Golden State Brides

by Keli Gwyn

  The moment the prayer ended, Mr. Rutledge released her. She put her hand in her lap and wiped it on her skirt. Even so she could still feel the warmth that had emanated from him.

  He ladled meaty stew and passed bowls to his mother and Elenora. He handed one to Tildy, who had her lips so tightly pressed together her eyes squinted. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like stew?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Then what is it?”

  She dug her teeth into her lower lip.

  “It’s all right,” Elenora said. “Mr. Rutledge asked you a question, so you may answer.”

  Tildy’s breath whooshed out. “Oh good, ’cause I thought I was going to pop. Mama said I was supposed to be seen and not heard, but it’s powerful hard for me not to talk.”

  Mr. Rutledge’s mustache twitched as though he was holding back laughter. “What are you itching to say?”

  “You do things real different than we do.”

  “You’re not used to joining hands for the blessing? We’ve always done it that way, so I didn’t think to say anything.”

  Tildy slathered her slice of warm bread with butter, her face scrunched in obvious concentration. What was going on in that active mind of hers? Whatever it was would no doubt tumble from her mouth shortly. With luck it wouldn’t be something inappropriate, as had been the case more often than Elenora liked to remember. Her daughter’s frankness had embarrassed her many a time.

  With careful movements, Tildy rested her knife on the edge of her plate. “I like the hand-holding part, even though we’ve never done that. It’s the way you talk to God.”

  Mrs. Rutledge inhaled sharply. “Why child, I understood you and your mother attend services regularly. Don’t you pray?”

  “Oh, yes. Mama does, before every meal, just like you. Other times, too. But she uses Thee’s and Thou’s and other fancy words like ‘beseech’ and ‘transgressions.’ Mr. Rutledge talked to Him like He was a friend.”

  “And speaking of transgressions…” Elenora pressed a finger to her lips.

  “But Mama, you said I—”

  “Could answer a question, not give a speech, dear.”

  Mrs. Rutledge shook her head. Not a good sign. No telling what she thought of Tildy’s upbringing. “For years I had to keep Tildy quiet. Once Jake—Once things changed, I didn’t have the heart to silence her. She’s used to considerable freedom at the table.”

  Mrs. Rutledge passed the bread to Elenora. “No harm done. While I’m not of a mind to allow children to prattle, I can’t fault her for being curious.” She smiled at Tildy. “If you have questions about prayer, Matilda, you may talk with me later. I’d be happy to tell you what I know.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Tildy cast a sideways glance at Mr. Rutledge, who gave her a sympathetic smile in return. He certainly had a knack for knowing exactly what she needed. What a pity he didn’t have a family. He’d make a fine father.

  The rest of the meal passed without incident. Mr. Rutledge regaled them with the history of the area.

  “Mud Springs?” Elenora paused with her spoon in the air. “What an unusual name. Why did the settlers choose it? Because the springs were muddy?”

  “Precisely. It’s said the spring turned brown when the miners used it to water their stock. The name was changed to El Dorado in ’55 shortly after I arrived because we realized the earlier one was unlikely to entice people to settle here.”

  Elenora scooped a peach slice. “A wise decision. I doubt I’d have been as eager to come here if that was the name.”

  His meal finished, Mr. Rutledge laid his napkin on the table. “Why did you come?”

  “Because you advertised for a partner and accepted my offer. Why do you think?”

  “I think you want something, but I’m not sure what. Or perhaps you wanted to get away from something…or someone.”

  “Son, I don’t think now is the time for this.” Mrs. Rutledge pursed her lips and inclined her head toward Tildy. “Little pitchers needn’t be filled with sour milk.”

  Elenora pushed the last bit of peach around her dish. What did he expect her to say? That she couldn’t spend another day with Pa scrutinizing her every move? That since he’d given her position to his new stepson, she refused to stay where she wasn’t wanted? That she’d scream if she had to listen to Pa’s new wife scold Tildy one more time?

  Mr. Rutledge had no right to know why she’d come or what she was thinking. He didn’t want her as a partner in his shop any more than her own father did.

