by Gina Welborn
As soon as he disappeared through a doorway in the back wall, Zoe strolled around the wide, open space—empty save for sawdust, six support pillars, and her. Everything about Helena smelled earthy and new. She imagined the register near the front and display racks abounding with merchandise. If she were arranging the store, she would segregate the merchandise by the regions where they were made, so that when customers moved around the store, they would feel as if they were traveling the world in eighty steps instead of in eighty days. And she would sell scented candles and oils.
How nice it would be to have cookbooks of recipes from different cultures.
A whistle drew her gaze to the doorless entrance.
Nico?
Zoe stared, unable to believe he was there. After her first meeting with Mrs. Archer, Nico had broken Zoe’s heart when he refused to support her decision to allow Mr. Gunderson to court her. She had believed Nico to be her friend. But a true friend would never desert her as he had. Once they had returned to her hotel, he had thanked her for helping him reach Denver and wished her well. She had not seen him since.
But she had seen him. Earlier, at the train depot.
Nico motioned her to walk his way.
Zoe hurried over. “Why are you here?”
“You need my help.”
She gave him a look to convey exactly what she felt about his claim.
“You do,” he insisted. His brow furrowed. He looked tense . . . and a bit worried. “That man you came here with isn’t what he seems.”
“How did you come by zis belief?”
“I just know.”
Zoe released a weary breath. Nico had also insisted courting a stranger was a bad idea. If he had returned to Mrs. Archer’s house yesterday morning as Zoe had, he would have listened to the matchmaker read the reverend’s reference letter. Mr. Gunderson and his brother were pillars of society, their parents some of the earliest settlers of Helena. Mrs. Luanne Bennett, a charming woman four years older than Zoe, had also confirmed everything written in Mr. Gunderson’s letters and in those written by his other references.
Amid all these truths, there was one lie: Nico’s, about the advertisement.
She had no cause to trust him again.
Except...
None of Mr. Gunderson’s family had sent a letter of reference. She understood his parents because they were still away on their tour of the country. But why not his twin? Mr. Gunderson had said little about his brother during the meal. Perhaps his family was not as perfect and loving as he claimed.
Nico was here because he was concerned and worried about her. He had lied because he had no other way to escape New York. He needed her help, needed her to be his friend. Not to forgive him would make her an unkind and ungrateful person. The most gracious and wise thing she could do was give a listening ear to his concerns.
Zoe gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “I am pleased to see you.”
He enveloped her in a hug. “I’m sorry, Zoe, for getting angry and leaving you.” He choked up. “I love you. You’re the only family I’ve got.”
She rested her chin atop his head. He was the closest she had to family, too, but she had signed a contract agreeing to a two-month courtship. She had to—no, she wanted to—give Mr. Gunderson a fair chance to woo her.
She drew back. “Go to Deal’s Boardinghouse and I will pay for you a room.”
“Thanks, but I found somewhere to stay.” The moment her brow rose, he added, “It’s reputable. Trust me. I met someone at the depot who gave me a job making deliveries.”
That was Nico—ever resourceful. During the train ride to Denver, he had convinced the conductor to hire him to work in the passenger cars, selling sandwiches, cigars, and newspapers.
She gripped the lapels of his coat and tugged until it rested properly on his shoulders. “Zen come to ze boardinghouse in ze morning at eight. I will buy you breakfast and tell you all I have learned about Mr. Gunderson. You will see he is a good man.”
Nico grimaced. “You’d better have a plan for what you’re going to do if this courtship doesn’t turn out like you’re dreaming it will. ’Cause I know it won’t. He’s not the man for you.”
Zoe held her response. Now was not the time to try to convince Nico to be optimistic.
“See ya tomorrow.” He gave her a quick hug, then dashed away.
Minutes passed before the hammering stopped.
She glanced around the empty store. Mr. Gunderson was still upstairs. On the second floor? Or was he examining the work on the third floor, his future living quarters? To have her own home would be another dream come true.
