by Keli Gwyn
“Mama loves playing her violin. She wanted me to learn, but I tried once and made such horrible screeching sounds I hurt my own ears and made Grandpa mad. I’d love to hear you fiddle. Will you play for us sometime?”
“I’d be happy to play for you, Tildy, but I’m afraid your mother might not appreciate my talent as a fiddler. I’m sure she’s an accomplished musician.” His words were polite enough, but the dance his mustache performed did little to hide his amusement. To think she’d hoped he played classical violin. His response wasn’t surprising though. The folk musicians back East hadn’t shared her passion for the composers’ works either. If only she’d been allowed to join the orchestra, how much fun she could have had.
“She can read those funny-looking notes and play all of them. But she plays boring things she calls concertos and arias. I got to hear fiddling with Grandpa one time, and I liked it lots better.”
“Tildy dear, that’s quite enough.”
Mr. Rutledge chuckled with undisguised mirth. “What do you ladies say to a walk through the garden?”
“Oh, Mama! You have to see it. Mrs. Rutledge lets me go out there and have tea parties. There’s all sorts of flowers and a bench and a birdbath and—”
“You’ve convinced me.” Elenora seized the opportunity to put an end to the conversation. Clearly she and Mr. Rutledge had different tastes in music, and she had no interest in hearing any more about the folksy tunes he and his friends favored.
Minutes later she stood before a row of shrubs bearing pink roses with a hint of purple and inhaled their fragrance. “The scent is a bit fruity.” Tildy had dashed off around the back of the house in pursuit of an elusive butterfly, but Mr. Rutledge waited at Elenora’s side. “They’re lovely. I’ll have to ask your mother what kind they are.”
“She wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
He didn’t appear to be teasing. Instead he watched her intently, causing a tingling at the back of her neck. Her cheeks warmed, and yet she couldn’t pull her gaze from his handsome face. “And you can?”
“Surprised?”
Completely. She’d never met a man with an appreciation of flowers. Mr. Rutledge wasn’t exactly what she’d first thought. “Just curious. What kind are they?”
“Old Blush. Not much good as a cut flower, but they make a fine hedge.”
She moved to a trellis covered with a climbing bush and examined a mass of pink roses. “And these?”
“A family that moved here from Texas gave me that cutting. It’s called Seven Sisters.”
She touched each rose in the cluster. “Why aren’t there seven?”
“That’s for the colors. There are supposed to be seven, from cream to dark pink.”
She pressed her nose to the blooms. They were pretty with their ruffled petals but lacked much of a scent.
Mr. Rutledge gave her another searching look. “Do you have any?”
“What? Roses?”
“Sisters.”
She moved down the stone-edged path, and he walked by her side. “No.” Only a baby brother who had stolen Pa’s heart—and broken it when he died. She’d never been enough for Pa because she was only a girl.
Mama had loved her, though, even if Pa didn’t seem to. But she had an opportunity to make him proud of her now. “My parents didn’t think they could have children. They were married five years before I was born. Mama called me her special surprise.”
“You’re definitely full of surprises, Mrs. Watkins. When I saw you at the stagecoach clutching your violin and hiding underneath that big hat of yours, I didn’t expect to have you at my dinner table. And I certainly didn’t expect you to go into business across the street from mine.”
“Well, I didn’t expect you to turn me down the minute we met. But you did me a favor. Running a shop and being my own boss agrees with me. I have plenty of ideas to attract customers, so you’ll have to work hard to keep those you have.”
“I doubt that. The novelty will wear off soon enough, and the townspeople will revert to old habits.” He stopped before a shrub as tall as she was, cupped a light pink bloom, and pulled it toward her. “Try this one.”
She buried her nose in the flower and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. What a wonderful fragrance. It’s so strong I can almost taste it. Sweet, like the satisfaction I’ll savor when you’re fighting to keep your doors open.”
He smiled. “It’s called Autumn Damask. Goes back before the turn of the century. This variety is known for the double bloom and having what some say is the finest perfume of all roses. Smells as good as success, which is what I’ll have when you’re forced to admit failure and close up shop.”
