A Bride in Store

by Melissa Jagears

  Will wiped his hands on his now-damp napkin. “Sure.”

  “Then maybe you could stay for dinner?”

  Had she just asked a man to dine with her alone?

  “All right. Anything special for dessert?” He winked, a mischievous look glinting in his eyes.

  She glanced toward the kitchen to see if anyone had witnessed Will’s roguish expression. She suddenly felt as if the baker’s son had thrust her head into an oven rather than loaves of yeasty dough. “I guess a rhubarb pie isn’t what you’re hoping for?”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes on her mouth.

  She backed up and hit another chair. “Depends.” She needed to leave before she made a fool of herself in front of the baker’s son. Before Will kissed her in the middle of the bakery. Before she decided that would be all right. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  The second she opened the door, she breathed deeply, hoping the morning air would cool her face enough that passersby wouldn’t notice her flushed countenance. She marched to her store and straight to the back to find paper. After scribbling out a makeshift sign telling customers she’d be late, she hung the notice in the window. She needed to scurry across town and talk to Axel’s mother quickly if she was to have any chance of returning anywhere near her normal opening hour.

  Of course, she could visit Mrs. Langston another day, but would tomorrow be any less inconvenient? And with each passing hour, the conviction prodding her forward would be easier to ignore.

  Though clothing was more expensive than what one ought to carry in a five-and-dime, she’d offer to sell Axel’s mother’s wares in the upstairs balcony. And she’d refuse any of the profit. She didn’t need money as badly as Mrs. Langston.

  William felt Irena’s pulse. “I’m not detecting anything more worrisome than what we’ve dealt with before. Perhaps it’s a bout of melancholia.” He fingered the tincture of opium in his medical chest but couldn’t make himself pull it out. Dr. Forsythe had given Jonesey opium years ago, after he’d purged his friend—neither procedure had helped in the long run. “Maybe we need to look past medicine to whatever lifts your spirits. What might entice you to go downstairs despite the pain? Music or painting or prayers . . .”

  Irena shrugged. “The birds outside are plenty cheery. I like watching them.”

  Yet bird-watching wasn’t getting her out of bed. “There’s no one to talk to in here.”

  She laughed a little and turned sad eyes toward him. “How many visitors do you think I entertain? I can’t even get someone to lodge here unless they’re desperate.”

  “Eliza’s worried about you.”

  Irena grabbed an extra pillow and picked at the pilling. “I’m worried about me too. I just can’t shake how I feel. But it comes and goes. And the fact that my joints won’t let me walk much . . .” She stared out the window again. “It’s a shame I’ve only just met Eliza. I’ve lived my whole life pretending my condition hasn’t changed me, but it has.” She kept her focus outside the window, her voice low and rough with unshed tears. “Being shunned from the elite social circle I grew up in was difficult. I’m fifty-five now, but I’ve been gray since shortly after my pregnancy. No one wanted a gray-haired twenty-one-year-old lady with a beard and midget baby over for tea.”

  She swiped at the wetness cresting in the corner of her eye. “Then when my husband gambled everything away, I did the best I could by joining the circus, but it hurt to be seen only for the beard on my face and the boy I’d brought into the world—another sideshow attraction like me. I thought retiring here would change things. For a while I forced people to do business with me as a bearded woman until they could look past the disfigurement, but then someone new came to town and I had to do it all over again.” She sighed. “So I gave in and hid my face. I told myself it was for their sakes, not mine, but . . .”

  Will pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck. “I hope my little sister didn’t offend you when—”

  “She’s just young.” She patted his hand. “I’ve never been uncomfortable with you, but I figured that’s because you have such a great medical mind, maladies and deformities are your business. But Eliza? She’s the first person who valued me despite the one thing about me I can’t change. And now look at me.” She ran a hand through her bed-mussed hair. “I can’t find the strength to eat dinner with her.”

  “Then that’s what you need to do.” He waited until she looked at him. How many times before Eliza came had Irena taken to her bed with no one the wiser? “Do whatever it takes to get down to that table every day. Eliza’s what you need.”

