If nothing else, she'd publish a fine pictorial of life in the west. It intrigued her as a photographer to tell the story of western life. Everything about the untamed territory called to her. The rawness of the unclaimed expanses of land, the sturdiness and character of the people, everything about it inspired Bethany to capture as much as possible before leaving.
She'd not remain in the west. Her life was back east in New York. Once she helped her parents settle and got enough pictures for a pictorial for the newspaper she worked for, she planned to return to New York. Every week, she'd send a telegram, mail some pictures to whet the editor's appetite and, hopefully, her job would remain available when she returned. The editor promised he was interested in her work and seemed to be excited about the project, but things changed constantly in the city.
She took in the small, rustic town from the hotel window. How different life was here. Although there was a lot of activity, it was nothing like the city. The scents of hay and horses intermingled with bread baking at the small restaurant next door were so different from the sometimes putrid odor in the streets of her hometown. It was a good difference; it spoke of a rustic and picturesque life.
From her vantage point she could make out several buildings. There was a saloon, a seamstress shop, a large stable, the sheriff's office and what looked to be a small bank. The dusty street bustled with activity. Horses pulled carts and buggies. A group of men rode in from the edge of town, their horses at a slow pace. People and dogs scurried out of the way when a large covered wagon careened through at an alarming speed. Bethany leaned out the window and craned her neck when noting a trio of young girls, perhaps twelve or thirteen, gathered in front of the hotel. They spoke in quick tones and covered their mouths to keep their giggles from being too obvious.
It was easy to know of whom they spoke when Mitchell Banks sauntered across the street toward the group, with a large sack on one broad shoulder. She leaned further out to see where he went.
He ambled with a steady assurance, his gait strong, and shoulders square. Although his burden seemed heavy, he managed to touch the rim of his hat at the teens who replied with bright smiles and delighted greetings. They turned to watch him enter then hurried away from the building, their excited conversation lifting to her.
The mercantile owner was quite striking, she had to admit. It had been a long time since she'd given a man more than a passing thought. But Mitchell Banks commanded her attention from the instant she first saw him.
It proved unfortunate that their first meeting had been when she'd trespassed on his land. It still piqued her that he'd not invited her to return after she complimented it and informed him of her wish to photograph the area. Perhaps she'd ask him, but then again there was plenty of open land available.
It had been a shock to see him so soon at the mercantile. Of course it was a small town and inevitable they'd meet again. Upon noticing him, she'd feigned disinterest, hoping he'd not allude to the fact they'd met earlier. It turned out he was ambivalent to her or not angry enough about the trespass to comment about it to her father.
A sigh escaped at thinking of what transpired an hour earlier. It'd been difficult to not gawk, to avoid staring at the handsome man. She'd acted overly interested in a bin of fabric to keep from making a fool of herself. Not just his good looks, something else about Mitch Banks undid her. It was the jolt that went through her each time their eyes met. Something unfamiliar fluttered in her chest.
His eyes were the color of honey and his hair a stunning golden brown. But his mouth commanded her attention the most. She was shocked that her first thought upon seeing his lips was wondering what it would feel like to kiss him. And now Mitch Banks was on the hotel premises. Did he plan to speak to her father already?
“Bethany, dear. Did you hear what I just said?” Her mother interrupted her thoughts.
“No, Mother, I'm sorry. What were you saying?”
Her mother came to the window with a wide smile. “The house I want your father to buy for us also belongs to Mitchell Banks. Mrs. Dawson told me he lives in that huge place all by himself. Strange don't you think?”
It was, but she figured it must be his family home. “He mentioned his father passed away and his mother moved east. So it must be the house they lived in. If that's the case, he may not want to sell.”
Not liking her answer, her mother turned away. “What do you think, Barnabas? I really want that house.” Her mother pouted then directed a glare at Bethany. “Bethany doesn't think he'll cooperate.”
