Adaline’s gaze snagged on the staggering sum due— seven hundred dollars. The monthly payment would inhale every penny of profit.
How had Papa ever thought he could repay this, with interest? Yes, the holidays always meant brisk business. But Pa had taught her to never count on money not yet earned. Why would he preach against the evils of mortgaging hard-earned property, then sign away his life’s earnings in secret?
Her heart pounded and nausea swelled.
Oh, dear God in heaven, what had Father done?
“Miss Whipple?”
Though Adaline’s ears rang, her gaze snapped back to the banker. She opened her mouth to respond, but words failed.
His features arranged in an almost contrite expression. “I see we’ve caught you ill-prepared for such news.”
“Indeed.” How should a woman in her predicament react?
Lockhart leaned on the counter. He carried the pungent fragrance of too much Bay Rum. “Perhaps we should complete this transaction somewhere more private.”
She didn’t have seven hundred dollars.
Even if she fully drained the family’s personal and the bakery’s accounts at the bank, dumped out her sisters’ piggy banks, and scraped together the money she’d tucked away of her own earnings, gathering seven hundred dollars was impossible.
Her head spun. What to do. What to do?
Whether vexation or embarrassment or panic— whatever caused her to glance at the faces of her customers, friends, neighbors… she shouldn’t have.
Mr. Malloy wiped his hands on a napkin, but everyone else’s features registered shock.
She simply must send this bank representative away, talk with Mother, and figure out what to do. “Is this my copy of the mortgage?”
“No, ma’am. That’s the original. Your father received his copy the day of the loan’s origination.”
The whirlwind in her head spun faster. She knew precisely where Papa kept every bit of business documentation— and she’d been through it all since the funeral. Unless he’d not wanted to worry her, and had tucked it in Mama’s writing desk in their bedroom?
Lockhart cleared his throat. “I assume your business funds are kept locally. I’ll accompany you to the bank so you might make the necessary withdrawal.”
“Maybe your Denver bank is open on Saturdays, Mr. Lockhart, but ours is closed.”
“This is a matter of importance. Surely you know your banker? We’ll pay a call at his home.”
“Absolutely not. I have customers present, bread in the oven, a business to run.”
Lockhart smiled easily. “For the moment.”
She flinched. How dare he voice the unseemly opinion, in front of her customers?
The patronizing banker tsk-tsked and shook his head ever so slightly. “Payment is sixty days past-due. I cannot delay action.”
“You’ll wait,” she informed him, keeping her tone pleasant but firm, “until Monday.”
He shook his head, condescension thick as icing on a three-layer cake.
“Sir, I require time to discuss this with my mother, and she is not presently available.”
He inclined his head, just a notch, but enough to convey he understood. “Very well. Forty-eight hours, it is.”
He gestured for the documents.
She wanted him gone, so she shoved the documents across the counter to Lockhart.
Without so much as a good day, Sheridan Lockhart strode through the door.
Rage choked her.
A little hand touched her elbow. Young Jane, eyes filled with panic. Juliette cried in silence. No matter when they’d begun eavesdropping, they’d overheard too much. She hugged the children tightly. What else could she do?
Against her better judgment, her gaze sought Mr. Malloy’s bottomless blue eyes— a man whose calm confidence always seemed to soothe… though he had no way of knowing he had such an effect on her.
But he’d already gone.
***
Ten minutes later, Adaline managed to lock the shop door behind the last customer, post the closed sign in the window with a handwritten note specifying temporarily, and console her young sisters. She wiped tears, hugged them close, and assured them she had the matter well in hand. She left them to wash dishes, sweep, keep the ovens fueled, and punch down rising dough.
She hoped the familiar, comfortable tasks would keep them occupied for the fifteen minutes, maximum, she needed at her mother’s bedside.
Adaline hurried upstairs, paused outside the closed bedroom door, and fought to control her breathing. Panic had taken deep root, but once she had her father’s copy of the mortgage in hand, and understood the situation better from her mother, she’d know what to do next.
