Love for All Seasons

by Stacy Henrie

  Tempest watched her friend leave, then scooped up a rag with the intention to dust. But after a few swipes at one shelf, she positioned herself in front of the window again. Her current display featured a variety of smaller farming and mining implements. Bram’s window display held a rather lovely set of china dishes. Her frown increased, bringing tension to the muscles in her jaw and neck. So much for drawing more female customers to her own store.

  The sting of Bram’s betrayal pinched her anew and her eyes swam with tears. Why couldn’t he have been forthright when they’d first met? Then she wouldn’t have naively believed she’d found a man to be her friend—and maybe, in time, something more. She would have seen him as a competitor then and nothing else.

  Pressing a clean corner of her rag to her eyes, Tempest sniffed hard. There was no use wasting tears on a scoundrel like Bram Wakeman. If this was truly war, she had to keep her wits about her.

  She returned with full force to her dusting, her curls soon falling back into her eyes. At the jingle of the bells on the door handle, she leapt up from cleaning behind a barrel. She was relieved to see Lydia entering the store. “Well? What did it look like? What is he selling?”

  “It looks new,” her friend said with a chuckle, “and it’s very organized. And most of his customers, as you observed, are the women in town.”

  “Come to gawk at him or his wares?” Tempest mumbled darkly, causing Lydia to laugh harder.

  Her friend’s gaze swept the room. “He does seem to be selling quite a number of dishes and fabric. But again, I think the women will come back to one of their own when the newness wears off.”

  Tempest tapped her finger to her chin. “I can’t wait that long. There must be something I have that would reengage their attention . . .”

  Whirling around, she marched to the place where she’d set out the new combs and brushes. She picked one up and turned it one way and then the other as the light caught the lovely inlaid ivory. They’d cost her quite a sum to purchase, but she’d felt certain the women of Idaho City would appreciate owning such expensive-looking items.

  “I’ve got it.” She grabbed a nearby empty crate and went to the window. Taking everything from the display ledge, she called to Lydia over her shoulder, “Grab a piece of paper and something to write with. I need your perfect penmanship.”

  She could hear her friend rummaging for the needed articles. “What for?”

  “I am going to have a sale, on all things related to women’s hair.”

  Tempest began artfully arranging the combs and brushes while dictating to Lydia what to write. At the last moment she decided to add splashes of color to the display with a few yards of ribbon she’d ordered on a whim.

  “Here you are.” Lydia handed over the beautifully written sign with the information and price, but her expression showed dismay instead of approval. “I know what you paid for those, Tempest, and you’re not charging enough. You’ll barely make any money.”

  A smile lifted her mouth, her first real one in days. “It isn’t about the money. I need to remind the townspeople, especially the female ones, that I don’t just stock household or mining supplies.” She stepped back and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. “I can offer them refinement too. And hopefully keep them from returning to the likes of Bram Wakeman.”

  • • •

  Something wasn’t right. Bram drummed his pencil against the counter and frowned at the numbers he’d finished penning into his meticulous ledger. Yesterday’s grand opening had been a success. Customers had been frequent and all of them exclaimed over the new store and its painstaking tidiness. But he’d had far fewer people today than he’d expected. Which made little sense. The novelty of the town’s second mercantile shouldn’t have tapered off so quickly.

  The bells on the door jangled as the old man who’d hoped for another saloon ambled inside. He’d introduced himself yesterday as Potter Seymour.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Seymour,” Bram called out. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Sure, you can let me rest in here instead of outside with that gaggle of women”—he pointed across the street—“causin’ a ruckus outside Miss Blakely’s store.”

  Bram came around the counter and went to join the man near the door. Sure enough, he could see a feminine crowd gathered around the display window of Tempest’s mercantile. His uneasiness from moments ago returned full force. “What are they looking at over there?”

  “Pshaw.” Mr. Seymour waved a condemning hand at the lot. “Goin’ on and on about paying pennies for combs and brushes and wee little bits of ribbon. Stuff and nonsense.”

