Golden State Brides

by Keli Gwyn

  Twin furrows creased his broad forehead, reminding her of the endless stretch of rails she’d traveled to reach him. He paced, not an easy task given the many obstacles in his path.

  Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight streaming through one of the back windows. Birdsong drew her eye to shrubs and trees across the alley from the shop. Beyond them stood a white clapboard house. According to what his mother had written, that would be his house.

  He returned to stand before her. His anger had faded, easing the tightness in his fine features. Yes. Very fine features indeed.

  “Ah-ha!”

  “What?”

  “You’re blushing, Mrs. Watkins.”

  Was she? Her hands flew to her warm cheeks.

  “I can understand your embarrassment. A woman doesn’t like to admit her failings.”

  “I beg your pardon. What are you talking about?”

  “You thought you could use your daughter to smooth the way. That I’d be so taken with Tildy I’d overlook your deception.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she snapped it shut with such force her teeth clacked together. “Mr. Rutledge, I do believe you’re overreacting. You strike me as a reasonable man. Won’t you allow me to explain?”

  He held out a hand. “By all means.”

  She sat, snatched one of the many fliers littering the desktop, and fanned herself. “It’s warm for spring, isn’t it?”

  “Midsixties, which is normal for this time of year.”

  “It was in the forties when we left Omaha.”

  He crossed his arms and tapped a foot. “I’m waiting.”

  She moistened her lips and took a deep breath. “I love my daughter and didn’t have the heart to restrain her. She’s been eager to meet you. I wanted to see if you could endure her chatter. Not everyone can.” Pa certainly had no tolerance for it, and his new wife even less.

  Mr. Rutledge seated himself in the bentwood chair. “Tildy is a remarkable girl. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you portray yourself as a man?”

  She laughed. “A man? Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “The letters came from E. F. Watkins.”

  “That’s correct. I learned long ago to use my initials in correspondence. Some men don’t welcome women into their enclave. I was delighted to discover you weren’t one of them.”

  He leaned back, raising the front chair legs off the floor. The man surely wasn’t thinking straight, or perhaps he didn’t consider her worth impressing, because a gentleman would never tilt back like that in a lady’s presence. “Then, you admit to—let’s soften the term—misleading me?”

  “My, but you’re persistent. To be honest, I have no earthly idea how you could have mistaken me for a man when I clearly stated I’m a widow and gave you my full name in the first letter.”

  “Elenora.”

  How lovely it sounded rolling off his tongue. Almost musical. “Yes. Elenora Francine Watkins.”

  “I, um, didn’t know until Tildy said it.”

  “How could you not have known? Unless you—”

  “Didn’t read the letters.” He ran a finger beneath his collar. “Mother offered to pen my replies, but whenever I asked to see your letters…She produced an envelope on occasion, but the letters themselves…She relayed the key facts.”

  “Surely she—” No. Mrs. Rutledge had obviously kept the information from her son. But why? It made no sense.

  The legs of his chair banged against the floor. “I think it’s time we paid my mother a visit.”

  “Moth–er!” Mr. Rutledge called.

  A tall gray-haired woman hobbled into the entry of his twostory white house. A dusting of flour covered her ample front, and she smelled of cinnamon. “Good afternoon and welcome. You must be Mrs. Watkins. I’m Maude Rutledge.” She wiped her hands on her apron, extended one to Elenora, and clasped hers firmly.

  “Yes, she’s Mrs. Watkins. A fact you neglected to mention.”

  Mrs. Rutledge swatted him on the arm. “Calm yourself, Miles. I’m sure they heard you bellow all the way down to the livery.”

  “I’d like to hear your explanation. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Tut-tut, son. I taught you better manners than that.” She turned to Elenora. “Where is your daughter, Mrs. Watkins?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but he beat her to it.

  “With Sammy. So ’fess up. Why did you deliberately withhold information from me? Or do you think I’m blind and wouldn’t notice that an attractive woman showed up instead of a man?”

