A Bride in Store

by Melissa Jagears

  The unmistakable scuffle of a footstep made her tremble. The trespasser had likely finished traversing the dark maze of tables, leaving only the staircase between him and her.

  She grabbed the cashbox and squared her shoulders, clamping her jaw to stop her chattering teeth. With a quick shove, she opened the door and walked forward, searching for a silhouette. “Halt, or I’ll shoot!”

  A curse called attention to the shadow running toward her. She threw the box at what was likely his face. A dull thud, a groan, and then coins scattered across the floorboards.

  “Help! Intruder!”

  The silhouette stumbled.

  Turning, she took one step toward the back but stopped midstride and ducked between two tables. Without a light, she’d not be able to unlock the back door—and she didn’t have the key.

  Did anyone live in the apartments above the nearby stores? Would anyone be working this late at night?

  Why hadn’t the man continued to barrel after her?

  Was all the heavy breathing hers alone?

  She held her breath, working to hear over the thumping of her heart. Keep silent or scream?

  A creak behind the stairwell made her throat clog. She couldn’t see the shadowed man’s features with the moon behind them both. Could he see her? She should’ve turned the lamp all the way down and gotten accustomed to the dark before leaving the office.

  “Where’d you go?” The man’s angry voice floated high above her several feet away. Did she know that voice?

  Did he think her stupid enough to answer?

  Which of her patrons had decided she’d be easy pickings? Losing money again would be nothing compared to a wicked man catching her in the dark.

  “There you are.” The merriment infusing the gravelly voice stopped her heart. “And I thought you were going to shoot me.”

  With all her might, she pushed over a table full of dishware. Ceramic pieces broke and scattered across the floor.

  Screaming, she lunged for the irons on the table next to her and lobbed them as hard as she could into the blackness.

  Even with no shirt and no covers, Will couldn’t sleep in the sweltering heat. He gave up and sat, pressing his palms against his eyelids. Tonight had been beyond frustrating. If Axel had been in town, he surely would’ve laid low at his mother’s. But if Mrs. Langston was keeping him, she was the finest actress in the world. When she figured out Will thought her son was still around, he’d almost had to tie her to a chair to keep her from running outside and screaming for her boy.

  So either his suspicions were completely wrong, or Axel—if the thief was Axel—had hid elsewhere. Maybe the ring had been gone long ago.

  Or perhaps he had a gift for losing things. He’d look harder for his money and the ring in the morning.

  He wiped his sweaty brow. Being this hot in May, he dreaded August. If only the windows opened so he could sleep.

  Groaning, he smacked his forehead, slipped into his trousers, and grabbed his bedding. How stupid to sleep in his tiny cubbyhole when Axel’s upstairs apartment could have been his weeks ago. The second story had four windows that opened onto the street.

  The smell of sunbaked horse droppings wouldn’t disturb him in the least if he had a breeze—and Kansas was rarely without a breeze.

  He stumbled up the stairs, eager for a mattress to sprawl across instead of his tiny cot.

  After dropping his blankets on the bed, he crossed to the windows and shoved up the stubborn sashes, letting the breeze cool his clammy skin. He leaned against the window frame, his eyes drifting closed.

  Crash! The clatter of glass breaking—a massive amount of glass—yanked away sleep.

  He gripped the windowsill and leaned out farther. Which direction had the noise come from?

  A lady’s scream sent him racing down the narrow stairway. He smacked his hip on the pickle barrel at the end of the counter, then ran pell-mell for the front, hitting the front door hard. The lock was its usual stubborn self. He jostled the stupid thing until the bolt turned.

  The second he stepped outside in bare feet, he realized he had nothing to fight off a possible attacker. Sprinting back inside, he snatched a local farmer’s Sharps he’d fixed yesterday and ran toward the ammunition. The time it would take to find the right bullets in the gloom made him utter a curse he’d only heard others say.

