A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  Tomorrow she and Aunt Bertha would visit the building Travis had suggested. In the meantime, they’d hoped to relax, but that wouldn’t happen until Lydia answered the door. She rose and walked through the wide hallway to the front door, trying not to frown when she opened it and saw the visitor. If there was one man in Cimarron Creek that she did not want to see again, it was this one.

  “Good evening, Miss Crawford.” Warner Gray held out a light gray box tied with a piece of fancy ribbon. “I’m sorry our conversation was cut short this afternoon, but I wanted to welcome you to Cimarron Creek and hope you’ll accept this small token of my esteem.”

  Lydia shook her head slightly, refusing to take the proffered gift. She had no regrets over the brevity of their previous conversation and hoped this one would be even shorter. “Thank you, Mr. Gray, but there’s no need. You’ve already welcomed me.”

  Lydia remembered those uncomfortable seconds in the drugstore when she’d felt as if she were being inspected. Though his expression was warmer now, she had the same feeling of being evaluated, and so she returned the favor, her eyes moving slowly from the crown of Warner Gray’s hat to the tips of his boots. The man was undeniably handsome, and some women would undoubtedly consider him charming. She was not one of them.

  “Warner, is that you?” Aunt Bertha’s voice carried through the hallway. “Bring him in, Lydia.”

  If it had been up to her, Lydia would have left the man on the doorstep, but she would do nothing to upset Aunt Bertha, and so she led the way to the parlor.

  “I won’t stay long,” the town’s pharmacist said when he’d greeted his aunt. “I simply want to welcome Miss Crawford to town.”

  “I see.” Though her words were commonplace, the way her lips twitched told Lydia something about the situation amused Aunt Bertha. “It appears you’ve come bearing gifts.”

  “Just a token.” Warner offered the box to Lydia for the second time, and this time she had no choice but to accept it.

  “Go ahead, girl,” Aunt Bertha encouraged her. “Open it.”

  Lydia untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, revealing a box of nougats. Flowers, books, and candy. She tried not to frown at the realization that she’d just received one of the gifts a suitor was allowed to bring to the woman he wished to court.

  “That’s perfect, Warner.” Once again it was Aunt Bertha who spoke. “That’s exactly what Lydia needs.”

  Aunt Bertha was wrong. Lydia did not need a box of candy, and she most definitely did not need a suitor. Still, common courtesy required that she acknowledge the gift. She managed a smile as she said, “Thank you, Mr. Gray. May I offer you a piece?”

  The man shook his head. “I wish I could stay, but my family is expecting me for a late supper.” He smiled, and for the first time Lydia saw genuine warmth in his eyes. “I hope I’ll be welcome to return another time. I’d like to get to know you better.”

  Before Lydia could respond, Aunt Bertha nodded. “Any time, Warner. Any time. And please tell your parents I sent my regards.”

  Though the comment was benign, a flicker of discomfort made its way across Warner’s face. “Certainly, Aunt Bertha.” His voice betrayed no distress, making Lydia wonder if she’d imagined his uneasiness.

  When Lydia returned to the parlor after escorting Warner to the door, she found the older woman smiling. “Next to Travis, he’s my favorite nephew. You could do worse.”

  “What do you mean?” Although she feared she recognized the gleam in Aunt Bertha’s eyes, Lydia didn’t want to make any assumptions. Not every woman over a certain age was a matchmaker.

  Aunt Bertha’s smile widened. “Warner’s obviously hoping to court you, just like Nate Kenton.” As Lydia started to protest, Aunt Bertha shook her head. “That toilet water was more than an apology, my dear. But back to Warner. I’ve heard his father is pressuring him to marry. He must consider you an answer to prayer.”

  Was that the reason he’d inspected her so carefully? Lydia had felt as if she were being evaluated, and perhaps she was—as a prospective bride. If Warner’s father was indeed urging him to marry, that would explain why he’d reacted to Aunt Bertha’s reference to his family.

  “I’m no one’s answer to prayer,” Lydia said as calmly as she could, “especially not where matrimony is concerned. I have no intention of marrying.”

