A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  Though Lydia had tried to refuse, not wanting to cause Catherine any more pain, Nate would not be dissuaded. “Do I look like a man who’d wear velvet?” he’d asked when she had protested the generosity. In both cases, Lydia had insisted on paying the men, though she knew the prices they’d agreed on were far below the items’ actual value.

  “Everyone’s been so helpful,” she told Catherine. Though Warner and Nate had led the list of helpful residents, others had volunteered their services at what Lydia suspected were reduced rates. That had surprised Lydia. Even with Aunt Bertha’s patronage, she was still a Yankee, and the wary looks she received from some parishioners each Sunday told her Travis’s father was not the only person in Cimarron Creek who disliked Northerners.

  But sooner than she’d thought possible, she had freshly painted walls and the shelves she needed in the back rooms. The only challenge had been finding a table and two chairs to go with the newly created window seat. Aunt Bertha had resolved that problem by taking Lydia to the attic and telling her she could use anything she found there. Though the nicks and gouges spoke to its age, the oval table had needed nothing more than a good cleaning and polishing to make it perfect for the spot, and once Lydia had created calico cushions for the chairs, they complemented both the table and the window seat.

  “I’m not surprised that you’ve had help. Most of the people in Cimarron Creek are friendly. And there’s the curiosity factor.” Catherine wrinkled her nose, her amusement evident. “Everyone wanted to be the first to have a story about the Yankee shopkeeper. It didn’t hurt that you have Aunt Bertha’s support. I doubt many would want to cross her.” Catherine looked around. “Where is she? I thought for sure she’d be here to greet customers.”

  Lydia shook her head. “I expected her too, but she told me the store was mine. She’s the silent partner.”

  “Aunt Bertha silent?” Catherine raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “That’ll be the day.” She pointed toward the glass-fronted cabinet. “I came here to do more than talk. I promised Mama a pound of fudge.”

  While Lydia weighed the candy and slid the pieces into one of the white boxes she’d decided would be her signature wrapping, the doorbell tinkled. Looking up, she saw the young woman she recognized as Porter Gray’s wife enter, a toddler clinging to her hand.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Catherine,” Hilda Gray said as she took another step into the store. “I thought you’d be with your mother.” Of medium height, Hilda might never be called beautiful, but her perfectly tailored gown highlighted her brown hair and helped disguise the fact that she was far thinner than was fashionable. Though Lydia had been introduced to both Hilda and Porter at church the first Sunday, she had not spoken to either of them since.

  Catherine ignored Hilda’s slightly waspish tone and favored her with a smile. “Mama’s one of the reasons I’m here. She wanted a pound of Lydia’s fudge.” Catherine gestured toward the cabinet. “It’s the best either of us has ever tasted.”

  Lydia turned to her new customer. “Would you like a sample? I have tea and coffee to go with it.”

  The woman’s eyes widened slightly before she nodded. “Certainly, if you don’t mind my daughter.” Though the child had remained silent, she had begun to fidget. “She’s not the neatest of eaters yet.”

  Lydia gave Hilda her brightest smile. “You’re both welcome to taste anything Cimarron Sweets offers. Today I have fudge, penuche, and chocolate-covered vanilla creams.”

  “I’ll try one of the creams.” Lydia’s second customer shepherded her daughter to the table and helped her climb into one of the chairs. Taking the one next to her, the woman gave Lydia a small smile. “I’m not sure you remember me, but I’m Hilda Gray, and this is Susan.”

  “I certainly do remember you. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Lydia said. “And your daughter is more than welcome. I have milk for the younger customers.”

  While Susan managed to spread more fudge outside her mouth than in it, Hilda Gray bit into the quarter of a cream that Lydia had placed in front of her, chewing thoughtfully, then taking a sip of coffee. “This is delicious. Porter will love it. I’ll take a pound of these.” She glanced at the box in front of Catherine. “Make that two, plus one of the fudge. My quilting bee is tomorrow. I always serve some kind of sweet, but it’s become difficult to find something different each month. If the other ladies like these candies as much as I think they will, I’ll make them a new tradition.”