But if things did not go as she hoped—
Zoe nipped her bottom lip. That grand lady who had sat next to her on the train from Butte to Helena had mentioned a new luxury hotel and hot springs resort “unlike any other in the world” set to open in a year. The exclusive Broadwater was exactly the kind of place that would desire the services of a French chef. Or she could apply to work in the Grand Hotel restaurant, for they could use someone with her skills. In a town of ten thousand people, Jakob Gunderson could not be the only decent bachelor interested in marriage.
Tomorrow she would explain to Nico the number of other paths her future could take, if she chose to leave the one leading her to Jakob Gunderson.
Her gaze fell to the bouquet of roses.
She inhaled the sweet scent . . . and remembered how Mr. Gunderson had gazed upon her at the restaurant. And smiled.
No other paths were needed.
This courtship would end with a marriage. She was sure of it.
Chapter Six
The next morning
De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 2
Isaak cracked an egg into the bowl and dropped the shell into the bin beside the stove. In two more months, Ma would be home and take over the cooking and gardening again. While he was looking forward to having her here, he wasn’t sure he wanted to give up cooking. Turned out he liked it. Plus, food didn’t talk back or wander off or tell you it was going to do one thing and then do the exact opposite.
Unlike a brother.
He cracked another egg to make an even dozen in the bowl. After dropping that shell in the bin, he took up the whisk lying on the soapstone counter and started beating the eggs. He checked the clock. What was taking Jakob so long this morning?
As if in answer to his question, footsteps thudded down the stairs. “Breakfast ready?” Jakob’s morning cheerfulness sounded somewhat forced.
Isaak poured the scrambled eggs into a heated cast-iron skillet. “It will be in a few minutes.”
“Great.” Based on the crunching noise that followed, Jakob had helped himself to a bacon strip. “I need to wolf down breakfast if I’m going to make it over to Deal’s Boardinghouse in time to pick up Miss de Fleur for church.”
Miss de Fleur? Was that a French-sounding type of nom de plume, the same way Mac’s mother had gone from being Mary Lester to Madame Lestraude?
Isaak turned over the eggs. “What are you doing after church?”
“I thought I’d take her out to eat, show her around town a little, and then . . . I don’t know. We’ll see.” Another crunch and a whiff of bacon on the air.
Isaak held in a retort about how that would have been nice to know on Friday, before he purchased four lamb chops for today’s lunch. He didn’t want to start Sunday morning with an argument.
Pa often said, “Give Jakob some credit. He doesn’t plan things the way you do, but he almost always lands on his feet.” Isaak doubted Pa would give that same advice if he knew Jakob was shirking his duties at The Import Co. to squire a woman around town. Sure, he’d gone back to work after Isaak forced the issue yesterday, but Jakob had come home and refused to talk about the woman. Or about what he accomplished at the store, saying only that everything was on schedule.
On Jakob’s schedule.
Isaak was certain it wasn’t the one he’d written out last December, or any of the
ones he’d altered in the months since then. Some of the changes were to be expected. Building a new business from the ground up was certain to involve adjustments. They didn’t need additional, unnecessary ones because Jakob couldn’t keep his focus.
Isaak’s grip tightened on the wooden spoon. “Grab us some plates.”
Some footsteps against the wood plank floor, a whoosh of air, and the scrape of crockery. “Here.”
A blue plate appeared in Isaak’s peripheral vision. He scooped fluffy yellow eggs on the plate.
“That’s enough.” Jakob pulled away his plate and held out the other one.
Isaak piled the rest of the eggs on his plate, then set the skillet in the sink. He turned to pick up the bacon, pleased to find that Jakob had left him a full four strips. Isaak added the bacon to his plate, then grabbed the teapot. “Bring the coffee to the table.”
“Sure.” Jakob held his plate with one hand and the coffeepot with the other.
