“There’s no finer store between here and Austin.” Nicholas Lovelace slapped a beaming Deacon Bradford on the back. When Deacon’s mercantile burned down a couple of years earlier, many wondered if the customers lost to the bigger towns of Lockhart and Luling would ever return to little Prairie Lea, but they had proved loyal to the kind shopkeeper. “Your one-year anniversary and everything still looks brand-new. What do you think, Mol?”
Molly surveyed the smart displays, the pyramid of tin cans, and the notions arranged beneath the glass counter. Bailey knew she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing any of the fabric, and goodness knew she had no use for the housewares and farm equipment, but she wouldn’t let her brother outdo her in anything, especially flattery.
“I love Mr. Bradford’s store. The shop exudes confidence while still possessing a welcoming atmosphere. You’ve put together an amazing selection in the past year.” She turned an effusive smile to the gentleman. “First rate.”
Bailey shook his head at Deacon’s pleased stammering. Were all men so easily hoodwinked? Seeing through the exaggeration wasn’t difficult when you weren’t the target. ’Course he was no better.
“Molly can spot quality,” her pa said, “but she wouldn’t know a whisk from a rug beater.”
Molly’s eyes tightened, but her smile didn’t falter. Laughter filled the room, and hers was the merriest of them all.
Bailey wasn’t fooled. Something needed to be said in her defense. “Hey, Tuck,” he called to his brother, allowing his voice to carry. “You said you needed help on your ciphering. You should ask Molly to look at your sums. She’s a whiz at figures.”
Mr. Lovelace’s laughter twisted into a cough. He pointed at Tuck. “That’s a fine idea, son. Women are helpful when it comes to making it past the schoolmarms. Don’t know what good it does them later, but don’t turn down help when you can get it.”
Tuck scowled at Bailey and ducked out the door to join Samuel and the older boys, where there was less talk of ciphering and schoolmarms.
His mother, Mary Garner, left the refreshment table to join Molly. “Did you bring any food, or are you begging off everyone else?”
Bailey shook his head. He agreed Molly needed to make some effort when it came to bringing grub, but he grew defensive when his mother got involved. Between his ma and her pa, she was taking a beating.
Molly kept her chin up. “I’m sure Mother brought something. She said Lola was working in the kitchen until late last night.”
“Lola has a husband, doesn’t she?” Mary flipped a dish towel over her shoulder. “Yes, a good cook doesn’t stay single long.”
“Mother, what does Mrs. Lovelace’s servant have to do with anything? You’re fishing for trouble.”
“Don’t you talk that way to your ma.” Bailey’s father, George, shuffled between the aisles holding one of Bailey’s little sisters by the hand. He winked at Molly. “At least not where she can hear it, or she’ll make me do something about it.”
“Oh, stop,” Mary huffed. “It’s no secret Molly wants to get married, and as far as I’m concerned, the sooner she does, the better. Adele is my dear friend, and if her daughter can’t catch a husband, she won’t mind me helping. I’d want someone to do the same for Susannah and Ida if, heaven forbid, they got to her age without a trip down the aisle.”
Molly’s smile faded. Bailey looked to his father for help. Once Mary Garner got started, it took a team of horses to redirect her.
“Now, dear, men marry for more than meat and taters. Miss Lovelace is so elegant that none of the bumpkins around here are up to snuff, but enough with this tomfoolery. You might want to check on Ida. She feels warm and says her throat hurts. She won’t even try the sweets.”
His mother knelt and placed the back of her hand against his sister’s forehead. With a wrinkled brow she led the little girl away, allowing Bailey an unobstructed view of Molly. Her blond curls were swept up, exposing her delicate but stubborn jaw. Her black brows and lashes framed grateful bluebonnet eyes that turned toward him.
Reverend Stoker had said he could love her, hadn’t he? Mighty generous of him, ’cause there was no way around it. Even knowing the trouble she could cause him, was already causing him, he couldn’t help himself.