  “Nonsense!” Aunt Bertha appeared genuinely shocked. “You may believe that now, but you’ll change your mind when the right man comes along. He’ll sweep you off your feet, and before you know it, you’ll be standing in front of the parson and repeating your vows. In the meantime, it was nice of Warner to bring you some candy. You can see what your competition is.” Aunt Bertha gestured toward the open box. “Try a piece.”

  8

  So, what do you think?”

  Lydia looked at the empty building that had once been a millinery. With its large front room and the plate-glass window, not to mention its location on Main Street, it would be ideal for almost any business that catered to customers. Any business other than hers.

  She tried to tamp down her disappointment. After a mostly sleepless night during which her mind had whirled with ideas for Cimarron Sweets, she had made a simpler than normal breakfast for herself and Aunt Bertha. Though she missed her friend’s companionship, Lydia knew it was good that Catherine hadn’t come to hone her dough-making skills this morning, because Aunt Bertha had agreed that they would meet Travis at the store at 8:30.

  “I don’t want to interfere with your routine,” she had told him.

  Though Travis had claimed he could delay his routine, Aunt Bertha had been adamant, and so here they were, inspecting the empty shop.

  “I’m not sure,” Lydia told Travis. Though the location was ideal, there were other considerations. “Even if we tear down the wall between them,” she said, pointing to the two small rooms at the back of the building, “the space would be barely large enough for a kitchen. And if I use that for a kitchen, I don’t know where I’d store the stock.”

  Aunt Bertha, who’d sat perched on the wide front windowsill while Lydia and Travis explored every inch of space, tapping walls to ensure they were solid, measuring each of the rooms, rose. “Why do you need a kitchen? There’s a perfectly good one at my house. Oh, it’ll be a bit more work, because you’ll have to carry the candy over here each day, but you’re young. You can do that. And if you do, there’s no need for renovations. You’ll have plenty of room.”

  Aunt Bertha took a step toward Lydia. “Think about my kitchen and that marble-topped table you used for cooling the fudge. I never did see much use for it, but Jonas insisted. He said he’d heard it was good for fancy pastries and candies, and it seems he was right.”

  In typical Aunt Bertha fashion, she continued without a pause. “The house has been here for forty years, and no one made candy until you arrived. The way I see it, it’s time someone put that expensive marble to good use on a regular basis.” She shook her finger at Lydia. “Don’t even try to say you don’t want to impose. You’re not imposing. You’re giving this old lady a new interest. Isn’t that right, Travis?”

  He shrugged. “I can agree with most of that, but I take exception to the ‘old lady’ part. You’ll never seem old to me.”

  “Oh, pshaw, boy. Save your pretty words for someone who deserves them, like Lydia here. If you’re interested—and you ought to be—you’d better move quickly. She’s already caught Warner’s eye, and if that toilet water he gave her is any indication, Nate Kenton will be knocking on my door tonight to pay his respects.”

  As embarrassment sent blood rushing to her cheeks, Lydia tried to change the subject. The last thing she needed was Aunt Bertha trying her hand at matchmaking. Lydia had told her she wasn’t interested in marriage yesterday, and nothing had changed since then.

  “The marble-topped table is perfect,” she admitted. “In fact, your whole kitchen is. I couldn’t have designed one any better suited for candy making. So, if you’re certain
I can use it, then this building will be fine.”

  Lydia gestured toward the west-facing front of the building. “I won’t be able to put candy in the window because of the afternoon sun, but I might turn the sill into a window seat. If I put a small table and two chairs in front of it, customers could sit with a cup of tea or coffee and sample a couple different kinds of candy before they make their decision.”

  Aunt Bertha narrowed her eyes, obviously considering the plan. “Would you charge them for that?”

  “No. The samples will be tiny, just a taste to convince them they want a whole box.”

