Golden State Brides

by Keli Gwyn

  By wearing a lightweight lawn dress she hoped to avoid another incident of heat exhaustion. She didn’t dare risk finding herself in Mr. Rutledge’s strong arms again. Her pulse had skittered like a scared rabbit when he held her. She’d practically melted when he murmured words of reassurance in a tone as soft and soothing as a mother crooning to her newborn babe.

  Or an adoring father to his beloved daughter.

  What would it be like to rest in the arms of her heavenly Father and feel His love surround her? To know she was wanted, treasured even?

  Using a stick to lift the latch, she let herself into the cemetery and scanned the well-tended grounds in search of the Rutledge plot. When she spotted a twelve-foot-tall marker with its slender marble obelisk mounted on a massive granite base, she was certain she’d found what she was after. Nestled beneath a towering cedar at the far end of the grove, the impressive monument towered over all the others. Mr. Rutledge had spared no expense. He’d obviously loved his father deeply.

  She strolled down the path to the plot, her boots making no sound on the hard-packed earth.

  As she’d suspected, the pillar belonged to Mr. Rutledge’s father. She read the inscription aloud: “Mark David Rutledge. Beloved Husband and Father. Died 1867. Aged 62 years, 7 months, 4 days. Born in New York.” Above the words an etching of a hand pointed to a Bible.

  Her gaze shifted to a pair of matching marble headstones to her left. She stepped over the low border surrounding the plot, knelt on a bed of leaves in front of the first marker, and clutched the sides of the cool slab. She blinked to clear moisture from her eyes and forced the words past the boulder lodged in her throat. “May Rose Rutledge. My Beloved Daughter. Born May 7, 1861. Died May 13, 1862.” A single rosebud had been etched above them, a poem below.

  There’s a void, a painful void,

  That nothing here can fill.

  You are home in Jesus’ arms,

  And yet my heart aches still.

  Even though she squeezed her eyes shut and took several rapid breaths, a tear trailed down her cheek. She swiped it with a sleeve, released her grip on the first stone, and moved to the next, one with no inscription or ornamentation except the showy script used for the name. “Irene Anne Rutledge. Died May 13, 1862. Aged 22 years, 2 months, 3 days.”

  He’d loved his daughter and made a public declaration of the depths of his grief, but his memorial to his wife gave no evidence of feeling. Why was that?

  A squirrel scampered through several of the plots, stopped, and rummaged through a pile of leaves in search of acorns. Another of the bushy-tailed creatures darted over and chased the first up a nearby tree, scolding loudly all the way. Elenora smiled. How silly of the animals to fight over a single nut when the ground was littered with them.

  Despite the heat, a rush of goose pimples swept over her. She’d been guilty of the same thing, doing battle with Mr. Rutledge on a daily basis. But in their case the competition was real. There were only so many customers in El Dorado, and if her business was to succeed, she had to solicit their patronage.

  She took a seat on the hard concrete border, brushed crunchy brown leaves from her skirt, and studied the plot. It could use some attention. Those she’d passed were well tended, whereas this one was littered with debris and a healthy crop of weeds. Mr. Rutledge took such care of his garden, but for some reason he’d neglected his family members’ resting place. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the decline.

  Or he didn’t visit the site.

  Her visits to Mama’s grave had brought her comfort. But if Mr. Rutledge hadn’t dealt with his heartache and found healing, the place could serve as a reminder of things he’d rather forget. That was true in Pa’s case. Once the graveside service for Mama was over, he’d never returned to the churchyard—or the church.

  Elenora tugged on an obstinate thistle. Her efforts rewarded at last, she reached for a shriveled dandelion but stopped. As much as she longed to see the plot restored to rights, the task wasn’t hers to perform.

  The front door of the mercantile banged shut, and hurried footfalls heralded Tildy’s approach. Her words rushed out between noisy puffs. “Mr. Rut…ledge, I have…something fun…to show you.”

