by Keli Gwyn
“Mama has braces that are silky and have flowers on them.”
“I know.” Some woman would no doubt get them as a gift for her husband, and he’d have to wear the showy things.
“You like flowers. Why don’t you buy them?”
“White dress suspenders like these are fine for me.” He reached for the two pairs she held, added them to the case, and stood. “Isn’t it time you get back to the house and help Mother with our supper?”
“I wish we could eat with you all the time. Mama burned the bacon this morning, and it stunk real bad.” Tildy pinched her nose and shuddered.
“Since it doesn’t look like you’re starving, she must be doing something right.”
“Your mother cooks good food, so you don’t need a wife who can, right?”
“I don’t need a wife, no.” He strode to the back room with Tildy his shadow.
“Don’t you get lonesome sometimes?”
He shoved the curtain aside. “Do I look lonesome?”
“Mrs. Rutledge told Mama you like little girls, and I like you. I wish—”
“Time to run along, Tildy. I’m sure Mother is waiting for you.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “Yes, sir.” She trudged to the back door, cast him a sorrowful glance, and left.
Where had Tildy gotten the idea that her mama should marry him? Certainly not from her mother. Could it have been from his? Mother might throw Mrs. Watkins in his path at every turn, but surely she wouldn’t involve a child in her matchmaking scheme. Would she?
“Mr. Rutledge?” Sammy pulled back the drape and poked his head inside. “The shop’s filled up. I could use your help.”
“On my way.” He glanced in the mirror, smoothed a stray hair, and followed Sammy out.
“There you are, Mr. Rutledge.” A stoop-shouldered woman smelling of camphor tottered to him, her cane tapping on the wooden floor. “Would you be a dear boy and get me another bottle of that liniment I favor?”
“Certainly, Miss Crowley.” He hastened to the case up front filled with assorted medicines. His eyes drifted across the street. Mrs. Watkins stood behind her counter putting away bolts of fabric. As had been the case the past four days, his shop was full, and hers was empty.
With the concert coming up, the ladies were eager to see the new fabrics he’d ordered. And he’d splurged for the more expensive stockings Irene had favored. He’d sold four pairs just that morning following hushed transactions with women eager to sample the quality.
A lone wagon waited in front of Mrs. Watkins’s place, its occupants nowhere to be seen. The team seemed restless.
A distant rumble rattled the panes in the mercantile’s five front windows.
“Yaaaaaw!”
Miles rushed to the door and threw it open. Two riders sped toward town in a cloud of dust.
The Talbot twins, of course. Didn’t those boys know better than to race down Main Street? Someone could get hurt.
In a flash they reached the row of shops and sped past.
The horses hitched to the wagon across the street whinnied and reared. The heavy conveyance slammed into the pillars supporting the awning over Mrs. Watkins’ shop.
Miles shouted a warning.
A thunderous crash followed.
He watched dumbfounded as the sturdy awning smashed into the massive sheet of plate glass. The trim boards around the window pulled away from the surrounding bricks, a few of which broke free and bounced down the pile of rubble on the walkway. The door with its glass center was ripped from its hinges. The frame broke into pieces that looked like a giant’s toothpicks.
With speed he didn’t know he possessed, he raced across the street and stopped short at the mound in front of the gaping hole that used to be the front of her shop. “Elenora!”
He flung boards and bricks aside.
“Mrs. Watkins? Can you hear me?”
There was no answer.
He hefted a large section of the massive awning aside, scaled the mountain of debris, and leaped into her shop.
Chapter 10
Mrs. Watkins stood next to the row of display cases in her shop clutching a jagged piece of wood to her chest, a vacant look on her ashen face.
“Thank the Lord you’re all right.” Miles swept his gaze over the mass of broken boards and the shattered glass, which glistened in the afternoon sun. Apparently nothing had hit her, although several pieces had come close.
She lifted wide eyes to him. “M–m–my sign.”
“You can have another one made.”
“But my name. It’s gone.” She laid the fragment on the counter and traced the letters with a trembling finger—STAB.
Stab? He pressed a hand to his temple and struggled to remember the wording. “Watkins General Merchandise.” Nothing there. But wait. The bottom had read “Established 1870.” Stab.
Mrs. Watkins looked as though she’d been stabbed, as if one of the glass shards had pierced her heart. A chill settled around his own.
“I always wanted my name on the door, but Pa…” Her wobbly smile and glazed expression made a knotty mess of his insides.
