“Seems, Mr. Andrews, you have come to several people’s rescue today.” Cinnia stopped, slipped out of his jacket, and held it out. “Thank you for the jacket.” She flashed him a tentative smile before turning and hurrying between the wagons, the faint white of her gown disappearing in the darkness.
Nicolai tossed the jacket over a shoulder and watched the lavender wagon until the windows glowed from the women’s lanterns. Her body heat, still trapped in the leather, permeated his cool skin, and for just a moment, he closed his eyes. Words she used today when referring to him ran through his mind. Grant a favor… be my savior…come to the rescue.
Pride puffed out his chest as he sauntered toward the shop where Quaid stood waiting. One more issue remained to be decided, and that was the sum of the rent for the adjoining shop. At some point during the evening, he’d decided to agree to her proposition. Maybe, when she heard the price he’d finally decided upon, she’d use a word like “hero.”
A man could always hope.
****
Inside the lavender wagon, the air was abuzz with excited voices.
For the moment, Cinnia sat sideways on the settee, watching Dorrie and Nola bump into one other in the main aisle as they changed out of their costumes. Granted, the imbibing of a hot beverage was a minor event, in the grand scheme of life. But Cinnia hoped, within a few minutes, she would receive an answer about the rental amount on the shop. The essential bit of information she needed before starting her new career.
A new life that might include a friendship with a man named Nic—for after tonight’s display of chivalry, she could no longer think of the tall, blond man as the formal Mr. Andrews. Remembering the formidable look on his face when he’d insisted she wear his jacket still had her stomach jumping.
“Should I wear the pink or yellow blouse?” Dorrie stood in the aisle wearing her corset, bodice, and pantalettes, holding up the two items.
“I’m wearing what I had on this morning.” Nola pushed her arms into the rose-colored blouse accented with miniature red flowers and started at the bottom of the long row of buttons. “Drinking one or two cups of tea doesn’t take long. Why risk dirtying a fresh blouse for an hour’s wearing?”
“Because…” Dorrie jammed a hand on her hip and wagged her head side-to-side. “This is the first time in weeks we’ve had the chance to socialize with men we haven’t known for absolutely years.”
Cinnia giggled at the way Dorrie drew out her final word so it lasted several seconds. She glanced to the bed to see that her clothes were still laid out there. As soon as the others were done, she could slip them right on. Patting a hand over her pinned braids assured her the hairstyle was mostly still in place.
“I tell you, if I don’t practice my flirting skills I will lose them.” Dorrie pulled the yellow blouse over her head and started on the buttons angled across the pin-tucked bodice.
Flirting? Cinnia sat upright, wrapping her arms around her knees. I don’t like the sound of that. Dorrie had such an outgoing personality, and often she said the most outlandish things. How was Cinnia to make a favorable impression? Especially after the embarrassing incident this evening. Maybe she should be more worried about giving herself time to prepare for this…. What to call the event where they were headed? She slipped off the settee and scooted along the cupboards. “Excuse me, I need to get to my clothes.”
“Hey.” Nola bumped her with a hip. “Can’t you wait until we’re finished here? There’s not really enough room.”
“No.” Cinnia bent over to gather the length of the garment into her fists before easing the long gown over her head. “Why should I have to be last?”
“That word didn’t used to be part of your vocabulary.”
Nola’s voice grated, but Cinnia shrugged it off. Sure, she used to go along with everything her sister proposed. But that was the past. “I like it. And I like standing up for myself.” As long as it’s not inside a circle of lanterns. Biting back a giggle, she tossed the gown onto the mattress and reached for her blouse, then hesitated and grabbed her corset first. She supposed tea with gentlemen did require the proper undergarments.
“Well, I’ll be taking a while to get used to hearing it.” Nola stepped into her skirt and pulled it over her petticoat.
