by Janet Dean
Geraldine dug through her purse. “With these doctor bills, it’s a good thing I’ve got a renter for the room over my café.”
Mary smiled. “Oh, to whom?”
“To that traveling salesman. He’s taking his meals at the café, too.” She beamed, then paid the fee and scooted out the door.
Mary’s mouth drooped. That peddler was staying, as he’d said.
The door opened and the Willowbys entered. Mary gave them a hug, then gestured for them to follow. Judge Willowby leaned heavily on a cane, his gait unsteady and shuffling. Although it was still a huge improvement from when he’d first had his apoplexy.
In the weeks since the stroke, Mrs. Willowby had devoted herself to her husband’s recovery. If anything, his illness had brought out her gentler side. An outcome appreciated not only by Mary and her father but by everyone who had dealings with Viola Willowby. Mary had come to admire the woman—something she couldn’t have expected a few months ago.
“How’s our…grandson?” Judge Willowby asked.
The Willowbys had wanted Mary to have custody of Ben, but the judge’s tongue still tripped over calling Ben his grandson, rather than his son. Mary smiled. “Fine. No asthma episodes as of late.”
Oh, how Mary enjoyed Ben’s presence. Shy at first, the youngster had taken a few days to adjust but soon settled into the family. He adored her sons, and Michael and Philip loved playing with him and reading him stories.
Mary smiled. “Ben prays for your recovery every night. By the looks of you, God’s answering his prayers.”
Viola’s eyes misted. “We’re so grateful, Mary, for your willingness to raise Ben as your own. Tell Carrie how much we appreciate her watching Ben so you can work in the office. The generosity of the people in this town amazes us. Food brought over, help with chores—we’ve been blessed in countless ways.”
When needed, folks in this town pulled together. Mary loved living here.
Her father appeared in the doorway, scrutinized his patient for a moment and then gave an approving smile. “You’re looking spry, Judge.”
“I’m thinking of trying the new cure, Doc,” the judge said. “Maybe it’ll loosen me up.”
“You’re the second patient to mention that remedy. Guess I’d better buy a bottle.”
Mary could understand the Willowbys looking for answers, but surely her father didn’t believe that nonsense too. “If you don’t need me, I’d like to leave now.”
“Sure.” Her father turned and handed her a capped bottle. “Would you stop by the livery and deliver this medicine to Mr. Lemming? He’s been without it for several days. Make sure he realizes the importance of taking it correctly.”
Mary nodded, tucking the bottle in her purse. “See you at supper.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a forced gaiety belying the weariness in his movements. He didn’t fool her.
Before she delivered the medicine, she intended to talk with Sheriff Rogers. See what could be done about that peddler.
Chapter Three
Mary passed the town square and didn’t see that rogue, but his wagon remained where it had that morning. He’d probably gone to the saloon, spending his morning profits on liquor to fill more bottles and, more than likely, himself.
A hand-lettered sign boasted in bold letters: CURATIVE FOR HEADACHE, STOMACHACHE AND INSOMNIA. What some people would do to make a dollar—uh, three dollars.
Though her father’s rebuke stung, his words held a smidgen of truth. She did tend to get wrapped up in worry. But didn’t the Bible instruct her to help others? Surely that meant protecting them from this bloodsucker.
By the time she’d reached her destination, the imposing limestone structure housing not only the jail but also the sheriff’s quarters, she’d envisioned the charlatan tarred and feathered, or at least run out of town.
Inside, Sheriff Rogers turned from tacking up a wanted poster and tipped his hat. The sheriff’s gray-streaked hair and paunch belied the strength of his muscular arms and massive shoulders. Not a man she’d care to cross. But then again, she needn’t fret; she wasn’t the criminal in town.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Graves.”
“Hello, Sheriff.” Mary walked to the wall and checked the poster to see if it held the medicine man’s picture. Not seeing the peddler’s face, she sighed and turned back to him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I hope you know a way to rid the town of a swindler bilking our citizens out of their money.”
