by Sierra Rose
And so the second day passed, with no one becoming the wiser as to the particulars of this stranger in their midst. He had kept to himself, eaten his meals in solitude when few were likely to patronize the dining room, and apparently spent most of his time hidden away in his room.
Doing what? was the question burning in the hearts and souls of the Gang of Three. Planning the next big bank heist? Writing a narrative of town doings to report back to some big city newspaper? Making out his Last Will and Testament? To which they had not yet discerned an answer.
By the third morning, he had decided to surface from his self-imposed seclusion.
As luck would have it, Letitia Burton was the first to see him out in public that day.
Chapter Six
“AND WHAT DO YOU TWO young ladies have planned for this fine day?” beamed Mrs. Florence McKnight, from the boarding house breakfast table over which she was presiding.
In response, Hannah smiled the smile that, for their ever-cheerful landlady, occasionally drew more into a baring of teeth than any real expression of humor. “Oh, I do believe I’ll put on my oldest gown—I seem to have plenty of those, nowadays—and go grub in the dirt somewhere.”
The face of poor Mrs. McKnight, who truly did try to be pleasant with all her lodgers, no matter how unmannerly they might be, flushed with color, and her brows rose. “Well, of course, my dear. Whatever suits your fancy.”
“You betcha.” Hannah, just to prove herself even more badly behaved than previously assumed, licked two fingers free of butter from her morning muffin. The lady’s double chins quivered. Realizing that she was deliberately being baited, however, she remained silent.
The shadows were long and growing longer in these dawns that, if not crisp and chill as might be expected farther north, were at least showing promise of the autumn to come. Daytime temperatures hovered somewhere in the mid-seventies, a quite agreeable climate for everyone who labored beneath still-sunny skies. It was vented-window weather, that allowed a sweet cool breeze to blow across stuffy rooms; and also, unfortunately, to allow various species of small stinging insects inside, as well. How one tiny determined bee could find its way from the great outdoors through a small square pane of glass, flung open wide, was simply beyond anyone’s comprehension.
Such maneuvers required the regular plying of fans—which, coincidentally, Forrester’s Mercantile just happened to stock, in a variety of lovely shades and patterns. Given a steady increase in sales, Ben would be quite happy if every window in Turnabout remained gaping to the four winds until January.
Today, however, the dining room was bug-free, and the tablecloth presented its usual pristine white facade. Several of the boarders had already finished and gone about their business—the widow Lavinia Semple, who owned the tailor shop, for one; and Miss Charlotte Harwood, town librarian. But both the Burton girls (or spinsters, as they were rarely identified, depending upon the mood and the speaker), rising slightly later than the norm, had lingered. Mrs. McKnight felt it incumbent upon her position as hostess to linger with them, despite pressing duties elsewhere.
Refusing to be drawn, she merely asked if Hannah had a location in mind.
“I’ll begin with Camellia’s garden. Amazin’ and I have decided to plant some fall flower bulbs, for spring blooming. And I want to see if we’re having any luck with the lettuce and peas. It’s late in the year to expect a crop of vegetables, of course, but I wanted to experiment. From there, we’ll trim and water all our barrel flowers, the veronica and the verbena and black-eyed susan mix. And then, perhaps, if we’re lucky, the two of us can round up some paying jobs.”
Hannah stopped, almost out of breath, and reached for the cup of hot tea at her fingertips.
“Goodness. That sounds like a full day’s work, indeed.” Mrs. McKnight put that aside and politely turned to Letitia. “And you, my dear?”
Their proprietor did not entirely approve of the career path she had chosen—not that women should pursue a career anyway. Too unfeminine, by far. And Mrs. McKnight was not alone in her opinion. Therefore, Letty trod carefully.
“I’ll probably wander along with my sister and see what needs to be done at Camellia’s. She’s bound to have all sorts of household chores I can finish while she’s away. Bread-making. Or dish-washing. Or laundry-folding.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. Her eyerolls could be quite stupendous. And effective.