Spontaneously, Cinnia grabbed her sister in a one-armed hug and squeezed. “That’s all right. As long as you’re willing to listen to what I have to say when that word precedes my opinion.” She wrapped the corset around her middle, sucked in a breath, and fitted the cloth loops over the buttons along the front. Thankfully, she still had this corset in the short-waisted style for everyday wear—instead of the long-waisted ones that were the current fashion. “Dorrie, what else of our treasures are we sharing tonight?”
“Let’s hurry, I want to hear about the rescue.” Dorrie lifted down items from the cupboard and set them into a basket.
“I agree.” Cinnia tried to peek around Nola, who tucked up and pinned her hair in front of the small mirror. “I want to hear someone else’s stories, for a change.”
Five minutes later, the women let themselves in through the front door.
“Hello?” Cinnia carried the basket and the lantern and held the door as Nola crossed into the shop with a stool in one hand and the three mugs in the other. Dorrie followed, a stool in each hand.
Mr. Quaid stepped forward and swung an arm behind him. “Look, we’ve arranged quite the table for our tea party.”
Nic shot his friend a frown, but he moved forward to take the stools from the women and set them at the round table.
Cinnia noticed the men had moved it into the shop, obviously so all five people wouldn’t be cramped into the small kitchen she’d only seen a corner of earlier. Oil lamps placed on the display case and on the workbench gave the shop a cozy look. Curiosity drew her feet toward the kitchen, and she peeked around the edge of the open door.
A small two-burner stove filled the corner to the left, and a dry sink with a small counter had been centered under the four-pane window. A wide-based crock with a narrow neck sat on the floor at the end of the counter. If she squinted, she could envision a set of cheery yellow gingham curtains with eyelet edgings adding a spot of color. Maybe a matching tablecloth with solid yellow napkins, and embroidered tea towels hanging from the oven handles.
“Does it pass inspection?”
The deep voice right behind her caused her to whirl and clamp a hand to her chest. “Oh.” The sweet scent that she would always associate with this man teased her nose. “It’s small, but very nice.” She waved a hand toward the stove. “Cooking your meals on that must be such a pleasure.”
He quirked an eyebrow and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Cooking has never really been a pleasure. Just a necessity.”
Being this close to his intense gaze and his handsome face sent flutters through her body. She stepped to the counter and set down the basket. For something to do with her hands, she started unloading the items and creating a line on the polished wood counter. “For almost six months, I have only cooked over an open campfire. I can tell you that style severely limits your menu choices.”
He chuckled and nodded. “You’re right about that. Well, I remember those days of being on the open road.” Then his mouth pinched tight, and he stiffened. “I believe I owe you an answer about the rental of my shop, Miss York.”
Cinnia couldn’t have him using that formal name when she could no longer think of him with the same formality. Not since he took action to preserve her dignity and after wearing his jacket. “Please, call me Cinnia, and may I call you Nic?” She took a step closer and waited for the number that could make her dreams come true.
“Cinnia it is, then.” His lips flashed into a lop-sided smile. “I would like to propose an exchange—”
“Hey, you two.” Quaid’s booming voice filled the space. “Are we having tea?”
Nic dropped his head and huffed out a breath. Then he squared his shoulders and glanced her way
. “You repack the basket, and I’ll grab the kettle.” He lifted a thick woven pad from a shelf and slipped his hand into a brown glove that hung from a hook on the wall near the stove.
She moved back to the counter, put one box of tea in the basket, and then got caught up in watching his movements. Is that glove of cloth? What’s that pad for?
He turned with the kettle held aloft, looked at the empty basket, and then met her gaze.
“Sorry.” With quick tosses, she put everything inside and then almost skipped out of the room.
“There you are.” Nola stared with a raised eyebrow.
Cinnia ignored the questioning look and set the teas, crackers, pâté, and jams into the middle of the table. “I think we’ll need knives and spoons.” She glanced at a stack of two bowls and two plates of brown crockery and one metal plate. At each place sat a small reddish McInstosh apple. Truly a treat.
Nic set the brown square on the table and lowered the kettle atop it. “What I own is on the table.”