  She’s what he needed too.

  Irena shook her head against the pillow, mussing her hair even more. “You got a pill that’ll convince my mind to force these fat achy legs down the stairs?”

  “No. But perhaps we could move you downstairs so you can’t use them as an excuse anymore.” He smiled, wishing she’d smile back. “I’ll pray for you too.”

  “I guess that’s the best I can get. I only wish your powders worked better for the pain.”

  “I do too.” He frowned. “You want me to call Dr. Forsythe or the new doctor?”

  “No, I trust you. You care about me, whereas those men don’t.” She indicated the door with her head. “Now, go have supper. Something tells me my presence tonight would complicate things for you anyway.” She looked pointedly at his tie and slicked-back hair.

  Should he expect difficulty? He’d been hoping for an evening of not second-guessing himself.

  Irena winked. “Get on with you. I’m tired.”

  He shouldn’t let her remain in bed, but he would quit badgering for now and check on her next week. Maybe Eliza could improve things in the meantime.

  He squeezed Irena’s hand and stood. “I’ll have Eliza bring you something. She says you’re not eating well, and that needs to stop.”

  “Just because I’m letting you doctor me doesn’t mean I’m obedient.” She rolled her eyes, a hint of orneriness gleaming in them.

  He wagged his finger and gave her the look his mother used to whenever he sassed, but Irena only closed her eyes and turned her head away.

  Collecting his medical supplies, he tried not to look as defeated as Irena. Were there any alternative treatments for melancholia in his books?

  On the way down the stairs, the scent of roasted garlic enticed him toward the dining room. But the second his foot crossed the threshold, he stopped.

  Eliza stood beside the table decked in a dark red print dress, complete with ruffles and lace and a cinched waist. She’d piled curls upon her head, one strand entangled in her pearl necklace. She cocked her head to the side. “Is everything all right?”

  His lips attempted to say yes but failed.

  “I suppose I’m too dressed up?” The color in her cheeks seemed high, whether from his staring or perhaps the reflected shade of the dress, he couldn’t tell.

  “No, you look nice.” More than nice. Should he compliment her after she’d once said she didn’t want men to notice her? But then she’d let him kiss her last night, invited him to dinner . . . “You look beautiful, actually.”

  She ducked her head a little.

  He walked over and took the vegetable platter she held in her hands. He waited for her to look up, but his stomach rumbled before she did.

  “Let me get the biscuits.” In a wink, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  He slid the food onto the center of the table beside a vase of irises. The flowers’ sweet fragrance overpowered the smell of the roast, but he wouldn’t complain. He probably wasn’t going to taste much with her sitting across from him in her new getup anyway.

  Eliza returned carrying a plate piled high with biscuits. Without waiting for him to pull out her chair, she sat.

  He huffed at being thwarted from performing that courtesy. All dressed up like that and she wasn’t going to let him be a gentleman?

  She raised her eyebrows, glanced at his seat, then pulled at her collar. He’d
not increase her discomfort by pointing out how he ought to have seated her.

  He snatched a biscuit and sat. “I’m glad I’m here.”

  “Me too.” She didn’t quite look him in the eyes. “Would you pray?”

  ———

  Will dropped his biscuit as if it were brimstone, and Eliza bowed her head.

  Quiet settled around her, then lingered. Had he fallen asleep?

  She peeked up, but his lips wriggled as if he couldn’t decide what to pray. She smiled a little before bowing her head again.

  “Lord, help Mrs. Lightfoot find hope in you. Let her not give up on life—but find joy in being loved by you just the way she is, despite her failures and deficiencies. Let me, Jonesey, and Eliza realize that too. Let us not judge ourselves by our successes or failures but according to how you judge us—redeemed and set apart for good works. Let not our weakness of mind and unbelief keep us from following your plan. Help us look to you for guidance, that we may bless others and be blessed ourselves. Amen.”

  Eliza stared at her empty plate. He hadn’t thanked God for the food, but what did that matter? She should take prayer as seriously as he—even dinnertime prayers—in which she rarely voiced more than a routine blessing.