  “Is that what the store in Syracuse did?” Though Aunt Bertha appeared intrigued, she wasn’t offering an opinion yet, and Travis said nothing. To Lydia’s relief, he had not reacted to Aunt Bertha’s clumsy attempt at matchmaking, but neither had he said anything about Lydia’s plans for the store. Perhaps he thought it was not his place to advise, but the truth was, Lydia wanted his opinion.

  “No,” she said, answering Aunt Bertha’s question. “It’s my idea. When I saw the big window, I knew it could be something special.”

  “I agree.” Travis nodded vigorously, his apparent reluctance to join the conversation gone. “It’s a good idea. You’re not just a great candy maker, Lydia. It seems you also have a real head for business.”

  This time the color that flooded her face was due to pleasure, not embarrassment.

  He shouldn’t care that Warner and Nate wanted to court Lydia, Travis told himself as he strode toward his office after escorting the women back home. That was hardly a surprise. Any red-blooded male would be attracted to her pretty face. But Lydia Crawford was more than a pretty face. Today she’d proven there was a keen mind beneath that golden hair, and that only added to the mystery. Try though he might, Travis could not understand why a woman like Lydia would have been involved with a man like Edgar. Oh, Edgar seemed like a hard worker, and both Faith and Opal had nothing but praise for him, but he wasn’t in the same class as Lydia. If you asked Travis—and no one had—she was better off not marrying Edgar.

  “There you are, Sheriff.” A boy sprinted across the street, his face red with exertion. “Ma said to tell you another window was busted. Same as last week.”

  “Another rock?” This was the third time Curtis Wilkins had come with the same report.

  “Yes, sir. She’s mighty upset.”

  Travis nodded, imagining the scene at the boy’s house. “Tell your ma I’ll be over to investigate in a few minutes.” As Curtis raced back to his home, Travis entered his office and gathered the few investigative tools he’d inherited from Lionel. Though he doubted the magnifying glass would reveal anything, he might as well take it. If nothing else, it would reassure Mrs. Wilkins to know the town’s lawman was doing his best.

  Half an hour later, Travis left the Wilkins home, displeased but not surprised that Curtis had been right. This crime was the same as the others, and that meant no clues. There were no footprints, no pieces of thread or other leads to the perpetrator. The only scrap of evidence was the stone that had shattered the window, and that could have come from anywhere.

  As had happened the previous times the Wilkinses’ window had been broken, the neighbor across the street had lost another chicken, leaving Mrs. Higgins as unhappy as Mrs. Wilkins. The chicken thief could have been a fox, but there were usually stray feathers when foxes were responsible. This time, while there were no feathers, an overturned water bucket had provided one clue: human footprints.

  A man, a full-grown man by the size of the boot print, had stolen the chicken. And, since it seemed unlikely two different people were involved in crimes so close together on the same night, that man had also thrown a rock through Mrs. Wilkins’s window.

  Who and, more importantly, why? The questions reverberated through Travis’s brain as he continued his morning rounds. The first time a window had been broken, Mrs. Wilkins had been convinced it was the work of one of the schoolboys she claimed were always bullying Curtis, but when Travis had visited the boy’s home, he’d discovered he slept in the loft and that his parents were light sleepers who would have heard him if he’d tried to go outside. As if that weren’t enough to exonerate him, the boy wore a far smaller boot than the print Travis had found today.

  The crimes weren’t serious. They didn’t threaten the residents of Cimarron Creek. They didn’t even cause financial hardship, because Travis had paid for the window repairs and bought new chickens for Mrs. Higgins. But the crimes still disturbed him. He was the sheriff. It was one thing to make restitution for the crimes. That eased their effect, but that wasn’t why the townspeople had elected him. They wanted him to find the culprit and ensure that the broken windows and chicken thefts stopped. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, he’d been unable to do that.

  Had the citizens of Cimarron Creek made a mistake in choosing him? That question kept Travis awake at night.

  “Face it, Travis; you’re not cut out to be a sheriff.” Though he frequently bellowed, tonight Pa spoke in an almost conversational tone that made his words all the more powerful. This was the Pa Travis remembered from his childhood, whose quiet recriminations stung as much as a switch. “You’re meant to be a lawyer.”

