A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  Travis was tempted to smile at the thought of the curmudgeonly widower who’d tried to court Aunt Bertha setting his sights on Lydia.

  “I see.” It might be unkind to feel so relieved that Lydia wasn’t showing Warner any favoritism, but Travis couldn’t stop himself.

  “I don’t think you do see. When I asked her if I could court her, she said she was too busy getting the store ready to think about anything else.”

  “The store’s open now,” Travis pointed out. “Maybe she’ll change her mind.” But he hoped she wouldn’t.

  “I’m not sure she will. There’s another problem too. Nate is determined to woo her. He’s there almost as often as I am.”

  Remembering the farmer’s expression the day Lydia had come to town, Travis wasn’t surprised. “Have you considered that she might fancy Nate?”

  Warner snorted. “I’m not stupid, Travis. Of course the thought crossed my mind. But every time I’ve seen Nate leaving her store, he looks as discouraged as I feel.”

  “Then it seems she was telling the truth. She’s not ready for marriage. The time isn’t right.”

  “When will it be?”

  Travis shrugged. “Only Lydia knows.”

  11

  This house has never smelled so good.” Aunt Bertha took a deep sniff as she settled into a chair in the kitchen. She’d rested for an hour after supper, but as she did so many evenings, had returned to watch Lydia make candy. Though Lydia had teased her about having a sweet tooth like Porter, she suspected the reason Aunt Bertha spent so much time here was that she was lonely.

  “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in many years,” Aunt Bertha said without taking a breath. “I memorized Romans 8:28 when I was a little girl, but it’s only recently that I’ve learned how true those words are. Losing Jonas was harder than I could have imagined, and there were times when I despaired of ever finding happiness again, but then you arrived.” Aunt Bertha nodded. “I thank the Lord every single day for bringing you into my life. You’re a true blessing, Lydia.”

  Lydia felt heat color her cheeks. She wasn’t accustomed to praise. “I’m the one who’s been blessed.” She looked up from the dishes she was washing and gestured toward the pan of cooling fudge. “I enjoyed teaching, but running Cimarron Sweets is more rewarding than I thought possible. Everything seems better here. I knew I enjoyed making and selling candy, but I didn’t feel this excited and energized when I worked at the shop in Syracuse.”

  The days were long. Even though the store was open only during the afternoon, Lydia’s days began early and ended late. She caught herself yawning too often, and yet she wouldn’t have changed a thing about the business. The store had been open for more than three weeks now, and while some days were slower than others, she had enough customers that she would turn a profit. If it weren’t for her continuing worry about Edgar, Lydia would have said that her life was close to perfect.

  “I’m not surprised you feel different.” Aunt Bertha raised an eyebrow as if the reason should be obvious. “That’s because the store in Syracuse wasn’t yours.”

  “This one isn’t, either.”

  “Nonsense! You’re the one who’s done all the work. All I did was offer a little money. Now, are those peppermint sticks ready to sample?”

  As she placed the last pan in the draining rack, Lydia nodded. “They are.” Today was the first time Lydia had made them. She’d always considered peppermint a winter treat, but when Nate’s sister had asked if she would make some, Lydia had agreed.

  “I also made mint fudge. I’m not sure how popular it will be in the summer, but I thought I’d experiment. I want to offer new flavors every couple weeks to keep people coming back to the store.”

  Aunt Bertha took a sip of her coffee, then pointed at the fudge. “I need a taste of that before I try the peppermint stick.”

  When Lydia placed a small piece on a plate, Aunt Bertha bit into it. For once, she was silent for more than a couple seconds, as if trying to decide whether she liked the flavor, and Lydia felt herself tense. She’d never before mixed mint with chocolate, but when she’d licked the spoon, she had thought the combination a good one.

  “It’s excellent,” Aunt Bertha said at last, “but I don’t think this is the right time to offer it.”

  “I should wait for Christmas?” Peppermint was always a big seller during December.