He chuckled. “Reckon you’re talking about Luke Jacobs.”
That vile man carried the first name of the doctor in scripture, the follower of Christ? The similarity didn’t sit well with Mary. “I don’t know his name, but the man I’m talking about is selling home-brewed medicine.”
“Jacobs convinced me of his product’s value.” He gestured to his desk. There, as big as life, sat a bottle of that remedy. “I gave it a try, and it’s eased the pain in my gut.”
No doubt the result of wishful thinking. Hadn’t she seen that outcome before?
“Either way,” Sheriff Rogers said, taking a seat behind his desk, the springs whining in protest, “he obtained a permit to sell on our streets, so he’s within his rights.”
“For how long?”
“Believe he said a week.”
“In that length of time, he can filch everyone’s money.” Still, it could be worse. “At least he’ll be gone by week’s end, maybe before, if we’re lucky.”
The sheriff laced his fingers over his chest. “His eyes lit when I mentioned those orphans who came to town last year. Wonder if he’s here for more than peddling.”
A lump thudded to the bottom of Mary’s stomach, and she sucked in a gulp of air. Ben, along with Emma and William, Charles and Addie’s two, had ridden on that train. “Did he ask about any of them?”
“Nope. Reckon I could be wrong, but in my work, I make a point of reading people.”
Mary paced in front of the desk, then spun back to the sheriff. “He can’t come to town and wreak havoc on our children’s lives.”
“Now simmer down, Mrs. Graves.” Sheriff Rogers rose. “I’m not going to let anyone harm our citizens, much less those youngsters.”
Ever since Ed Drummond had beaten Frances, William and Emma, the sheriff took special interest in the orphans, becoming a protective grandfather of sorts. She couldn’t discount his well-honed instincts about Luke Jacobs.
Mary shivered. “Did he say anything else?”
“Nope. Jacobs is closemouthed.” The sheriff gave a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out. But if he’s half as good as his medicine, we’re fortunate to have him.”
Fortunate? The man meant trouble. Why couldn’t anyone see that?
Mary said goodbye to the sheriff. She hadn’t gotten anywhere with him. What reason would a traveling salesman have to concern himself with the orphans? Could he be a relative of one of them? Surely not to Charles and Addie’s two blond, blue-eyed youngsters, not with the man’s dark looks.
She pictured Ben’s impish grin and dark-brown curls—
She bit her lip to quell its sudden trembling, refusing to finish the thought. She didn’t like what she’d heard at the sheriff’s office, didn’t like it at all. She had to make sure Luke Jacobs did nothing to upset the peace of the children, especially Ben, the little boy who’d staked a claim in her heart.
Charles would know what to do. Before she could talk to him, she had to deliver the medicine to John Lemming over at the livery. To save time, she cut across the courthouse lawn and rounded the corner of the building—all but colliding with her adversary.
Luke Jacobs. Again. The man hovered over her life like crows over a cornfield.
“Well, well, Miss Nightingale.” He gave her that lazy smile of his. For a moment, their gazes locked. “We meet again.”
At her side, Mary’s hands curled into fists, ready to protect the whole town if need be from this man, his smile an
d his phony charm. “Yes, Mr. Jacobs, we do.”
His brows rose to the lock of dark, wavy hair falling over his forehead. Why didn’t the scoundrel wear a hat like any decent man? “Appears you’ve learned my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said.
A team of horses couldn’t pull the information out of her—any information for that matter. “I believe you do, Mr. Jacobs.” She planted a hand on her hip. “Florence Nightingale.”
“So, Miss Nightingale,” he said, mocking her—teasing her, “will you tell me where I can find the livery?”
That cocky grin he wore affected her. It was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. And he knew it. From the gleam in his eyes, he enjoyed it too.
“Have you a remedy for horses? Or looking for some manure to add to your spiel?”