  Sorry, Lord, but what if Eliza’s in trouble? No woman lives on this street, and I wouldn’t put it past Eliza to work sunup to long past sundown.

  He shoved some wrong-sized shells aside and grabbed another box. Holding the case up to the moonlight, he could just make out the letters.

  Thank you, God.

  He snatched a handful and ran outside. Maybe it wasn’t Eliza who screamed, but he sprinted toward her store anyway.

  I don’t want anyone hurt, but please have her cry out again so I know where I’m going.

  The slapping of his bare feet against the ground and his heavy breathing hindered his hearing, but he’d not stop to listen until he stood in front of the Five and Dime. Scanning each alley he passed for a darting figure, he tried to load the rifle without slowing.

  That wasn’t working. He stopped to shove the stubborn shell into the chamber. A shadowed form appeared in the middle of the road, darting straight for him.

  He hoisted the gun to his shoulder, but immediately lowered the rifle—the runner had a bell-shaped figure.

  “Stop!” He swung the barrel away from her just in time. The woman ran smack into his chest.

  The smell of her this close, in his arms . . .

  “Thank goodness!” Eliza squeezed him for a regretfully short second before jumping away. She grabbed his hand and pulled his arm in the direction she’d come from. “Somebody tried to rob me.”

  He followed her, tightening his hand around hers lest she let go. “Who?”

  She picked up her pace. “I don’t know.”

  On her porch, he readied his rifle. “Stay here.” He kicked open the door, walked in a pace, then reached back for her. “No, wait. I’m not leaving you outside alone.”

  Ignoring his hand, she scurried around him and ran ahead. “I’ll get some irons.”

  Huh? What good would that do? “No, light the lamps.”

  She rushed behind the counter and within seconds had two blazing.

  He shut the door behind him and secured the latch. The robber had likely escaped, but he crept toward the back anyway, gun ready.

  Dull gray light spilled in through the wide-open back door. He peeked out into the alley. A small shadow scurried low to the ground, but nothing else moved. He shut the door, dismayed to see the intruder had splintered the wood near the lock. How had the thief found this exit? With only the dim glow of Eliza’s office lantern, the entire back wall was cast in shadow.

  Eliza couldn’t stay here late at night ever again.

  He jerked the door shut, but the extra upper latch barely kept it closed.

  Though certain the robber had fled, Will checked the storage room under the stairs and stalked up to the second story, looking back every few seconds to make sure Eliza remained behind the counter within the circle of lantern light. Her fists were clenched around the handles of two irons.

  When the last corner turned up empty, he lowered his firearm and descended the stairs. A few feet away from the counter something sharp stabbed him in the heel, almost eliciting the second curse he’d ever uttered in his life.

  Eliza dropped her irons with a thump and left her spot.

  He lowered himself to the floor with a groan and felt the item in his heel. A large piece of something glasslike jutted from his foot.

  “I’m so sorry. I knocked the dishware over to keep him from getting me.” She navigated around the little glimmers of broken dinnerware between them.

  He stopped pulling on the piece. “He came after you?”

  “He didn’t exactly appreciate my throwing the cashbox in his face.” She knelt in front of him and took hold of his
foot. “Or the irons. But they changed his mind at least.”

  He straightened his leg to let her look at the glass. “Whatever possessed you to throw things at him?”

  “I wasn’t about to hand over money a second time.” She inspected his heel, sucking air between her teeth in sympathy. “And, well, he didn’t believe me when I threatened to shoot.”

  Will frowned. “But why wouldn’t you?”

  “I didn’t have a gun.” She put his leg down gingerly. “I need to get a lamp.”

  Will bent his foot toward himself as she headed back to the counter. He wriggled the shard from his flesh, sucking in air the entire time. The wound could have been worse if the shard had embedded in a softer part of his foot. He looked around for something to staunch the bleeding, but he had no extra clothing. In his haste, he hadn’t even thrown on a shirt. He clamped his palm against his heel.