“I contributed my mess kit.” Mr. Quaid held up his nesting utensils with his good hand. “But, Nic and I hadn’t counted on hosting such lovely company in his humble surroundings.”
“I don’t mind sharing.” Dorrie leaned an elbow on the table and smiled in the cowboy’s direction. “Let’s get this party started. You still haven’t told us about the exciting rescue.”
The next few minutes were occupied with selecting tea flavors, distributing crackers, and passing the jars.
Cinnia had tasted the jams this morning, so she opted for the meat spread, reading the full name from the label. Pâté de foi gras. Sounds so cultured. The act of bringing the cracker to her mouth also lifted the strong scent, and she hesitated.
“Don’t like smashed duck and goose livers?”
She wrinkled her nose before glancing to her left at Nic’s challenging look. “I’ve only read about anyone serving this in novels.” She eyed the reddish-brown paste then popped the cracker in her mouth and crunched. First, the texture felt unpleasant on her tongue, followed by a gamey flavor, and finally, tartness took over. “Quick, give me the lemon curd.” As she extended her hand toward Nola, she scraped her tongue across her teeth but couldn’t get rid of it all.
“By that reaction, I guess you didn’t like it.” Nic chuckled.
“And you do?” She scooped out a dollop of curd onto a cracker, shoved the whole thing in her mouth, and just held it there, letting citrus seep into her senses.
“Yep, love it. All organ meats.” He reached for the jar. “More for those of us who appreciate the finer things.” Then he stiffened and focused on his task.
Cinnia sipped at her tea, wondering what about their conversation made him stop.
“I don’t know about finer, but organ meat has kept me going on the trail more than a time or two.”
“The trail?” Dorrie rubbed her hands together. “Oh, Torin, I sense a story coming on.”
“Of course, Torin’s out on the trail.” Nola reached for the pâté jar and spread on a thin layer. “His job is to round up wild mustangs. That activity cannot happen in a city.”
Dorrie rolled her eyes and waved a hand in Nola’s direction.
If she hadn’t just taken a swig of tea, Cinnia would have warned her sister. Ever since they were kids, Nola suffered with occasional bouts of dyspepsia, and her sensitive stomach probably wouldn’t react well to this rich delicacy.
Nola’s glassy eyes signaled her dislike, but she didn’t say a word. Instead, she gulped, forced a smile, and rested her chin in her palm as she turned her gaze on the man opposite her.
Her older sister had let someone else take the conversational lead. Interesting. Cinnia leaned back and let Torin’s tale of encountering one struggle after another on his latest round-up roll over her. He had a nice speaking voice and his inclusion of gestures—limited as they were—added to his performance. She shook her head. The man is telling a story, not auditioning.
Sure, he probably exaggerated some of the events, but that didn’t change the essence. She imagined what riding for an entire day without speaking to another person would feel like. Would she enjoy the sounds of nature, occupying herself by identifying different bird calls, or would she be overwhelmed by the vastness and just feel small?
A nudge on her arm brought her out of her reverie, and she glanced toward Nic.
“He’s puffing up the events.” He leaned until his shoulder bumped hers and spoke in a low tone.
“I know, but it’s all part of the storytelling tradition.”
Torin had reached the part in his tale where—“I was falling pert near half out of my saddle, the reins snagging on the underbrush a time or two, I’m not really sure. Then a hale and hearty voice asking if I need assistance from across the raging river rouses me to my waking senses.”
“More like a babbling creek.”
Cinnia bit back a grin and just nodded.
“Next, this blond-haired angel of mercy appears. When I blinked my bleary eyes, I swore I saw glowing white wings behind his stalwart form. This very capable savior rode up on a glossy black stallion…” Torin swept his arm from near his head down toward the table.
Wide-eyed, Nola grabbed for the teetering jar of marmalade.
“Yasha’s a dun gelding.”
