“Marianne Collingwood.”
“Wait here, please.” The clerk disappeared into a doorway, returned in a few moments and motioned them through a low swinging gate and into a cramped office. The gray-haired man behind the desk rose with a smile. “Miss Collingwood, welcome to Smoke River.”
Lance sent her a look.
“It’s actually Mrs. Burnside,” Marianne corrected. “This is my…my husband, Lawrence Burnside.”
He shook Lance’s hand and turned to her. “Your great uncle, Matthew Collingwood, ran a fine business establishment here in town, one of the oldest businesses in Smoke River. I expect you will want to take possession of it as soon as possible.”
“And the house,” Marianne reminded him.
The bank president looked blank. “House?”
“I presume Uncle Matty owned a house in town?”
“Well, no, not exactly. Mr. Collingwood maintained living quarters here in town, yes. But I wouldn’t exactly call it a house.”
An uneasy flutter settled into Marianne’s stomach. If it wasn’t a house, what exactly was it? She should ask what Uncle Matty’s business was, but she was so rattled about the house she couldn’t think. It took a minute to recover her tongue.
“Where is Uncle Matty’s business located?”
Mr. Myers tramped over to a large street map pinned on the wall and jabbed his forefinger at a spot. “The shop is right here, between the blacksmith’s and the livery stable. Collingwood Boots.”
Marianne’s reticule slipped out of her fingers and tumbled to the floor. “Boots!”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Collingwood Boots has a very fine reputation.”
“You mean the business establishment I have inherited is one that…that sells boots?”
“It most certainly is,” he assured her. “Custom-made right here in Smoke River. People come from miles around—”
“Boots?” she repeated in a weak voice.
“Yes, Mrs. Burnside. Boots. I’m sure you’ve heard of Collingwood Boots. As I said, it has a very fine reputation.”
“No,” she said weakly. “I have never heard of Collingwood Boots.”
“Well now, you folks will want to inspect the premises, so I won’t keep you. Here’s the key.” He dropped a large brass key into her hand. “Good luck to you, Mrs. Burnside!”
“Thank you,” she said.
Mr. Myers beamed at her. “And don’t mind Abe!”
“Abe?” she said. “Who’s Abe?”
Mr. Myers just grinned at her and ushered them out of his office.
The minute they were back on the sidewalk Marianne drew Lance to a stop. “Did we meet anyone called Abe at the reception yesterday?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Come on, Marianne. It’s time we found out some things.” He took her hand and turned her toward the livery stable at the edge of town.
Collingwood Boots sat next to the blacksmith’s shop and had a big red hand-lettered sign across the front. Lance bent over the lock, but just as he inserted the key the door drifted open and a hoarse voice yelled, “Mistah Collingwood ain’t here.”
Marianne started forward, but Lance laid his hand on her arm. “Who are you?” he called into the shadowy interior.
“Better question might be who’re you?” the voice shouted.
“My name is Lance Burnside. With me is Marianne Collingwood, the new owner.”
“New owner!” came the raspy voice. “Nobody told me ’bout any new owner.” In the next moment a diminutive man with a face so black it looked like a lump of polished coal ambled forward, his hand outstretched.
Lance stepped forward to meet him and shook it. “Didn’t anyone tell you about Matthew Collingwood’s death?” Marianne asked.
“Yep. A telegram came ’bout two weeks back, but I didn’t pay it no mind. Figured ol’ man Collingwood was never gonna die, so I didn’t believe it and jes’ went back to work.”
“I am Mr. Collingwood’s great-niece. May we come in, Mr.—?”
“Why, shore ya can. My name’s Garland. Abraham Garland. Warn’t expectin’ a lady.”
Lance peered into the interior and then moved on into the shop. Marianne followed. “Mr. Garland, this is my wife, Marianne Coll—uh…Burnside.”
Abe executed an awkward curtsey, and Marianne’s eyes widened.
“Miz Burnside, huh? Thought yer name was Collingwood.”
“It was until yesterday, when we were married.”