  Travis helped himself to another serving of beef and potatoes. “I’m still a lawyer,” he pointed out, “but I’m also a lawman.” While it hadn’t been his choice, now was not the time to mention that, especially since he was already questioning his wisdom in pinning on the star. “The town needed a sheriff, and they chose me.”

  “You didn’t have to agree. You were already serving the town by handling all the legal affairs.”

  It wasn’t the first time Pa had made this argument. Travis gave him the same reply he had before. “Yes, I did have to agree.” In the past, those words had been enough to send Pa into a tirade. When he remained silent tonight, Travis continued his explanation. “I wasn’t about to let the town become victim to something like the State Police.” Though the excesses of the carpetbagger regime were notorious, there were few that could compare with the State Police. With their extraordinary and unconstitutional powers, they had made a travesty of justice in many towns. Travis wouldn’t let that happen here.

  “And you think that might have happened if you weren’t wearing that star?” For once, there was no belligerence in Pa’s tone, only simple incredulity.

  “It could have.” One of the subjects discussed at last year’s meeting of attorneys had been the problems two towns had experienced when the wrong men became sheriff. In one case, they’d hired an outsider who’d turned out to be both corrupt and vicious. In another, a local man’s true colors had been revealed when he’d been given the star.

  If Travis hadn’t accepted the appointment, Cimarron Creek would have had to hire an outsider, an unknown, for there’d been no other candidates. Oh, Porter had mentioned running for sheriff, but Uncle Charles had put a quick end to that, saying Porter was needed at the livery. And the truth was, Travis could not picture his cousin as a lawman. He was a good man, a good friend, but he was also a man with an unpredictable temper. That was a quality no town could afford in its sheriff.

  “You’re worrying about the wrong thing.” Pa shook his head as he used a piece of bread to sop up the last drops of gravy. “There’s only one thing wrong with this town, and that’s that we’ve got too many of the Cursed Enemy here.” Glaring at Travis, as if he expected a challenge, he said, “Mark my words. They’re behind everything.”

  “That’s absurd, and you know it.” Until Lydia had arrived, Cimarron Creek had been home to only one Northerner. “Edgar’s not even here. How could he have stolen the Higginses’ chickens or broken Mrs. Wilkins’s window?”

  “Mark my words,” Pa repeated. “He’s been hanging around, just looking for the chance to do some mischief, and now he’s got a helper. Another one of the Enemy.”

  “Lydia?” If Pa had met her, he’d know how ridiculous that idea was. Lydia was kind an
d caring. Even if she didn’t make the best fudge Travis had ever eaten, she would have been an asset to the town.

  Pa nodded. “If that’s her name, then she’s the one.”

  Though he was tempted to laugh, Travis restrained himself. Nothing would be gained by raising Pa’s ire. “Lydia would no more steal chickens than you would sing ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’”

  But Pa’s anger was already simmering. “You’re a fool, Travis. You’re letting a pretty face blind you to the truth. She’s a Northerner, and that says it all. Every last one of them is a scalawag. Why, if she sets foot in church, the roof will fall down.”

  This time Travis did laugh.

  9

  She could not ignore the stares as she and Aunt Bertha walked down the aisle and took their seats in the first pew on the right, the one Aunt Bertha had informed her was reserved for the oldest generation of Hendersons, just as the one on the left belonged to the senior Whitfields. Though it was empty now, Aunt Bertha had told her that was where Travis and his father and Catherine and her mother sat with Charles and Mary Gray. Warner, along with his brother Porter and his family, occupied the pew behind them, while the Gospels and their families filed into the two rows behind Lydia and Aunt Bertha.

  Though not unexpected, the open stares and a few hostile glares from the congregation left Lydia feeling uncomfortable, but once the service began, she forgot everything in the joy of worship. An hour later, her spirit restored by the familiar hymns and the minister’s brief but powerful sermon about loving thy neighbor, Lydia was ready to face the congregation. They were her neighbors, and no matter what they said, she would love them. She would also do everything she could to be the kind of person they could love.