by Keli Gwyn
If Mrs. Watkins were to lift that chin of hers any higher, she’d get a crick in her neck. “I will definitely avail myself of their services, sir.”
From the firm set of her lips, he could see she was riled. All he’d done was suggest she might like to bathe. He was certain she’d like to rid herself of the layers of grime and locomotive odor. If their situations were reversed, he would.
Mother released her grip on his arm, tossed him a scowl, and addressed Mrs. Watkins with an apologetic tone. “I’m sure Miles meant to be helpful and didn’t realize he’d been rather forward to mention such a thing. Traveling does take a toll on a body, but the hotel has all the amenities.”
He’d bungled things again, had he? It wasn’t like him to tickle his tonsils with his toes. He dealt with female customers all the time, but he’d behaved like a blunderbuss ever since meeting the petite widow with the backbone of steel. Despite her intention to fight for his customers, she intrigued him. He’d get a chance to find out more about her at supper.
“As delightful as it would be to partake of your cooking and your company, my daughter and I will dine at the hotel restaurant.”
“We’ll have you over another time, dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rutledge, for your gracious welcome. And now I’ll get Tildy, and we’ll make our way to the hotel.” Mrs. Watkins smiled at Mother. “Mr. Rutledge.” She gave him the briefest of nods and swept through the door he held open for her.
He stood at the window until she disappeared beyond the hedge surrounding the yard.
Mother rested a hand on his shoulder. “This wasn’t one of your better days, son. You’ve got your work cut out for you. She’s got a good head on her shoulders and will do everything in her power to succeed.”
Mrs. Watkins could try, but she’d find out what he was made of soon enough. He’d spent fifteen years building the mercantile into the thriving business it was today, and he wouldn’t let anyone threaten its survival. Especially a headstrong woman like her.
“It’s so dirty, Mama.”
Tildy ran a hand over a simple pine display case and held up a dust-covered palm to Elenora. The sun slanted through the large plate glass window at the front of the shop—her shop—throwing shadows over the littered floor.
“It may be dirty, but at least we’re clean now.” Never had a bath felt as good as the one she’d taken after Tildy finished hers the day before. They still smelled of lavender, thanks to the bar of French-milled soap she’d tucked in one of their trunks at the last minute.
“How long do you think it will be before you can open up?”
“I’ll have the place clean in two shakes, but it’s going to take time to get merchandise.” If she’d known she would be going into business for herself, she would have begun ordering catalogs months before. As it was, she didn’t know quite how to proceed since Mr. Rutledge had ignored his mother’s request to loan his.
“Good morning.”
Elenora spun around. Mrs. Rutledge stood in the open doorway of the rectangular room with her son behind her clutching a crate in his arms.
“Good morning. Won’t you come in?”
They entered. Mrs. Rutledge sidestepped piles of debris left from the last tenant, but Mr. Rutledge remained rooted in place, his well-formed brows drawn. Evidently he was here against his will.
“You’re looking lovely this morning, Mrs. Watkins. And this must be your daughter.”
“Yes. My dear, this is Mrs. Rutledge.”
Tildy greeted the older woman and smiled. She swept her gaze over Tildy, her penetrating blue eyes reminding Elenora of her son’s. “Welcome, Matilda.”
“Oh, please call me Tildy. I don’t like being called Matilda.”
Mrs. Rutledge looked down her long nose at Tildy, whose smile faded. “You’re rather outspoken for a young girl, aren’t you? Matilda is a perfectly respectable name. Since it’s yours, that’s what I will call you.”
“Don’t mind her, Tildy.” Mr. Rutledge thumped the crate on the floor and joined them. “Mother doesn’t believe in using nicknames. That’s why she gave me a name that can’t be shortened.” He leaned over and spoke in an exaggerated whisper. “She may seem strict, but there’s a soft spot inside. You’d never suspect it to look at her, but I’m almost certain there’s a piece of candy in her pocket.”
Tildy gave him a halfhearted smile. Apparently encouraged to have an ally, she refrained from voicing the retort Elenora had feared. Mr. Rutledge certainly had a way with Tildy.