  Just weeks ago, she’d started praying again and had prided herself for that, but her prayers were nothing more than asking God for what she wanted. And Will’s prayers were so . . . knowledgeable. He probably read his Bible every day too. She’d felt as if she hadn’t the time now that God had given her what she wanted . . . not that she’d read daily before she’d had the store.

  Will dragged the green beans closer, and his tongue poked out to lick his lips. He stopped, the spoon hovering in midair. “I’m sorry. Did you intend to pray as well?”

  She shook her head before he could set down the serving spoon. What could she add right now that wasn’t blabbering about how she wasn’t good enough for what she had . . . or what she wanted. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Good things, I hope.” His smile grew as soft as the whipped butter.

  “Does anyone think poorly of you?” Unlike with Axel, she’d never seen anything but smiles or high regard when others talked about Will.

  His face fell. “Plenty, I think.”

  “In what way?” Would he honestly lay out his faults before her? Both of her former fiancés had done nothing but build themselves up—and neither turned out as grand as their boasts.

  “Well, my inability to get to medical school has caused some to question my intelligence. I’ve also made plenty of mistakes people believe I could’ve avoided.” He glanced up at her for a second. “No one thinks highly of a failure.”

  “I thought you just prayed we shouldn’t care about our failures.”

  He stopped chewing. “Yes, but—”

  “Maybe people are pushing you toward school not because they can’t stand to see a failure, but because they know what a success you’ll be if you do go.” Eliza grabbed the potatoes and dished herself a small mound. “Irena didn’t want to see anyone except you, though two qualified doctors reside in town.”

  “Right, two,” he mumbled through his mouthful.

  “Yes, two. Yet she chose you. She wanted your talent, your kindness—you.”

  For years, she’d fought for men to acknowledge her talent, but what about her kindness? This morning, Mrs. Langston had been excited over Eliza’s proposal to sell her clothing at the Five and Dime, but if she hadn’t been shamed by Will’s perpetual generosity, she’d never have offered. “You’re so good-natured, everyone likes you.”

  “They take advantage of me as well.” He cut a piece of meat on his plate. “At some point I need to stop worrying about others or I’ll get nowhere . . . or at least that’s what some say.”

  Yesterday she would have enthusiastically agreed, hoping he’d start insisting on payment for his doctoring, but now . . . “We need more people like you, not one less. I like that you think about others ahead of yourself.”

  And that was just one thing she liked about him. She let her chin drop onto her palm, not heeding the fact that her elbow rudely perched on the table.

  His perfect, slanted smile was another thing, and—

  “So, with Mrs. Lightfoot . . .” He grabbed the salt.

  Had he missed the warmth in her voice, the look in her eye she couldn’t help?

  “I need you to try to raise her spirits.” He kept eating.

  She blinked. Maybe it was best he hadn’t noticed her infatuation.

  You’re not good enough for him.

  And you can’t have both him and the store.

  She picked up her fork and pushed her potatoes around. “I’ve tried countless times to get her out of bed.”

  “Good, but she needs to want to get out of bed.”

  “What better way to encourage her to do so than to get her outside to feel the sun and smell the flowers?”

  “How long do you sit with her at night and talk?”

  Eliza took her time cutting a potato. He’d probably not like her answer. “I figured forcing her to eat and coaxing her out of bed was intruding enough. I am, after all, only a guest.”

  “You’re not a guest.”

  She raised a brow at him.

  “You’re the brightest spot in her life right now. She’d love to dine with you—in her room if she can’t find the strength to come down.”

  Eliza stopped chewing. Of course. After all the nice things Irena had done for her, she should have thought to eat with her upstairs without Will’s suggestion. She forced herself to finish chewing so she could swallow the shame lodged in her throat.

  “At least I’m finding dinner with you quite pleasant.” His plate was already clean.

  She sighed. Even though she’d neglected to do what any decent person would have done, he still considered her a worthy dinner companion. “Well, hopefully my apple pie will be even better.” She got up to take his empty dish. “Unless you want a second helping first?”