“Of course he'll sell, my darling. Everyone and everything has a price.” Her father reached for her mother's hand and soothed her. “Now, how about we go downstairs and have a nice supper?”
He looked to Bethany. “Would you like to join us?” It struck her as odd that he didn't automatically include her in family meals. But instead, he invited her as if she were a friend of the family. A guest. And perhaps that’s all she was. “No, thank you. I think I would like to spend some time writing. I will eat one of the apples we purchased at the mercantile.”
Both of them released a breath, their lips curving in almost identical soft smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Relief?
Her mother went to fetch her shawl and her father gave Bethany a long look. “If you change your mind, please join us.”
After they left, she settled into a chair with the paper and pen she'd brought with her. She made notes about her observations since arriving in Alder Gulch. After several scribbles, she gave up, her mind returning to Mitchell Banks. How would he respond to her parents’ attempts to purchase the mercantile and his house, as well?
If she read him right, he'd refuse them on both accounts. However, her father was not one to give up easily. If anything, it would be a challenge to Barnabas, who according to her grandmother, made his money by chipping away at an opponent's resolve. She did not envy Mitchell if he declined her father's offer.
The poor man did not deserve to be blindsided. She would visit the mercantile on her own. An early morning stroll would give her ample time to observe the town and learn more about the owner of the mercantile without her father interfering. Somehow, knowing she'd see the handsome shopkeeper in the morning made her more at ease. She lifted an apple to her mouth and took a large bite.
Tomorrow, she'd speak to Mitchell Banks and give him a fighting chance. He deserved to know who he was up against.
Chapter Three
The nips at his heel made Mitch pull his leg forward. A brown pup barked up at him and sat on its haunches with an expectant air. “It was a big mistake to feed you yesterday.” Mitch continued the short walk from his house to the mercantile, the dog at his heels. Finally, he gave up trying to shoo the persistent pup away and he slowed down his gait so the small animal could keep up. Once again, Mitch studied the puppy. It seemed to be smiling as it romped alongside.
It was early yet, the sun barely over the horizon. Morning was his favorite time of day. Each morning brought promises of a new start. Daybreak was the quiet period in the town. A blessed break from the sounds of people moving about their day, loud calls of workmen and steady passing of horses, carts and buggies.
He looked forward to his usual routine of a cup of coffee and solitude in the store before customers began arriving. He always stayed late at night to make sure there was little or nothing to be done first thing in the morning.
After he pushed the double doors open, he and the pup walked into the familiar expanse. The air smelled of leather, oils and spice. Each time he entered, Mitch halfway expected to see his father behind the counter. It had only been a short time since his life had changed. His father died, his sister married and his mother moved east. In a matter of weeks, his entire family went on to whatever awaited them. Mitch, however stalled, his life not changing one bit.
He turned to lock the doors only to stop when Bethany Jones walked through the doorway.
Her bright eyes locked with his and then, once again, she looked to
the fabric bin. Mitch followed her gaze and studied the material. There was nothing of interest that he could see. Pretty much the same fabrics his mother ordered regularly. On occasion, his sister, Nora, would stop by and help choose new patterns. “My sister, Nora, chooses all the fabrics, notions and such. She's particular to blues.” He wasn't sure why he felt the need to explain, but something about the woman made him feel awkward. He rubbed his moist palms on his pants and motioned to the bin. “I'm not open yet, but feel free to look as much as you wish.”
It was as if she forced her attention back to him. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize you didn't open until later. I can return when you are settled.”
He stood between her and the fabric bin and she frowned up at him. “I was about to have a cup of coffee would you like some?”
“I would, actually.” She straightened her shoulders. “If it's not too much trouble. It's fortunate that no one is here. I came to speak with you.” She smiled and a small dimple formed on the left side of her mouth. “Is that your puppy?”
“Puppy?” A soft yelp answered for him. The dog stood beside him. “He thinks he is,” Mitch replied and bent to pick up the small animal, not sure what to do with it. He scratched behind its ears and in return, the pup licked his face.
