by Keli Gwyn
Hank asked Will about his new horse. Miles closed his eyes and hoped Abe concentrated fully on the shave.
Minutes later a gentle breeze from the open door fluttered the cloth covering Miles. He inhaled deeply, relishing the woodsy smell of the shaving soap. Will had a point. The right woman could be an asset. Pearl proved that. But the wrong one could threaten to crush a man’s spirit.
Miles’s stomach clenched. Irene had acted interested in him and his business before they wed. As eager as he’d been to marry and have a family, he’d overlooked her tendency to talk about balls, teas, and such things. It hadn’t taken long to see that all she cared about was her social calendar. Even the arrival of their precious little girl hadn’t been enough to keep her home. She’d been at a soiree when the fire had—
No! He didn’t need another woman to complicate his life, especially one certain to tell him how to run his shop. Mother did more than enough of that. But he didn’t need a competitor either.
Like as not, though, Mrs. Watkins wouldn’t last long. Women were fickle creatures. Irene had spent the first three months of their marriage playing the role of an adoring wife, but she’d soon grown bored. From then on she’d spent more time with her friends than with him. From what he could see, she’d viewed their marriage as a means to an end. She was happy as long as he kept her reticule filled with cash and served as an escort when she required one. He’d dismissed his doubts and rushed into the marriage, and his haste had cost him dearly. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Abe wiped the last of the shaving soap from Miles’s face, spun the chair toward the back of the shop, and began the cut. The shears clicked as he worked.
Miles did his best to appear interested as Hank described the capture of a bank robber he’d been party to in his days as a deputy up in Auburn. Although they’d all heard the story a hundred times, that never stopped him.
“And one day I’ll round up another as ruthless as Baby Face Cain, or my name’s not Hank Henderson.”
Miles spoke, careful not to move his head as Abe made his finishing touches. “That reminds me. Tildy said someone tried to hold up the stage on their way into town, but the Talbot twins ran him off. You hear about that, Hank?”
“When Wally was here a few days back, he mentioned the skinny feller and his big black horse, but I haven’t heard a word since. I figure him for a vagrant who’s moved on.”
“I told Tildy not to expect to see him again, but she’s got a hankerin’ for adventure.” Miles chuckled.
Abe reached for his hand mirror. “That mite’s wearin’ a rut between her ma’s shop and yours. I seen her go back and forth two, three times a day. Wouldn’t have her workin’ as your spy, would you?”
Miles grabbed the mirror, pointed it at the barber, and issued a playful reproach. “Why Abe Fitzsimmons, in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard such nonsense come out of your mouth. I don’t need a spy. Mother keeps me well informed about what’s happening in town—especially the goings-on across the street from the Mercantile. But Tildy did say her mama asks about my shipments.”
Footfalls on the walkway came closer and stopped. Abe’s next customer no doubt.
Miles examined the cut. “Good for another week. And now I’ll leave you three to your chin wagging, but let me assure you the woman in question poses no threat. She’ll make her noble attempt, lose her money, and take the next train back to Omaha in no time. You’ll see.”
A familiar female voice replied. “Is that so?”
Miles shifted the mirror so he could see the woman behind him, who wore a pretty purple dress and a sour expression, and groaned inwardly.
Mrs. Watkins.
Chapter 5
Will and Hank leaped to their feet. Miles yanked off the sheet covering him and flung it in the barber’s chair. He stood and faced Mrs. Watkins.
No one said a word for the better part of a minute. Time seemed to stand still as she stared at him, her face free of emotion. Irene would have tossed out a sharp retort and stormed off. But Mrs. Watkins stood there unblinking, unmoving.
Abe picked up the sheet and folded it slowly and precisely.
Hank found his voice first and made a feeble attempt to ease the tension. He cleared his throat. “Fancy you stopping by, ma’am. We were just talking about you.”
“So I gathered.”
A red flush spread over Hank’s neck. “Earlier, I mean. W–we were talking about you and your violin.”