  “No need.” He grabbed his plate before she could. “I can clean up after myself and bring out dessert while you finish.”

  She couldn’t sit back down. “Do you always think about others more than yourself?”

  “Well, I’m always thinking about you.” He stepped closer. “Since the day you arrived actually.” He straightened, smiling mischievously. “And I thought you told me you were making rhubarb.”

  She swallowed hard. “I thought you might want something sweeter.”

  He leaned down and gave her a small peck on the crown of her head. “I’ve already tasted the sweetest thing here. Anything else would be sour in comparison.”

  “Especially since I used tart apples to make the pie.”

  His laughter made her want to bake him bitter desserts for the rest of his life.

  He set his dirty plate back on the table and grabbed both of her hands. “You know, I really don’t need pie.” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. He lowered his so slowly she couldn’t help but press forward to meet his lips.

  He merely brushed his mouth across hers and then drew back. She forced herself not to frown at such a short kiss.

  He cupped her cheek, letting his thumb run along her scar. “But I’ll get us some pie anyway.” He winked, picked up his dirty dish, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Will was very wrong about one thing.

  The privilege to have savored the sweetest thing in Kansas belonged to her.

  But if they couldn’t figure out a way for him to doctor in Salt Flatts, had she the right to kiss him at all?

  Chapter 21

  Will’s damp lower eyelids made it difficult to decipher Dr. Forsythe’s penmanship scribbled across Mrs. Lightfoot’s death certificate.

  Head affection?

  Will swiped away a tear and faced the doctor. “What’s head affection?”

  He shrugged. “She had enough exterior maladies—she likely had plenty on the inside as well.” He glanc
ed toward the door Eliza had exited in search of dry handkerchiefs. “Sometimes you don’t know what went wrong, boy, and it doesn’t help to draw things out. Besides, she’s got no family around here. It makes little difference.”

  Little difference? How could he think Mrs. Lightfoot’s death made no difference?

  “I’ve got other patients.” Dr. Forsythe scratched at his neck. “I suppose you could arrange for the undertaker and the like?”

  Although Dr. Forsythe’s indifference annoyed him, Mrs. Lightfoot would be treated with more dignity if he and Eliza saw things through. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Dr. Forsythe awkwardly patted Will’s shoulder and left him with the old woman’s body, eerily still under a faded blue sheet.

  If he hadn’t been so distracted by Eliza last night, would he have examined Mrs. Lightfoot more thoroughly and discovered what had taken her life?

  Awaiting Eliza’s return, he reviewed every disease he knew of, but nothing fit the symptoms he’d observed better than melancholia, yet that couldn’t have been her only problem—that wouldn’t have stolen her breath nor stopped her heart.

  Mrs. Lightfoot had trusted his doctoring and he’d failed.

  Since he wasn’t a doctor, he couldn’t call Dr. Forsythe’s prognosis into question. And who besides Eliza would encourage him to dig for the real cause? He’d heard enough whispers about Mrs. Lightfoot’s beard being the mark of the devil that her death might actually relieve many townsfolk.

  He rubbed his face. He needed schooling or at least more time to read his medical texts, no matter how long and arduous the process.

  Eliza’s feet dragging sounded behind him. She shuffled over to the stool where she’d silently cried as Dr. Forsythe examined Mrs. Lightfoot.

  More soundless tears cascaded down her face, but she didn’t look in his direction.

  Will reached over and took her hand. She clamped on, crushing his fingers.

  He’d have to inform the undertaker sooner rather than later, but for now, he held on tight. Nothing he could say or do would make today better, so he would let Eliza mangle his hand as long as she wanted.

  Stifling her tears, Eliza reluctantly accepted the shovel the pastor handed her. She held her shawl tight with one hand, but the wind still seeped in. Had a day in May ever been so cold? She stepped forward and got a shovelful of dirt to overturn atop Mrs. Lightfoot’s casket sunk deep in the earth.