And if she really wanted to feel disheveled, she remembered her hair. That same old stray lock that never stayed put. Leah reached up to try and tuck the strand beneath the brim of her untrimmed straw sailor hat. It stayed for a second, then came right back down.
At least he hadn’t seen her. Yet. Did she want him to? Yes. No! Why not? Just because he’d kissed her wrist didn’t mean they couldn’t speak to each other anymore. Just because she’d put more into the kiss than he probably had didn’t mean she had to lose her head. She was a sensible woman. She knew better than to act like one of the Clinkingbeard sisters.
Feigning an engrossed interest in the doorbells, Leah glanced at Wyatt from the corner of her eyes. He was leaning up against the cash register counter, sipping his cola and gazing out the window. Deep brown hair curled at his collar. His face was dirt-smudged, and the sleeves on his shirt had been rolled up. He looked as if he’d been digging holes to plant gigantic trees, or mowing a lawn.
Unbidden, she imagined him mowing her lawn. Pushing that stupid Sears, Roebuck, and Co. two-bladed thing she had that made her huff and struggle the one time she’d tried to use it. Since then, Hartzell had paid for his handyman to come over and tend to the grass, bushes, and trees. She’d never fantasized about Hyrum Pfeiffer when he cut her grass. He was . . . well, he sure wasn’t of the same physical composition as Wyatt Holloway.
Mr. Corn took his customer to the register and wrote up a bill. The man paid and exited, leaving Mr. Corn to return to Leah.
“So which one will it be?”
She had no answer. Wyatt pulled her attention, yet she didn’t want to be obvious and stare at him, so she kept her gaze intently on the doorbells. What would she say to him when she walked by on her way out? Or would he speak first? Should she let him be the first to talk? Or would that be too standoffish? She should square her shoulders and say how do you do, as if the kiss hadn’t affected her at all.
Leah was only marginally aware of Mr. Corn’s agitation. His voice intruded like the scratch of fingernails on a chalkboard. “Mrs. Kirkland, I have another customer. Do you want me to pick the bell for you?”
“No, that isn’t necessary. I’ve made up my mind.” On a whim, she chose the one that sounded the most romantic. “I’ll take the Emerald escutcheon with chimes and antique copper sand.”
“Very good. Let me wrap that up for you.”
Leah nodded and was left alone while Mr. Corn went to tear off a piece of brown paper and cut a length of twine. Without the doorbells to concentrate on, Leah had no central place to thoughtfully put her gaze. She glanced at her shoes to see if the laces were tied, then at her hands with a frown at the stain of ink on her fingers, then at the . . . icebox. She just couldn’t help herself.
But Wyatt wasn’t there anymore. She hadn’t heard him leave, and frantically stood on tiptoes to see through the window. She didn’t spy a portion of his broad shoulders or the shape of his hat on the bench outside. Where could he have—
“Looking for someone?”
Leah started and turned around at the deeply voiced query. Wyatt stood directly behind her, giving her pulse a terrible jump.
“Why, good heavens, no . . . I was just . . . That is . . .” She couldn’t think of an ample lie when he was staring at her as if she was . . . pretty. His boldly handsome face smiled down at her, as if he were telling her he knew he’d caught her in the act of looking for him. Reflected light from the sunshine outside shimmered in his blue eyes, making them contrasting pleasingly with his sun-browned face.
Any witty thing she had to say went up in a poof when his mouth melted into a buttery smile just for her. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” she remarked.
“It’s hot.”
“Yes, very.” She would have put a shoe length more between them if the small of her back hadn’t already been pressing into the counter. He stood so close. His massive shoulders seemed to loom over her. She was acutely conscious of his tall, well-proportioned body and the rich outline of his chest straining the chambray fabric of his damp shirt. “You’ve been working outside?” The question was more of a squeak than an observing comment.
“Yes.”
“It is very hot,” she countered, agreeing with him. “I may buy myself a root beer.”
“Here you are, Mrs. Kirkland.” Mr. Corn came up to them and placed her package on the counter. “Would you like me to put this on your bill?”
“Yes.” But she still required one more item. “About the old doorbell. When I remove it, there’ll be a hole in the door that I’ll need to cover. What can you suggest?”