  “Take a minute to catch your breath, Tildy girl.” Miles rested a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been racing around, haven’t you? Those cheeks of yours are looking quite rosy this morning.”

  She nodded enthusiastically, setting her braids to bouncing.

  “What did I tell you about exerting yourself when it’s so hot? I don’t want you to suffer from the heat the way your mama did.”

  A mischievous twinkle lit Tildy’s bright blue eyes. “It wasn’t so bad. You got to put your arm around her, and I think you liked it, didn’t you?”

  “I think, young lady, that you ask too many questions sometimes.”

  She grinned. “It’s true. I know it ’cause Mama says the same kind of thing when she doesn’t want to answer me. But I don’t mind, because it won’t be long before I can call you something else.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I am?” Her eyes were as big as the boiler hole on the stove he’d ordered for Mrs. Barton.

  “When you said my name a minute ago, you couldn’t get it out in one breath. So…I’m going to let you call me Mr. R. I don’t let anyone else do that. It will be your special name for me. How’s that sound?”

  She pursed her lips and folded her arms over her chest. “That’s not what I meant. I want you to be my papa. I told Mama, but she said I should be happy that you’re my friend.”

  “I believe, my young friend, that you had something you wanted me to see.”

  She perked up. “That’s right. You have to come over to Mama’s shop. She got something special just for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Uh-huh. C’mon.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the door.

  “Whoa up there. I’m not going—”

  “You have to. Please.” She tugged harder.

  “I’m not going out in public wearing my apron. I need my jacket.”

  She paced while he changed. He took a quick look in the mirror, let Sammy know where he’d be, and followed her across the street.

  Ellie had propped her door wide open, so she didn’t hear them enter. Huddled over a fashion plate in one of those women’s magazines he refused to carry, she seemed totally absorbed in Miss Crowley’s every word. An older gentleman at the back of the shop pulled out one of Ellie’s woman-sized shovels, examined it, and grinned. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

  Tildy slipped behind the counter and tugged on Ellie’s sleeve. She leaned over so Tildy could whisper in her ear, looked up, and smiled. “I’ll be with you shortly, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He popped a lemon drop in his mouth and wandered to the rear of the shop, where the gentleman studied each item intently.

  The fellow saw him, ceased his perusal of the treadle sewing machine on display, and joined him. She must have ordered more machines since their Sacramento City trip because the two that had arrived shortly after their return had been snatched up within days. One of them sat in Mother’s bedroom in a place of honor, and the grocer’s wife had the other. If Ellie had replaced both, that meant she’d sold three already.

  “Good morning. I’ve not had the pleasure. Grayson’s the name. Bartholomew Grayson.” He extended a hand.

  Miles nearly swallowed the candy. He tucked it in his cheek and shook Grayson’s hand. “Miles Rutledge.”

  For an older man, Grayson had a firm grip. He smelled of pipe tobacco and hair elixir. He’d obviously taken pains to see that his salt-and-pepper locks were in place. Evenly spaced grooves gave evidence of careful use of a comb. One gray brow rose. “You must be the owner of Rutledge Mercantile.”

  “I am. And you must be the proprietor Mrs. Watkins met in Sacramento City.”

  “The very same. I was hoping to meet you. When I stopped by your place earlier, you were out. You’ve got a
fine establishment, Mr. Rutledge. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that business seemed slow at your place while Mrs. Watkins has been wearing her bootheels down waiting on folks. Pardon me for being outspoken, but El Dorado’s a mite small to support the two of you, isn’t it? You must be feeling the pinch.”

  He wasn’t about to let this Grayson fellow know how his business was faring. “I’m doing fine.”

  Grayson clapped a hand on Miles’s shoulder. “Of course you are. You’ve been here fifteen years. She’s just getting started, although she has quite a knack for attracting customers. Folks seem eager to collect those Tildy Tokens. Clever idea, don’t you think?”

  “She’s innovative, I’ll grant you that, but I’ve got my own program going.”

  “Your clerk mentioned it, but between you and me, I think your customers are going to see through it.”

