“You could have asked for help. I’m at least six inches taller than you, and you know we have a ladder, because I’ve seen you use it—a lot.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Why talk about helping me instead of just doing so?”
He rolled his eyes and grabbed the pillow without looking at it.
Rrrriiiiippppp.
A small shower of feathers floated to her feet.
“Hmmmm.” She refused to laugh because he was still so rigidly cold, but her lips quivered in an attempt to keep from smiling.
He batted at the pillow, attempting to pop it off of whatever was hanging it up, but the casing ripped farther, and more down fluffed out. “What is it stuck on?”
“Maybe we should get the—”
Then with a loud rip, a cloud of white poofed, and Will stood frowning with a nearly empty pillow in his hands amidst a fluffy blizzard.
She held a hand over her brows to keep the feathers from catching on her eyelashes and puffed at the ones trying to find shelter in her mouth.
Will sneezed. A rather small sneeze for a man. His hand came up to his nose, and he leaned his head back for another sneeze, sure to be more intense.
Pew! His face contorted as if the mouse squeak he’d let out rivaled musket fire.
Laughter rolled out from the bottom of her gut. She couldn’t help it.
He loosed three more petite sneezes in a row, and a tear trickled from one of his eyes. His scowl only made the dam holding back her merriment break wider. He ruffled his hair to extricate the feathers, but his nose wrinkled again, and he let out another pitiful sneeze.
She pressed hard on her abdomen, hoping to stop laughing enough to take a deep breath, lest she faint for lack of air. Her tightly laced corset helped not one bit.
Though a pillow making a grown man cry was mighty funny, she knew she shouldn’t laugh. She gulped in some air to stop herself. “I wish I sneezed like you—” She accidentally snorted in an attempt to stay her laugh. “My father would have had one less thing to criticize me for.”
“They might not sound like much, but they hurt my diaphragm like the dickens.” His voice was clogged with stuffiness. He rubbed at his nose, wiped at his watery eyes, and sneezed again.
She gulped some air and swiped at the feathers on his shirt. “Surely you’ve got something in your medical box of tricks to take care of the sniffles?”
“I don’t normally get attacked by feathers.” He glanced down at her hand as she pushed his shoulder to turn him around. “Avoiding them is the best treatment.”
She beat the fluffy white bits off his back and then reached up for the ones on the top of his head. Her fingers ruffled through his hair, dislodging the feathers the way she used to remove freshly cut hair from her father’s thick mane.
Except Will’s hair was much thicker than Pa’s. And amazingly fine.
Will’s neck tensed, so she dropped her hand to his other shoulder and went back to swiping. She circled around to his front. Her hand brushed along the dark blue of his vest, his chest hard and solid beneath her fingers. Not that she should be noticing such a thing.
Eyes downcast, she kept defeathering him until every last piece of fluff was evicted. “There.” Her voice was ragged. Too ragged. She shouldn’t have tried to speak. Maybe she could blame her clogged throat on the feathers.
Silence drew her gaze upward. His eyes blinked, but nothing else moved.
She swallowed and reached out for one last feather clinging to the stubble near his cheekbone. “Now, go back to work. I’ll clean this up.”
William dragged in a rough breath and shooed away a feather floating toward him.
Should she brush off the feather she’d missed on his shirt sleeve?
William put a hand against her face, and she froze. His thumb wiped across her brow and a flicker of white floated away in her peripheral vision. He ran his hand across her hair. Not like she had his—his touch was more a caress than anything else.
His fingers grazed the side of her face, and heaven help her, her whole body shivered. He pulled a large feather away and let it drop, but didn’t watch it fall. His eyes flitted to hers for a second—bloodshot . . . and haunted.
Then his gaze slid down to her lips and stilled.
He took a step back, looked at the ground where feathers lay at their feet, and rubbed the back of his neck.
Her chest suddenly filled with air now that he’d moved away. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head but didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t move.
Was something other than feathers bothering him? Why was he withdrawing from her again? “Will, I—”
“No.” He held out his palm before stomping away, muttering something under his breath about casting down imaginations.
Nearly running into the counter, he leaned over it to grab something. “This came for you this morning.” He turned half toward her and held out a letter.
The envelope was addressed to her, the handwriting Axel’s.
Was this what was bothering Will? She studied his profile as she tore the envelope’s flap.
His jaw twitched. Was he as discombobulated as she was after she’d run her hands all over his chest?
She pulled the letter closer to her waist to read.
Eliza,
I hope you aren’t too disappointed I wasn’t there to meet you at the station and that I’m not yet back. I trust you got the letter I sent Will, but I wanted to write that my injured leg has kept me here longer than I’d hoped. It seemed doomed to infection but has taken a turn for the better. The doctor wants to keep me, but I’m not going to stay much longer—besides, Will can look after me. I’ve been off my feet for a while, with both the leg and the dizziness, but as soon as I can sit a horse, I’m leaving. I’m glad Will’s been there to help you while I’m gone—you won’t find a more decent chap in Salt Flatts.
Watch for me,
Axel
She rubbed her temple. “Axel should be here soon.” Did he include himself when he wrote that no other man in Salt Flatts was as decent as Will?
