Slipping the scrap of paper into his leather vest pocket, he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and surveyed the room before heading for the kitchen. He struck a match and held it up until he spotted a lamp next to the cookstove. Blowing out the flame before it burned his fingers, he then struck another match and lit the smoke-stained wick.
The kitchen was in no better condition. The sink and counters were piled high with dirty dishes.
He circled the room, opening and shutting cabinet doors. He finally located a package of Arbuckles’ Ariosa Coffee in the pantry. He found the coffeepot in a lower cabinet, but no clean cups.
While the coffee perked, he washed out a cup and filled a bowl with cold water. He then walked back into the parlor and splashed water on the man’s face, hoping to bring him out of his stupor. “Come on, Foster. Wake up.”
Foster groaned and muttered something beneath his breath, showering Brett with the vile smell of whiskey. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Brett made him sit up. “Yeah, well, same to you, fella.”
The sorrowful excuse for a human being in front of him made Brett grimace. It would have been a whole lot easier to let Foster sleep it off, but Brett couldn’t bring himself to do that. Somehow, he had to make up to Miss Denver for the terrible wrong he’d done. The only way to make that happen was to get her and Foster back together, and that’s what he intended to do.
God help him.
It took nearly two hours and two pots of coffee before Foster could sit unaided. He looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin the color of cold ashes.
Groaning, Foster rubbed his forehead. “Leave me alone,” he slurred. “Lust leave me alone.”
“It’s too late for that,” Brett said. “Like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”
Foster squinted through bloodshot eyes. “Why? Whatya want?”
“Two things.” Brett dug into his pocket for a photograph mounted on a card. The picture taken at his sister’s wedding wasn’t a good one, but it was the only one he had of Foster One. “Do you know this man?”
Even though Brett held the photograph no more than a nose-length away, Foster Two still had trouble focusing. “No.”
“Are you sure? His name is also Frank Foster. He’s not a relative? A cousin? A long-lost brother?”
“Sever naw the man in my life.”
Sighing, Brett slipped the photograph back in his pocket. Another dead end.
Foster regarded him like a cat regarding a mouse. “You…you said there were two things you wanted.”
“I want to make things right. Between you and Miss Denver, I mean.”
Foster’s squinty red eyes suddenly flashed in recognition. “Hey, you’re the one who caused the problem in the pirst flace. Why, you…” He struggled to get to his feet but was still too drunk to do anything but fall back against the sofa cushions in defeat.
Heaving a sigh, Brett waited until Foster had simmered down. “Word around town is that Miss Denver is finished with you,” he said, speaking in a slow, concise voice.
Foster glared at him but said nothing.
Brett moved a ladder-back chair closer to the sofa and sat. “I heard she gave back your ring.”
“Yeah, she gave me the mitten, all right. But that don’t mean nothin’. So don’t go gettin’ any ideas.”
“Relax. The only thing I’m interested in is getting the two of you back together.”
Foster’s eyes gleamed with suspicion. “Why? What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing but a lot of trouble by the looks of it.” Brett bent forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed his hands together. “I’m the one who stopped the wedding. I figure it’s up to me to help make things right.” Brett gave Foster a moment to digest this before asking, “So what’s the plan?”
Foster pinched the bridge of his nose. “Plan? What plan?”
“The plan to get her back.”
Holding his head, Foster rocked back and forth. “Must you shout?”
Brett heaved a sigh. If he spoke any softer, he’d have to whisper. “Have you talked to her? Apologized?”
“She w-won’t l-listen. Said…said she’s sick and tired of my…jealousy.”
Brett leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Yeah, well, I’m not crazy about it myself.” He thought for a moment. “What about flowers?”
Foster stopped rocking. “Flowers?”
“Yeah, you know. The things that grow in the ground. Did you send her any?”
“I never send flowers.”
“Why not? Women love flowers. They convey all sorts of messages that only a woman can understand. If you’re smart, you’ll buy the store out—the whole kit and caboodle. Just to make sure she gets the right message.”
Foster shook his head. “This is Katie we’re talking about. She’s more the practical type.”
“Practical?” Brett blinked back the vision of twirling whirligigs and flashing blue eyes that came to mind. Miss Denver with her spinning earbobs and sign-plastered walls hardly seemed the pragmatic type. Idealistic, maybe. Optimistic. Compassionate. But definitely not practical.
“She doesn’t like all that fussy stuff. Besides, flowers die. What kind of message is that?” Foster screwed up his face as if trying to think. “But…but…but I could send her a new jack.”
“A jack?”
“Yeah, you know. For changing…” He made a spinning move with his hand as he searched for the right word. “A…a wheel. That’s the kind of gift Kate likes.”
Brett frowned. How was it possible that two men could look at a single woman and see her completely differently? “You’re kidding, right?”
“She’s always breakin’ tires,” Foster slurred. “That’s why I make her carry a spare.” He squinted. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s just—” Holy blazes, where to start? Foster didn’t have a clue where women were concerned. Not that Brett was an expert in such matters. He’d never had much luck with the opposite sex, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. The life of a Texas Ranger didn’t leave much room for romance. Most women soon grew weary of a man whose idea of settling down involved a horse and saddle.