Mr. Corn turned and opened a drawer. Setting two covers before her, he said, “Astoria push plate with matching screws. You have your choice of antique copper or lemon brass finish. Penny more for the latter.”
This time Leah didn’t delay. “Antique copper, please,” she replied without hesitation. “And if you could be so kind as to add a root beer on my account as well.”
“Consider it done.” He turned his attention on Wyatt and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Wyatt leaned his hip into the counter’s edge and held the cola loosely in his soiled fingers. “I’m in no hurry. All I need is an ax handle. I know where they are.”
“You break that one I sold you already? Thought you weren’t going to mi—”
“I just need a new handle, Corn, not an interrogation.”
Mr. Corn grumbled, “I told you they were cheaper by the dozen, but you wanted just one.”
“And one’s all I’m buying today,” Wyatt replied as he pushed from the counter and went to the barrels containing saws, picks, axes, hammers, and the accompanying hardware such as handles. Leah watched as he tested several in his grasp, swinging a little and adjusting his grip. It looked as if he chose a solid ash, but as he returned she quickly averted her gaze.
Carlyle A. Corn put Leah’s purchases together with string, making a loop for her to carry them. “You’re all set, Mrs. Kirkland. I hope that doorbell works out for you.”
“I’m sure it will,” she replied, not really wanting to leave yet but having no other option without it appearing obvious that she was dawdling to talk with Wyatt. She headed for the cooler, lifted the lid, and took out a Hires.
“I’ll get that top for you,” Mr. Corn offered. He took the opener, which was tied to a string on the wall beside the icebox, and popped the cap off. “There you are, Mrs. Kirkland.”
“Thank you, Mr. Corn.”
Leah pretended as if she needed to take a few sips before starting on her way. Wyatt slipped his hand into his pants pocket and came out with two coins, which he put on the counter.
“Paid in full.” Wyatt grabbed his cola. “I hope I won’t be seeing you soon.”
Leah took that opportunity to exit first, but slowly so that Wyatt would have a chance to catch up to her if he wanted. She went to open the door, but his hand came up quickly on the knob and opened the door for her.
She gave him a light smile. “Thank you.”
They went outside together, and both headed in the same direction. Her house and the Starlight Hotel were on the same street, but four blocks apart. The heat came in waves and showed no signs of letting up until twilight. She really didn’t feel like installing the bell right now, but was resigned to doing it. As Wyatt stayed by her side, silently drinking his Coca-Cola and holding onto his new ax handle, she wondered what he needed the ax for.
“Are you working on a project for anyone?” she queried, trying to sound offhanded.
“A project?”
“You know. Handy work. That’s why you need the ax.”
Wyatt gazed at the handle in his grasp. “I’m trimming back some overgrowth at the drop gaps for one of the ranchers.”
“Oh.” Leah wondered if it was Half Pint Gilman. He owned the biggest ranch outside of Eternity. It surprised her that Mr. Gilman would have Wyatt doing such a job. He had plenty of ranch hands for that sort of work.
Walki
ng down the western side of Main, they past Everlasting Monuments and Statuary. Normally, Leah made it a point to walk on the eastern side so she wouldn’t have to encounter Mr. Winterowd or Mr. Quigley. The post office was right next door. It was too late to change course.
No sooner had they passed the door to 96 Main Street, with its advantageously large front windows, than Mr. Leemon Winterowd stepped out.
“Mrs. Kirkland,” he heralded. “What a surprise.”
Indeed. “Mr. Winterowd.”
Then to Wyatt, Leemon gave a speculative stare. “Mr. Holloway.”
“Winterowd.”
Leah had wanted to keep right on walking, but Leemon remarked, “It’ll be a nice evening for a buggy ride, Mrs. Kirkland. I could come by and pick you and the children up for a little roundabout.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. You see—”
“Mrs. Kirkland!” came Mr. Quigley’s greeting. He’d left the post office, probably having heard their voices, and strode upon the group with great enthusiasm at finding her. “What a pleasure. Mr. Holloway,” he said in an obligatory tone. “Mrs. Kirkland, did you get the mail I delivered to you this morning?”