Abe nodded. A grin split his face, revealing two dimples. “I reckon that musta been what all that fuss ’n folderol was about yesterday afternoon. Ever’body in town was goin’ someplace. I figured it was a barn-raisin’.” His grin widened. “My, you folks are shore a fine-lookin’ couple!”
Lance peered into the gloom behind the man. “Mr. Garland, are you the caretaker here?”
“Caretaker! I ain’t caretook nothing since the army, and that was plenty ’nuff fer me. I’m the only employee Mr. Collingwood ever had.”
“But who makes the boots?”
“I do, natcherly. There ain’t nuthin’ anybody can teach ol’ Abe here ’bout working leather, so I’s it!”
“‘It’,” Marianne echoed.
“Yes’m, that’s what I done said. It.”
“Don’t you have any helpers?” Lance ventured.
“Nope. Never had no helpers. But I reckon now with you two here, I got helpers. Ah shore am glad for that. ’Bout worked my fingers off this past month.”
“Oh?” Lance said. “How come?”
“Big order, ya see. Gent comes up all the way from Texas and bought pret’ much ever’thing in stock and ordered some more.”
“You made all the boots by yourself?” Marianne asked.
Abe nodded. “Seven pairs. All in a rush, like. Said he was a Texas Ranger.”
“You have any boots left?” Lance asked.
“Yeah, one pair. You lookin’ fer a pair?”
“Maybe. Why don’t you show me one?”
Abe trotted away to the back of the shop and emerged a moment later holding up the best-looking pair of boots Lance had ever laid eyes on.
“G’wan, feel ’em. That’s the best leather north of the Rio Grande.”
Lance inspected them inch by inch, then ran his palm over the butter-soft leather. “Marianne,” he said under his breath, “this is the finest pair of boots I’ve ever seen.”
She looked at him and nodded.
“Abe, where did you learn to make boots like these?” Lance asked.
“Mexico. They got leather workers down there you wouldn’t believe. Taught me ever’thing they knew, and the rest I picked up from Californios along the way. Ya know, them Mexicans really understand leather saddles and riatas and real fine boots. Ladies’ boots, too, if yer interested, Miz Collingwood. I mean Miz Burnside.” His glance took in her trim green travel dress. “Or mebbe not, seein’ as your getup tells me you’re a real fine lady. You prob’ly don’t wear boots.”
Marianne laughed at that. “I might start wearing them, now that I’m out here in Oregon. Abe, I understand my uncle had living quarters somewhere?”
“Oh, yes’m. Right up those stairs at the back. He never stayed there much, though. Said he didn’t like the smell of glue and boot polish. Leather smell didn’t bother him so much. Guess that’s why this here business got so famous.”
Lance handed back the boot he’d been inspecting. “Where do you live, Abe?”
“Oh, I got me a dandy cubbyhole out back. Right cozy it is, too.”
“You mean you live here at the shop?”
“Well, sure, mister. Ya don’t think I’d leave all these fancy boots unguarded, do ya? Some lowlife rides in and fancies somethin’ he can’t pay for, I’m not about to let him steal it, no, sirree.”
“Very commendable,” Marianne murmured.
“Lookee here, folks, you go on up those stairs yonder and take a gander at yer quarters, and I’ll be getting’ back to work. Gotta cut out some leather piec
es.”
Lance studied the man for a moment, then started up the rickety wooden stairs Abe indicated, with Marianne at his heels. Dust puffed up at each step. Marianne sneezed, and he stopped to press his handkerchief into her hand. She covered her mouth and nose and doggedly followed him to the doorway at the top where he twisted the knob and pushed open the oak door.
She stepped inside and gasped. The place looked like it hadn’t been occupied in years. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and a thick layer of dust covered the few pieces of furniture. A narrow cot sat against one wall, flanked by a many-drawered walnut desk and a fancy carved armoire with chipped paint. A bank of cobwebby, dust-smeared windows ran along one dirt-streaked wall. In the second small room stood a round kitchen table and two straight-backed chairs, a china cabinet with a stack of dusty blue plates and a row of cups dangling from hooks, a dry sink and a tiny potbellied wood stove. The air smelled like a mildewed carpet.