  Well, she’d show Mr. Rutledge she was a woman with a backbone and brains. Her shop would attract so many of his customers that cobwebs would cover his cash drawer. He’d come crawling back, begging her forgiveness and ruining the knees of his finely tailored trousers in the process.

  She smiled at the thought. Yes. Mr. Miles Rutledge would rue the day he’d scorned her.

  The following Monday Elenora opened her shop to customers. She enjoyed a steady flow all morning. Most made a small purchase. That wasn’t the start she’d hoped for, but her cases and shelves held precious little. It would take time to expand the business.

  She returned bolts of fabric to the shelves. The women who’d been in seemed glad to see new colors and designs, but Elenora had only sold one piece. Hopefully those women who’d gone home to ask their husbands’ permission to make a purchase would be back soon.

  The bell on the door sent out its cheery ring, and she looked up to find Will Dupree’s wife in the shop. “Good morning, Mrs. Watkins. It’s a fine day for your opening, isn’t it? Have you had a chance to step out for some air?”

  “I’ve been busy, but Tildy and I are joining the Rutledges for dinner, so I’ll get a brief stroll. I do miss the long walks I used to take.”

  “I can’t imagine being inside all day. May’s milder temperatures make me eager to be outdoors tending my garden. My hands fairly itch to feel the soil. Will says the good Lord must have intended me to be a farmer’s wife.”

  Elenora brought her hands together with a clap. “Oh! You might like my new tools.” She led the way to the back of her shop where she’d planted upturned shovels, rakes, and hoes in barrels, and pulled out a spade.

  Mrs. Dupree cast a skeptical glance at the display. “I’m sure they’re fine, but Will has all of these.”

  “Yes, but his were designed by men, for men. These are for women. See how they’re smaller?”

  Mrs. Dupree examined a shovel, and her face lit up. “How clever. I must have one of these—and a hoe, too.”

  “I suppose you need to ask your husband.”

  “Will gives me pin money. Besides, what man doesn’t believe in having the best tools for the job?”

  Elenora concluded the sale and carried the implements to the door. “I appreciate your business, but what will your husband think of you supporting his friend’s competitor?”

  “Miles has enjoyed his comfortable position in El Dorado for fifteen years. It’s time we had some choices without having to make the trek to Placerville. From what I’ve heard, many of the women feel the same way, even if the men are more resistant to the idea of a female proprietor.”

  “The women have been complimentary, yes, but their handbags weren’t much lighter when they left. I have to remind myself it takes time to build a following.”

  “But you will. You must.” Mrs. Dupree grinned, revealing deep dimples in her round face. “Miles needs to see that a woman can run a mercantile as well as a man. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Elenora wished she could believe all would go well. But wishing was for children, not sensible adults. “I never intended to open my own place. I thought—My plans changed, though. I’m determined to work hard and provide a secure future for Tildy.”

  Mrs. Dupree grew serious. “I think you’re doing a fine job. I saw your daughter at Miles’s place, and she seems content. She told him a story, and his laughter filled the shop.”

  “They do get on well.” She could find no
fault in his treatment of Tildy. Tildy had put him on a pedestal the day they met, and he seemed to enjoy her company.

  Elenora opened the door and followed Mrs. Dupree onto the walkway. They stood in the shade of the wide wooden awning in front of Elenora’s shop. “At first I was concerned about the amount of time Tildy spends over there, but Mrs. Rutledge assures me her son welcomes Tildy’s visits. He doesn’t seem to mind her chatter.”

  “Miles likes children. My daughter remembers the day he got a shipment of gumdrops and gave her one of every flavor. I doubt your daughter is any trouble at all, but if she were, he’d let you know.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he would.” He’d certainly let her know she was a thorn in his side. To his credit, though, he didn’t seem upset that his mother had invited her to share the noon meal with them each day. “How old is your daughter?”