They continued down the path. “How do the flowers fare in the heat? I’ve been told it can get quite hot here in the Foothills, although I’m prepared to handle all the heat that comes my way, from the sun or other sources.”
“Roses, like established businesses, are hardier than you might think, but I plant those varieties requiring shade under the oaks. There’s a bench over there, too.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “We have a few minutes. Would you like to try it out?”
Sitting in a flower garden surrounded by roses and the man who tended them? The man who wanted nothing better than to see her admit defeat and return to Nebraska? “I don’t think—”
“Mama!” Tildy darted over to them. “Look what I found.” She held out cupped hands.
Elenora stepped back. “It’s some kind of critter, isn’t it?”
“Yes. A pretty one with long wings you can see through.” She opened her hands slightly to reveal a huge green bug.
“How…lovely. That pest must be able to fly pretty fast.”
“Let me have a look.” Mr. Rutledge peered at the ugly thing crawling inside the cave Tildy had created. “A lacewing fly. But your mama’s mistaken about this, among other things. It isn’t a pest. This insect’s larvae eat aphids that like to plague my roses. Sometimes larger creatures prey on small ones. It’s a fact of life.”
Tildy smirked. “Mama doesn’t like crawly things, but I do.”
That was true, but pesky men who thought themselves better than her were worse. And Mr. Rutledge was being particularly pesky at present.
Footfalls sounded on the path. Mrs. Rutledge hobbled over to them, still clad in her apron. She held out a dish towel. “Matilda, those dishes aren’t going to dry themselves.”
“If you leave them out long enough—” Tildy scrunched her face. “Yes ma’am. See you later, Mama.” She hugged Elenora.
Mrs. Rutledge patted her son’s arm. “Don’t mind us. We have an appointment with a dishpan.”
“And we have one with a bench.” He nodded toward the one nearby. “Shall we?”
Mrs. Rutledge put a hand on Tildy’s back. “Enjoy yourselves.” They headed toward the house, but Tildy stole a glance over her shoulder.
Given no choice but to acquiesce, Elenora settled on the small bench as far to one side as possible. Mr. Rutledge joined her, removed his derby, and placed it on his knee. He was so close the scent of his woodsy shaving soap—the same one the barber had slathered on him—warred with that of the roses nearby.
She gazed at the oak canopy. A jaybird squawked and took flight. That’s what she should do. Get away. Why she’d even agreed to take a stroll with Mr. Rutledge was a puzzle. The man unsettled her. She could deal with his occasional outbursts. She’d endured Pa’s for years, and Mr. Rutledge’s paled in comparison. But this…What did he want?
“You have another shipment due tomorrow, I hear.”
He wanted to pry, did he? Well, two could play that game. She’d made her inquiries at the livery, too. “As do you.”
“Large one?”
“Biggest yet.”
“More gewgaws and trinkets?”
She pressed a finger to her lips lest she spout the words she ached to hurl at him. Patience, Elenora.
“What did I do this time?”
That was a switch. Apparently he realized
he might have offended her. “My wares are not mere trifles, Mr. Rutledge. They’re items intended to enhance people’s lives. To brighten their homes and bring cheer.”
“A silver pocketknife with flowers on the handle can do all that?” He reached in his pocket and produced a wooden-handled version. “This one works just as well and costs less.”
“May I?” She held out her hand. He placed one of his beneath it, laid the knife on her upturned palm, and closed her fingers over it. Heat raced up her arm, and it was all she could do not to shiver. “Th–thank you.”
He released her hand. She grasped the knife and held it up. “Does this…” After taking a breath to restore her sense of composure, she tried again. “Does this look like something a woman would pull from her reticule? It’s big and heavy.”
“A woman doesn’t need a knife.”
She returned his, careful not to have any contact with him. “What if she needed to cut the twine on a package or open an envelope? She’d require the proper tool, wouldn’t she? One designed for smaller hands.”
Mischief glinted in his expressive eyes. She lowered hers.