“I’ll not have you revealing all my secrets, son.” Mrs. Rutledge pulled a peppermint stick from the very pocket he’d mentioned and slipped it to Tildy. “For later.”
Her eyes as big as wagon wheels, Tildy glanced from Mrs. Rutledge to her son and back again. “Thank you,” she squeaked.
He smiled warmly at her, but he appraised Elenora with a cool stare. “You managed to talk Steele into renting to you, I see. He’s known as one of the most ruthless businessmen for miles. Charges far more than the place is worth. Did you agree to his terms?”
The weasel of a man had driven a hard bargain, but what choice did she have? His building was the only one available, and it did have furnished living quarters above, although the former resident had left them in a deplorable condition. The rooms would need a thorough scrubbing before they’d be habitable.
It hadn’t been easy, but she’d negotiated a reduction in the first month’s rent in exchange for cleaning the place. Despite her best efforts though, Mr. Steele wouldn’t agree to offer her a long-term lease. If she were late with her rent by even one day, he reserved the right to evict her. She’d just see to it she was never late. “I negotiated a fair contract.”
Mrs. Rutledge scowled at her son and turned to Elenora, gracing her with a smile. “I’m sure you managed things quite well. And I’m happy to tell you that Miles has agreed to loan you some catalogs after all. I figured you’d need them.”
He inclined his head toward the crate by the door. “I’ll let you use them. But only for twenty-four hours. That should give you time to copy addresses and write a few orders. After that it’s up to you.”
One day? She’d have to drop everything and stay up all night, and even then she wouldn’t have nearly enough time to get the information she needed. Hopefully she could locate vendors in Sacramento City who carried wares from several suppliers and had some goods on hand. With the train coming as far up as Shingle Springs, shipments shouldn’t take too long to reach her. She would visit the livery tomorrow and do some investigating.
“Thank you, Mr. Rutledge. You’re too kind.”
“If it weren’t for Mother I’d have left you to fend for yourself. I’m not in the habit of assisting my competitors.”
Mrs. Rutledge chuckled. “Son, you’ve never had a competitor, but it’s high time you did. Having Mrs. Watkins here will make your life more interesting.”
Elenora got the distinct impression Mrs. Rutledge found their situation amusing, although it was anything but. A rocky road loomed ahead, and her son was the biggest boulder in the path.
Chapter 4
Elenora stood beneath the wide wooden awning over the front of her shop two weeks later, surveying the sign hanging in the window.
The carpenter leaned against one of the sturdy beams supporting the shade structure. “Are ye happy with the placement, ma’am, or shall I shorten the chains?”
“It’s fine, Mr. MacDougall. Thank you for everything.”
“All in a day’s work, lass. I’ll gather me things and be on me way.”
The ruddy Scot went inside the shop. She read the sign aloud. “Watkins General Merchandise. Established 1870.”
Every time she thought about being a proprietor, her heart sang. Her place was but a quarter the size of Mr. Rutledge’s and not nearly as impressive as his, or even Pa’s, but it was hers. And no one could tell her how to run it.
The red-haired gentleman bid her good day, tipped his hat, and sauntered down
the walkway. She should take advantage of Tildy’s absence to visit the blacksmith and check on her special order, but she couldn’t stop admiring the sign. Seeing her name on it made everything real.
“You look like a cat that just slurped a bowl of cream.”
“Oh! Mrs. Rutledge. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I don’t tromp the sidewalks like that daughter of yours. I thought you might have heard my old joints clicking though.” She peered through the large window. “Where is Matilda?”
Elenora glanced at Rutledge Mercantile. “Across the street talking with your son. Again. I don’t want her to be a pest, but I knew it would be easier for Mr. MacDougall to work if she weren’t here wearing out his ears.”
Mrs. Rutledge chuckled. “Miles doesn’t mind. Her visits are the high point of his day.” She shifted her gaze to the sign. “Quite satisfactory.”