  “Constance is nine, the same age as yours, I understand. She’s been after me to have you over so she can play with Tildy.” Mrs. Dupree smiled. “I’d welcome the opportunity to get to know you better, too. I’m usually so busy on the farm that I don’t get to spend much time with a friend. Would you like to come to our place for supper Wednesday?”

  Warmth filled Elenora. A friend? How long had it been since she’d had one? Years. And a playmate for Tildy as well. “We’d be delighted. Although Tildy’s happy spending time with Mrs. Rutledge, I know she’d love to meet another girl.”

  Elenora carried the tools to Mrs. Dupree’s wagon and laid them in the bed. “Thank you again for your business, your invitation…and your support.”

  “We women must stick together.” Mrs. Dupree gave another of her heartwarming smiles, climbed aboard the seat, and took the reins. She leaned toward Elenora, tilted her head in the direction of Rutledge Mercantile, and spoke in hushed tones. “Not to spoil your morning, but Miles is on his way over, and he looks none too happy.”

  Chapter 6

  Miles doffed his hat to Pearl Dupree and followed Mrs. Watkins into her shop. He shut the door with more force than he’d intended, and the bell clanged.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing throwing business my way? I don’t need your help.”

  Her bodice rose and fell. “Mr. Rutledge, kindly remember I’m a lady and don’t appreciate men barking at me. If you’ll take a seat, we can discuss this as two businesspeople.” She motioned toward some stools.

  “I wasn’t barking.”

  “No?” One brow lifted, and she pressed her lips together. Pretty pink lips that twitched.

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “Only on the inside. To do otherwise would be improper.”

  “What is it you find so amusing?” Women could be so hard to figure out. All the more reason he didn’t need a female partner. Although he understood Mother most of the time, Irene had skirted around things. She’d avoided giving him direct answers if keeping him guessing would further her plans. He’d rarely known where he stood with her.

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Why must you be so…so…female?”

  She planted herself on one of the stools and made a show of smoothing her skirt and fluffing her lacy collar. What next? A fan to flit before her dancing eyes? When Mrs. Watkins dropped her guardedness, she could be almost charming. He forced a cough into his closed hand.

  The light left her eyes, and she stared into his. For a small woman, she put on an impressive show of force. “I believe you came to lodge another complaint against me, Mr. Rutledge. What have I done this time?”

  How refreshing. A woman who didn’t keep him guessing. He seated himself on the stool next to hers and hooked his heels on the bottom rung. “Mr. Willow bought a spade from me this morning.”

  “Good. A sale is always welcome, is it not?”

  “He came here first. Why didn’t you show him yours? I know you have them, because Pearl just left with one.”

  Mrs. Watkins stood. “Come with me, please.” As she passed, the scent of rose water made him smile. She liked roses, did she?

  He followed her to the rear of the shop, where barrels sat on either side of a doorway leading to her back room. What lay beyond that flowery curtain? Order, no doubt.

  “Here.” She held out a shovel, blade up.

  He spun the tool around and held it in working position. “What’s wrong with this? Looks like a child’s plaything. Is the manufacturer scrimping on materials?” The head was two-thirds the normal size, and the handle, with its smaller grip, was too short.

  She shook her head. “You are so…male.” She pulled the shovel from his hands, jammed it in the barrel, and flounced back to her stool.

  In the space of a few strides, he faced her once more. He stared down at her, and she stared right back, her eyes dark and her lips tight.

  “I’ve missed something. Enlighten me.”

  “Mrs. Dupree wanted the shovel and hoe because they were designed with her in mind. Don’t you see?”

  He scratched his head.

  Mrs. Watkins gave him the same long-suffering look she used on Tildy when the adventure-loving girl talked about outlaws and such. “My mother used to get a sore back after working in the garden because the tools were large and heavy. I hired Mr. MacDougall to make the shorter handles and the smithy to fashion smaller blades. Woman-sized.”

  Miles smiled as understanding dawned. “You don’t carry man-sized models, so—”

  “I sent Mr. Willow to your shop.”

  “I don’t need you to send customers my way. I’m perfectly capable of running my business without your help.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but closed it. With a hop, she left the stool, walked to her front window, and gazed at his shop. He joined her, and she produced a weak smile. “I’m well aware you don’t need my help.”