She shifted her gaze to him, a flicker of surprise the first sign of her feelings. “My violin, Sheriff Henderson? Whatever for?”
“The fellows and I—” Hank clutched his Stetson. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Watkins. I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Fitzsimmons and Mr. Dupree. Let me do this up proper.” He completed the introductions, despite his obvious discomfort. The chink in Hank’s armor was womenfolk. The longtime bachelor turned to mush when a member of the fairer sex paid him attention.
As if she sensed Hank’s discomfort, Mrs. Watkins thanked him for his service and gave him a rare smile, warm but without any sign of attraction. He released the death grip on his hat.
She shifted her attention to the portly barber. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“Abe, ma’am. Just plain ol’ Abe. It’s what everyone calls me. Fitzsimmons is enough to tangle a tongue.”
“Abe then. And Mr. Dupree.” She nodded at Will. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your wife stopped by my shop one day when I had the door ajar. She’s a fine lady.”
Will grinned. “That she is. Pearl told me you’d spoken.”
“Now that we’ve attended to the niceties, Mrs. Watkins,” Hank continued, “what I wanted to say was that if you’d like to join us tonight for our informal music practice, we’d welcome you. We meet here at Abe’s at half past seven every Tuesday.”
Mrs. Watkins looked from one man to the next with the exception of Miles, understandably wary. It wasn’t every day a group of men extended a woman such an offer. If she thought the others shared the dim view of her prospects she’d heard him express, she had every right to doubt their sincerity.
“What do you play?” she asked Hank.
“I play the cello, Abe the viola, Will one of those newfangled banjos, and Miles the fiddle.”
Her eyebrows went north, and Miles pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.
She kept her gaze on Hank. “A fiddle, you say. Do you play folk music then?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Abe volunteered, “and have a right fine time of it. Whenever you want to join us for some toe-tappin’ fun, mosey on over.”
“While I appreciate the offer, I must decline. I shall be busy with my shop, for contrary to what some believe”—she pinned Miles with a direct gaze—“I intend to make a success of it. And now I must bid you gentlemen good day, but if you could stop by my shop, Mr. Rutledge, I’d appreciate it.” She turned with a swish of her skirts and left.
Miles grabbed his coat and shoved in his arms. “Thanks for the shave and cut, Abe. And Will, that hayfork you wanted arrived.”
He strode down the walkway until he caught up with Mrs. Watkins and fell in step beside her. She said nothing and acted as though she weren’t aware of his presence. A sidelong glance gave him a glimpse of her mouth, which was set in a firm line. Not that he could blame her for being upset with him. Once again he’d tasted boot leather. He’d have to rein in that tongue of his, which was getting him in more trouble these days than it had in ages. This time, at least, he hadn’t intended her to hear him.
But he wouldn’t be ignored. “Mrs. Watkins, I’d like to know why you wanted to see me.”
She stopped so quickly he had to take two steps back. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Mr. Rutledge. I should have announced myself.”
This was more like it. She shouldn’t have listened to a private conversation. But he shouldn’t have been so outspoken either. “I’m the one who owes you an apology. I told
you the day you arrived I’m not a boor, but I’ve done little to prove that.”
Mrs. Watkins lifted wide eyes to him, but the flash of fire from before had changed to surprise or curiosity. She really was an attractive woman, despite her serious mien. If only she’d smile more often.
“Your mother and I have come up with a plan, and I’d like to tell you about it. Might we go somewhere private?”
“Sure. We can go to my shop…or yours.”
“Yours is fine. I wanted another opportunity to look at your nice selection of fabrics.” One corner of her mouth lifted in a too-brief smile, revealing dimples like her daughter’s.
Had Mrs. Watkins just teased him? He pondered that all the way to his back room, where he offered her his rolling leather desk chair and took the bentwood himself.
Her gaze swept the room. And there it was again. That hint of a smile. He hadn’t imagined it. He’d give a silver dollar for her thoughts.
She got right to the point. “It’s about Tildy.”
“Is she all right?”
Mrs. Watkins straightened the blotter on his desktop. “She’s fine. She’s with your mother.”