  “No, no.” Aunt Bertha shook her head so vigorously Lydia thought her hair might come undone. “Not that long. Just until Founders’ Day. You could make it your Founders’ Day special and only sell it that week.” She slid the remaining bit of fudge into her mouth and made a show of tasting it. “Everyone in town will want some, so be sure you make enough.”

  “I like that idea.” Though she’d thought of offering seasonal specialties, Lydia hadn’t considered such a limited availability. It made sense, especially given how enthusiastic the townspeople were about celebrating Cimarron Creek’s founding.

  “Good. Now, what are you planning to wear on my day?”

  In one of her lighter moments, Aunt Bertha had pointed out that she was the sole surviving founder. “I told Matthew and the others that I’d sit on the platform with them, but I won’t give a speech. That was Jonas’s responsibility, and I refuse to take over. No one wants to listen to an old lady talk about the first days of Cimarron Creek anyway.”

  Though Lydia suspected many of the townspeople would indeed be interested in Aunt Bertha’s tales, she had been unable to persuade her, and the subject had been dropped. Now it appeared Aunt Bertha was more concerned about sartorial elegance than speeches.

  “Everyone comes in their best clothes,” she told Lydia.

  “I know. That’s why I decided to wear something different to the store that day.” Lydia described the purple striped shirtwaist and the delicate lace collar that she planned to pair with a rich blue skirt. “In the evening I’ll wear my Sunday dress.”

  Aunt Bertha shook her head. “Oh, my dear, you need something more elegant for the evening. Even if you aren’t a founder, everyone knows you’re my protégé. They’ll expect you to dress like a Whitfield or a Henderson.”

  Lydia wondered if that was the reason Aunt Bertha had given her six different but equally elegant pinafores to wear at Cimarron Sweets. “Those gray dresses you used for teaching will be perfect underneath the pinafores,” she had said. “You’ll look neat and prosperous. Perfect.”

  But it appeared that Lydia’s wardrobe plans for Founders’ Day were not perfect.

  “Your skirt and shirtwaist will be fine during the day,” Aunt Bertha conceded, “but there’s dancing in the evening. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your beaux, would you?”

  It was a familiar subject. Each time either Warner or Nate visited, Aunt Bertha talked about their good qualities, and each time Lydia reminded the older woman that she was not looking for a husband or even a beau.

  “You know I’m not interested in marriage.”

  “But Warner and Nate are definitely interested in you. They’re both fine men, you know.”

  “I’m not disputing that.” Warner no longer seemed to regard her as an item he was considering buying, and Nate had overcome what Lydia suspected was innate shyness around women and had begun to regale her with stories of his Angora goats. “It’s simply that I’m not planning to marry,” she told Aunt Bertha. Lydia knew she should have learned her lesson after what had happened to her mother, but it had taken Edgar’s broken promises to make her realize she was not meant to be a wife.

  Aunt Bertha did not appear convinced. “Be that as it may, you still need a new gown. Think of it as advertising for the store.”

  “That might be a good idea, but it’ll have to wait for next year.” Lydia’s heart warmed at the thought of being here that long. “When Camilla Dunn stopped in yesterday, she said she had more orders than she could fill. It seems every woman in Cimarron Creek wants a new gown.” And though most of the women sewed their everyday dre
sses, they relied on Camilla for special-occasion clothes.

  “I’m a fair seamstress,” Lydia told Aunt Bertha, “but I don’t have time to sew something new, especially if I’m going to make extra fudge. I’m afraid the town will just have to see me in my church dress all day long.”

  Pursing her lips, Aunt Bertha said, “We’ll see about that.”

  Two days later when Lydia returned from the shop, she found a royal blue gown lying on her bed.

  “Try it on.” Aunt Bertha entered the room and pointed to the dress. “I used your Sunday dress as a pattern, but it may still need some alterations.”

  “You made this?” Lydia stared at the gown, amazed by both its beauty and the fact that Aunt Bertha had sewn it. The older woman had told Lydia that her fingers hurt so much from arthritis that she rarely did any handwork.