Before he could accompany her to the refreshments, Deacon asked his cousin Weston to pray a blessing on their gathering. With head bowed, Bailey breathed his own prayer. I’m trying to do right, Lord. Have I done enough? Have I waited long enough? She’s going to make a decision soon. You wouldn’t let her leave, would you?
———
Standing in lines had never appealed to Molly. It seemed like a waste of time. She’d much rather follow Bailey to a bench and wait. Whatever it took to avoid Mary Garner. Although Molly had known Mrs. Garner all her life, Bailey’s mother frightened her. How could the woman speak plainly when Molly had to hide behind layer after layer of inflection and suggestion to get her meanings across?
“You’ll have to excuse Mother. She thinks you’ve got me plumb hornswoggled.” He patted the empty space next to him.
Molly sat. “Really? As far as I can tell I have no effect on you at all.”
“Don’t pretend that you need the situation explained again,” he warned. “I know you’re smarter than that.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Thomas Lovelace stood before them with a plate laden with treats. “We all know she doesn’t have a serious thought in her head. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”
Bailey sat taller. “Molly’s thoughts, when she chooses to share them, are usually quite interesting.”
“Like whether to buy the green cloth or the yellow?” Thomas laughed.
“I was imagining a weightier decision,” he said.
Molly met his dark eyes. She noticed the patient set of his mouth as he waited for her to defend herself, but she’d given up on that long ago.
“Now that I’ve had time to consider, I don’t think I want either fabric. Gingham simply isn’t being worn in town anymore.”
She looked away to avoid his reproach. Why couldn’t he understand? She wouldn’t entertain pretenses of intelligence. Nothing could throw Thomas Lovelace into a foul mood more quickly.
Her father relaxed. “Before you leave, remind me to give you some extra funds. If Mr. Pierrepont wants to see you in a new gown, we’ll consider it an investment.” He tossed a gingerbread cookie into his mouth and ambled away, obviously pleased with himself.
Molly closed her eyes. As if she needed a reminder of Mr. Pierrepont’s plans.
Then again, perhaps she did.
“Amazing how you can find room for all those numbers when you have a brain the size of a catfish’s,” Bailey said.
Molly shrugged. Intelligence wouldn’t take her anywhere new—only force her to be discontent with her lot. And the discontent was growing. She’d taken a holiday from work to attend the event, and her father had ruined it.
Bailey elbowed her gently. “Don’t think about him,” he said. “Tell me about the courthouse. Are you still working on your shorthand?”
But even that topic couldn’t cheer her. “Yes, but I’ve had to practice on my own. Evidently someone has been keeping Prue busy.”
Bailey ignored her prying. “If you were the court stenographer, you’d have a decent income right in Lockhart. With a highfalutin job like that, you wouldn’t need a rich husband.”
A throat cleared. Molly’s mother strolled past and raised her eyebrows. Bailey’s father was watching, as well. Evidently their families thought their conversation treaded dangerous ground. They were probably right.
“Molly, don’t let him keep you from the comida.” Rosa, Molly’s friend and former rival for Weston’s attention, swayed as she spoke. Molly tapped the nose of the adorable dark-haired infant she was rocking in her arms. Maybe Bailey’s mother was right. She could at least make an attempt at domesticity. It hadn’t hurt Rosa any.
“I’ll bring you a plate,” Molly said to Bailey by way of reco
nciliation.
“What?” His mouth dropped open. “You’re going to serve me refreshments? You’re not sick, are you? Did you catch Ida’s cold?”
Rosa giggled as Molly rose, and they squeezed their skirts down another crowded aisle. “How has the big city of Lockhart been treating my amiga?”
“I don’t want to think of the big city. I want to enjoy my old friends today.” She shot a glance at Bailey, but he was engrossed in the shorthand book she kept in her purse.
Rosa followed her gaze. “You want him back, no? Bailey is a good man.”
“Yes, but my parents don’t think he’ll make a good husband. They would be devastated if I married him.” Using the silver tongs, Molly lifted colorful petit fours and cookies and filled two plates, then added a piece of pecan pie to Bailey’s.