Undaunted, Mrs. M. did her best to pry out information as to the wedding plans of their nearly disgraced sister Molly (although the descriptive was added only silently, not aloud) and her affianced, Turnabout’s capable sheriff.
“I’m not sure she’s in any great hurry to settle down,” Letitia said smoothly. “Paul is so head over heels in love that he’s paying her a great deal of attention, and he’s spending all his spare time in her company. Molly is certainly enjoying that. And she deserves every bit of happiness she can get, after her sad experience, you know.”
Mrs. McKnight certainly did know. Enough that she need ask no other questions. “And your eldest sister, Camellia—I understand she and Ben left this morning for Manifest, and their new store.”
My, my, the town’s gossip mill seemed to be working overtime.
“Hen and I were aware they were planning to leave,” responded Letty, “but we weren’t, of course, over at the house in time to say goodbye. They had a very early start.”
“And we got a late one,” Hannah chimed in like a chipping sparrow, to give support. “But we’ll be watching over their house, to make sure everything stays safe.”
“Do you have any idea how long they’ll be gone? After all, our mayor, taking a trip, while town business must be done—”
Hannah was growing tired of this inquisition masquerading as polite breakfast table discourse. Flinging down her napkin, she rose and beckoned to her sister. “Now, Mrs. M., you know very well that Ben held a council meeting just the other day, so that any pending concerns could be addressed. They’ll return in a week, come Hades or high water. Now, if you’ll excuse us...”
Relieved, the two of them exited the boarding house together but separated halfway to the Forrester house.
“Try leaving some soil still in the ground,” Letitia suggested sweetly, “instead of carrying so much back with you on your clothing. No wonder our landlady is feeling irked.”
“By all means. And you, poke that bearish employer of yours with a stick and see if he growls.”
It was while she was humming her way along the side street to the doctor’s office, wondering what new cases might be presented today, and what new knowledge she might add to her mental satchel, that she saw him. A stranger in town, although she had been privy to no gossip or questions about someone new arriving; had not, in fact, known there was a stranger in town.
She stopped to stare. At that very same instant, the man, sensing, perhaps, her presence, paused in the act of putting one boot onto the ground from the wooden walkway upon which he was standing, and stared. He tipped his hat. She fumbled with the beginning of a curtsy before deciding such a reaction was ridiculous. He gave her the ghost of a smile. She responded with one similarly faint and sketchy.
Spreading his hands in a “What do you think?” (or, “Where do we go from here?”) gesture, he decided to end this odd non-conversation from some thirty feet away and began to approach. The man’s amble from his side of the street to hers held all the lithe, easy movements of a cowman used to days spent in the saddle and nights spent under the stars.
Seen closer to, his appearance was not so much attractive as intriguing.
Letitia felt a little ripple of something strange and unfamiliar lift the hair on her arms and on the back of her neck. Worse, what had seemed quietly at rest in her middle suddenly awakened, reared up, and sent a quiver of anticipation along every nerve.
His hat rested in one hand beside his thigh, so that he stood straight and exposed before her.
In a mere instant, she had taken inventory.
A tall frame, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, a paean of ropey muscles that needed slightly more weight to enhance its air of silent strength. Loose unruly curls the color of ripened wheat. Eyes full of clarity and brilliance, like sea glass shining in the sun. A face that wore traces of sadness, traces of suffering, yet an undeniable aura of tolerance and good humor.
Not to mention the white puckered rim of a scar, running from left temple to side of jaw.
Letty drew in a sharp breath and took a step backward.
“I do b’lieve I warned you,” he said, apparently amused.
Her squeak might have been agreement.
“Have I the honor of addressin’ Miss Letitia Burton?”
Another squeak, more agreement.
“Ahuh. It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am. As you may have guessed, my name is Reese Barclay, and I have come here to marry you.”