“And I suppose the tortoiseshell hair combs, nail file with the ivory grip, and ostrich feather fan in your display cases are tools, too?”
If she had a fan of any kind right now, she’d be sorely tempted to swat him with it—or hide behind it so he couldn’t see how he affected her. And why did he? Because he’d taken note of her stock? Because having him tease her was more enjoyable than it ought to be? Or both?
“Mrs. Watkins?”
“Hmm?”
“I know my collar’s clean since I changed it before dinner, but I’ve rarely had anyone study it so intently.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, but that was a mistake. Every feature captivated her. His firm chin. His sculpted cheekbones. His broad brow. But those eyes of his were the most dangerous. She could feel him delving deeper and deeper and didn’t know how to stop him. But she must. Men cared about one thing. Themselves. “I admire a man who takes pains with his appearance.”
He grinned, revealing straight white teeth. He must use plenty of tooth powder.
Yes. Think about tooth powder. Don’t think about how winsome he looks when he smiles.
“You’re tactful, Mrs. Watkins. Mother says I’m a dandy.”
Her chin quivered as she tried in vain to suppress a laugh. “I’m s–sorry.” Her battle lost, she hid behind her hand in an attempt to control herself.
“You have a lovely laugh. Tildy misses it, you know.”
The sound died in Elenora’s throat. “She told you that?”
“She tells me many things. That I don’t have enough toys in my shop. That her grandpa smokes a pipe and used to blow smoke rings for her to chase. That she wants a friend her age.”
There was a subject she could grab hold of and use to pull her from dangerous territory. “Your friend Mrs. Dupree invited Tildy and me to supper tomorrow so the girls can get acquainted.”
“Constance is a sweet girl, and Pearl’s a rare find, as Will often says. You’ll like them.” Mr. Rutledge checked his watch again. “I need to go.”
“I do, too.” She stood, and he followed suit. She’d started down the path but hadn’t gotten far when he stopped in front of the Damask rosebush.
“One moment, please.” He produced his knife, cut one of the pink buds, and handed it to her. “A single rose for the woman who’s single-handedly opened my eyes to new possibilities.”
Her breath hitched in her throat. Who would have thought Mr. Rutledge could say something so sweet? “Thank you.”
He snapped the blade back into its sheath and shoved the knife in his pocket. “Don’t get used to free gifts, Mrs. Watkins. You’ll have to earn everything you get from here on out because I’m running a successful business, and no headstrong woman is going to change that.”
Sweet? Had she really been so easily fooled? He wasn’t being kind. He was threatening her. Well, he’d met his match. “And I won’t let a pigheaded man send me packing. I’m here to stay, so you’d better get used to the idea.”
“We’ll see about that. I have to get back. You can stay or go, but I’ll be at the mercantile today, tomorrow, and a year from now.” He left, his long strides carrying him across the yard until he shoved his way through the hedge across from the mercantile and disappeared.
She stared at the rose. Although she longed to drop it on his doorstep and crush it under her bootheel, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He’d given her the beautiful bloom, and she’d keep it to remind herself not to fall prey to his ploys ever again.
Chapter 7
Will Dupree entered Rutledge Mercantile on a sunny Saturday and clapped a hand on Miles’s shoulder. “That’s some scowl you’re wearing, my good man. What’s ailing you?”
Miles turned from the window. “Who said anything was?”
“Wouldn’t be the steady stream coming and going at Watkins General Merchandise the past two weeks, would it?”
Most days Will’s teasing didn’t bother Miles, but he wanted no part of it this morning. The widow with the warm brown eyes wouldn’t leave his thoughts. Every day but Sunday she sat at his table, took his hand, and bowed in prayer. And then he spent the next hour listening to her carry on about how well things were going.
She’d had a few good days, sure, but that wouldn’t last. Before she knew it folks would return to the mercantile, and she’d be forced to watch them fill his place. But would he be allowed to gush like she was now? No. He’d have to behave like a gentleman and keep his thoughts to himself or suffer Mother’s disapproval. Why did she encourage Mrs. Watkins anyhow?