With her free hand Rosa balanced a cup of punch on Molly’s plates. “Everyone told me that Weston and I should be together, and I wished I’d listened sooner. So much advice people give, but only God knows.”
“Fie on you, Rosa. Getting all serious. Trying to take Reverend Stoker’s job?” Molly gave her a peck on her stunned cheek. “Don’t you do any matchmaking. I’ve got enough trouble as it is.”
She returned to the bench and sat next to Bailey, aware of the whispers that followed her. Well, her conscience was clear. Bailey hadn’t so much as laid a finger on her since . . . oh, bother, since he’d seen to her scratched neck in the dark vacant house. Her heart fluttered at the memory. But besides that, well, he did touch her when he measured her feet, but that was necessary. He had to unlace her boot. Her eyes closed as the delicious thrill of his hands on her ankle revived. Maybe not completely necessary but excusable under any circumstances.
Molly startled. She found herself leaning against Bailey with both plates still in hand. She tried to scoot away.
“Careful there!” Grabbing her arm, he pulled her toward him and took his plate. “You’re about to run out of bench. What’s wrong with you?”
Now they had another contact to repent of.
“I was remembering . . .” What could she say? She popped an entire petit four into her mouth and shrugged. No answer necessary.
Bailey leaned forward to peer around the stack of canned goods between them and the nearest listener. “I’m glad you’re here, Molly. I’ll admit you got me worried the way you were talking the other night. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“What is there to decide?” she asked. “I haven’t had any proposals presented to me, have I? And besides, why are you trifling with me? If you were out of the way, my life would be—” she pursed her lips together—“simpler.”
“Molly, come on over.” Nicholas’s head appeared above the pyramid of canned goods. “We need your courthouse knowledge.”
“When have you ever liked simple?” Bailey asked as she slid a sugar cookie onto his plate and went to join her brother across the room.
“Be sure and let us know how Ida is doing,” her mother called to Mary as Molly walked past.
“She’ll be fine. Probably the cold air getting to her.” Bailey’s mother wrapped her own coat around the little girl. “Now where did Samuel and Tuck go to? Are your brothers already in the wagon?”
Ida squirmed away. “I want to tell Bailey good-bye.”
“Go on, then.” Mary smiled. “The girls miss their big brother, what with him working in town and all. Samuel and Tuck are always after us to visit him, too.”
And he was in town because of her. Molly straightened her cuffs as Ida wandered past her. She hadn’t asked him to move to Lockhart, but was it wrong of her to wish he’d stay?
“Here’s Molly. She’ll know what’s going on.” Nicholas turned to her. “We were wondering about Anne Tillerton. Has she been cleared?”
“Yes. They completed the hearing last summer. The district attorney isn’t interested in prosecuting her.”
“I should think not.” Rosa bit her lip. “She saved my life.”
Which had surprised them all. Although Anne Tillerton had lived in Prairie Lea for a couple of years, she had remained a mystery. Her husband, Jay, was well known about town, but she never made an appearance. Only when Rosa and her mother-in-law, Louise, moved to the adjoining farm did the situation become clear.
Bailey’s cousin Eliza broke off a piece of cookie and handed it to the child on her lap. “To think what she endured, living with that monster. I would have shot him myself long before he attacked another innocent woman.”
“We can’t judge,” Rosa corrected her. “I’m thankful she acted when she did.”
“Of course,” Eliza amended. “Every woman in the county owes her for her bravery. If he were still around I wouldn’t be safe in my own house.”
“Yes you would.” Molly wasn’t surprised that Eliza’s husband, Jake, spoke up. He wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. “Don’t imagine I’d cotton to that no-account dawdling around our place, but I have seen someone over the fence doing lots of target practice.”
“Is that what the ruckus is?” Eliza fed their daughter, Cora, another bite of cookie. “I’ve seen the man traipsing through their property, still smooth-cheeked and slight. How old would you say he is?”
Weston frowned. “A man is living there? You don’t suppose she’s got a brother, do you?”
“Maybe her kin came down from Ohio,” Jake said.
“Sounds like it bears checking into. Last thing Mrs. Tillerton needs is more man trouble.” Weston stood and took Rosa’s empty plate. “Maybe we could swing by on the ride home.”