“I’ve always dreamed of seeing my name on the door in gilt-edged letters, but that will have to wait until I’m generating a profit and can afford to have the sign maker over from Placerville. Everything here costs a good deal more than I’m used to.” She held out a hand toward the front door. “Would you like to come inside? I’ve added stools since you were here last, so you could get off your feet.”
“You think of everything. I’d love to see what’s new.”
They entered the shop. Mrs. Rutledge eased herself onto one of the seats. Elenora slipped behind the single row of glass-front display cases running the length of the narrow shop and removed a piece of porcelain. “An ambitious vendor up from Sacramento City showed me this. Isn’t it beautiful?” She set the vanity tray before Mrs. Rutledge, who ran a finger over the flowers painted on the fine white china.
“Violets. How fitting. Yours look lovely with the orchid calico you’re wearing.”
“I almost asked Mr. MacDougall to put some on the corners of my sign, but I fear I pushed him to the limits of his creativity with the curlicues I asked him to add around the edge.”
“They’re a nice touch. What’s that I smell? Lavender?”
“The vendor had received a shipment of European soaps. I have Pears glycerin bars, too, but I passed on the ones from Wrights.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll leave it to your son to carry theirs. Men may like the strong coal tar smell, but I prefer something more delicate.”
“I agree. May I see the lavender one?” Elenora removed a bar from the display case and handed the fragrant soap to Mrs. Rutledge, who took a whiff. “Mmm. I’ll take it.” She opened the reticule hanging from her wrist and produced a coin.
Elenora waved a hand. “Consider it a gift.”
“You’re as bad as Miles with those peppermint sticks he slips Matilda. You’ll not stay in business long if you give away your wares.”
“But I’ll have a loyal customer, I hope.” She smiled. “My shipment of fabric and notions is due the end of the week. If all goes well, I’ll have enough merchandise to open next Monday. Then I’ll see if the townspeople are willing to stop in. I know they’ve been your son’s loyal customers.” How she hoped they’d pay her a visit. Surely curiosity would draw some of them.
“That may be, but Miles is known for stocking the basics. He may make all the frills and frippery comments he likes, but women prefer pretty things. They’ll be glad you’re offering alternatives. One does tire of biscuits and craves a doughnut or cruller at times, even if we know better.” Mrs. Rutledge patted her waistline.
She’d stopped by every couple of days. Her interest seemed genuine, but why was she eager to support her son’s competitor? Elenora could keep quiet no longer. In spite of her hammering heart, she came from behind the counter and perched on a stool. “May I ask you a question? It’s somewhat personal.”
“You want to know why I didn’t tell Miles about you.” Mrs. Rutledge shifted, and her stool creaked. “As a rule I don’t stick my nose in others’ affairs, but when it comes to my son I’ve been known to make an exception. I’m not one to mince words either, so I’ll be blunt. Miles fell apart when Irene died. They’d been married less than three years when he lost…everything that mattered to him.”
A wave of what could only be called grief washed over Mrs. Rutledge’s face. She gazed at the counter for what felt like hours before continuing.
“For the next three years my dear boy poured himself into his business. His letters during that time nearly tore my heart out. Not that he complained, although I almost wish he would have. But Miles is not prone to moping. A more genial, good-natured man you’ll never meet.”
She was right to a certain extent. Look how her son joked with Tildy. He was friendly with everyone, although Elenora thought he tended to be more guarded with her, even to the point of being testy at times. Perhaps her perceptions were colored by his rejection of her as his partner. She must try to view him in a more favorable light, since they were to be in frequent contact. “He wrote? So you lived elsewhere?”
“My husband, Mark—God rest his soul—was a tailor in New York City, and I worked alongside him. When arthritis bent his fingers five years ago, we decided to come west. Mark and I wanted see if we could bring back some of Miles’s zest for life. He’s better, but I’ve been searching for ways to restore him to the man he was. I thought having a partner would help. And quite frankly, you were the best suited. Alas, he’s decided to do without, until his second-choice candidate is available this fall.”
“But you knew I was a woman and chose not to tell him.”