  Paying pennies? For combs and brushes? The agitation in his gut multiplied. He was supposed to be supplying the town with the finer things in life and not just the staples he’d observed in Tempest’s store.

  “Will you excuse me, Mr. Seymour?”

  Not waiting for the man’s reply, Bram exited the store. He paused to let two wagons roll by, and as he did, the group of women parted, giving him a clear view of what had them in such a feverish excitement. Tempest was, indeed, selling fine hair accessories for near pennies.

  “Of all the foolish business notions,” he muttered as he crossed the street.

  She’d be broke in no time, which ought to make him happy. But he didn’t feel happy; he felt annoyed. As he neared the store, understanding pierced his irritated self-righteousness. No wonder he hadn’t had many customers since yesterday afternoon, few of which had been women. Tempest had cleverly stolen his female customers.

  He marched straight past the women into the mercantile, not giving them or the display another look. A line of customers waited for Tempest and her friend Lydia to accommodate them.

  Ignoring the wait, Bram strode to the counter and plunked his fist against the worn surface. “You can’t possibly make anything on those items, Tempest,” he said in a fierce whisper. “You’ll be out of business in no time.”

  “Ah, Mr. Wakeman,” she said in a pleasant tone without slowing her movements. He guessed only he, and perhaps Lydia, caught the undercurrent of fierceness in her voice. “How is the new store working out for you?”

  “Rather well.” He bent toward her. “At least until my competitor decided to try something underhanded.”

  She slowed long enough to throw him a scolding look. “Not underhanded. I am simply weighing cost against loyalty. Something I’m quite sure you have no knowledge of.”

  Bram straightened, frustration tightening his jaw. He didn’t like to think that Tempest saw him as dishonest or unreliable, and he hated that he cared about her opinion at all. “Apparently you know nothing about me. For I prize loyalty and common sense as some of the most important virtues in business.”

  Coming to a stop before him, the counter acting as a barrier, Tempest glowered at him. “Are you implying that I have no common sense?”

  “Those prices would suggest that, yes.”

  “It’s a sale, Mr. Wakeman. Merchants have them all of the time.”

  The room felt warmer and warmer, and Bram could tell from the corner of his eye that there were several women now watching them. “You are correct, but . . .” He paused to peer directly into her eyes. They were an extraordinary color of golden brown and were a striking combination with her auburn hair. And the green dress she wore fit her figure well, showing off her fluid movements as she practically waltzed about behind the counter, reaching for this or tying up that.

  “But . . .” she echoed.

  He shook himself back to the present and plucked at his tie. “But what?”

  Her soft red lips drooped in a frown. “I don’t know what. You said I was correct, but . . .”

  “Yes.” He desperately searched his mind for what he’d been saying before foolishly getting caught up in her gaze. “You are correct about the sale, but you have also laid down a challenge. And you should know, I never back down from a challenge.”

  “Oh, good.” She smiled, though the gesture hel
d little warmth. Which was a pity. He’d rather enjoyed her real smiles the day they’d met. “I’d hoped this business between us wouldn’t be boring.”

  He gave her a grim smile in return. “It certainly won’t be. Good day, Tempest.”

  “Good day, Mr. Wakeman.”

  Turning on his heel, he moved with purpose toward the door. He could just as easily host a sale as Tempest had. Though he’d need to be strategic about what items to sell at cheaper prices. With any luck, he’d pull his straying customers back to his door.

  As he stalked to his side of the street, a plume of guilt uncurled inside him. It can’t be helped, Lord, he reasoned in silent prayer. You know what this store means to me. And we both know, I won’t give up easily.

  • • •

  The next three weeks passed in a blur of exhaustion for Tempest. True to his word, Bram had countered her sale with one of his own. It required more energy than she would have suspected to stay ahead of her competitor. Each night she found herself almost too sleepy to finish eating her supper, but she slept fitfully, her worries and the incongruous numbers in her ledger invading her dreams.