“I suspected as much.” He swiped at the feathers still clinging to his trousers. “Excuse me.” He disappeared into the back room, returning with a slicker that he buttoned as he passed. “Can you watch the store? I’m going for a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“It’s letting up.” He stalked out the door and into the drizzle.
She didn’t stop him.
Perfect. Simply perfect. She still had no idea why he was mad at her, and now she couldn’t get the feel of his hair between her fingers out of her mind.
Chapter 10
Will sank into the long-stemmed grasses beside the muddy riverbank, careful to keep the slicker beneath him. He selected a small, flat rock and whipped it across the river at a hackberry tree, chipping the bark.
What an awful soldier he’d be in a real battle.
He’d wrestled with his wayward thoughts for a week. Every time he thought of Eliza in any manner beyond a business partner, he’d started dismantling guns in his mind. Trying not to talk to or look at her had also helped.
But when she’d sent word that she was ill, he’d nearly rushed to her side, so he’d summoned every ounce of willpower to stay at the store. Mrs. Lightfoot would’ve sought help if necessary.
Will blew out a breath as he ran his hands through his hair. His jealousy over Axel finding a woman with such . . . such magnetism was something fierce if he had to ignore a sick person to keep his thoughts pure.
As Everett had said, he was in a war . . . and war was ugly.
Yet a handful of feathers had laid him low.
Her fingers combing through his hair inflamed his bullet-riddled heart. With every swipe of her fingers, he’d frantically searched for a reason to toss his white flag in surrender. But instead of walking away and mentally dismantling that cannon, he’d foolishly touched her. The soft velvet of her brow, the silkiness of her hair
, and the smoothness of her cheek had overpowered the battle alarm blaring inside him.
He had been so close to taking her in his arms and kissing her until she forgot to breathe—
No, no, no! What was he thinking? Even here on the riverbank, a half mile from town, he couldn’t keep his thoughts in line. They were growing boldly worse. The storm clouds needed to return and drench him; cold water trickling down his collar might cool off his rebellious mind.
A good thing he’d run like Joseph from Potiphar’s wife. If not for Axel’s letter taunting him from behind the counter, he would’ve made a very, very bad decision.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then stared at the moist earth between his feet. The smell of wet moss and mud glistening under the sudden-appearing sun should have been calming. But nothing could soothe him at the present.
“Will?”
The familiar feminine voice behind him ran shivers across his exposed neck. What more could go wrong with this day? He turned with a sigh.
The strawberry-blond curls around her face blew gently in the breeze as she collapsed her umbrella. Her smile was tentative. “Surprised to see me?”
Surprised? He’d expected Nancy would visit her parents occasionally, but to seek him out . . . in a muddy meadow? He glanced at the young girl holding her hand. The child, six or seven, couldn’t weigh much more than a four-year-old if he wrung the muddy water from her hem. “I thought I’d hear about your return before I saw you.”
Nancy nodded solemnly. “I asked Mother to refrain from announcing my arrival until I found you. Though I figured I shouldn’t wait more than a day or two in case she couldn’t keep from spreading the news.” She took one step forward. “Mind if we join you?”
Of course he minded, but he couldn’t say that. He stood, shrugged off his slicker, and laid it atop a thick mound of grass.
She lowered herself onto his coat and tucked the little girl into her lap. “When I saw you walking this way, I figured you might have come looking for plants.”
“Not in this rain.” He yanked out a nearby yarrow plant, root and all, then wedged himself into the damp, V-shaped trunk of a cottonwood tree. This meadow always held plenty of chamomile, coneflower, plantain, and other plants. He stopped rolling the wet leaves in his hand lest the pungent aroma seep into his skin and stay there.
He looked at the little girl again. Nancy had fallen in love with a widower’s children and given up waiting on him to get his life in order. So where was her husband and the rest of his brood? “Who’s this?”
“Millicent.” She tucked an arm tighter around the pale-faced girl. “Ma says you haven’t gone to school yet, but you’ll help if someone’s desperate enough. Seems you haven’t changed.” She gave him a flicker of a smile, though at the moment, he didn’t feel like smiling with her. “I could use some advice.”
He tore off the yarrow’s feathery leaf and massacred the smelly thing between his fingers. “You should talk to Forsythe.”
“The doctor in Wichita couldn’t help, and he was much like Dr. Forsythe.”
“You know perfectly well why I shouldn’t help anyone until I get proper training.” Killing a sister and dooming the other to a life of suffering should make anyone distrust his advice. “I haven’t saved enough to get to school yet. I’m trying, but it takes time.” Something she hadn’t been willing to give him.
She ducked her head and picked at some imaginary thing on her sleeve, the wan little girl trembling on her lap.
He sighed. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do my best.”
“A reoccurring fever still gets the best of Millie every now and then.” She rested her chin on top of her daughter’s head. “She’s fine at present, but every few weeks she’s in bed with aches and fevers, and each time I think I’m going to lose her all over again.”
He wedged himself tighter into the tree and waited.