Eliza beamed at her brother. “Yes, do. Invite them to come over to our house. We could have a sing-along. I can’t think of a more delightful way to spend an evening.”
“I can.” Jake grinned at his wife, who wisely chose to ignore his comment.
“Molly, you must accompany us.” Eliza stood and lifted her daughter to her hip. “You haven’t been to our place for ages, and I need your help with the soprano line. Nicholas can take you to Lockhart later.”
Molly caught her father’s eyes on her. A job could be a blistering nuisance, but it was her only excuse not to live at home. “Father will take me. I have to be at work early tomorrow, and it looks like the weather’s fixing to turn. Perhaps next time.”
Eliza graciously accepted her regrets and then worked her way through the friends and family, inviting them to the impromptu social.
Wraps were gathered, purchases were loaded into wagons, and the crowd dispersed early in search of another location to continue their fellowship. Molly watched as the last carriage full of young people rolled away from the hitching post, leaving her with her parents and the older set to tidy up.
Deacon’s wife, Louise, rattled off a list of things that needed to be done in order to close the shop, but after “bank the fire” was “wipe down the counters,” and Molly knew she’d found her job. Maybe she couldn’t cook, but she’d stay and give a hand when everyone else her age was out for merriment. Well, almost everyone.
Bailey stood behind the counter shaking out an embroidered tablecloth, sewn by Rosa, no doubt. The tablecloth snapped like a bullwhip, flinging the crumbs in all directions. Molly could still picture his corded arms and bare chest, but she shouldn’t. Instead, she thought of his family . . . and of her family’s struggling sawmill. If he was determined to wed her, he needed to get his chicks in a row. Time was running out. Dare she encourage him? Molly straightened the small cap perched atop her curls. When it came to Bailey, there wasn’t much she hadn’t dared to do.
“Do you need help?”
“No, ma’am. Just cleaning up.” He flung a sheet over the cashbox, causing the receipts to scatter in the breeze.
Molly knelt and dragged the closest papers toward her. “I hear you’ve been helping out at the church. I didn’t realize how much it took to maintain the property.”
“Reverend Stoker rides the circuit between here and Lockhart, but there’s a lot to be done besides preaching.”
He turned serious, businesslike. Molly rarely saw this side of him—the side that belonged in the office more than the parlor. “Visiting people, keeping the grounds up, unlocking the building for meetings, Stoker can’t keep both churches going without help. I fill in wherever he isn’t.”
Molly tidied the receipts and held them out to him. “You’ve been busy. Seems like everywhere I turn, you’re working.”
A crash sounded behind them. By the time Molly turned, all she saw was Deacon Bradford holding one end of a bench and her father crumpled on the floor under the opposite.
Bailey rushed past her. He lifted the bench off Mr. Lovelace and tossed it aside. What was wrong? The bench wasn’t heavy enough to crush him, but her father wasn’t getting up. He lay on his side, one arm straight, the other held to his chest.
“Get Dr. Trench,” Louise called.
Bailey ran out the door.
Her mother cried as she raced across the room. Adele loosened his cravat and fanned his egg-colored face. Molly watched in horror as he gasped for breath, his eyes bulging, sweat running through his thinning hair. She was helpless, too stupefied to even pray.
Louise and Deacon joined hands and did the praying for her. Good thing. Why would God listen to her now? Shaking, Molly stumbled to her feet and ran for a water pitcher. Sloshing water all over the countertop, she filled the punch cup and ran to his side.
Before she could lift his head to the rim, she could tell that her father’s struggle was alleviating. His breathing evened and his eyes closed more peacefully. Trembling, he sought his wife’s hand. She snatched it and pressed it to her chest.
“Thomas, dear. Can you talk? What happened?”
“So sorry.” He tried to swallow. “I’m afraid it’s all over.”
8
The kerosene flame flickered eerie shadows on the embossed wallpaper of the bedroom. Molly gripped her father’s hand, wishing he’d match her strong grasp.
Regina Jennings Page 9