“Bet this mess makes your fingers itch,” Lance said with a laugh. “This is ten times worse than Mrs. Schneiderman’s boardinghouse.”
“Oh, my dear Lord,” Marianne wailed. “Uncle Matty must have lived at the hotel, not here. Somehow I always pictured him in a big brick house. With servants,” she added in a small voice. Her shoulders sagged. “Just the thought of scrubbing these floors and everything that’s sitting on them makes my knees hurt.”
Lance squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll have to carry up firewood,” he said. “At least I won’t have to chop it three times a day. Stove isn’t big enough.”
Her stomach turned over. “Boots,” she murmured. “Just imagine, I have inherited a boot-making shop.” She gave a shaky sigh.
Lance said nothing, just studied the potbellied stove.
“What about Abe?” she asked.
“What about him? Looks to me like Abe is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Marianne. He’s probably what made your uncle’s boot business the success it is. I think we’d be nuts not to keep him right where he is, doing what he’s been doing all along.”
Marianne nodded. “I guess you’re right.”
Lance blinked. In the past four years he could count the times Marianne had accepted his advice on the fingers of one hand. Maybe… He racked his brain. Maybe once, and that was just two nights ago, when she’d asked his opinion about chocolate ice cream on top of peach pie.
She groaned and turned away to study the filthy room they stood in. “This is what I always imagined a witch’s cave in a bad fairy tale would look like,” she said with another sigh. “Are we really going to live here?”
“I don’t think we have a choice, Marianne. At least not right now.”
She worried her lower lip between her teeth. Lance sent her a look. “You okay?”
“I… I think so. I am trying really hard not to be disappointed.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “How much money do you have?”
“I have three dollars left.”
She frowned. “Left? Left after what?”
“Left over after buying shirts—and your wedding ring.”
“Oh. That was a lovely thing for you to do, Lance. Really it was.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, I wanted you to have a nice wedding ring.”
She gazed at him for a long moment and then straightened her shoulders and looked around the dreary space. “I guess we should go over to the mercantile and buy some soap, scrub brushes and buckets.”
“On the way, I’ll have a talk with Abe,” Lance said. “God only knows whether your uncle paid him for his work, but I think we need to keep him on. A man that skilled at making boots could work anywhere.”
She looked up at him and blinked hard. “This is ironic, don’t you think? Who would ever have guessed that I would leave the drudgery of mopping and sweeping for Mrs. Schneiderman’s in St. Louis for the drudgery of mopping and sweeping in Smoke River? Maybe I’ll wake up in a moment and find this is all a nightmare.”
“Could be worse, I guess.”
She gritted her teeth. “How could it possibly be worse?”
“It’d be worse if it was just you tackling all this by yourself instead of it being the two of us. And,” he added, “if we didn’t have Abe.”
She tried to smile. “And if we didn’t have lots of soap and water available.”
He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Come on, Marianne. Let’s go get some of that soap and water.”
An hour later they staggered out of Ness’s Mercantile loaded down with buckets and mops and brushes, plus four bars of hard yellow soap. Just looking at what faced them made Marianne more tired than she’d ever felt at Mrs. Schneiderman’s. But Lance was right; there were two of them. And neither of them was a stranger to hard work.
Chapter Nine
They ate a quick lunch at the restaurant, so disheartened at what they faced they barely spoke three words to each other all during the meal.
“Is the honeymoon over already?” Rita quipped. “You two look like you just lost your favorite puppy.”
Marianne groaned, and the waitress instantly wiped the smile off her face and bent toward her. “Golly, I didn’t mean anything by that, honest. It’s just that you two look plumb discouraged, and you’ve only been married for twenty-four hours.”
“We are discouraged,” Lance said. “Collingwood Boots might be a successful business, but—”
“It came as a shock,” Marianne offered. “Neither one of us knows anything about making boots. Uncle Matty had put Abe Garland in charge, and he seems very capable, but he’s only one person.”
Rita chewed the end of her pencil. “Folks all over the West send orders to Collingwood’s, and Abe fulfills ’em. Every week for years, rain or shine, that man took a big leather bag of cash over to Mr. Myers at the bank, so I’d guess the Collingwood account is overflowing.”
