counter.
Lydia came to stand beside her, her expression compassionate. “Tempest, I know this is difficult. And perhaps it’s best not to count the number of people going into Mr. Wakeman’s store.”
“But I’ve only had four customers this morning, Lydia. And he”—she motioned toward the other store, where another woman slipped inside—“has had twelve.”
Linking her arm with Tempest’s, Lydia gently steered her away from the window and back toward her customary spot behind the counter. “It’s his grand opening. The townsfolk will likely soon grow tired of the novelty.”
“And if they don’t?” Tempest plopped onto the stool she used to access the higher shelves, making her skirts puff up around her. A despondency she hadn’t felt since before she’d headed west bubbled up as well.
Her friend threw her an empathetic smile. “Then you will deal with that if it comes. Calvin and I still plan to only shop here and I’m sure a great many people in town will continue to do so too.”
She hoped Lydia was right, and hope was about all she had in abundance this morning. She’d managed to avoid Bram since the party the week before, but that didn’t mea
n Tempest hadn’t kept a keen eye on the goings-on across the street. Each night she’d peeled back the curtains of her two-room apartment above the mercantile and studied her competitor’s building. She’d seen the carpenters finish inside, the sign hung above the door, and the display window filled with items. And each night she’d determined not to go down without a proper fight, which meant she had no time for wallowing in self-pity.
Climbing to her feet, she bustled around the counter, then stopped. She spun in a slow circle as she examined her various wares and the full shelves.
“I know that tempestuous look,” Lydia said, tempering the teasing statement with a laugh. “What are you planning?”
Tempest put her hands on her hips. “There must be a way to draw his new customers back to my store. What do I sell that he doesn’t?”
Lydia shrugged. “I don’t know. Shall I go across the street and see?”
“Certainly not,” Tempest declared with indignation.
“Would you like to go then?”
She frowned. “Lydia, I’m not going over there.”
“Then how will you know what you have that he doesn’t?”
Scowling at the shelves before her, Tempest considered the best course of action. “On second thought, yes. Why don’t you go over?” Lydia nodded, picked up her hat from off the counter, and pinned it back onto her hair. “Just don’t be persuaded by his charm or his merchandise.” A ripple of annoyance, mostly directed at herself, accompanied her words. How foolish she’d been to fall for his polite manners and feigned interest.
A glint of humor and determination lit Lydia’s blue-gray eyes. “I assure you, I am quite immune to both.”