“Forget the jack. If you’re serious about winning her back, you’ll stick with flowers.” Brett thought a moment. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at Gordon’s. We’ll pick out a bouquet, and you can compose a nice note.”
Foster narrowed his eyes. “Note?”
“Yeah, you know. The little card that accompanies a bouquet and will say all the right things, like how sorry you are.”
“You want me to put that in writing?” Foster looked as if he’d never heard of such a thing.
Brett studied the blurry-eyed man and shook his head. What did Miss Denver ever see in the likes of him? There certainly was no accounting for taste.
“For crying out loud, Foster. It’s a simple note. That’s all. And it will show her how sorry you are. How much you care. Now, what kind of flowers does she like?”
“How am I s-supposed to know?”
“Okay. Forget about flowers for now.” Brett thought for a moment. “What is her favorite color?”
Foster’s face went blank for a moment. “Pink, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Maybe it’s white.” Foster thought for a moment. “Her shop is pink and white.”
“White’s not a color.”
Foster looked surprised. “Is that so? Okay, it’s gotta be pink.”
Brett rolled his eyes; the man was hopeless. He rubbed his forehead, and a vision of Miss Denver came to mind. He was willing to bet that pink was not her favorite color. Maybe it was the violet-blue of her eyes. Perhaps it was her dazzling red hair or the glow of her smooth ivory skin.
“Forget color. Does she have a special song she likes? A favorite author or poet?”
Frank scratched his temple. “Beats me.”
Brett knitted his brow. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. He decided to try a different angle. “What do you two talk about when you’re together?”
“The usual. Leather.”
Brett stared at him, incredulous. “Leather? You talk about leather?”
“Yeah, so what’s the big deal? It costs a bundle to make a saddle these days. The price of leather has gotten outta hand.”
Brett sat back in his chair. Great guns; he didn’t know which task looked more daunting. Tracking down Foster Number One. Or turning Foster Two into a fine and proper suitor.
5
Kate left for the shop early Monday morning, anxious to work on her uncle’s special candy recipe. The candy itself wasn’t that difficult to make; adding designs to the center was the tricky part. Only the most skillful confectioners had perfected the art, and she was determined to join their numbers.
She’d been working on perfecting the necessary skills for months and had yet to get it right, but she was close. Oh, so close, and a thrill of excitement coursed through her. Wouldn’t Uncle Joe have been proud?
Usually, the town was quiet at that hour, but not today. As she parked her horse and wagon in front of the candy store, she narrowed her gaze on the commotion two doors away. Three barking dogs pulled on leashes while their harried owners struggled to hold them back.
The black-and-white cow dog named Ringo belonged to a faro dealer known only as Lucky Lou.
The snippy tan spaniel baring its teeth was owned by Ironman Watkins, the blacksmith.
Mrs. Tremble, the former schoolmarm, was having a terrible time holding on to her poodle, Mitzie. Fearing for the older woman’s safety, Kate raced to lend her a hand.
“Let me!” Yelling to be heard over the barking dogs, Kate grabbed hold of the poodle’s leash with both hands and yanked, but it was no use. The frenzied dogs growled and snapped at each other and resisted all efforts by the handlers to separate them.
A man suddenly appeared at Kate’s side. He grabbed the leash out of her hands and jerked the dog back—way back. He then ordered the poodle to sit and, much to Kate’s surprise, the dog did as it was told.
Since the poodle had created most of the commotion, its absence calmed the other two dogs, allowing their owners to gain control. As quickly as it had started, the fight ended, and Lucky Lou and Ironman hastened away in opposite directions, dragging their reluctant hounds with them.
Now that Kate had a chance to get a good look at the man who had saved the day, she could hardly hide her annoyance.
As if guessing her thoughts, the Texas Ranger quirked a smile. “Ah, we meet again.” He handed the leash to its rightful owner, but his gaze remained on Kate.
Mrs. Tremble couldn’t thank him enough. “You saved the day, Mr.…”
“Tucker. Brett Tucker.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Tucker.” Lifting her dog into her arms, Mrs. Tremble buried her nose in the poodle’s coat. The owner and dog had similar white, curly hair and brown eyes. “I don’t know what would have happened to my poor Mitzie had it not been for you. Not many people could step in and stop a fight like that.”
“That was nothing,” Kate said wryly. “You should see how good he is at starting a fight.”
Tucker cocked his head to the side. “Ah, but you give me too much credit.”
Kate scoffed. “You’re being far too modest, Mr. Tucker.”
“I can assure you that I have many flaws, Miss Denver, but modesty is not one of them.” A glint of humor warming his eyes, he tipped his hat and took his leave. “Have a good day, ladies.”
Next to her, Mrs. Tremble gave a schoolgirl sigh as she watched him walk away. “Oh, to be forty years younger.”
* * *
That afternoon, nine-year-old Dusty Campbell stopped at the candy shop on his way home from school, and Kate reached over the counter to hand him a sample.
He eagerly popped the white, spongy confection in his mouth. Behind a curtain of hay-colored hair, his eyes grew round as wagon wheels.