“Maybe,” Marianne said wearily. “But from the state of the living quarters over the store I’d say the business was just scraping by.”
Rita pursed her lips. “Pretty bad, huh?”
“Worse than bad,” Lance said. “It’s gonna take a week of elbow grease to make the place even halfway livable.”
“No wonder you two look so glum. And Miss Marianne, you sure aren’t dressed for house-cleanin’ this afternoon.”
Marianne sighed and dropped her gaze to the hot chicken sandwich getting cold on her plate. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she couldn’t work all afternoon on an empty stomach. She picked up her fork. “I wonder how Abe gets his meals,” she murmured.
“I wonder where the man sleeps,” Lance said. “Didn’t look to me like there’s much room at the back of the shop.”
“Let’s take him a chicken sandwich,” Marianne suggested.
Lance stared at her. It was nice that she was concerned about Abe’s lunch; at the boardinghouse she had never worried about whether he had eaten lunch or not.
Marianne continued to surprise him. Was this the same woman who never did anything but give orders to fill her wood box and fix the loose slats on the chicken house and a hundred other things? Part of him didn’t believe a leopard could change its spots. But twenty-four hours ago he would never have believed that a kiss could flip his heart upside down.
After lunch Marianne went up to their hotel room to change into her blue denim work skirt and a worn blue shirtwaist, and then they once again visited Ness’s Mercantile where they bought two sturdy brooms, a hammer and two pounds of nails, and a gallon of bleach. The mercantile proprietor offered to send everything over to the shop in Sammy Greywolf’s wagon. And he added a flour sack full of clean rags.
Fifteen minutes later, the wagon rattled to a stop in front of the mercantile and Sammy leaped down from the bench. “I hear you’re moving into old man Collingwood’s boot shop,” he quipped as he loaded their purchases into the wagon bed.
Marianne twitched her work skirt in annoyance. “‘Old man Collingwood’ was my great-uncle,�
�� she said sharply. “I inherited that shop from him.”
“Lotsa luck,” the boy said. They climbed aboard, and Sammy flapped the reins, guided the wagon down the main street and careened around the corner.
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to make real boots, not like these moccasins,” the boy announced. He extended one leg. “Real boots, like the ones Abe makes.”
“You have?” Marianne poked her elbow into Lance’s side. “Lance,” she murmured, “did you hear that?”
“Yeah, I heard, but don’t get too excited. We should ask Abe first if he wants a helper.”
“We don’t need to ask him, do we? I own the business now, and I think Abe should have a helper.”
He laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Marianne, you’re acting like bossy old Mrs. Schneiderman. You only took over the shop an hour before lunch. Maybe you should also remember that now it’s half mine, as well.”
“Oh.” She sounded so chastened he instantly regretted his words. He guessed it would be hard for Marianne to give up her old ordering-everybody-about ways, and he didn’t expect it would happen overnight. But it was his business, too. His chance to make something of himself. Since he was now an equal partner in her new venture, he’d be darned if he was going to let her mess it up.
Sammy helped them unload the cleaning supplies, and then hung around the shop watching Abe cut leather pieces out of a big sheet of cowhide while Marianne and Lance filled the mop buckets with soapy water and lugged them upstairs.
All afternoon they scrubbed floors, washed walls and windows, scraped dirt off the counters, swept cobwebs down from the ceiling, and dusted every single piece of furniture. Twice. Downstairs, the metallic tap-tap of Abe’s boot-maker’s hammer was punctuated by Sammy’s questions and the old man’s raspy answers.
By suppertime Marianne was so exhausted she could scarcely hold herself upright. Her head throbbed as if iron bolts were pounding into both her temples. Her legs trembled. Her back and shoulders ached, and her knees… She lifted her skirt to peer at them. Merciful heavens, her knees looked swollen and red and ugly as an old woman’s!
She closed her eyes. Yesterday she’d been a bride in a beautiful yellow dress, with her hair all shiny and her knees looking like…knees. Today she was a wreck.
Marianne's Marriage of Convenience Page 7