  Tildy was right. Her mother was sad. Not an “I didn’t make a sale sad,” but a bone-deep sadness that had stolen the smile from her and left tightness in its place.

  “I never intended to be standing here in my own place across the street from yours. I don’t wish you ill, Mr. Rutledge. I’ve done my best not to carry the same things you do, which isn’t easy, since you have a shop brimming with merchandise.”

  “Indeed I do. I’ve been at this a long time and have the loyalty of the townspeople.” The sooner she accepted the truth, the better. If she boarded the next train out of town, she’d have a chance of escaping with some of her money. If not, she stood to lose it all in her valiant attempt to compete with him. Those were the facts, pure and simple.

  Mrs. Watkins shifted her attention to her shop with its scanty wares. “You’ve proven yourself, but I have a long way to go. I’ve got to make this work so I can support Tildy.”

  “I understand. I have a living to make, too.”

  Her gaze bore into him, a probing look that reached a part of him long undisturbed. A part he wasn’t ready to reveal to a woman he’d known such a short time. Even if she did have the warmest brown eyes he’d ever seen.

  Elenora smothered the last bite of beef with smooth brown gravy and savored the rich taste. “Thank you for another delicious dinner, Mrs. Rutledge. Sharing your noondays is a blessing to me.”

  “And me,” Tildy added. “Mama’s cooking is so bad that Grandpa said she was as much use in the kitchen as a broken axle on a wagon. She burned the toast this morning and broke the fried eggs when she flipped them.”

  Mrs. Rutledge scowled. “Matilda, is that any way to talk about your mother?”

  Tildy lowered her head. “Sorry, Mama.”

  “It’s fine, dear. You’re right. I have a good deal to learn.”

  Mr. Rutledge lifted Tildy’s chin with a finger. “I hear you helped Mother fix dinner. That true?”

  Sunshine replaced the clouds. “I got to roll the beef balls and coat them with flour. I wanted to chop the onion, but she said she didn’t want to see me cry.”

  Mrs. Rutledge rose. “I plan to make hash tomorrow, so you may dice the potatoes…provided y
ou’ll still your tongue and concentrate on the task.” She gathered the empty plates and trundled off.

  Tildy swiveled her head, watching openmouthed until Mrs. Rutledge disappeared into her kitchen. “Mama! Did you hear that? She’s going to let me do it. I know I can. And I’ll be all kinds of careful. I’ll mind her, and I will keep quiet. I can be if I put my mind to it and swallow all the things that want to pop out.”

  Mr. Rutledge shifted his eyes from Tildy to Elenora.

  “My daughter embraces life full force and can be rather excitable, but I know she’ll be a help.”

  Tildy huffed. “Excitable, exuberant, and expressive. Those are Mama’s favorite words for me. She doesn’t know how hard I try to hold things inside, but it’s not easy.”

  Mr. Rutledge laid his napkin on the table. “I think those are admirable qualities. You have all of them and more. I’d say you’re pretty, playful, and precocious.”

  “Pretty? I like that, Mr. Rutledge, but what does precocious mean?”

  Elenora felt his gaze on her but focused on Tildy rather than stealing a glance at him. “He means you know a lot for a girl your age.”

  Tildy rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands. “I know something you don’t, Mama.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I know Mr. Rutledge plays the fiddle.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard. Sheriff Henderson told me when I dropped by the barbershop last week. He invited me to join their practice, but Mr. Rutledge and his friends play folk music, not classical pieces as I do.”

  “You could learn,” he said.

  The challenge in his voice did not escape Elenora’s notice. The thought of standing in a barn filled with farm animals, foul smells, and men who imbibed too freely held no appeal. Concert halls with plush seats and cultured audiences were more to her liking. “While you and your friends may enjoy folk music, I’ve not developed a fondness for it myself.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin, and his expressive blue eyes actually twinkled, just as his mother had described. The sight was so unexpected and delightful she had to hide her own grin behind her napkin.