  In spite of a steady stream of people coming into the mercantile, she’d noticed a decline in the number of staple supplies she was selling. Most of her customers seemed to be buying more of the items she’d discounted than basic necessities. Were they purchasing those from Bram’s store instead of hers?

  She’d been inside his store several times now. The first to see what had so many of the townsfolk clucking. Tempest had to admit the place was rather nice with its highly polished floor and counter and the smell of new paint and leather. After that she’d gone over twice more, to retaliate at Bram for sneaking into her store when it was busy and imposing his idea of order onto the way she arranged things. She’d gotten even by meddling with his alphabetized system. And had rather enjoyed sticking the pickles by the apples and the garden implements with the bags of sugar.

  Now it was Sunday again, the third one since Bram’s unfortunate arrival in town. Tempest yawned and sat up in bed to stretch. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that if she didn’t get more sleep soon, she’d have permanent dark patches beneath her eyes.

  She swung her feet out of bed and started to rise before sinking back down. The temptation to remain home and slip back beneath her warm blankets held her captive for a moment. It would be so nice to rest, to pretend Bram, his store, and everything associated with both didn’t exist. But she wouldn’t beat him by staying in bed and she wouldn’t miss church. Her parents had raised her and her brothers to be God-loving, Sunday-service-attending people. Of course they’d also raised the four of them to be compassionate, honest, and worthy of respect too.

  A needle of guilt pierced her fatigue. Could she really call her actions of the last few weeks respectful or compassionate? Tempest let the question pinch a moment before pushing it aside. Her store meant everything to her. She would not give up living on her own or supporting herself. She would remain independent and fulfilled.

  Satisfied with herself once more, she dressed in a soft brown dress that nearly matched her eyes and ate a quick breakfast. Morning sunshine lit up the streets and surrounding mountain pines as she walked to church. The grip of winter had begun to loosen on the town. Wildflowers were pushing their way up through the dirt and the chortle of birdsong filled the air.

  Lydia and Calvin met her outside the church building and she took her customary seat beside them in their pew. Behind and to her right, she caught sight of Bram already seated and waiting for the service to begin. He looked rather dashing in his dark suit.

  Just remember, she chided herself. That handsome physique hides a black heart.

  The organist began to play and Tempest turned her attention forward. As the service wore on and the temperature in the room rose, she found herself growing increasingly sleepy. She fanned her face with her hand to stay awake, wishing she was sitting closer to one of the open windows.

  “Are you all right?” Lydia asked in a whisper.

  Tempest nodded. “Just warm and a little tired.” Her friend squeezed her free hand in a comforting gesture. Once the pastor’s sermon ended, she could return to her room above the store, hopefully for a much-needed nap. Then she’d go to her friend’s later and help Lydia and her cook prepare a delicious Sunday supper . . .

  “Love your enemies, do good to them who despitefully use you and persecute you . . .”

  The words pricked Tempest’s thoughts and she jerked upright as if she’d been stuck in the backside with a straight pin. Lydia shot her a concerned frown, which she waved off.

  What are you saying, Lord?

  The pastor laid his Bible on the stand before him and let his kind gaze sweep the audience. Tempest thought his eyes lingered on hers a moment longer than on anyone else’s. “Now, I don’t believe that God is saying when we love our enemies that we condone violent acts. What I do believe he’s saying is, ‘That person who’s offended you? Who’s gossiped about you? Who’s wronged you? Well, isn’t that the person you’ve deemed to be your enemy?’”

  Tempest squirmed in her seat, increasing the fanning action of her hand. Her cheeks felt twice as hot now.

  “Isn’t that the person God is asking you to love the most?” The entire congregation sat in silence, the pastor’s voice rolling over them like a wave of quiet strength. “To choose not to take offense by their actions, however unkind, and remember they too are children of our God. What you’re really seeing is their hurt and fear. That’s what’s spilling out in the offense, in the gossip, in the wrongdoings.”