“At the house?”
“She’s invited Tildy to stay with her while I’m working. I’d intended to let you know sooner, but the livery wagon arrived, and I had to show the men where to put the crates. Then I sneaked a peek at the goods. Before I knew it two hours had passed.” She lined up a lead pencil with the edge of the blotter, picked up his wax seal press, and turned it over to view his initials. “I came to see you at the Mercantile, but Sammy said you get your hair cut Tuesday mornings.”
“Why was it so urgent? I don’t have a problem with Mother entertaining. She knows that.”
Mrs. Watkins replaced the press and focused on him. “Your mother didn’t invite her for a visit. She’s offered to watch Tildy for me while I work, at least until the new school term starts in the fall.”
“Since you have your own shop, I thought she’d stay with you.”
“I did, too, but she wants to play games or talk, and I have work to do. She gets bored, and your mother noticed that when she stopped by this morning. She said she could use Tildy’s help with her chores. She’ll teach her how to cook, sew, and the like, which I can’t. It’s your house though, so I thought it only fair to let you know about our arrangement before I finalize things.”
Mother had managed to get the lively girl under his roof for the better part of each day, had she? What next? “You’re asking my permission?”
“Permission? No. But I would appreciate your support of the plan. Tildy is perceptive, and I wouldn’t want her to feel unwelcome.”
“There’s no danger of that. She’s welcome in my shop and my home.”
Mrs. Watkins reached toward his sleeve as though she were going to touch him but jerked her hand back, her cheeks tinged a becoming shade of pink. “Thank you, Mr. Rutledge. I know you’re doing it for Tildy’s sake, but I’m grateful all the same.”
He fixed his eyes on her slender fingers resting on the arm of the chair. The sudden desire to place his hand over them took him by surprise. He mustn’t let Mrs. Watkins wile her way into his good graces with a display of gratitude. Mustn’t forget that she had declared herself his adversary when she decided to set up shop directly across the street from his and was doing everything in her power to succeed.
She wouldn’t, of course, but in the future he’d keep those thoughts to himself.
After several seconds she rose, swept to the curtain, and paused. “There’s one more thing.”
More? “Yes?”
“Your mother invited me to have dinner at your place each day, so I can spend time with Tildy. I was hesitant to accept the offer because it could be a bit awkward, what with us being competitors and all, but she insisted. Unless you object, I’ll be joining you…starting today.”
He clenched his teeth. That was not what he needed. Two strong women conspiring against him. A man’s home was supposed to be his sanctuary, and yet his was being invaded by the woman intent on besting him—aided and abetted by his own mother. But what could he do about it? To refuse would cast him in a bad light and prove to Mrs. Watkins that she was getting to him. “Suit yourself.”
She left. And so did his appetite.
Elenora rounded the corner half an hour later and trooped up Church Street. Although she was eager to see Tildy, the thought of facing Mr. Rutledge caused a swarm of butterflies to perform acrobatics in her stomach. He hadn’t voiced his objection to having her at his table, but he didn’t need to. His scowl had spoken for him.
If his mother hadn’t made such an irresistible offer, she wouldn’t be in this situation. But Mrs. Rutledge was right. How could a woman run a shop and get dinner? Besides—Elenora chuckled—she was a terrible cook. Pa’s housekeeper had flatly refused to have her in the kitchen, which suited her just fine since, as far as she was concerned, cooking was as appealing as mucking out a horse’s stall.
Tildy dashed down the hill toward Elenora. “I was watching for you. Oh, Mama, I like Mrs. Rutledge. She’s not nearly as scary as I thought. She’s kinda strict, and I have to mind her, but she doesn’t snap at me or tell me to be quiet all the time like Grandpa did. And she lets me help her.”
“That’s wonderful, darling.” Although she missed having Tildy around, knowing her girl was happy with the new arrangements did Elenora’s heart good.