  Lydia nodded and pointed to the small decorations she’d piped on top of each candy. “Would you prefer roses or stars? I’ll normally stock two kinds of flowers, but I decided to use stars for the next few weeks in honor of Independence Day.”

  Pursing her lips, Hilda studied the two candies as if choosing the correct one was a matter of life and death. “That’s a good idea. I’ll take stars today. Next time can be flowers.”

  Lydia thought about the woman’s desire to serve something different each month. “If you order in advance,” she said as she began to weigh out the creams, “I can make a special decoration for your quilters.” Her mind began to whirl with the possibilities. Perhaps Hilda would like a spool of thread or a quilter’s hoop instead of flowers, or perhaps she would choose a flower that had specific significance for her group.

  As she wiped the chocolate from her daughter’s face, Hilda smiled. “What a wonderful idea! Would you consider doing something exclusively for us?”

  “Of course.”

  The woman was beaming as she left the store, holding three boxes of chocolates in one hand, her daughter’s hand in the other.

  “How did you know exactly what to say to guarantee Hilda’s patronage?” Catherine asked as the door closed.

  “What do you mean?” Lydia placed the dirty dishes on a tray and turned toward the back of the store. Since neither room had water piped into it, she had had Luke Henderson construct one counter with a lower section where she could place two pans, one with soapy water, the other designed for rinsing.

  Catherine stepped out of the way. “Hilda’s trying to become a leader in the community. I think she has illusions of becoming another Aunt Bertha. Telling her she can have exclusive candies will help that.”

  Catherine was acting as if Lydia had accomplished some great feat, when all she’d done was try to satisfy a customer’s needs. “I’d do it for anyone. It’s easy enough to make new designs, so each one can be a little different.” That was one of the reasons chocolate creams were her favorite confection. Not only did Lydia like the flavor combination of the chocolate coating with the creamy interior, but she enjoyed piping a design on top.

  “You may do it for others, but Hilda will be able to say she was the first. She’ll feel as if everyone else is following her lead. Good work, Lydia.”

  Catherine picked up the box of fudge she’d left on the counter while Hilda and Susan were in the store. “I need to go home now, but I hope you and Aunt Bertha will come for supper again this week. Mama always perks up when she knows you’re coming.” Unspoken was the fact that Gussie Whitfield’s bad days outnumbered the good ones. “Will you pray for her?”

  Lydia nodded. “For you too.” She hugged her friend, then watched as Catherine walked down the street, her head held high, her step jaunty, as if she had not a care in the world when inside her heart was breaking.

  Only minutes later, two women entered the store.

  “Hilda Gray told us you have chocolate creams,” the first announced.

  “I have to admit they’re one of my favorites,” Lydia told her, “but the penuche is also delicious.”

  The second woman’s eyes brightened. “I haven’t had penuche in years. I’ll take some. Maybe half a pound.”

  Gesturing toward the table and chairs, Lydia said, “Would you like a sample of both the penuche and the creams and some tea or coffee?”

  The two women exchanged glances, then nodded. A quarter of an hour later, they left having each purchased two pounds of cand
y. Word appeared to spread quickly, because by the end of the day, Lydia had sold everything she’d made. Tonight would be a busy night replenishing her stock.

  She gathered the now empty pans and locked the front door behind her. Wouldn’t Aunt Bertha be pleased when she heard how well the first day had gone? She’d probably say “I told you so,” and she would be right. She had been the first to predict that the townspeople would embrace the idea of a candy store, even one run by a Yankee.

  Lydia’s smile widened as she saw Travis approaching her. Perhaps it was silly, but the sight of the sheriff never failed to boost her spirits. Unlike Warner and Nate, both of whom gave her smiles that made Lydia fear they had listened to Aunt Bertha’s matchmaking, Travis treated her as if she were a friend—nothing more, nothing less.

  “You look like you had a good day,” he said.

  “Even better than I had hoped. I sold every last piece of candy and poured at least a dozen cups of tea and coffee.”