  “You pull it already?” She set down a roll of bandages and a small dark bottle next to a lamp.

  “Yeah.”

  She took his foot in her lap again and reached for the bottle.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m certainly capable of tending my own injuries.” He sighed. “About the only thing I’m good at.”

  “Nonsense.” She peered at the gash, then frowned. “What if a piece broke off in there?”

  He grimaced as he pulled his foot back and probed the wound for the telltale feel of something hard and sharp. “Not that I can tell.”

  She popped the little cork off the bottle and wet the end of the bandaging material.

  “Where did you learn to doctor?”

  “I don’t consider cleaning a cut with iodine doctoring.” She paused and stared at his heel. “You don’t need stitches, do you?”

  And for some reason, he wished he’d cut himself worse. How would she handle sewing flesh? Carl Hampden couldn’t even watch him put in sutures, but Eliza would likely shine in a medical emergency. “A tight bandage will be enough.”

  “Why were you running without shoes anyway?” She glanced up, and her gaze locked on his chest. She looked down, quickly returning her focus to his foot.

  Will pushed himself more upright. “Where were you going when you ran into me on the street?”

  She reached for the iodine. “To you.”

  “Not the sheriff?”

  When she shook her head, he smiled. Propping himself up with his hands, he leaned back as if enjoying a relaxing massage, the bite of iodine barely noticeable. She’d run to him for protection rather than the law—that had to mean something. “I’ll have to inform Sheriff Quade about the break-in. Did you see the robber? Was it Axel?”

  “Why would you think it was Axel?” She blew on his wound like his mother used to. “Surely he’s long gone.”

  “Or he’s returned.”

  “But why would he?” She kept her eyes pinned to his foot instead of looking at him. “How could he slink around his hometown and not be noticed?”

  “He’d know every hiding spot, where the back door to your store was, where my cashbox’s stashed, when the butcher leaves for lunch, who lives above which stores, where the sheriff walks at night . . .”

  Her fingers absently played with his bandage’s knot. Though she no longer needed to cradle his foot in her lap, he wouldn’t tell her to let go.

  She looked toward the back. “Since I’m the one who unmasked him, the one who forced him into hiding, if he found me alone . . .” She reached for her throat.

  Axel couldn’t . . . wouldn’t.

  Then again, he’d never suspected his childhood friend would join a gang, rob a train, or bust a woman’s face either. He’d be a fool to rule out anything as too evil for Axel.

  “I’ll go to the sheriff’s.” She released his foot.

  “We’ll walk there together.”

  “You can’t. You don’t have any shoes.”

  “That didn’t stop me from running to you.”

  She glanced up for a short second. “You’re shirtless too. If anyone sees us, they’ll gossip first and ask questions later.”

  “Then we’ll go to my store so I can get a shirt, but I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  She shook her head. “We’d create just as many rumors if I was seen outside your door at this time of night.”

  “It’s no worse than us being together now.”

  She scowled. “But I was robbed.”

  “Gossip first, questions later. Remember?”

  She collected her medical supplies and handed him the lamp. “Then perhaps we should leave separately.”

  “Not going to happen.” She might be the bravest woman in Salt Flatts, but that wouldn’t keep him from protecting her if he had the power to do so. “I can find something to wear here.”

  “I don’t carry men’s clothing.”

  He scanned her tables. “What about an apron or a skirt?”

  The ridge between her eyebrows squeezed together. “A skirt?”

  “I could use it as a cloak.”

  “You’d walk through the middle of town wearing a flowery skirt?”

  “It’s dark.” He shrugged. “Maybe a tablecloth.”

  “You’re being silly.” She stood up and brushed herself off. “I could clean up this mess while you walk back to your place and get yourself dressed.”

  “The robber might see your lights on, realize you’re alone, and try again.”

  She stared at the dish-littered floor as if leaving a mess for a few hours might kill her. She glanced at him, but he gave her a slight shake of his head. He wouldn’t back down, not this time. She was more important than tidiness.