He chuckled, apparently not at all upset by her words. “I need to bed down my horse.” He put a hand to his chest, feigning distress. “Surely even you wouldn’t want to put an innocent animal at risk.”
“True, but I wouldn’t mind putting a guilty beast at peril.” She eyed him, making no secret of which beast she meant.
A deep belly laugh escaped him. If he’d been any other man, the laugh would’ve been contagious. “You give me too much credit, dear lady.”
Uninvited humor bubbled up inside Mary, but she tamped it down before it reached her lips. She might as well give him directions. He’d find out soon enough, with or without her help. She motioned to the opposite corner. “The livery is at Ninth and Clinton.”
Instead of leaving, he took a step closer. Mary inhaled sharply.
“I can see my presence in this town unhinges you. I assure you that I’m quite harmless.”
Mary pulled every inch of her five-foot-two frame erect. “Nothing unhinges me, Mr. Jacobs. Not even the prospect of a charlatan in town.” She folded her arms. “How long are you staying?”
“Hard to say.”
Her gaze darted to the wagon, loaded with his tonic. Could his claims be valid? The sheriff thought the remedy had value. Even her father wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. If so, what ingredients made up his concoction?
No, this man had no training qualifying him as a pharmacist. His bottles contained nothing of worth. Still, in an unguarded livery, who knew what could happen to his tonic.
He looked at her with an intensity suggesting he could see right through her skull and into her brain. “Planning mischief, Miss Nightingale?”
Mary’s face burned with shame. For the briefest moment, she’d actually considered dumping the contents of his bottles and breaking the commandment not to steal. She couldn’t meet his gaze.
His laughter lifted her chin. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but my remedy will be bunking with me.”
“Not even a reprobate like you could push me into breaking God’s law.”
He flashed a smile. “Wish I had more time to chat, but my horse needs water and feed.”
Without a backward glance, he walked to his wagon, scrambled up, released the brake and pulled on the reins, backing onto the street. Then giving her a jaunty wave, he turned in the direction of the livery.
Mary let out a gust. The man took pleasure in irritating her. Still, Ben remained her chief concern. At the thought of the little boy, Mary only wanted to pick him up at the Foleys’. Talking to her brother-in-law could wait.
Then she remembered the bottle in her bag. The errand would take her to the livery. She’d prefer to deliver the medicine tomorrow, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to shirk the responsibility. She despised having to be anywhere near that peddler, but more than likely she’d find Mr. Lemming in his office and wouldn’t have to set eyes on that no-good.
Or so she hoped.
Outside the livery, Mary waved to Red, the freckle-faced hired hand, dumping a wheelbarrow of manure he’d mucked from the stalls. As the odor reached her nostrils on the brisk breeze, she wrinkled her nose and hurried inside.
Mr. Lemming wasn’t in his office. Mary set the bottle on his desk, tempted to leave. But, her father had asked her to stress the importance of taking the medicine. Her heart skipped a beat. Searching for the owner could bring her face-to-face with that peddler. As she hustled past stalls, the horses’ gazes followed her progress with large doleful eyes, probably hoping for a treat or a pat.
Up ahead, Luke Jacobs filled a bucket from the trough. Mary skidded to a stop, her heart tap-dancing in her chest. The sight of all those muscles rippling beneath his shirt held her transfixed, powerless to move.
Oh, yes, he most definitely was trouble.
He raised his head and their eyes met. Butterflies danced low in her belly. Slowly, he straightened. “Checking up on me?”
A flush crept up Mary’s neck. He had the audacity to imply she’d followed him. “Certainly not. I’m looking for Mr. Lemming, the owner of this livery. Have you seen him?”
The man had the audacity to smirk, like he didn’t believe her. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of explaining her reason for being here.
“Nope, only a freckle-faced youth who offered to see to my horse, but I prefer taking care of Rosie here myself.”
Mary raised a brow.
“Rosie’s an odd name, I know, but it’s the name she came with when I bought her. I don’t believe in changing a gal’s name unless—”
“Unless it suits your purposes,” she said, spitting out the words, “like trying to humiliate me in front of my neighbors.”