  The cups and saucers were now washed, dried, and back on the shelves ready for tomorrow’s customers, assuming there was anyone else in town who wanted to buy candy. As successful as today had been, Lydia had no guarantee that it would be repeated. The curiosity factor, as Catherine had called it, would last only so long.

  Oblivious to the doubts that had seized Lydia, Travis nodded. “I thought that might happen. Cimarron Creek has never had a candy store, so you’re filling a need.”

  Though Lydia was tempted to say that no one needed candy, that it was a guilty indulgence for many, she did not. “I was afraid that once I opened my mouth, they’d leave, but no one did.” There had been a few raised eyebrows, suggesting that not everyone in town had heard that the new shopkeeper was a Yankee, but no one had shunned her.

  “It’s time they learned that not all Northerners wear horns. I’m afraid my father will never accept that, but the rest of the town is kinder.”

  Travis looked up and down the street, his gaze deceptively casual. Lydia had seen him do it before and knew he was looking for anything out of place, any sign that something was wrong. As he’d once told her, a sheriff’s job never ended.

  “Is there a specific reason your father hates Yankees?” To Lydia’s surprise, though Aunt Bertha provided a running commentary on almost everyone in the Whitfield-Henderson clan, she had said little about Travis’s father other than that he had always been disagreeable.

  Travis nodded again. “In one word: Gettysburg. He lost his leg and too many comrades there.”

  Gettysburg. The name conjured images of almost unthinkable suffering as tens of thousands of men on both sides of the conflict fought under the hot July sun. Though President Lincoln had later called it hallowed ground, his words brought little comfort to those who’d lost so much there.

  “I can only imagine how difficult that must have been. The whole war is one of the saddest parts of our history.”

  “Yes, it is, but so is Pa’s attitude. I’ve tried. Aunt Bertha has tried, and while he was alive, Uncle Jonas tried, but nothing we said changed the way he feels.” Travis’s eyes were as dark as rain clouds. “I suspect Pa would enjoy your fudge as much as I do, but I also suspect he’s the only person in Cimarron Creek who’d refuse to eat it simply because of what he considers his principles.”

  Lydia had seen those principles at work each Sunday after services ended. Though he would nod to Aunt Bertha, Travis’s father carefully avoided meeting Lydia’s gaze and pretended not to hear her greetings.

  “You have to respect his opinions.”

  To Lydia’s surprise, Travis chuckled. “That would be easier if he were a little less loud when he expressed them. But let’s not talk about my father. If you hand me that bag, I’ll be glad to carry it home for you.”

  “Thanks.” Lydia handed him the bag. While not heavy, it was bulky because of the number of tins she’d stuffed inside, and though she was exhilarated by the success of her first day in business, she was also tired. “Are you sure I’m not taking you away from business?”

  “Even the sheriff is entitled to a few minutes off duty. Besides, I need a fresh perspective.”

  As he glanced toward the saloon, Lydia surmised that he was thinking of Edgar. “Is there still no sign of Edgar?” she asked.

  “No, and by now even if there had been a trail, it would be cold.” Travis’s lips tightened into a frown. “I don’t understand it. It’s been over a month, and I’ve found nothing but dead ends. People don’t simply vanish.” He frowned again. “I hate unresolved mysteries, but it’s beginning to look as if this will be one.”

  “Like Aunt Bertha’s daughter.” Lydia was still haunted by the realization that her benefactress had an unvoiced tragedy in her past. Not once in the four weeks that Lydia had lived with her had Aunt Bertha given even the slightest hint that she’d had a daughter. It was as if Joan Henderson had never existed.

  “Yes.” Travis greeted two men whose uneven gait bore witness to the time they’d spent inside the Silver Spur. When they were out of earshot, he continued. “Obviously there’s no connection between the two cases other than that both of the missing people lived here, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about either one. The only logical explanation is that they both met with foul play.”

  Lydia thought back to what Travis had told her about Aunt Bertha’s daughter. “In that case, wouldn’t there have been a search for Joan? It didn’t sound as if that happened.”