  “I remade it,” Aunt Bertha corrected her. “It wasn’t doing any good stuffed in a trunk, and you needed something new.” She picked up the dress and held it in front of Lydia. “Try it on. I hope I haven’t lost my touch with a needle and scissors.”

  She hadn’t. The gown was a perfect fit, and with its heart-shaped neckline, cap sleeves, and the apron-style draping that flowed into a bustle, it looked like something from a women’s fashion magazine. The style was perfect, but what made the garment extra special was the fabric. The rich silk had subtle slubbing that shimmered when Lydia moved.

  “Oh, Aunt Bertha!” Lydia twirled in front of the cheval mirror the older woman had insisted she place in her room. “It’s the finest dress I’ve ever owned.”

  The clothing Lydia had worn in Syracuse had been of good quality but had been designed with serviceability in mind. Poplin and gabardine had been the fabrics of choice, not silk.

  Aunt Bertha smiled her approval. “I’m happy to see it worn again.”

  Lydia fingered the sumptuous fabric as she admired her reflection. Though it was possible that the gown had once belonged to Aunt Bertha, she doubted it. The color was one that only a younger woman would have worn, and the fabric was too new for it to have been part of Aunt Bertha’s youth. Unless Lydia was gravely mistaken, the dress had once belonged to Aunt Bertha’s daughter Joan. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought that she’d been given something so precious.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

  Aunt Bertha’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “Just enjoy it,” she said. “That’s all I ask. The dress was made for dancing, and so are you.”

  There were days when Travis was inclined to agree with Pa that he should never have agreed to become a sheriff, and today was one of them. Founders’ Day was Cimarron Creek’s biggest celebration of the year, bigger even than the Fourth of July. The shops all closed at noon, leaving the afternoon free for a parade, speeches, and games for the children, all followed by a barbecue. And then when the sun set, the adults would return to the park wearing their finest clothes as they prepared to dance the night away.

  Travis had expected a few problems to crop up after the barbecue. Some residents could be depended on to imbibe a little too heavily from the jugs that—despite the town’s edicts—contained a beverage stronger than lemonade or sarsaparilla. Tempers would rise, and at least one fight seemed inevitable. Travis was prepared for that, but he hadn’t been prepared for this.

  At this time of the day, Main Street was normally almost empty, but as he looked out his window a few minutes after nine, he discovered a line of women stretching in front of his office and down the street. While it wasn’t unusual to see one or two women out shopping this early, this was unprecedented. It appeared that every woman in Cimarron Creek had made her way to this particular block.

  “What’s going on, ladies?” As he stepped outside, Travis saw that the line stopped in front of Lydia’s candy store. Though normally closed until after noon, today Lydia had opened it this morning to conform to the Founders’ Day tradition of closing all stores at midday. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was that the entire female population felt the need to visit Cimarron Sweets this particular morning.

  Travis had been pleased by the apparent ease with which the townspeople accepted Lydia. Though he’d heard a few disparaging remarks about Yankees, Lydia’s unfailing courtesy and the quality of her confections seemed to have won over the majority of the naysayers. Still, the crowd that lined the street was unexpected.

  “Miss Crawford made a new flavor of fudge,” Mrs. Wilkins said in answer to Travis’s question. “She calls it Founders’ Day Fudge, and today’s the first day it’s on sale.”

  “No one knows what the flavor is, but we don’t want to miss it.” Mrs. Higgins continued the explanation. “She’s only going to have it for a week.”

  And no one wanted to be left out. It was a brilliant strategy, one that ensured Lydia would sell every pound she’d made. But that strategy, Travis discovered half an hour later, could also cause problems.

  He’d remained outside, talking to the women, listening to their stories of their children and grandchildren as they waited patiently for their chance to buy some of the mysterious Founders’ Day Fudge. And it was still a mystery, for, no matter how many women left the store, their little boxes held as carefully as if they contained something more precious than fudge, no one would tell the others what the special flavor was. Perhaps they didn’t know. Perhaps Lydia had prepackaged the candy and had sold it without her trademark samples. If that was the case, it was another example of Lydia’s expertise, because the anticipation continued to increase.