Nic’s tone was dry, but hearing him feeding her the truth didn’t take away her enjoyment of Torin’s animated version. She leaned sideways and whispered, “See, he mentioned a savior.”
“Ah, I’m not—”
She touched her fingertips to the shirt covering his forearm, just intending to still his words so she could heard Torin’s big finale. But the muscles under her touch stiffened, and she felt corded strength and banked energy. Heat infused her skin, almost like when she stood too close to the campfire. Unable to stop herself, she smoothed her hand along his arm for an inch or so and then slowly pulled it back to the table edge.
Her pulse raced. She would have grabbed her mug as a distraction, but she didn’t think she could hold her hand steady yet. What was that? If she believed the descriptions contained within all those romantic novels she’d ever read, she’d have to admit the spark of attraction had just moved between her body and Nic’s. That for the first time in her twenty-two years, Cinnia York liked a man.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After the realization of what she felt seeped into her heart, Cinnia was hit with a swirl of questions. Did she dare look to see if he’d felt it, too? No, that would be too obvious. Plus, wasn’t that what the man was supposed to do?
Living a traveling life surrounded by the same people year in and year out hadn’t given either York sister many opportunities to mingle in mixed company. Sure, they’d attended an occasional church social—but the event was always in a town they were only passing through on their way to somewhere else where they’d stay a few days before moving on yet again. Town explorations had never been encouraged by Mr. Thomas—an attitude she’d always attributed to his wish to keep them safe. Now she saw the expectation for the restriction it had been.
Cinnia could count on one hand the times she’d attended a country dance. If the troupe hadn’t included a pair of dancers, she didn’t think any of the females would ever have learned what most adults considered to be an essential skill.
Applause and laughter sounded, filling the small room.
Cinnia jerked forward and joined in, glancing around at the smiling faces to see if her daydreaming had been noticed.
From his chair, Torin gave a mock bow and knocked his wrist on the table. “Oww, dang.” He gulped and looked around. “Sorry, ladies.” He slumped back in the chair, cradling his arm. “Nic, my buddy, got any more of that willow bark?”
Nola jumped to her feet and reached for the handle to the kettle. “I’ll do this. Tell me where to find the dried makings.”
Nic scooted back his chair and leaned forward to stand.
“Let her handle the tea.” Cinnia rested her elbow on the table and
lifted her hand so she could shield what she was saying from Nola. “She really wants to.” Then she tried to roll her eyes toward Torin, indicating the growing connection between her sister and the cowboy.
Frowning, he leaned close. “Are you all right?”
So much for thinking the two of them had a special connection. She huffed out a breath and pushed herself to a stand. “Of course, I am.” Stacking the plates together, she fought to keep her disappointment from showing on her face. “Why wouldn’t I be? That was a lovely story, Torin. I’m sorry you hurt your wrist.”
Head leaning on the back rung of the chair, he answered with a grunt.
Dorrie put the lids back on the containers, shooting glances around the room with a knitted brow.
Shaking his head, Nic grabbed the pad and the glove from the table then walked into the kitchen.
Nola followed then paused to look over her shoulder. “Cinnia, please bring Torin’s mug.”
Feeling peevish, Cinnia wagged her head and mouthed her sister’s request before grabbing the metal cup and tossing it into the top bowl.
“So, it’s true. Red hair means a temper.”
The fact Torin’s voice held a teasing note was the only reason Cinnia didn’t snap her response. “Couldn’t prove it by me…” She lifted the stack and shrugged. “I haven’t been given permission to have one.” Head held high, she stalked into the kitchen and set the dishes into the sink. She tried not to notice the man who faced the wall cupboard to her right, but each of his movements caught her attention. “Point me to the water, and I’ll clean these.” She glanced around on the floor for a bucket or a pail.
“Nic filled the kettle so there’ll be enough for the dishes.”
Cinnia turned and rested her hands on the edge of the sink. “From where? I don’t see a pump.”
Nola pointed her toe toward the cork-topped crock on the floor. “He filled that at the town well.”
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