  Miles forced himself to take a deep breath and think about what he was going to say before he opened his mouth. If Ellie knew what he was doing, she’d admire his restraint. “I’m unclear exactly what you mean, Mr. Grayson. Would you be kind enough to enlighten me?” He fought the urge to smile. That had come out far better than he’d expected. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

  “The young man said that for every dollar I spent, I’d earn a Gold Country Gem, which I could cash in on selected items.” He pulled one of the collection cards from his jacket pocket with two of the ten squares bearing the image of a gold nugget from the rubber stamp Miles had ordered.

  “I see three drawbacks to your ploy. The first is the fact that you’re copying her idea. Second, I have to spend twice as much at your place to get a Gem as I do to get a Tildy Token. Mrs. Watkins gives one out every time a customer parts with four bits. You do know that, right?”

  Just what did Ellie see in this nosy fellow? “You said there were three things.”

  “Drawbacks. Yes, I did. The third is your downfall. I looked at your selection of Golden Gifts, and what you’re offering is fool’s gold. Getting a tin of axle grease or a cake of lye soap when I’ve filled my card is about as exciting as a tooth extraction. But if I were to see a fancy carved briarwood pipe or a fine leather tobacco pouch, you’d get my attention.”

  “I can’t afford to give away pricey items like that, not unless a person were willing to stockpile the cards.”

  Grayson gave him a light punch on his arm. “That’s the point, young man. Give them a reason to keep coming back. That’s what she’s doing. I heard her say that when a customer has saved ten tokens she’ll give the ten percent discount on anything, even that sewing machine.” He held out a hand to two women now examining it. “The savings might be just what it takes to convince a reluctant husband to get one for his wife. Mrs. Watkins would lose a portion of her profit on that sale, sure, but she’d still make good money. And talk about loyalty. That woman would be her customer for life.”

  This man was peskier than a swarm of aphids. Miles assumed his most commanding look, the one he reserved for cantankerous vendors. “She wouldn’t have to worry about being successful over the long term if you talk her into leaving, though, would she? But she wouldn’t be able to prove she can survive on her own either, which is very important to her. If you knew her as well as I do, you’d realize that.”

  “I would have thought you’d be eager to see her go. Your life would be a whole lot easier without the competition.”

  “I don’t want to see her rush into something and get hurt.”

  Grayson smiled. His smile wasn’t the shifty variety Miles often encountered when he visited certain disreputable wholesalers down the hill. The older man’s conveyed sincerity, much the way Abe’s did. But there was something else. Something disturbing.

  “Neither do I. But she’s capable of far more than she can achieve, given her current circumstances.” Grayson cast a glance at Ellie, who’d finished her conversation with the longtime spinster and was talking with Tildy. “I can offer her a secure future for herself and that darling girl of hers—among other things.” The admiration in his eyes wasn’t that of a father for his daughter. It was that of a man captivated by a woman—in this case one far too young for him.

  Miles crushed what was left of the lemon drop between his teeth. “Has she—”

  “No. We’re still working out the details. You’ll have to keep up the fight a little longer, son, because I don’t see her easing up. She’s got spirit.”

  He’d fight all right. And pray.

  Chapter 22

  Elenora bid Mr. Grayson farewell and turned to find Mr. Rutledge staring at her, a scowl on his face. She’d hoped he would like her new friend, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Well, she didn’t need his approval. The decision was hers to make when the time came.

  “I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting, Mr. Rutledge. Tildy’s rather eager for you to see something that just arrived.” She glanced at the two women examining the remaining sewing machine in the back of her shop and lowered her voice. “Something we think you’ll be unable to resist.”

  He rewarded her with his ready laugh, which was a decided improvement, and she caught the faint scent of lemon. “You mean you invited me here to shop? In case you haven’t noticed, I have ample wares right across the street.”

  “But you don’t have this.” Tildy pointed to a row of silver items. “A comb. See? You use one all the time, and Mama found a pretty one with a rose on it.”