  The line had grown shorter, but there were still half a dozen women on the street when one woman emerged, a box in her hand.

  “She only has five pounds left,” the woman announced.

  Travis tried not to frown, but he’d seen another three women inside the store. That meant Lydia’s supply would run out before her customers did.

  “I’m sure Miss Crawford will have more tomorrow,” he said. He could only hope that was true, but he wasn’t at all certain it was. He knew Lydia usually began candy preparations as soon as the supper dishes were done and that she continued making candy each morning, getting everything ready to take to the shop immediately after the noon meal. Since she would be at the celebration tonight, her candy-making time would be limited, meaning there was no guarantee she’d have fudge ready tomorrow.

  “But I need some today,” one woman said, her voice verging on hysteria. “I promised my daughter she could have some. The poor dear has measles. I thought this might make up for missing all the festivities today.”

  A second woman propped her hands on her hips and glared. “My son needs it just as much as your daughter. He done broke his leg and cain’t get around good on his crutches.”

  As if on cue, all six women outside the store began to push and shove, trying to reach the door. The formerly orderly queue had become a melee.

  “Ladies, please. Let me in.” Travis entered the store and found Lydia looking as calm as ever. Only the tick at the side of her mouth betrayed her dismay. He made his way to the counter, taking her arm and leading her into the back room. “We’ll be a moment, ladies,” he said. “Please wait.” As if any of them would leave without her prize.

  “I heard you’re about to run out of Founders’ Day Fudge,” he said. Though he was addressing Lydia, he’d positioned himself so he could watch the store. The last thing Lydia needed was for a fight to break out here.

  “It’s true. I thought I had enough, but the demand exceeded my expectations.”

  “I want my fudge,” one woman shouted. “I waited as long as everyone.”

  “And you’ll have it, Mrs. Schilling.” Lydia raised her voice to be heard over the murmurs that were increasing in volume. She lowered it again as she spoke to Travis. “I wish I had enough to make everyone happy. I’m not Jesus with the fishes and the loaves. I can’t turn these five boxes into enough for everyone.”

  “Maybe you need Solomon’s wisdom. Remember how his threat to
cut the baby in half revealed the child’s true mother.”

  Lydia was silent for a moment before a smile crossed her face. “That’s the answer.” She marched across the front room and opened the door. “Ladies, may I have your attention? Please, everyone, come inside. There’ll be room for you all.”

  When the eight women were gathered inside the shop, Lydia continued. “You’ve all been so patient. I appreciate that and your support more than I can say, but now I have a problem. I don’t have enough Founders’ Day Fudge to sell each of you a pound.” She gestured toward the remaining five boxes. “I hate to disappoint anyone, and I’m sure you don’t want any of your neighbors to feel left out. This is Founders’ Day, after all. I’ve been told it’s the day everyone comes together as a community.”

  Though Travis wasn’t certain where she was heading, he was pleased by the murmurs of assent that met her statement.

  “I wondered if you’d consider this,” she continued. “I’ll open the boxes and sell each of you a half pound of fudge. That way everyone will have some.”

  Although several women nodded, one frowned. “I need more sweets. I didn’t make a pie, because I was counting on a whole pound.”

  “I understand.” Lydia’s sober expression said she did. “That’s why I propose to give each of you a half pound of any other candy in the store at no charge.”

  She gestured toward the glass-fronted cabinet with its display of assorted sweets. “The fudge is special, but there are some people in town who prefer peanut brittle. I’ll admit I’m partial to the chocolate creams.” Lydia pointed to a silver platter. “You’ll notice that I put double Cs on them. That stands for both chocolate cream and Cimarron Creek.”

  To Travis’s relief, a couple women chuckled, and the angry murmurs subsided.

  Lydia continued her sales pitch. “I’m planning to introduce lemon drops next week. As a small thank-you for your patience and your generosity in sharing Founders’ Day Fudge with your neighbors, I’ll put aside a supply for you so you won’t have to worry about missing out on them if they prove to be as popular as the fudge.”