They sat down at the small kitchen table, said grace, and began eating.
Jakob ate quickly, eager to be on his way.
Isaak sipped his tea, added more sugar, and sipped again. He reached for the cream. Over the past year, he and Jakob had developed a breakfast routine. They would take turns reading the newspaper, occasionally commenting on something they found interesting or important, then head out to work or church. Any silence between them was comfortable.
Today, tension scraped through the silence.
Isaak didn’t even reach for the newspaper because, although Jakob was clearly intent on eating as fast as possible, Isaak feared that one of their friendly tussles about who read which section first might turn ugly. Instead, he focused on making his tea perfect. By the time it was, Jakob was done eating.
He stood. “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll see you at church.” He carried his empty plate and coffee cup to the sink and hurried out the back door.
Isaak huffed. “Miss de Fleur. What a fraud.”
Jakob opened the door and poked his head inside to say, “I heard that,” before slamming the door behind him.
Somewhat chagrined at being caught speaking ill of a woman no matter how much she deserved it, Isaak crumbled the bacon over his eggs, took a bite, and reached for the Sunday edition of the Daily Independent. There, on the front page below the fold, was yet another article exposing a ring of females who had bilked a whole slew of men out of thousands of dollars by posing as European mail-order brides in need of money to travel. The interesting thing—what made it front-page news—was the erstwhile grooms. They were bankers and business owners, lawyers and landlords. In other words, men who weren’t easily taken in under normal circumstances, yet they’d fallen for a mail-order bride scam all the same.
For European women. As in French women.
Isaak tossed the paper on the table. Ate his breakfast. Pushed the paper farther away. Drank his tea. Dragged the article back to the side of his plate and reread it.
Twice.
* * *
Zoe noted the number of people looking their way as Mr. Gunderson drew the little two-seater carriage to a stop next to a fringe-topped surrey that had been painted a shockingly bright shade of yellow. Was it traditional in western America to mingle outside the church before services commenced? At the New York church she attended, regardless of the weather, people arrived and immediately found an empty seat or, for the wealthier members, found their nameplate-designated pew.
The number of people standing outside the white-painted church neared a hundred. The building itself, while similar in size to the other churches she had seen in town, appeared to be able to house about that many. They should all be inside where it was warmer, away from the chilly March breeze, away from the tumultuous gray sky that Mr. Gunderson said looked as if it would rain but, in Montana, looks could be deceiving.
That made no sense.
In her experience, gray clouds always preceded rain.
Yet instead of looking at the sky, everyone was looking at her. Zoe twisted one gloved hand around the other, her stomach in knots.
Mr. Gunderson had warned yesterday that she would draw attention when they arrived for church together. As much because she was a new lady in town as because she was with him. Her silk crimson dress and matching bonnet were no more or less fancy than the clothes the other ladies wore, but her crimson paisley mantelet, with its chenille fringe and wooden beads looked foreign compared to their plain woolen ones.
She must look foreign to them, too.
“You do that a lot.”
She turned to her right to see Mr. Gunderson standing there, smiling at her. “I did not realize you had climbed out of ze carriage.”
“I could tell.”
“What is it I do?”
His eyes fixed on hers with an expression of amusement. “When you’re lost in your thoughts, you will”—he motioned to her mouth—“lick your bottom lip.”
Zoe felt her cheeks warm. “Is zis an unflattering zing?”
“Unflattering?” He muttered something too softly for her to hear. And then he lifted her to the ground as if she were as light as a bird. He grinned. “Are you ready to meet everyone?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure if she should admit her worry. There were so many strangers, so many people staring at her, curious about her. And about her and Mr. Gunderson together. If that were not intimidating enough, the one person she wished to meet was nowhere to be seen. Had he stayed home to avoid her, as he had yesterday?
“What is it?” Mr. Gunderson asked softly.
“What if he dislikes me?”
“Who?”
“Your twin.”