Had Mr. Jones sent his wife to ensure the offer remained fresh on his mind? He would not deny it was a generous amount, but he wasn't sure how he felt about selling to a complete stranger.
Mitch walked with her to the counter and pulled out a tall stool for her to sit. “I'll be right back.” He went to the stove in back and set the water-filled kettle to boil and then filled a bowl with water and another with leftover stew for the puppy.
Before long, he and the lady sat in silence, drinking coffee. Mitch swallowed the bitter liquid, allowing it to chase away the fog in his head. “What do you wish to speak to me about, Mrs. Jones?”
Her eyes flew to his face and she blinked as if surprised at his question. “Miss. I am Barnabas Jones’ daughter.”
Mitch couldn't help but smile at her obvious consternation at him thinking her the older man's wife. “I apologize, but your father did not make it clear when he introduced you yesterday.”
“Of course. You're correct.” She didn't explain further, but she appeared annoyed when she let out a long breath. “Mr. Banks, I came to apologize for several things. First, my trespassing on your lands. It did not occur to me that it was private property. Land is so expansive and without fencing in these parts. I shouldn't have been so ungrateful when you helped me. Thank you for that.”
Mitch shrugged. “I was more worried about you hurting yourself than anything. You are welcome to return and take pictures if you wish.”
“Thank you. You're kind to offer,” Bethany replied with a bright smile.
Mitch was hypnotized, happy to remain there watching her expressions. “What is the other thing you feel the need to apologize about?”
She sipped from her cup. “Also, about my father's bluntness yesterday. He is a very successful businessman who is used to winning and acquiring what he sets his mind on.”
“I gathered.” Mitch wondered if this wasn't a guise to find out more information for her father. He lifted his shoulders. “Why would your father come this far to purchase a mercantile if he is so successful in New York?”
“My mother is ill. The doctors think she'll thrive out here with the dryer climate.” Bethany Jones drank coffee and he couldn't help but notice she didn't seem overly emotional but spoke matter of factly when bringing up her mother's illness. “They plan to settle here because of the railroad station just an hour ride south. My father means to travel back to New York on occasion to look after his businesses.”
“I see.” Mitch heard what she said, but his attention was on the woman's face. Her manner was so different than that of any woman he'd met. She gestured with her hands when she spoke and emphasized words with an accent he couldn't quite place. It was different than her father's. He wanted to ask her about her life and where she grew up. Did she taste the apples she'd purchased the day before?
Once again, she wore another dull gown, this time brown. He considered asking why she dressed in such a manner. Was she in some sort of mourning? Instead, he got up and refilled their cups. “What do you plan to do, Miss Jones? Are you interested in the mercantile business as well?”
Her eyes lingered on his face and then his lips until he began to fidget. Suddenly, her eyes widened and she flushed. A pretty, pink blush rose from her throat to her cheeks and she covered her mouth with her hand. “I'm sorry. I--I was lost in thought.” She inhaled and looked past him to the items on the shelves. “What did you ask, Mr. Banks?”
“Are you a businesswoman, Miss Banks?”
“I am a photojournalist, Mr. Banks. My name is Jones...Bethany Jones. Not Banks.”
Mitch blushed this time and got to his feet. “I did call you by my name, didn't I? That's a mistake I've never made. Please excuse me. I am usually alone in the mornings. Now I know why. It takes several cups of coffee before I start making sense.”
She stood and adjusted her skirts. “I should leave you to it. I better head back to the hotel. My parents will be wondering where I've taken off to. We have breakfast together in the mornings.”
“Did you need anything? More apples?” Mitch followed her to the door. She hesitated and looked to the fruits. “I'd like one, yes, please.”
Mitch went to the barrel, picked out the best looking one and handed it to Bethany. “Miss Jones. Would you tell your father that I won't accept his offer?”