She mopped her palms on her apron and entered the bedroom. “Mama, wake up.”
Mama’s eyelashes fluttered.
“Father took a mortgage?” The question reeked with accusation, but how could she help it? “Mother. Wake up.”
“Young ladies do not raise their voices.” Mama yawned.
Aggravation kicked up a ruckus. If mother were stronger, she’d have been awake, downstairs, functional, and could have dealt with the banker.
Adaline needed her capable, strong, bright, determined mother.
“What do you know about a mortgage?” Adaline asked. “Where did Papa put the papers?”
“What are you talking about? We have no mortgage.” Mama yawned, covering her mouth with a hand. “We’ll clear it up with the banker. Must be a simple mistake.”
A little sniffle sounded at the door. Jane and Juliette, listening again. The ten-year-old twins were not identical, and no one had difficulty telling them apart, but they wore matching expressions of fright. They needed assurance, someone to trust.
“Girls, I promised I’d be back down momentarily, and I will. Please, let me talk to Mother, alone. Go back to your chores.”
They scampered.
“A man came in to the shop. He’s from First National Bank, Denver City.”
Adaline shuffled through a stack of papers on the writing desk, finally locating Pa’s appointment book. He’d used it to track events he wanted to remember: other merchant’s birthdays, town socials, new babies born.
She flipped back to March fourth, the date penned on the mortgage papers in Lockhart’s possession. In Papa’s familiar script, an appointment in Denver City. An address but no name.
Solid proof her father had been in Denver on the day in question.
Damning evidence.
It all came rushing back. She recalled closing up shop alone. She’d started morning baking on the fourth, accomplished the work the pair of them usually did, in less time than she’d allowed.
A vague recollection of Papa returning on the four-o’clock train skittered through her mind. He’d seemed… off. Tired and weary. But he’d praised her efforts and thanked her for holding down the fort.
How could she have forgotten?
“Mama—” Adaline dropped onto the edge of the bed, pulling her mother back from her woolgathering. “He went to Denver last March. Remember?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is it possible he took a loan on that day?”
Adaline’s once fearless, dauntless mother, slept far more than necessary. In sleep, it seemed, she didn’t have to remember that horrible day in September when Papa’s heart had suddenly stopped. She could forget.
Heart attack, Doc had said. Here one minute, whistling and running the bakery, without a care in the world… the next, gone.
Mama’s brown eyes filled with tears. “This is a mistake, Adaline. There is no loan. You have full access to the financial records, you know we have adequate funds to sustain ourselves.”
“Mama—”
“Adaline.” Mama found her hankie, balled up and obviously well-used, and dried her tears.
From the top bureau drawer, Adaline brought out two fresh handkerchiefs for her mother.
Mama accepted the linen squares,
and rolled over, her back to the door. “I can’t talk about this right now, dear. Please… I need to be alone.”
Adaline slipped from the bedroom and covered her face with her hands.
Despite the signed document Adaline had seen, firsthand, Mama believed there had been no mortgage.
Whatever Papa’s financial woes, he’d not confided in Mother.
Therefore Papa wouldn’t have left the documents anywhere Mother could have found them.
Anger and frustration mingled and tears threatened. What had Father been up to?
Chapter Two
By noon Malloy had tailed the good-for-nothin’ banker to the hotel, bribed a clerk for details, and persuaded the Western Union telegraphist to disclose information. All in a day’s work, and simple, to boot.
Time had come to pay Miss Adaline Whipple a visit.
He glanced both ways, cut across the frozen street between two wagons traveling in opposite directions, and headed back to Whipple Bakery. Holding onto his battered Stetson, he stepped out of the frigid wind and into the shop.
Damn, but this place smelled good. Apples, cinnamon, sugar, and… that elusive slip of memory, tinged with the faintest sketch of a childhood home. Not that he remembered much. But here, he almost could.