“Of course. It came through the slot on time.” Right along with the poem he’d written to her and folded in three. She wouldn’t dare make a comment about it now, and hoped to heaven he had the good manners not to mention it in public. The heartfelt sentiments had disconcerted her, while the bad rhyming had made her wince. He meant well, but she’d been quite honest with him when she’d told him—and Mr. Winterowd—over two years ago that she simply wasn’t interested in their courtship.
“It’s going to be a grand evening,” Quigley said, his full face obviously beaming with the prospects of a cricket serenade on her porch swing. She’d allowed him to stay for such a night once and she’d always regretted it. But he’d brought her a fancy box of chocolates and had been so sincere, she didn’t have the heart to turn him away at the door.
“I was saying it’s going to be a grand evening,” Mr. Winterowd interjected, giving Fremont Quigley a frown. “I was asking Mrs. Kirkland to go on a buggy ride with me and she was going to say yes.”
“Actually,” Leah jumped in, “I told you I had to decline for the reason that I’ve got to install a new doorbell. So you see, I’ll be otherwise occupied this evening.”
Mr. Winterowd, who was known to be quite handy with his hands since he carved picturesque scenes in marble headstones for a living, perked right up. “Why bother yourself over that, Mrs. Kirkland, when there is a capable man standing right here?”
Fremont bounced in. “Yes, I’m quite capable. I can install that for you, Mrs. Kirkland. It would take no time at all.”
Leah shifted her gaze from one to the other. A dilemma was brewing and she could see no polite way out. Either way, she’d hurt their feelings, but the offer sure was tempting.
“I could close up shop early, Mrs. Kirkland,” Leemon said. “Come right over now so as not to disturb your supper hour.” He gave Mr. Quigley a triumphant smirk. “Quigley has to keep the post office open until five.”
This got Mr. Quigley’s goat and he puffed his face up with a snort. “If you were any kind of businessman, you wouldn’t close up early just to install a doorbell. Somebody could need your services from now until five, Winterowd.”
“I don’t have any appointments, and even if someone did kick off right this second, it takes Old Man Uzzel at least two hours to perform an embalming. And by then, it would be five and I couldn’t sculpt a stone on the spot. Besides, even if I was to engrave a monument on the spur of the moment, Reverend Bunderson doesn’t do burials after he eats his dessert cobbler. So I don’t see as I’ve got a problem, Quigley. You, on the other hand, are an officer of the United States government. You can’t close on a whim. I’m in business for myself. I can do what I want.”
Leah’s gaze landed on Wyatt, who’d been quiet during the entire transaction. Rather than see the amusement she was certain would be written on his expression, she saw a slight scowl and a brittle smile. His eyes were level under drawn brows when he butted in, “I’m installing Leah’s bell for her.”
“Leah?” both men said in unison. “You mean Mrs. Kirkland.” They looked at one another.
“I’ve never addressed her as Leah,” Fremont complained to Leemon.
Leemon nodded. “Neither have I.” Then to Leah, “Have you given him liberties to call you Leah?”
By this time, Leah was getting dizzy. She said to both gentlemen, “I appreciate your concern, but my name is Leah and I don’t see any reason why Wyatt”—she pronounced the name in an even tone—“can’t call me that. My mother-in-law does, and so does my father-in-law. In fact, several people in Eternity address me by my first name.”
“But you never let us,” Mr. Quigley grumbled. “And you fixed him a supper plate.”
Then as if the news soaked in, Mr. Winterowd crossed his arms over his chest. “Mr. Holloway is going to install your doorbell? Is that the truth?”
Leah had to pause a minute. Wyatt had made the offer. “Yes. As a matter of fact, Wyatt has been very kind to offer to install my doorbell for me. So if you gentlemen will excuse us.”
Wyatt tipped his hat at both men, whose mouths were agape as she and Wyatt continued on. Leah couldn’t breathe, much less make sense out of the rapidly changing circumstances. But she had to say, “You don’t really have to install my doorbell. I appreciate you making the offer just to let them down.”
A glance at his profile and she saw that the set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak. “I made you an honest offer. I intend to keep it.”
They were in front of the Starlight Hotel now and Wyatt stopped. Leah paused with him, her senses awakening.
“Let me clean up first, and I’ll stop by in about fifteen minutes.”
“All right.”