  Elenora feigned interest in the braided rug. Did Mr. Rutledge realize what he’d said? Perhaps not in his agitated state. She couldn’t recall the last time a man had said she was attractive. She wasn’t, of course, but it was nice to hear him say so.

  “I never once said she was a man. I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m a God-fearing woman. Since the other candidates were men, you assumed she was a widower.”

  “And you allowed me to labor under that assumption for months. Now I understand why you were never able to locate her letters when I asked for them. But why did you do it? You may have worked in the shop, but it is my business.”

  Mrs. Rutledge shook her head and turned to Elenora. “You must be tired after your journey. I’ve got tea ready, if you’d care to join us. I’m moving slowly today—the rheumatism, you know. I’ll toddle along to the kitchen and meet you two shortly.”

  Mr. Rutledge huffed. “It’s not like you to ignore me, Mother. We need to talk about this.”

  “Don’t pay him any mind, Mrs. Watkins. He’s really an affable fellow when he doesn’t have a thorn in his pride. We’ll talk later, son.” She shuffled toward a door to their left.

  “Fine. I can wait. This way, Mrs. Watkins.” He indicated a door on their right.

  Elenora entered the parlor. With windows on two walls, the room was drenched in light. She took a seat on a floral-patterned settee, and he established himself in a large leather wing chair. Feminine touches abounded. A vase with sunny daffodils on the table. Antimacassars on the chair backs. A framed sampler over the mantel.

  Mrs. Rutledge obviously had some influence in her son’s home, but she’d gone too far meddling in his business the way she had. How could she have allowed her son to believe his new partner was a man? And for what reason? She’d better have some answers, or he wouldn’t be the only one grilling her.

  The second hand on the grandfather clock made three revolutions. With each swing of the pendulum, the tightness in Elenora’s neck and shoulders intensified. She could take the oppressive silence no longer. “I see you have a piano. Do you play?”

  “Mother does.”

  Working with this man would prove difficult, unless his mother was right. Once he dealt with his shock, perhaps he’d relax, as he had with Tildy.

  With things strained as they were, Elenora chose not to ask if he played violin. If he did, surely he’d know where to find the nearest orchestra. But she had to say something to ease the tension. “Thank you for showing my daughter such kindness. I hadn’t dared hope for such a welcome on her behalf.”

  “Contrary to what you may be thinking, I’m not a complete boor.”

  He had no idea what she was thinking, which was a good thing since her thoughts continued to follow lines rarely traveled. What was it about him that was so arresting? The graceful slope of his cheekbones? His sapphire eyes? Or the way his broad shoulders filled his tailored frock coat?

  The second hand completed two more journeys. The clock chimed three times, and Mrs. Rutledge entered, a tea tray in her hands. Her son stood and took it from her. “You should have let me carry this.”

  “I can still get around, although I’m not as spry as I once was. That’s why I’m relieved you’re here to take my place in the shop, Mrs. Watkins. Miles needs someone with more vigor than I possess—and someone who isn’t terrified to enter that mess he calls a back room.” She smiled and poured the tea.

  He took th
e cup she handed him. “I’ve been patient. Now, tell me why you kept Mrs. Watkins’s…gender a mystery.”

  Mrs. Rutledge fluttered a hand in his direction. “I didn’t think it was of consequence. She has sterling qualifications and is willing to make a tidy investment in the business. You said she sounded like the ideal person for the job. Are you going to tell me now she’s not?”

  Elenora’s hand shook, forcing her to set down her cup. What would she do if Mr. Rutledge refused to take her as his partner? Was he like Pa? Because if that were the case…

  “I can find no fault with her on those counts, but I cannot—indeed I will not—have a woman as my partner.” His firm declaration contrasted with the confusion he’d shown earlier. And why wouldn’t he look at her?

  “Miles David Rutledge, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Color flooded Mrs. Rutledge’s softly wrinkled face, and her breathing grew labored. “Are you telling me that you, who chose to set up shop in the forward-thinking state of California, are closed-minded? Why, just last week you said you wouldn’t be surprised to see Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and the other suffragists succeed in getting women the right to vote.”