Letty had always prided herself on her self-control, her carriage, her confidence in dealing with and carrying off any awkward situation. Today she was none of these. Even though she had imagined the circumstances of this meeting, even though she had dreamed what he would say and what she would say and how they would mesh, the moment filled for her with inexplicable awkwardness.
Cursing the tongue which had unaccountably decided to enlarge itself past all adroitness of speech, she reached out one mitted hand, instead.
“How do you do, Mr. Barclay?” she was finally able to say. “I wasn’t sure—I didn’t know—there was no word—”
“Sure enough,” he said amiably. Standing hipshot, he took one long slow look at her, lovely hatted head to embroidered light wool gown of last year’s fashionable blue-gray to dusty little black boots, and back again. His smile did nice things to his rather poignant expression. “I’m sure likin’ what I see. You never told me you are so pretty.”
Her immediate blush added to the effect of modest maiden (such a façade, that; little, right now, could he know the truth; and how quickly he would learn about these Burton girls!). “Well, you never told me you are so—so—”
He cocked a curious brow in her direction. “So—?”
“Uh.” So compelling. So engaging. So different. “Tall. So tall.”
“Well, then.” Reese had turned slightly sideways, in the shade of the big overhanging sycamore where they stood, to send a glance up and down the street from those fine eyes. “A few people showin’ some interest, I notice. You reckon there might be some place less public for us to sit and talk a spell?”
Propriety would not allow her to simply wander off with some man who was newly arrived in town, no matter for what reason. Nor would he expect her to. The brain that had been momentarily struck as dumb as her tongue stirred and came to life.
“I was on my way to the doctor’s office for my usual time of schooling—or duties, depending on what’s going on. Just walk this way with me, if you would.”
Obligingly, hat replaced so he could offer one arm in the age-old gesture of support and respect, he fell into step beside her. “And I was headin’ on over to the boardin’ house you mentioned in your letters, to introduce myself. But I think this might be more private.”
Struck by the tone of his voice, she flashed him an upward look. “And you prefer privacy?”
“In most things of life, yeah. Don’t you?”
“Probably. I never really thought about it much. So much of each life is lived in public...”
“Gossip. Finger-pointin’. Gettin’ involved in things you shouldn’t.”
Several mongrel pups, barking and tumbling over each other, suddenly went racing past them in pursuit of someone in a surrey. Her companion’s serious gaze followed them. “Any danger there?”
“Oh, goodness, no. That’s part of Abel Norton’s pack. At the stable, you know. He feeds them and gives them shelter, and they sort of run wild the rest of the time. But they’re friendly.”
“Huh. Ain’t had me a dog since I—well, for a long time.”
His voice trailed off. It was a gentle, pleasant voice, softened still more by a regional southern drawl, and she decided that she could easily get used to listening to it. And that wayward comment about Abel’s canines...well, that, too, she found interesting.
“If you would like, I’m sure Abel could be persuaded to part with one.”
He was matching his steps to hers, trudging along almost soundlessly without spurs to clink or wooden floorboards to thump. For the time being, he skittered away from that subject. “It’s a right nice town you got here,” he said then, glancing down to discern a countenance hidden by too many silk flowers and too much black lace. “You’re plannin’ on stayin’ here, I take it?”
“Oh, yes.” Meeting his glance with a smile, her upturned face showed as lovely as a flower itself. A lily, perhaps. Or one of the big showy peonies, back home. All unconscious of his silent tribute, she widened the smile into dimples. “At least, I certainly want to. As I explained in my letters to you, my sisters live in Turnabout, and I don’t believe I could bear to leave them behind. Would it be a hardship for you to relocate, permanently?”
“No, ma’am. I reckon I could put my bedroll down just about anywheres, ’s long as I was welcome.”
Her generous heart was touched by the note of loneliness she thought she heard. Or had she been mistaken? Slow down! she inwardly warned her rampaging emotions. You can’t go on so quickly with any romantic notions. Remember Molly!
But Molly had fallen head over tin cups for a suave manner and a gambler’s good looks. This man had neither.