  He paused and offered them a gentle smile. “What you need to remember then is that the second commandment is we love our neighbors as ourselves. So go spend some time with God and rediscover his love for you and your love for yourself. And then”—he waggled a finger at them for emphasis—“go show that love to your neighbor, to your enemy.”

  Flicking a glance over her shoulder, Tempest found Bram looking her way. Was he also thinking of them and their fierce competition in light of the pastor’s words? She couldn’t be sure. A frown formed on his mouth and he lowered his chin. She faced forward again, her mind swirling with thoughts.

  She’d deemed Bram as her enemy—and had felt completely justified in the act. After all, he’d intruded into her life and her store. And yet if she was supposed to love her enemies, then that would most certainly include Bram Wakeman. She thought of her actions since his arrival and felt her heart squeeze with greater guilt. She’d been petty and vindictive and hadn’t wasted much thought on what she was really doing until this morning.

  The service ended and Tempest quickly excused herself, assuring Lydia that she was indeed fine and would be by later. Outside she drew in a deep breath of the fresh air and blew it out slowly. Catching sight of Bram coming down the church steps behind her, she hurried away from the building. She wasn’t ready to see or speak to him yet. Not when she had some inward wrestling to do.

  Back in her room above the store, she pulled her Bible from a nearby table and blew off the light coating of dust. She sat in her rocking chair and found the scriptures the pastor had referenced. Tempest read them through several times, and each time she felt greater regret for her actions and greater hope for change.

  She’d taken Bram’s presence here as a personal affront to her own dreams and ambitions. And while she still wasn’t certain the town could support two mercantiles long-term, she could understand how badly he wanted to succeed, just as she did.

  “What do I do then, Lord?” She didn’t feel right about simply giving up or giving in. That wasn’t what the pastor meant. To help her store continue to thrive, she still had to work hard and invite her customers to return again and again.

  She flipped the pages of the Bible until she located the scripture in Ecclesiastes that had brought her comfort before she’d finally decided to head west on her own. “To every thing there is a season and a time to every pur
pose under the heaven,” she read out loud.

  She believed that truth, which meant there must be a purpose to this new and challenging “season” she was experiencing with Bram and his store. And even if she couldn’t decipher what the purpose might be, she wanted to act with greater compassion and integrity from now on.

  And I can do that best by not ruining Bram’s attempts at success. Their goals weren’t likely to ever match up—not when they both desired to have the most successful mercantile in Idaho City—but she could respect his tenacity and no longer treat him as an enemy.

  Her mind at peace, she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She shut them, along with the Bible, and blew out a soft sigh. And for the first time in weeks, she easily, and peacefully, drifted off.

  Chapter 4

  Bram couldn’t get yesterday’s sermon out of his mind. It couldn’t be more applicable to anyone in the congregation than himself. He’d acted abominably toward Tempest and certainly not as the gentleman he’d been raised to be. Shouldering another sack of flour from the delivery cart, he carried the load into his store and dropped it onto the burgeoning pile. Then he returned for the final sack.

  What to do now was still a matter of debate for him. He wouldn’t give up his store, and he knew for certain Tempest wouldn’t be giving up hers either. If only their clientele were different. But those who frequented Tempest’s mercantile were largely the same people he needed to come to his. Could they agree in a way to disagree? To both simply operate their stores the best they could and suspend with the battling behavior?

  He had noticed Tempest’s display window featured a new sign this morning. It was for the same items as the week before but for a slightly higher price. It could be a good omen, though he didn’t flatter himself into believing he was no longer on her blacklist.

  For all of their competition, he liked Tempest and wanted her to think well of him. She was far savvier as a business owner than most, even if she tended toward disorganization. And he hoped to earn her respect as he hadn’t yet done. He pictured how she’d looked yesterday in church, her determined demeanor softened by the open quality of her expression during the sermon and the brown dress that matched her eyes.