  “All right, I’ll go to your store and wait while you get what you need. Let me grab the cash I hid.”

  He stood to test his foot. He’d have to struggle not to wince on the way back to the Men’s Emporium.

  She returned and passed him. “I’m ready to go.”

  He leaned over to pick up the rifle and hobbled after her. “Don’t walk so quickly.”

  “You need help?”

  An excuse to have her arm wrapped around his? Even though he was still not sure how he should feel about her after her keeping the store a secret from him? “Yes.”

  She walked back reluctantly, then threaded her arm beneath his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced out air. Breathing was simple—an involuntary process—the lungs inflated and deflated. Proximity to a woman shouldn’t be capable of derailing his respiratory system.

  Then again, maybe medical texts couldn’t explain everything about the human body.

  Though he did need to get control of his breathing before she thought him unmanly for having such trouble inhaling and exhaling because of a minor laceration in his heel.

  When they exited the store, Eliza looked back over her shoulder. “What if the robber returns while I’m gone? A busted door won’t keep him out.”

  “Nothing costs much more than a handful of dimes, right?”

  “Correct.” She groaned. “I wish I hadn’t destroyed so much of my inventory. What if I can’t pay back Mr. Raymond because—” She pressed against him when something darted out of the alley.

  He tucked her closer, watching a black four-legged animal streak across the road.

  She pulled away from him a bit. “I wasn’t scared of that cat.”

  “Of course not.” He smiled and limped a little more than necessary, if nothing more than to keep her close. “I never cease to be amazed at what you’re not scared of.”

  “Oh, I’m scared of plenty of things.”

  “Like?”

  Her shoulders tensed. “Not being able to run this store as well as I want to. Repeating others’ mistakes—”

  “Telling me about your store.”

  She stiffened but kept moving forward. “Yes. Sorry about that, but I didn’t want to hurt you more than I already was going to, and . . . well, I was trying not to let emotions override common sense. Seems I did the opposite.”

  “But
without emotions, what kind of life would we have?”

  “One without pain or sorrow or embarrassment.” She shrugged. “A good-enough life.”

  “Ah, but only heaven promises a world devoid of the negative. If we tossed away emotions here on earth, we’d also lose out on excitement, joy, and love. To experience the good times, we often have to endure the bad.”

  For better or worse, for richer or poorer. He swallowed hard to contain thoughts of Eliza walking toward him in that ivory gown of hers—why get his hopes back up again if she planned to stay in Salt Flatts with her store when he’d likely never return?

  But would he wish away all his past troubles? If he’d known Nancy would jilt him, would he have avoided courting her?

  Some of his best memories revolved around Nancy. His first dance, the fishing hole they often took his brothers to, the times he’d pulled her pigtails in school to dip them in ink.

  What happy memories might he create with Eliza?

  He already had plenty of good memories of her: the feel of her hands against his chest as she batted away feathers, the smile she gave him when he complimented her on some masculine characteristic most women would pout over, their time in the alley when she’d promised not to marry the butcher’s sons, the moments when he could’ve sworn she’d glanced at his lips . . .

  “And what are you scared of?” Eliza let go of his arm and stepped under the Men’s Emporium eaves.

  How’d they get here already? He hadn’t noticed a step of the last block.

  “I’m afraid that with all my worrying, I’ll miss a chance at happiness.” He climbed the single stair, swung open the door, and set the firearm on the counter.

  She didn’t come inside, just stood at the threshold. Did she think standing outside alone in the dark was safe? He swung the door open wider.

  “What would make you happy, Will?” Her breathless voice drew his gaze to the place one momentary pleasure lay.

  He pulled her through the doorway, her jacket rough against his chest. “This.”

  He slid his thumb along the scar across her cheek. She blinked up at him as he touched the puckered flesh he’d thought of kissing that first day—and so many days since.

  She leaned into his hand a second before he pressed his mouth gently against hers.