“My husband and his three boys died from the same fever last year—a month after we wed. Millicent survived, though. My in-laws encouraged me to try every doctor. I’ve used everything you taught me about wild flowers and such, but . . .”
She turned slightly dewy eyes toward him. “I know now how crippling the pain of losing someone under your care feels. Especially after you lose one after the other . . . after the other . . .” Nancy turned her face away and sniffed.
The little girl’s haunted eyes blinked at him.
So desperation had driven them into the rain after him. “I’m truly sorry.”
The way Nancy held the girl indicated she’d found some solace . . . and even more hardship.
“I understand you better now, wish I hadn’t been so hard on you.” Though her head still lay atop her daughter’s, her green eyes lifted and fixed on his.
“I’ve forgiven you, Nancy. Months ago.”
She took in a big breath. “Everything I’d rejected you for is something I now admire. This last year I’ve pondered why you hesitated to doctor and why you wouldn’t marry me before you went to school, and well . . .” She shrugged. “Without a husband and my savings depleted trying to cure Millie, I’ve run out of options. So I’m here permanently.”
She licked her lips and swallowed. “Maybe we could become friends again?” Her darting eyes indicated she was embarrassed to say more.
Unlike Eliza, who spoke her mind.
He knew what Nancy was thinking. How could he not after growing up with her and courting her for five years?
A destitute widow with residual feelings for him and a sick child who needed more care than a doting mother could give. They needed one thing more than any other—a protector and provider.
But he couldn’t promise anything—not yet. . . .
He stood and brushed the crushed leaves off his pants. “Let me walk you home.” He held out his hand to his former fiancée to help her up. “You can tell me about Millie’s problems on the way, and I’ll think about things you can try.” He looked Nancy in the eye. “As to anything else, give me some time.”
“Thank you.” She let her gaze drop from his. “Your thinking about it is more than I deserve.”
Eliza sat in the back of the store, not feeling like rearranging merchandise or analyzing inventory for the first time in her life. She’d just sit here as long as the gray weather kept customers away.
She picked up some gun part Will had left on the counter and rolled it between her fingers. Why had his hand grazing her cheek to swipe off a feather—and his silence—bothered her so much?
Bothered her more than an engaged woman ought to be bothered.
The ledger near her called to her restless fingers. Will hadn’t wanted her to look, but she shouldn’t be left in the dark about anything regarding the store. Axel had told her they needed help, and help she would—filling her head with numbers should easily crowd out the troubling thoughts occupying her mind.
After a half hour of scanning columns, she ended on the last page’s negative balance.
It was only a matter of time before these men failed or had to sell.
The math was done properly, but some entries seemed to be entered double or triple times. She hadn’t touched everything as she’d rearranged shelves, but sixty-five hurricane lamps? Maybe they were tucked away in the corner of the stock room, but who’d thought ordering so many was a good idea?
She flipped the book back to where Will had left it open. He’d insisted she not look in the ledgers. Either Will made awful financial decisions or he was pocketing money. . . .
No, she couldn’t believe Will capable of such a thing.
She flipped back a page. Some sections looked as if he’d simply crossed off customer debts. Did the townsfolk invent sob stories knowing Will caved easily? He failed to refuse needy patients despite his resolve not to practice. And he’d sold Mr. Harbuckle those cigars for a nickel off, just because he’d pitied the man.
Charity write-offs had to be a planned thing—otherwise both men would be needing handouts soon.<
br />
Eliza gnawed on her inner cheek. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions based on her stolen minutes with the ledgers. She needed more time—and better yet, an outsider’s opinion.
She shoved away from the desk, needing to focus on something else. Unfortunately the afternoon had been slow, despite the rain stopping. Perhaps the lingering silver-gray clouds were keeping people home. If only her future didn’t look as gloomy as the sky.
If she couldn’t get these men to follow her advice and had to fight them to change their business practices, would she be living above the store forever? If she couldn’t save the store, where would they end up?
The front door bell jangled. She left the books to attend to a heavyset man who limped in. How long did Will intend to be gone on his walk? “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Ma’am.” The customer stopped to wipe his brow, then charged right past her toward the back.
She followed. “Can I help you?”
He didn’t even look at her as he stomped toward the back counter. “Stanton?” he called.
“I’m afraid Mr. Stanton is out at the moment. Since I haven’t seen you before, you may not know I’m working here and can—”
“You’re working as a clerk?” The man turned and gave her the eye.
Did he find something wrong with that? “Yes, sir.”
“Then you can’t help me.” He set his satchel on the counter and drummed his fingers on the well-worn wood. “When will Stanton return?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know where he is?”
She had no idea where either of the men who’d muddled her life in the last weeks were. “No, but I’m sure he’ll return soon.”
“Look, I need Stanton to give me some of those weeds he grinds up for Mrs. Graves. She insists he’s cleared up her . . . afflictions, and I’ve got two others demanding I give them Stanton’s treatment.” He pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped his sweaty brow. Either the muggy afternoon was affecting him adversely, or he’d run the whole way there. “Tell him I’ll be at the barber’s.”
“You’re Dr. Forsythe?”
“Yes.” He glared at her from under bushy eyebrows. “What of it?”
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