  He added milk to his tea, his spoon clinking against the fine china as he stirred. “I said I expect to see it in my lifetime, yes, but I don’t think the world is ready yet. I’m certainly not prepared for a woman to have her name on the door of my shop, even one as capable as Mrs. Watkins. I can imagine the ribbing I’d get from my friends.”

  Elenora squared her shoulders. Being discounted simply because she was a woman was bad enough, but being talked about as if she weren’t there fluffed her feathers. “You needn’t concern yourself, Mr. Rutledge, for I have no intention of being your partner. You’ve made it clear I’m not welcome.”

  Mrs. Rutledge’s gaze shifted from her son to Elenora. “You don’t mean to say you’ve come all this way and changed your mind, do you? Miles was just caught off guard. He may not take kindly to surprises, but my son’s a reasonable man. Give him time.”

  Elenora studied him briefly. Although she had no doubt of his mother’s sincerity, Mr. Rutledge looked anything but approachable as he stared into the distance with his mouth clamped shut and his brows drawn together.

  “While I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Rutledge, I’m unwilling to take that chance. I have a daughter to think about and a future to plan.”

  The color drained from the older woman’s face, rendering her pallid—and far less intimidating. “What will you do?”

  “I have, as I see it, three options. I could return to Omaha, but since that would not be in my daughter’s best interest, I refuse to do so. I’m aware men still outnumber women here in California and could place a matrimonial advertisement as some have.” Was it her imagination, or had Mr. Rutledge flinched? She shook off the thought and continued.

  “However, since my primary concern is Tildy’s happiness, I’m left with one choice, one that appeals to me but may unsettle you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “And that would be?” He eyed her with apparent curiosity—and a welcome touch of concern.

  Good. Let him squirm. The thought might be ungracious, but she didn’t care. He’d find out she was not a woman willing to be easily dismissed. After dealing with Pa’s high-handed ways for thirty years, it was time she exerted herself and took a risk. She’d lived among rowdy railroad men, so she wouldn’t let one unsuccessful outlaw frighten her away. She would simply see to it that Tildy was always close at hand.

  “I did my research before I headed west and know women are able to own businesses here, so…I’ll open my own.”

  Mrs. Rutledge choked on her tea and coughed into her handkerchief. Conversation ceased until she could speak. “Where do you intend to set up shop, my dear?”

  “Since Tildy has her heart set on living in El Dorado, and since you’ve both extolled its virtues, I shall remain here. I saw a vacant building as the coach came into town—right across the street from your son’s, as a matter of fact.”

  Mr. Rutledge uttered a couple of unintelligible syllables and trained his wide blue eyes on her. The shock evident on his face gave Elenora a surge of confidence.

  A full five seconds passed before he responded. “And what type of business do you intend to run?”

  She gave him one of her most proper drawing-room smiles. “Why, a mercantile of course.”

  Chapter 3

  His mother’s eyes brightened. “Your own mercantile, Mrs. Watkins? What an…interesting idea. With your experience you’re sure to make a success of it. Wouldn’t you agree, son?”

  Miles debated how to answer. He’d be a fool to encourage Mrs. Watkins, and yet he admired her pluck. A knowledgeable and determined competitor like her could spell trouble for him, though. “You kept your father’s books, so surely you’re aware I have far more than twenty-five hundred dollars invested in the mercantile.”

  “Indeed. Pa has over four times that in his, and your shop is even larger, but I daresay it wasn’t as grand at first as it is now. I’ll start small and build my business.”

  Mother leaned forward. “You said in your letters you have a knack for buying. Tell me. What will you carry? I’d love to see new fabrics. Miles has had some of his over a year and can’t be convinced to add more until those sell.”

  “Mother! I thought you were on my side.”

  She acted as though she hadn’t heard him and kept her attention on Mrs. Watkins. “Some lighter weights would be nice. With temperatures climbing to over one hundred in the summer, lawn, batiste, or dotted Swiss would be good choices.”