  Travis turned to look at Lydia, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right. I was only a kid, but the way I remember it, Joan simply disappeared. Aunt Bertha claimed she was visiting some cousins. Then when she didn’t come back, everyone knew that wasn’t the case. Eventually speculation died down.”

  Though they’d been heading north on Main Street, when they reached Mesquite, Travis turned on it. “The story I heard was that Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jonas insisted no one in the family talk about Joan. There’s always been the belief that the Whitfields and Hendersons need to set an example for the rest of the town.”

  Lydia smiled. “Noblesse oblige.”

  “Exactly.”

  Though he probably hadn’t intended it, Travis had given her the opening to ask one of the questions that had puzzled her. “Is that the reason you became sheriff?”

  “Partly.”

  “And the other part?” Unlike Aunt Bertha, he didn’t feel the need to fill every silence with talk.

  “I wanted to be sure we had an honest man in the job. I’d heard stories of sheriffs who looked the other way when their friends were involved. I didn’t want that to happen here. Besides, no one else seemed particularly interested in the job other than Porter, and his father squashed that idea the instant Porter mentioned it.” Travis shrugged. “Someone brought up my name, and the next thing I knew, I had a star on my chest.”

  “Are you happy about that?” Lydia couldn’t tell from either his words or his expression.

  “I’d be happier if I could find Edgar and stop the vandalism.”

  Lydia heard the frustration in his voice and wanted to do something—anything—to help him. She couldn’t find Edgar, and she couldn’t stop the vandalism, but perhaps she could boost Travis’s spirits. Everything he had said confirmed her initial impression that Travis Whitfield was a man of honor, a man who knew the difference between right and wrong, a man who would keep his promises. “You’re a good man, Travis. The town is lucky to have you.”

  Her words of praise were still ringing in his ears as Travis let himself into his house. He could rationalize the sudden warmth that had lodged in his heart, saying it was the result of a compliment, but the truth was, he’d received compliments before, and none had affected him this way. He could try to convince himself otherwise, but the fact that the compliment had come from Lydia was what had touched him. Travis knew she wasn’t trying to flatter him; that simply wasn’t something she would do. No, when Lydia Crawford said something, she meant it. And that made her words as sweet as the candy she s
old. Sweet and unforgettable, just like the woman herself.

  His thoughts still centered on Lydia, Travis stopped short when he saw his cousin in the parlor with Pa.

  “I didn’t expect you, Warner. Have you come for supper?”

  Warner nodded. “That and some advice.” He glanced at Pa but directed his words to Travis. “I asked Porter, but he was no use. All he did was laugh.”

  Pa looked up from the piece of wood he’d been whittling. “You could have asked me. I courted a woman once, you know.”

  Warner’s sudden blink told Travis Pa had hit a sensitive nerve. “I didn’t hear any mention of women,” Travis said, trying to spare his cousin the tirade he knew would follow.

  “Just look at your cousin’s face and you’ll know I was right. He looks like a lovesick pup.”

  Before Travis could respond, Warner let out a harsh laugh. “I can always depend on you to speak your mind, Uncle Abe.”

  “That’s one of the prerogatives of age: you get to say what you think. What I think is that you could do better than to hanker after the Cursed Enemy.”

  Lydia? Of course. Warner hadn’t been joking when he’d talked about courting her. He needed a wife, and Lydia was available.

  “Now that Warner knows exactly how you feel, he and I are going outside for a few minutes.” Travis jerked his head toward the door. When he and his cousin reached the backyard, he continued. “Is Pa right? Are you interested in courting Miss Crawford?” He wouldn’t call her Lydia, not now.

  Warner nodded. “I am. The problem is, I don’t seem to be getting anywhere with her. I’ve gone to her store every day, volunteering to help her with whatever I could.”

  “And she doesn’t appreciate it? That doesn’t sound like Lydia.” Travis frowned at the realization that he’d used her Christian name.

  “Oh, she appreciates it,” Warner countered. “She’s always polite. She thanks me and smiles, but she doesn’t treat me any differently than she does Xavier Cready.”