“Ah, here we are,” said Letty with relief, indicating the substantial building that warehoused everything Dr. Gabriel Havers might need. “My friend and mentor. I want you to meet him, first thing.”
But in that she must be balked. The house was empty, and Gabriel was gone, with only a hasty note left by the door to explain his absence.
“He was called away,” she said, scanning the scrawled words. “Back—for heaven’s sake—back to the same farm from which we rescued young Willie O’Day. For a baby with colic. And, since Willie is greatly improved, and has been fussing about getting out of his sick bed, Gabe took him home. Well!”
Reese, standing quietly just inside the receiving room, was studying her as she studied the missive. “And you’re put out about that?”
“Put out? Nooooo...more surprised than anything, I suppose. Would you like some coffee while we sit and chat, Mr. Barclay?”
The slightly crooked smile lit up his face. “You feel like you can make free of the doctor’s quarters?”
“Oh, piffle, certainly I can. I’m in and out of here all the time. And he doesn’t provide enough salary to lock the door against me, anyway.”
“In that case, yes. I could really go for a cup of coffee.”
During the several months of their correspondence, Letty had shared a few personal details with her potential husband-to-be. A bit of her own background, certainly; family history; her likes (lemon meringue pie, soft summer rain, and big-brimmed hats, among others) and dislikes (the smell of cigars, cooked liver, and chilblains, to name just three). But she had been chary of revealing too much, just at the beginning. Far better, in her opinion, to let information trickle out, in dribs and drabs, especially when a face-to-face tête-à-tête could be much more enlightening. And more satisfying.
“We all look very much alike, we Burtons,” she said now, bustling about with the heavy earthenware cups Gabe favored, and the sugar and canned milk he didn’t. “But our personalities are quite different. As you shall see, Mr. Barclay, when you meet everyone.”
“You’ve had kind of a rough time of it, from what you’ve said.”
“Why, yes, I suppose we did. It was almost a year ago, in fact, when everything began to fall apart.” She seemed slightly stunned, as she moved to take a chair at the kitchen table opposite his (and he moved to immediately arrange one for her convenience, and to stand until she was seated), to realize how quickly time
had passed. And how well they had survived the fire, thus far, to emerge safely (if not entirely unscathed) on the other side. “Tell me, Mr. Barclay—”
“Reese.”
“Um. I don’t think I can quite—”
“Okay.” He had removed his hat to run fingers through his roughened thatch of hair. Fascinated—why should such a simple act be so enticing?—Letty watched. Would he allow her to make the same gesture, if and when they were married? “What did you wanna ask me?”
“Um. Well. I was just wondering—about your upbringing. Your own family.”
“My own family.” He took a sip of the strong coffee and his eyes widened. Because of the taste? Or in distaste? “Not much left. Scattered, y’ know. The War did that to a lotta people.”
“I see. Is that when you—uh—” A slight gesture of her hand indicated the scar that she felt no compunction about noticing, since he had already deliberately brought it to her attention.
“Ahuh.” His gaze was steady and straight and was doing strange things to her susceptible heart. And her flip-floppy middle. “Bayonet at close range. Got a few more marks, as you recall my tellin’ you, but they won’t be visible until—unless—”
Until and unless the two of them hammered out some sort of a marriage contract, and they ended up sharing a bed. Now he was the one showing hesitation. She reached across to touch his hand.
“It’s all right, Reese,” she said gently. “I understand. Let’s find something less stressful to talk about, shall we?”
Chapter Seven
THE DOOR WAS FLUNG open with a crash, and a familiar voice bellowed, “Letty! Hey, Letty, girl, oh, student of the medical arts, you in here?”
Startled at the noise, Reese immediately sprang upright, his right hand hovering—oddly enough—near his side, which held, not a weapon, but the mere wool fabric of trousers. Fingers stretched and curled, for something that wasn’t there; one could almost sense a trapped animal’s intimation of danger nearby.