The early crowd had cleared out, like usual on a Saturday, leaving the place nearly empty. Jane, the doll with dark braids who most resembled her elder sister, washed down tables and straightened chairs. The other young’un, Juliette, carried a tray loaded with dirty dishes into the back.
He blew on his cupped hands to warm them and waited for a customer at the counter to finish her business. The moment he had Miss Adaline Whipple to himself, they were gonna talk. Finally.
‘Til now he’d intentionally kept his distance, and with good reason. Three months of self-denial blasted to Hades the moment Sheridan Lockhart stalked through the door and ignited the fuse. Lockhart might be doin’ his job, but the banker was no gentleman.
This just proved a widow and fatherless daughters needed a man’s protection. No one had stepped forward in their defense. With The Ruffian Gang running roughshod and the Finlay girl missing, the law couldn’t spare one man to look into Sheridan Lockhart’s association with the Denver bank or the veracity of his claims.
‘Course, the lawmen hadn’t asked him to ride along, searching for the kidnapped girl, ‘cause the worst of that had come to a head while he’d been in Denver City delivering two men in irons to the authorities. Upon his return, he’d volunteered, but Sheriff Rose himself said he’d prefer eyes and ears in town.
At the time, Malloy hadn’t been too pleased by the sheriff’s verdict, but now, he couldn’t be more grateful he’d been in town, sitting in Whipple’s Bakery, eating cinnamon-raisin bread when the threat of financial ruin reared its ugly head.
“Are you sure?” The customer’s dark red hat brim extended beyond her narrow shoulders. She leaned over the counter and took Adaline’s hands in hers.
Dyed feathers on her monstrous hat bobbed. Frippery never had made sense to him, especially in the Colorado Rockies. Though her hat matched the frills beneath her fancy coat, if a stiff wind caught that brim, it’d rip right off, hat pin or no, and whisk it far over the county line.
That kind of highly ornamental woman, like every wife of every man he’d worked for in the past decade, held zero appeal.
Adaline’s no-nonsense shirtwaists, skirts, and aprons, and the soft female shape beneath— now that made all kinds of sense. And drew his eye every blasted time.
The ladies dropped their voices to mere whispers and he couldn’t hear much. He’d give her another minute then interrupt. Time was a-wastin’.
One of the gals sniffed. The kind of delicate sound that walked hand-in-hand with tears.
Against his better judgment, he peered around the woman’s repellent hat to get a good look at Adaline. Her captivating hazel eyes were red.
Crying women, definitely his second greatest weakness… right behind women in trouble.
Now she’d sunk two hooks deep. Wouldn’t take nothin’ to reel him in.
Her friend stopped whispering and both ladies turned to him fully.
He took brief note of pale blond hair beneath that gigantic hat and gold wedding ring on her hand, but the sadness dampening Adaline’s features locked a fist about his heart and commanded his attention. He found himself two long strides closer to the counter without thinkin’ about it.
“I’ll go,” the gal in the big hat said to Adaline. Something passed between the women, some sort of telepathic communication he didn’t understand. Adaline nodded in obvious response.
The moment the door jingled shut, the toes of his boots knocked into the oak display case where counter met floor. He found himself with palms on that highly polished counter, leaning over it and facing the woman he’d never really spoken to.
She held his gaze and something sparked to life within him. Part desperation, part determination.
She held her ground. Her chin ticked up a notch. “Mr. Malone— what c-can I do for you? Another slice of cinnamon-raisin bread?”
“We need to talk.”
“This r-really isn’t a good time.” She pressed her crumpled hankie to her nose and averted her gaze.
“I followed that banker, and you need to know what I learned.”
“You followed him?” She gaped, appalled. “Why?”
He’d butted into her business, and he should’ve guessed she wouldn’t be happy about it. “I want to help you. He didn’t see me, so no harm done.”
“Help?” Adaline’s nervousness showed in the flutter of her hands about her dark hair, tucking an errant bit behind her ear. She immediately changed her mind and smoothed the loose lock into place, fished a hair pin free and anchored it.