Mrs. Rutledge eased herself from the stool, picked up the soap, and averted her eyes. “Indeed you are. And a busy woman with a shop you’re getting ready to open, so I’d best be about my business. Good day.” She left without another word.
Elenora resisted the urge to slide the back of the case closed with such force that it would rattle the glass front, although the temptation to do so was great.
Mrs. Rutledge could be frustrating at times, but she must have her reasons for evading the question. Patience would more likely produce the answer than pestering, so the best course of action would be to wait for a more opportune time to inquire.
Elenora pressed a hand to the spray of tiny silk flowers at her throat. Modesty. Decorum. Control.
Miles flew down the walkway the following morning and burst through the barbershop’s open door.
Abe Fitzsimmons rested his clasped hands on his round middle. “Why, I do declare, Miles Rutledge. You’re later than a snowstorm in July. And what kept you? Or is it who?”
Miles hung his jacket on a peg and folded his long form into the barber chair. “Business.”
“You been comin’ here every Tuesday at eleven o’clock sharp for goin’ on fifteen years, and you waltz in ten—that’s right—ten full minutes late, and all you can say is ‘business.’ Hank, Will, what do you think? Do I refuse to cut Beau Brummel’s hair until he spills the beans?”
Miles grinned. “You two side with Abe, and I’ll charge you double for your strings.”
A grin planted itself on Will Dupree’s tanned face and grew until it reached from ear to ear, and he burst out laughing. “Th–th–then I’ll…” He struggled to catch his breath. “I’ll go across the street to Mrs. Watkins’s place.”
“And I call you my friend?” Miles lifted his gaze to the ceiling of Abe’s sandalwood-scented shop and shook his head. He should have known they’d have their fun with him. He supposed he had it coming, seeing as how he was the reason the spunky woman had chosen to go into business in the first place. A chuckle rumbled low in Miles’s chest and escaped.
Hank Henderson twirled his ever-present ring of keys around his finger, the mass of metal jingling with each revolution. “I heard tell she was seen with a violin, so likely she’ll carry strings—and rosin, too. For a lower price.” The sheriff tossed his key ring in the air, caught it, and continued in a voice that held not a hint of a smile. “Which reminds me. I think we should invite her to our practice tonight. We could use a second fiddler—to help Miles
out.”
“A pretty lady in a den of foxes sure would liven things up.” The gray-haired barber paused in his efforts to whip up a good lather and pointed the shaving brush at Miles. “Unless you’re afraid of the competition.”
Will hooted and slapped his side.
Miles feigned irritation. “Can’t a man have a trim…and some peace? If you keep this up, old Abe here’s likely to laugh at a crucial moment, and I don’t want to leave bleeding and bandaged.”
“You heard him, gents. This is serious. I have a masterpiece to work. Miles has to look his best, or the unattached females who’ve been fawnin’ over him are likely to take their business to Watkins Wonder Wares.”
Hank took a seat in one of the chairs along the wall opposite the large oval mirror. “And the wives will drag their husbands along.”
“I carry most of the things she does. And my selections are more serviceable. What self-respecting man needs a sterling silver shoehorn with flowers on the handle?”
Abe unfolded his razor and ran it along the strop with a rhythmic whop whop. “But you like flowers, Miles. Have a garden full of them as I recall.”
Will dropped into one of the chairs and draped his legs over the side. “We don’t mean any harm, my good man, but it does make a fellow curious why you’d rather have her as your rival instead of your partner. Many men would balk at the idea of giving the position to a female, but I didn’t take you as one of them, not with your Eastern education and all.”
Miles leaned forward so Abe could drape a white sheet over him. “How would you like to have a woman working alongside you, Will, telling you how to run your farm?”
“Pearl does work with me…and tells me what she thinks. She’s had some right fine ideas, too. She told me I ought to get the horse I’ve been hankering after. He arrives next week.”
Abe pushed Miles back against the chair. “Well, I perform my handiwork alone, and if you value your face”—he brandished the shining razor—“you’ll sit still.”