“With your overblown interest in the town’s welfare, I’d say Miss Nightingale suits you.” He waved a hand. “Does your husband have a horse stabled here?”
“I don’t have a husband.” The words popped out of her mouth before her brain could squelch them.
He carried the bucket into the stall, gave his horse a pat, closed the lower door and then turned back to her. “Are you renting a conveyance?”
Why the interrogation? “No.”
He shot her a smug grin. “Hmm, then I’ve got to wonder if you’re following me.”
She huffed. “I most definitely am not!”
Chuckling, he headed toward her with a lazy stride. “Then what reason do you have to see Mr. Lemming?”
Rosie craned her neck, turning a stern eye on Mary. To be censored by the man’s horse was too much. “It’s none of your business.”
At Mr. Jacobs’s approach, her heart leapt to her throat, but she refused to be bullied and stood her ground. Even though her insides rolled like a ship tossed at sea.
He stopped in front of her. “Sorry I can’t be more help locating the owner.”
She harrumphed. “I seriously doubt you care a fig.”
His eyes sparked. “I admire a woman who watches out for her neighbor—but lashing out at whomever you deem a threat must get exhausting.”
Her gaze sought the floorboards. Had she behaved that badly?
With gentle fingers he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Angry or not, you’re a caring woman.”
Something about the rapt look in his eyes kept her rooted to the spot, trapping her breath in her lungs.
“An attractive one too.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. No one had said such things to her in years and years. She hooted her disbelief. She wasn’t some naive, giddy schoolgirl. He’d have to find another target to wile with his charms.
Yet, the compliment clung to her like a terrified toddler during a thunderstorm.
Tentacles of mistrust wrapped around her every muscle and tendon and squeezed. “Why are you really here? What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to sell my remedy.”
“Is that the only reason?”
For a moment, she saw a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes. But then he flashed a smile, and despite herself, Mary’s gaze traveled to that tiny hollow in his cheek. Inhaling his scent, pleasant, with a hint of spices, she pressed a hand against her bodice, felt the pounding of her heart through the fabric of her dress. “I’ll
pay you thirty dollars to leave…today.”
He whistled. “That’s a lot of money, ma’am. You must really want me gone.” He leaned closer. She couldn’t help noticing his eyes resembled the color of roasted coffee beans. “Why, you make a man feel downright unwelcome.”
“Ah, you’ve gotten the message.” She raised her brows. “Finally.”
“It’s a message I won’t be heeding. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” he said softly, but Mary didn’t miss the stubbornness in his tone, like he dared her to disagree. Then he grinned. “Have a pleasant day. If I see the owner, I’ll tell him you asked for him.” And with that, he returned to his horse.
Mary spun on her heel and left the livery, her head held high, her back ramrod straight and her insides quaking like winter wheat in March winds.
Was Sheriff Rogers right? Did Luke Jacobs have an interest in the orphans?
Luke met his horse’s stare. “You’re a female, Rosie. Do you think she followed me? Or did you believe she had a reason to see the livery owner?”
The mare nudged his shoulder with her muzzle. Mute. Then she dipped to the bucket for a drink.
“Guess you gals stick together.”
For some reason he couldn’t explain, he admired that half pint of a woman with her sassy mouth and flashing green eyes. Maybe because she stood up for her convictions.
“Don’t worry, Rosie. I have no intention of getting involved with Miss Nightingale. Or any woman.”
He gave his horse one last pat and then headed for the Whitehall Café, his temporary home. Mrs. Whitehall loved to talk and knew everyone in town. Perhaps she’d offer up additional information that would lead him to his son.
If not, he wouldn’t stop there. Nothing would keep him from Ben.
Nothing and no one.
Mary picked up Ben from the Foleys’, gathering him close. He grinned up at her, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. “I’m too big to hug,” he said then belied his words by squeezing her so hard he squeaked with the effort.