He dipped a cloth in the furniture polish. The strong scents of linseed oil and turpentine cleared his head but didn’t lift his spirits. “Did you need something or just come to stir up trouble?”
Will held up his hands. “Whoa! She must really be getting to you.”
Miles slammed the tin on the display case and rubbed the oak top with vigor. “I haven’t the slightest interest in Mrs. Watkins or her business.”
“The fact that your place is empty, you’ve got Sammy out front washing windows, and I catch you glaring at her shop means nothing then?”
“Don’t you have crops to tend?”
Will propped his elbows on a nearby case, leaned back, and surveyed the mercantile. “Seems to me having a woman like her around here could be good for business. The ladies would come for her fancy wares and bring their menfolk.”
“The men wouldn’t buy any more than they ever did.”
“Hank walked out of her place with a mustache cup, and Tiny bought some pricey English cologne.”
Miles froze in midswipe. “Tiny? Scent would be wasted on him. Nothing could mask the smell of his forge. It’s in his skin.”
“He’s been wanting a wife.”
The hairs on the back of Miles’s neck stood on end. “He’s interested in Mrs. Watkins?”
“She’s easy on the eyes. Hardworking, too.”
Miles slapped the cloth on the counter and jammed the lid on the polish. The thought of Tiny Briggs courting Mrs. Watkins soured his stomach. Not that he wanted her for himself. Oh no! He’d had a weak moment when he handed her the rose and spouted that line of sentimental claptrap. She’d gone doe-eyed, and he’d seen the light. Never again would he fall for a woman who used her feminine wiles to get what she wanted. He’d made that mistake with Irene, but he was older and wiser now. “She’s small. He’s a giant.”
Will chuckled. “Three times her size at least, but why do you care?”
“I don’t. I just hope he realizes she doesn’t have a biddable bone in her body.”
“That doesn’t put you off. The whole town knows she’s at your table for dinner every day.”
“Just keeping tabs on the competition.” Miles glanced across the street. Another customer leaving with a parcel and a smile. He must do something about this situation. But what?
>
Elenora occupied a pew in the small church the next day. She bowed her head and did her best to keep her mind on the minister’s closing prayer.
“And we thank You for this lovely spring day. Be with us as we go about our business, and keep us ever mindful of Your precepts. Amen.”
Business. Perhaps God did care about hers. She’d been doing well. Her sales had picked up. True, more was going out than coming in, but that was to be expected.
Her inheritance from Jake’s parents had seemed a great sum back in Omaha, but prices in California were higher. How quickly the first two thousand dollars had gone. She had to arrange her few goods carefully so the shop didn’t look half empty.
Mrs. Rutledge coaxed a postlude from the old pianoforte. The room filled with the buzz of many conversations.
“Mrs. Watkins.” Elenora beheld a snowy-haired woman with eagerness in her eyes. “Was that a livery wagon I saw at your place yesterday?”
Elenora nodded. “I received a shipment of women’s hats and wicker baskets.” Items that would fill several shelves, provided she left enough space between them.
“I could use a new bonnet. I’ll stop by soon, dear.” The woman excused herself.
“Mama, can I go outside with Constance?”
She corrected Tildy with a kind but firm tone. “You may, but please don’t muss your dress.”
Elenora made her way to the back of the church where Reverend Parks stood in the doorway bidding congregants farewell. Unlike her minister in Omaha, he wore no special collar or robes. Just a frock coat and bib-front shirt like Mr. Rutledge.
The minister smiled. “Mrs. Watkins, isn’t it?”
“Elenora Watkins, yes, Reverend. And the young girl with the brown braids and blue dress with Constance Dupree is my daughter, Tildy.”
“We’ve met. I gather she’s not one to remain a stranger for long.”
“She’s outgoing. She did mind her manners, didn’t she?”
“You needn’t worry.” Tildy spied him and waved. He waved back. “She complimented me on my prayers. It seems she finds mine as pleasing as those of Miles Rutledge. She said I talk to the Lord—what were her words?” He squinted. “ ‘Friendly-like.’ ”