They both turned and continued on, she with the sudden compulsion to change into a good dress and fix her hair properly before he arrived. But that would be too noticeable. She didn’t want to be obvious. About what? That she found the prospect of him coming over something to look forward to. That her life had been mundane before she’d met him.
* * *
Wyatt didn’t know the first thing about electric doorbells. But he’d offered to install hers because he’d had to stand back with his teeth gritted, unable to buy Leah that root beer she’d wanted because his cash was all tapped out. Before, he’d always been able to buy the lady in his life whatever she had her fancy set on. Frustration over his lack of money was eating away at him. In his youth, money had burned a hole in his pockets and he’d spent it carelessly. What he wouldn’t give to have some of it back right now.
At least he didn’t need a fat wallet to put in the bell. Because he’d be damned if he let Winterowd and Quigley come by her place. An unexpected surge of jealousy had hit him when those two goons stepped over each other to be with Leah. Neither one was enough man for her.
After cleaning up, Wyatt hesitated about which shirt to wear. He had two clean ones: his old cotton or the one he’d recently bought. Since he’d already had it on yesterday at the birthday party, he opted for the old one. As he slipped his arms through the worn and comfortable sleeves, he hoped like hell that she knew what she was doing and could direct him. If not, he’d have to rely on the instructions. He wasn’t a really good reader, so unless the guidelines were printed in very simple terms or there were lots of diagrams, he was going to be a complete goner and look like an idiot.
It didn’t take him long to get ready. He left his room and ran into Almorene in the hallway on his way out. She had crisply ironed sheets folded over her plump arm, and a delicate lace cap over her silver hair.
“I was going to make up a fresh bed for you, Mr. Holloway.”
“That’d be fine.”
She went past him to his door, the circle of brass keys attached to her waist through a loop jingling to a halt when she stopped and faced
him with a faded smile. “You’re a pleasant guest, Mr. Holloway. Not loud or disorderly, and you keep the room tidy. So I think I ought to tell you, Marshal Scudder stopped by after breakfast to ask me about you. Specifically, if you’ve broken any laws and if you’re paying your bill on time.”
Wyatt’s lips thinned with agitation. “What did you say to him?”
“Precisely what I just said to you. That you’re not loud and disorderly, and you keep the room tidy. And that you pay your bill.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
Wyatt pushed on, thinking that Scudder was like a bloodhound with his nose to the ground, sniffing after any trace of scent that could see Wyatt thrown in jail. Bean Scudder should be ferreting out real criminals instead of riding his heels, waiting for Wyatt to do something that was grounds for lockup. It was cock and bull that a lawman of his dim-witted caliber could throw such weight around, thinking that he exemplified the full extent of Eternity law.
This grated hard on Wyatt as he strode to Leah’s. When he came to Seventh Avenue, his eyes narrowed on the marshal’s office across the street. Scudder was on the porch, slouched in a straight-legged chair. He balanced his weight on the two rear legs, flirting with a backward fall. His feet were stretched out in front of him, the heels of his western boots propped on the beer cooler. From the sporadic jerking nod of his head, with his eyes closed, he was on the verge of snoozing.
Wyatt had the strongest urge to shoot the back legs off that chair and show Bean that he was nobody’s business but his own. But because it was felonious to raise a firearm against a U.S. marshal, and seeing as Wyatt wasn’t armed, the likelihood of fulfilling that tale of dime novel fiction just wasn’t to be. However, that didn’t stop Wyatt from thinking about how much fun it would be to see the expression on Scudder’s ruddy face when he fell on his ass and went groping for his revolver to retaliate.
A block later, Wyatt stopped at Leah’s gate and put his hand on the latch. He let himself in, and as he approached the veranda he noted the front door was wide open. Leah sat cross-legged on the threshold with a screwdriver in her hand and a heavy furrow of concentration on her forehead. Her hair was in a different style than she’d had earlier when she’d worn her hat. Rather than being twisted at the nape of her neck in a braid, she’d twisted it into a loose knot at the crown of her head. She’d also replaced her dress for a skirt and blouse. Though the clothing was nothing fancy, the flared navy skirt pooled around her legs, and the form-fitting mushroom-colored blouse got his attention. She had a figure he could appreciate, right along with Winterowd and Quigley.
Portraits Page 18