Her hand flew to her chest and she held the apple as if it were a lifeline. “I prefer not to be involved, Mr. Banks.”
He leaned close to her, his eyes on her mouth. “Ah, but you are, Miss Jones. Did you not come here to speak of how important your father is? Impress me with his influence?”
“I--I came to warn you. To help you prepare...” Bethany pressed her lips together. “I won't relay your message, Mr. Banks.” She spun on her heel and rushed through the door.
Mitch watched Bethany from the doorway. She took her time walking down the street, her head turning left and right as she seemed to study each building she passed. A photojournalist. What did that mean? Did she work for a newspaper out east? There was no need in Alder Gulch for those types.
Of course, what did he know?
No matter what she did, the woman intrigued him too much. He shook his head. Best to keep his mind clear if he was going to deal with the worldly businessman, Mr. Barnabas Jones.
It occurred to him they could be some sort of criminals, the kind of people who arrived in towns and fleeced unsuspecting folks.
Chapter Four
Mitch Banks was not as unintelligent as her father thought. Bethany lifted a hand to push hair out of her face. A keen mind, he noticed even the smallest idiosyncrasies.
It was obvious he did not think highly of her. Irritated for going to the mercantile, she wondered where to go next. Her camera equipment was broken and the thought of another entire day without anything to do made her teeth clench.
She stopped beside a building and took a long breath and then lifted her right foot to inspect her boot. Something had lodged in the sole and it clacked unnaturally when she walked on wood. The wrong shoes to wear in Alder Gulch, she needed something more serviceable.
Breakfast with her parents and then perhaps she'd hire a buggy and ride to find a landscape to sketch.
“Are you all right?” The woman's voice made Bethany jump.
“Yes. I was just considering what to do with my day.”
Her statement was met with a frown. The woman who stood before her was dark haired with chocolate brown eyes. “I'm Grace Cole.” She introduced herself and smiled. “You must be new in town. I've not seen a dress like that before and your boots are quite impractical.”
Bethany liked the woman immediately. Her blunt statements made her at ease. “Bethany Jones. I'm from New York and, yes,
these boots are killing my feet.”
The pretty woman laughed. “It's best to wear more sensible shoes when out here in the west.” Her midnight hair pulled back into a loose bun, the woman's vibrant brown eyes met hers. “The seamstress’ husband makes good shoes. He's got some ready-made. If you'd like, we can walk there. My husband is with my father and they will be talking for a bit. I'll just let him know.” She motioned for Bethany to follow her to the sheriff's office. “My father is the town's sheriff.”
They entered the surprisingly large and clean office where a lean, older man sat behind a desk, while another stood next to the wall with a cup of coffee in hand. The man who stood was imposing, his face solemn when spotting her. Tall, muscular and broad shouldered, he seemed to take up more than his share of space. His bright blue eyes softened when looking at Grace’s new friend.
“This is Bethany Jones.” Grace motioned to her. “I'm taking her to the see Mr. Clark about shoes.” She went to the tall man and he placed his arm around her shoulders. “This is my husband, Ashley, and he...” She gave the older man a wide smile. “...is my handsome father, Miles Dawson.”
Both men murmured their “nice to meet yous” and Bethany nodded in return. She waited while Grace lifted to her toes and placed a kiss on her stern husband's face and then the two ladies left making their way to the seamstress’ shop.
Grace waved at some passersby. “You certainly are out and about early this morning, Bethany.”
“I just spoke to Mitchell Banks. I think he's angry with me.”
“He's angry with everyone in the mornings. Most of us know to wait until late in the morning or early afternoon if we want to ask Mitch anything. He's a good man, just not quite friendly in the mornings,” Grace replied in a breezy tone. “Don't worry. He’ll not remain angry for long. He has an easy-going nature.”
They continued to the seamstress shop where Bethany purchased practical shoes and after promising to call on Grace, she made her way back to the hotel, her old boots dangling from her hand.
Montana Blue Page 2