The lady had no idea her movements made her apron-covered shirtwaist, loose though it was, extol her endowments in a most appealing way.
He forced his attention back to her eyes, but not quick enough. Blazes. She’d caught him admiring her attributes— but what living, breathing man wouldn’t?
This conversation had to get back on track, and fast. “You need a man at your side, worse than ever.”
He’d never be good enough for her, but that bald truth hadn’t kept him away, had it?
Her mouth opened as if she intended to speak, but nothing came out. She folded her arms over her middle.
“Look, ma’am—” How to explain this? “I’ve come to propose—” he gestured a hand between them, struggling to find the right words.
She did look at him, then. Her eyes widened.
Spit it out, Malloy. “I propose that you and I… that we…”
What was it about this pint-sized woman that made him completely forget himself? Where had the words skipped off to? He’d not had a lick of trouble interrogating the Western Union employee about telegrams, money transfers, and Mr. Whipple. He’d had full control of the language then.
“Look,” he told her, “The Sheriff’s ridin’ posse with the deputies and many of the men in town. Like I said, you need a man at your side, worse now than ever. Someone’s gotta look out for you and your widowed mother and kid sisters. That someone might as well be me.”
She met his gaze, drew herself up to her full height— five-feet-nothin’. Fire sparked in her hazel eyes, turned far more green than brown by the apple-green of her shirtwaist and the flush of her porcelain skin. “I— I’m honored, Mr. Malloy, truly I am. I’m just shocked by your proposal of marriage.”
Silence skipped over several heartbeats.
Marriage?
He choked.
Whoa! How in the blazes had she jumped from here to there?
Not sure how it happened, he found his fist wrapped around her little hand. Darn, but it fit snug inside his own. Soft, too. Warm, and decidedly feminine. “Who said anything about marriage?”
Pain doused the light in her eyes. She tried to yank free.
He winced. Too blunt, as a
lways. Shock and embarrassment warred on her pretty face.
He tucked their clasped hands against the chill of his coat. “Not that I wouldn’t want to marry you, darlin’, after all, you’re the best baker in three counties, it’s just that—”
She tried once more to pull free. He’d done enough harm, so he let her go.
Damn, he hated this counter between them.
One small wave of her hand. The poor thing had turned red as a July sunburn. A nervous wave of her hand and a step backward made it obvious she’d rather die than converse with him a moment longer.
“My mistake.” Her usually melodic voice trembled. “I’m sorry. I... I…”
Blast it all to Hades. First, Lockhart came in here and dumped her world on its head, and now he’d said all the wrong things. He might not know much about women, but he knew she wouldn’t want anything to do with him now, let alone accept his help.
Nothin’ sounded better than walking away, putting this whole day out of sight and out of mind. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t. He’d raised himself better than that. He wasn’t a coward and she deserved far better from him.
He’d better do some fast talkin’ if he wanted to hold onto her, and good enough or not, he honestly wanted Miss Adaline Whipple to… to… what?
To be okay?
Yep.
To be his?
Her jaw trembled. A double-helping of courage kept tears of humiliation from skating down her cheeks.
Aw, darlin’.
In that moment, he knew exactly what he wanted. With greater clarity than he’d ever known anything.
He wanted Miss Whipple: her safety, trust, affection, and kisses. Her heart.
No sense lying to himself. He’d fallen more than a little in love with Adaline, eating her fine baking, listening to her laughter and melodic conversation with others, and craving, hungering for so much more.
He wanted the whole kit and caboodle.
She thought he’d proposed marriage? He wished now that he had. He wanted to make her his wife.
***
“Adaline— may I call you Adaline?”
Adaline clenched her trembling hands at her waist. She nodded, but only to put an end to the miserable exchange. If she could make her shaky legs work, she’d bolt into the back and hide.
Silver Belles and Stetsons Page 29