Gravel crunched beneath their heels as Tildy preceded Elenora up the path to the cheery white house, which sat amidst a profusion of flowers. Due to her agitated state of mind on her previous visit, Elenora hadn’t noticed the riot of multicolored blooms filling the spacious yard. Mrs. Rutledge certainly had a way with plants.
The door flew open, and Mr. Rutledge stood on the threshold. Apparently he’d changed his collar since she’d last seen him, because the stray hairs and damp swipe from shaving cream she’d noticed earlier were gone. Rarely had she seen a man take such care with his appearance. His moustache arched in a perfect curve over his upper lip and was meticulously trimmed. Most men she’d waited on through the years weren’t as exacting about such things, but she rather liked the fact that Mr. Rutledge was. He was the picture of a finely groomed gentleman.
“What’s this I hear about you keeping my mother company, Tildy girl?”
“She’s watching me while Mama works. And she’s teaching me things, too. I got to open the jar of peaches, make the butter all pretty with one of her molds, and set the table. Grandpa’s housekeeper called me a nuisance and wouldn’t let me do anything like that.”
“I’m sure Mother appreciates your help. A good partner is hard to find.”
Elenora didn’t dare bite her tongue because she could cause serious damage to hers if she did so in her current state of mind. “How nice that your mother appreciates a good partner when she sees one. Not everyone does.”
He shifted his focus to Elenora. “True, but she knew what she was getting in advance.”
Before she could come up with a retort, he held out an arm to Tildy. “Shall we see what smells so good?”
Elenora followed them into the dining room to the left of the entryway. A magnificent oak sideboard and matching china cabinet with etched glass doors graced two walls. Sunlight streamed in the two windows, colliding with the crystal chandelier and splashing shimmering streaks of color across the walls.
“There you are.” Mrs. Rutledge stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “I’m so glad you agreed to join us, Mrs. Watkins. And you’re home right on time, son. You must’ve smelled the food, as usual.”
“I did. And it smells delicious.” He kissed her cheek.
Mr. Rutledge seated Tildy on one side of the rectangular table and Elenora across from her. “I’ll help Mother carry things in, and we’ll be ready.”
Elenora ran a finger around the gold-edged rim of the dinner plate. The quality and clarity of the bright white porcelain surpassed any she’d ever used. This had t
o have been a recent purchase because the pattern was Haviland’s Moss Rose, one that had just been released. She’d processed a special order for it at the request of one of Pa’s customers in Omaha. Mrs. Rutledge must have admired it as well, likely because of her interest in flowers. “Do be careful when you’re handling these dishes, Tildy. They’re much fancier than the ones you’re used to.”
Mr. Rutledge returned bearing a large tureen with steam wafting from it. “There’s no need to worry. We use these dishes every day, so I ordered extra place settings.”
How nice it must be to surround oneself with such fine things. Pa’s shop had provided them with a decent place to live, but his furnishings weren’t nearly as lavish as those Mr. Rutledge had. He’d obviously done well for himself.
She would work hard and see that some of the townspeople’s money flowed her way. In time she’d have a home as lovely as this one. What fun it would be to write Pa and tell him about her success. He might regret his decision to cast her aside then.
The loaf of golden-brown bread Mrs. Rutledge carried made Elenora’s mouth water. The older woman surveyed the table. “If you’ll bring in the peaches, son, we’ll be all set.” She eased herself into the chair on Elenora’s right.
He returned with the fruit and took his place at the head of the table opposite his mother. “Let’s give thanks.”
He and Mrs. Rutledge extended their hands toward Elenora and Tildy. Her daughter shot her a silent plea for direction. Elenora nodded and followed the lead of their host and hostess. She had no trouble accepting the hand Mrs. Rutledge offered, but taking her son’s was another matter. All she could think of was that lame excuse for a handshake he’d given her at the stagecoach. Propriety demanded she comply, but she certainly didn’t want to.
Mr. Rutledge’s deep, rich voice filled the room. “Dear Lord, thank You for the food we’re about to receive, and bless the hands that prepared it. Be with our guests as they settle in and learn about life in the West. In Your precious name, amen.”