  He lifted a brow and a corner of his mouth simultaneously, coming too close to a sneer for Elenora’s liking. But he’d be smiling soon, she was sure of it.

  She opened the display case, reached in, and withdrew the elegant set. She removed the pocket comb from its silver sheath and placed both items on a pad before him. With a sweep of her hand, she presented them to him.

  Several seconds passed while he stared at the beautiful implement without saying a word. Tildy pushed the black velvet square closer to him. He smiled at her. Although it wasn’t his happy smile, the one that had melted Elenora’s resistance on numerous occasions, he was making an effort.

  “Pick it up, Mr. R. Please.”

  He grasped the comb between his thumb and forefinger and acted as though he were making a thorough inspection. His smile drooped at the corners, but he was quick to restore it and nod as though impressed—which he clearly was not. He laid it down, picked up the cover, and ran a finger over the single bloom in the center.

  Tildy raced around the counter and slid to a stop beside him. “You have to turn it over.”

  “Whatever you say, Tildy girl.” He did as she requested. When he beheld the leaf-wreathed oval on the other side, his mouth fell open and his hand shook so that Elenora was grateful he had a firm grip on the expensive item.

  “He’s likes it, Mama! Didn’t I you tell he would?”

  “El—” Color crept from his crisp clean collar up his neck until his cheeks were aflame. “El…egant. It’s elegant, Mrs. Watkins.”

  “Elegant?” She had to admire him for coming up with a word to cover his blunder. Had he called her Ellie in front of Tildy, all their efforts to discourage her flights of fancy would have been for naught. Elenora couldn’t fault him for his mistake though. The blame fell on her. She should never have allowed him to call her by the nickname he’d given her, even though she felt special every time he did. She smiled.

  “Yes, quite elegant,” he said. “Would you help me out by reading it?”

  Tildy quickly complied. “It says—”

  “I’d like your mama to do it, if you don’t mind.”

  What was he up to? Perhaps this was his way of letting her know that he found the flowing script she’d chosen too feminine. The jeweler who’d engraved it for her had tried to persuade her to use a simpler font. She ought to have listened to him.

  “Here! Give it to me.” She snatched the comb cover from his hand, spun it around so the words faced him, and shoved it in front of his eyes. “Anyone can tell what it says. It’s as clear as the glass in
my new front window.” She said each word slowly and distinctly. “Miles. David. Rutledge.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Miles—” She dropped the silver sheath, which hit the soft pad and bounced. Thankfully she caught it before it struck the counter, sparing the comb cover damage.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “He…He teased me. He really could read it.” What an exasperating man. He’d tricked her into saying his Christian name and, judging by the width of his grin, was quite pleased with himself.

  “Mind if I try the comb out?”

  “Be my guest.” She held it out to him. Instead of taking the free end, he clasped it in such a way that he was practically holding her hand. The instant she was sure he had a grip on the comb, she let go.

  He sauntered to the looking glass mounted on the wall near the hat display and made an elaborate show of grooming himself, tilting his head this way and that until satisfied with his efforts. When he turned to face her with every hair in place, as had been the case when he started his playful primping, he wore his happy smile. He held up the comb. “I’ll take it!”

  The women in the back of the shop tittered. Elenora had forgotten about her customers. They might think her quite forward if she were to carry out her original plan, which was to give Mr. Rutledge the gift as a thank-you for the generosity he’d shown Tildy. After all, this was the kind of present a woman would give her intended. But since she didn’t want tongues to wag—and since he’d been so nettlesome—she’d accept his payment.

  He withdrew a money clip from his pocket, laid a banknote on the counter, and slipped the comb inside its cover. With the set clutched in his raised hand, he winked at Tildy. “You were right, my little friend. This is special. I never expected to buy any of your mama’s fancy things, but this one had my name on it.”

  “Mama was going to have the man put M. D. Rutledge, but I told her you like all your names, so she should use them instead. Are you glad she did?”