  “Fabric definitely, in a variety of colors. And notions. Buttons, ribbon, and the like. I want to carry some books. I saw several ladies on the train with their noses buried in one called Little Women. Since women appreciate beauty, I’ll sell items that will be both functional as well as attractive.”

  Mrs. Watkins had struck him as rather serious, but excitement shone in her chocolate-brown eyes when the talk turned to her proposed business. When he’d met her at the stagecoach, he’d been too shocked to notice more than the fact that she was good-looking. Even in her present rumpled state, she would turn the head of any man. But there was more to her than thick brown tresses and a flawless complexion. She was a woman possessed of intelligence, ambition, and drive. A powerful combination.

  Had he been too quick to dismiss her?

  No. He couldn’t have a woman as his partner, especially one who seemed every bit as strong-minded as Irene and who had already shown she had ideas of her own—ideas that differed from his. A man would understand that a junior partner could offer suggestions, but he wouldn’t expect them to be taken. A forceful woman, on the other hand, would do or say whatever it took to get her way. Irene certainly had, and her choices had robbed him of his happiness.

  “Son, where is your head? Are you woolgathering?”

  He rubbed his temple. “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “I asked if you’d be willing to loan Mrs. Watkins some of your catalogs so she can start preparing her orders.”

  “You want me to help her set up shop? Across the street from mine?”

  Mother gave him her most schoolmarmish scowl, the one he’d dreaded as a boy. “It’s the least you can do after refusing to honor your agreement, don’t you think?”

  He massaged the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the tightness between his shoulders. Mother had never deceived him prior to this, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she had this time. She’d been aboveboard in her dealings with Father. They’d been a wonderful team, and Miles wanted what they’d had. But instead she’d kept things from him the way Irene used to.

  Well, he wouldn’t give up as easily this time. He’d press Mother for information later. For now he’d do his best to see if Mrs. Watkins was serious about opening a shop. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman to rush into something.

  “I’m beginning to get the picture. You planned t
his all along, didn’t you, Mother of mine? You’ve dropped not-so-subtle hints about wanting me to change things in the Mercantile, but I never thought you’d go to such lengths to set a fire under me.”

  He shifted his attention to the determined widow. “And tell me, Mrs. Watkins. Is opening a shop your attempt to get even with me for not handing you the key to mine?”

  She stood and pulled herself to her full height, her lips pursed and eyes flashing, every bit the affronted female ready to fling her fury his way. “Mr. Rutledge! How can you say such a thing? I would never stoop to revenge. You are forcing me to take action. If there’s any place to lay the blame, it’s at your own feet, along with your mother’s, don’t you think?”

  He shot out of his seat and returned her penetrating gaze, one that would have downed a weaker man. “After your impulsive declaration, I don’t know what to think.” A truth that galled him.

  Mother clutched the arms of her chair and rose with effort. “I think you should return to the shop, gather the catalogs, and escort Mrs. Watkins and her daughter to the hotel.”

  Get her out of his house and leave him to sort out his thoughts? A capital idea. “Where are you staying? I thought I heard you tell Wally to have your trunks delivered to the Oriental Hotel.”

  “If that’s the large white one half a block from your shop, beside the tall oak tree, yes.”

  They reached the entry. Mother stood by his side and took his arm. “No doubt you’ve had your fill of restaurant fare after your travels. Miles and I would be delighted to have you and Matilda join us for a home-cooked meal, wouldn’t we, son?” She squeezed his arm none too gently.

  He’d be rude to refuse. Besides, over supper he might be able to dissuade Mrs. Watkins from moving forward with her ill-conceived plan. Although he’d hate to see the woman lose her life savings, what with a child to provide for, she was doomed to fail. Her pitiful excuse of a shop would stand no chance against his well-established one. The townspeople were loyal to him and would be wary of an outsider.

  “Yes, the two of you may join us. I know Mother’s been eager to meet your charming daughter. And now, Mrs. Watkins, since I’m sure you’d like to freshen up after your travels, I’ll see you and Tildy to the hotel.”