“It feels squishy, like a pillow.” He tossed his hair aside with a shake of his head. “Only it tastes better.”
Kate laughed. “I should hope so. Actually, that is called a marshmallow.”
“Where do marshmallows come from?” Dusty asked, standing on tiptoe to reach the plate for a second one.
“Why from a marshmallow tree, of course,” she said. Actually, that had been true in the past. This latest batch was made from a French recipe that replaced the sweet sap from the mallow tree with gelatin. She’d decided to try out the new recipe on customers to see if they discerned a difference in taste. So far, none had. Though she doubted that gelatin had the same health properties as real mallow.
“Would you like to try a sugarplum next?” she asked. Sugarplums were the most time-consuming candy to make, and she didn’t generally give out samples. But work helped keep her mind occupied, and since the wedding fiasco, she had immersed herself in making candy. Lots and lots of candy. The store was now overstocked.
The boy wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like plums.”
“Oh, but you’ll like this,” Kate said, holding up a sugarcoated nut confection. “In this case, plum is not a fruit. It’s just another word for good.”
Dusty stood on tiptoes to take the candy. He eyed it suspiciously before taking a cautious bite. A wide smile inched across his freckled face before he popped the rest in his mouth.
Kate smiled back and filled a bag full of the boy’s favorite treats, including gumdrops and a lollipop. As much as she enjoyed working in the kitchen in the back of the store, her favorite part of the job was making people smile. The candy store was truly the heart and soul of the town.
When a pretty girl struck a young man’s fancy, Kate was the first to know. That’s because a shining new love required the biggest box of candy that money could buy. Her sweetmeats helped celebrate births, birthdays, and anniversaries. When Mr. Ain turned ninety, a friend purchased him a glass jar filled with ninety jelly beans, the same kind of candy people once sent to soldiers during the War Between the States.
But her confections didn’t just help celebrate happy occasions. They also consoled broken hearts and offered a sweet reprieve when things went wrong. When Mrs. Wheaton scandalized the town by obtaining a divorce, she insisted upon ordering chocolate bonbons, even though it was summer and Kate had warned her that the chocolates would melt.
When Mr. Ellsworth fell off his horse and broke his leg, he comforted himself with a bag of toffee. When little two-year-old Wendy Williams wandered away from home, the frantic search party sucked on peppermint rounds for the calming effect peppermint was known to have. When the child was found safe and sound, the town celebrated with a fondant party.
“How much do I owe you?” Dusty asked, bringing Kate out of her reverie.
“You know I don’t charge for samples,” she said, though the bag she’d handed him would normally fetch twenty-five cents. He was the youngest of seven children, and the family struggled to make ends meet. He was small for his age, and the older boys tended to pick on him. Today, as always, the candy shop provided a safe place for him until the bullies were gone.
He grinned up at her. “Thank you, Miss Denver.”
“You’re very welcome.” She thought of something. “Oops, almost forgot.” She reached into her box of fortunes and picked out the one she’d written especially for him. “Hmm, it says you’ll soon make lots of new friends.”
Dusty’s eyes flickered with hope. “Will they let me play baseball?” He wanted to play ball more than anything in the world, but the older boys refused to allow him on the team.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they do,” she said. “Maybe if you—” A loud popping sound made her jump. Shards of glass exploded from the st
ore’s front window, bursting through the air like fireworks.
With a cry of alarm, Kate raced around the counter and pulled the boy out of harm’s way. “Are you okay?” she asked, frantically checking him for signs of injury.
Clutching his bag of candy, he gaped at her, his lips quivering. Before he could answer, the door sprang open and he flew into her arms.
A man entered the shop, gun in hand and a flour sack over his head. The gunman was halfway through the store before he halted, and Kate’s heart practically leaped to her throat. Acting purely by instinct, she yanked Dusty behind the counter, shielding him with her body.
The gunman’s gaze zeroed in on Kate for an instant before he rounded the counter. Certain that he meant to do her harm, she pushed Dusty to the floor and grabbed a glass jar for a weapon. Fortunately, she didn’t have to use it, because the masked man quickly ducked into the kitchen.
No sooner had his footsteps faded away than the front door flew open again. The flash of a gun made her gasp. Without thinking, she hurled the jar as hard as she could. The jar bounced off the intruder’s raised arm, crashing to the floor in a frenzy of jelly beans.
She quickly reached for another jar and was ready to hurl it when a commanding voice shouted, “Stop!”
Her hand froze. In her panic, she’d failed to take a good look at the second man entering her shop. “Mr. Tucker!”
He skidded to a halt in front of her. “Next time I’ll announce myself. Where’d he go?”
She pointed to the kitchen. “That way.”
Tucker raced past her, spurs jingling and boots pounding the wooden floor. She heard him yell something before the back door slammed shut.
Forcing herself to stay calm for the boy’s sake, she set the jar down and helped him off the floor. “You can get up now. It’s safe.”
Dusty’s cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk’s.
“You shouldn’t eat all your candy at once,” she said and wiped his mouth with a corner of a clean handkerchief. “It could make you sick.”
Cowboy Charm School Page 4