A look of utter dread crossed his face. He looked to the side, staring at nothing, and she knew he was thinking about his brother.
If they were close, as stated by his references and by Mrs. Luanne Bennett, why had his brother failed to greet Zoe at the train station yesterday? Or at The Import Company after lunch? Or joined them for a second meal at the Grand Hotel restaurant? Not once this morning had Mr. Gunderson spoken of his twin, unlike yesterday, when occasional mentions of my brother Isaak had peppered their conversation.
Something had occurred this morning before Mr. Gunderson arrived at the boardinghouse to claim her for church. Something unpleasant between the brothers.
If their relationship was strained because of her—
Mr. Gunderson abruptly smiled. “Isaak won’t dislike you, although it might seem that way at first. He’s been under more stress than usual because he’s running for mayor and his employee, Emilia McCall, is away on her honeymoon, leaving him to manage The Resale Company without her help. He says I don’t understand all the work he accomplishes in a day.”
“Do you understand?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t live with his schedule and maintain my sanity. Life should be about more than just work. Life should be enjoyed, especially with”—he looked at her intently—“people who matter to you, because one day you may wake up and that person you love is gone.”
Zoe’s eyes blurred. She gave his gloved hand a gentle squeeze. “Zis I understand.” She had experienced that loss twice in her life already.
His gaze fell to where their hands were joined. He looked at her. “Thank you.”
She waited for him to explain his reason for thanking her, but when he stayed silent, she asked, “For what?”
“For many things.” His look warmed her down to the tips of her toes. “For listening attentively when I talk. For being straightforward about why you left Paris and then New York. For being warm, sensitive, and kind. But mostly, Miss de Fleur, for answering my advertisement. You are a brave and adventurous woman to come out West all alone.”
She tilted her head and smiled. The sheer joy she felt was too much to be contained. Papa had been the only other person who had ever told her she was brave. “Zank you, Mr. Gunderson, for not insisting upon a letter correspondence.”
“It’s nice to hear so
meone appreciates my spontaneity,” he quipped.
“It is one of ze many zings about you I appreciate.” Zoe knew her cheeks were pink, but this time she did not look away in awkwardness or embarrassment. She held his gaze.
Something about Jakob Gunderson made her feel bold.
She looped her arm around his left one. “I would like to meet your friends.”
“And my brother?”
“Oh. He is here?”
“Isaak has never missed a Sunday service in his life.”
“Zat is”—she paused to think of the right word—“exemplary.”
He laughed. “Not the adjective I would use.”
As they strolled toward the church, Zoe smiled in anticipation.
“Morning, Jakob!” someone called out.
People began to crowd around them.
Zoe eased closer to Mr. Gunderson, who shook hands with each member of the Watson family as he introduced her to the president of the Helena Public Schools board of trustees, his wife, and their five children. The oldest son looked to be near Zoe’s age, early twenties, while the youngest was two and proud of his ability to stick his whole hand into his mouth and not gag.
One by one, people took turns welcoming her to Helena.
The Palmers were related to Mrs. Luanne Bennett of Denver. Miss Yancey Palmer hugged Zoe as if they were intimate friends. Mr. Geddes Palmer politely shook her hand and then smiled, patted Jakob’s shoulder, and murmured, “Lucky dog,” before walking away.
After the Palmers, Zoe lost track of the overwhelming number of names.
Between moments of being introduced, she glanced around in hopes of seeing Nico. Why had he missed breakfast? He needed to eat. He could be making a delivery for his new employer. Or perhaps he was hawking newspapers. When Mr. Gunderson had driven by the newspaper building, Nico was not among the handful of newsies filling their wagons. Perhaps he had found employment elsewhere.
The church bell rang.
The double doors opened. Two men, similar in size to Mr. Gunderson, stepped outside. Neither were smiling. While both wore black three-piece suits, the dark-haired, heavily bearded man looked as if he hadn’t visited a barber in several years. The blond—