She laughed, a high-pitched cackle like the one he’d heard in a Shakespearean play in New York. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.
With no warning she gripped the edge of the counter and shook violently, her eerie laugh giving way to ragged breaths. She was in a state of shock.
He pulled her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her and nestling her to him. She smelled of roses and—he sniffed her hair—burned bacon. A smile tugged at his lips. He hadn’t held a woman so close in eight years. She was a mere slip of a thing, strong and yet soft. “It’s all right, Ellie. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
She buried her face against his chest. He continued to offer assurances, comforting her as best he could, although his words struck him as woefully inadequate platitudes. What could he possibly say to soothe her in the face of such a disaster?
At length she shivered, and he rubbed her arms. The mild friction burned his palms, and he flinched. She tensed.
“I’m b–better. I didn’t mean to…” She pulled away and looked into his face. Hers still bore a pallor that accentuated the deep flush on her cheeks. “What’s this?” A featherlight touch brushed his forehead. “You’ve been hurt. Let me see your hands.”
He held them out, powerless to do anything but follow her lead. She took them in hers and turned them over. “You’re bleeding.”
Cuts and scrapes covered his palms, but all he could feel was warmth flowing from her, up his arms, and into his soul. He glanced at her bloodstained sleeves. “I ruined your dress.”
“Don’t think a thing of it. That’s the least of my concerns.”
“I’m sorry about your shop.”
She focused on his hands, still cradled in hers, and prattled, which was unlike her. “Oh dear. Look at these. You have some serious scratches. They need to be treated right away. You wouldn’t want to risk an infection. I’ll get—”
“I’m fine.” He didn’t even remember getting cut. All he’d been able to think about was reaching Ellie as quickly as he could. When he’d called her name and she didn’t respond, he’d pictured her beneath the rubble, hurt…or worse, and terror had gripped him.
“Soap, water, and a soft cloth. That’s what we need.” She let go of him and teetered toward her back room.
He reached out to steady her, but she shook free. “I’ll tend to your hands and then see about cleaning up the place and covering the opening with some blankets or something.”
“You can’t stay here.” He motioned toward the rubble. “The front of the building’s gone. Anyone could get in. And there’s a storm brewing.”
She spun around, and her dark eyes bored into him. “I can and I will. This”—she made a sweep of her hand—“is all I have. I’m not leaving, so you’re not going to have the satisfaction of seeing me give up and run home to my pa. I’ll just have
to figure out a way to protect myself and my daughter.” She blinked several times, but he saw no sign of tears.
An idea occurred to him. Not that Ellie would welcome it, but he could try. “You have other options.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Rutledge. You know as well as I this is the only space available, and I’m grateful to have it. Mr. Steele wasn’t fond of the idea of renting it to a—to me.”
“Move your wares into my place.”
“Your place? I think not. I’ll get those things.” She raised her square chin and marched to the back of the shop, all signs of her unsteadiness gone. Good thing she was no longer looking at him, because he couldn’t hide his smile. What an enchanting little bastion of bravado she was. He shadowed her, stopping at the entry to her backroom.
She held the floral curtain aside. “If you’ll sit at the table, I’ll be right back and see to your hands.”
“That’s not necessary. I can take care of myself.”
“So can I.” She followed her declaration with a too-sweet smile.
How he’d love to kiss that saucy smirk off her pink lips. On second thought, the smirk could stay. It showed an ability to face adversity with her characteristic courage, which he found most appealing. He’d like to kiss her because—
Lord, what am I thinking? Forgive me for having such foolish thoughts at a time like this. Ellie needs my help. Be with her, and—
“Mrs. Watkins! Miles!”
The shout roused him. Hank had scaled the mound and entered through the huge hole at the front of Ellie’s shop. Sammy, Abe, and several others faced the building and stared at the devastation with mouths agape. The window, door, and awning were gone, but the brick front had survived the impact. Even so, the damage was significant. Ellie couldn’t stay here, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the better.
Miles hastened to put the townspeople’s fears to rest. “She’s fine. Shaken, but fine.”
Hank glowered. “Wait till I get my hands on the Talbots. They’ve gone too far this time.”
“Mama!” Tildy appeared around the corner by the mercantile and raced across the street. “Mama, where are you?” Her head bobbed as she scanned the interior of the shop with terror-filled eyes.
“She’s all right, Tildy girl. No, don’t climb over that yourself. Sammy, help her please.”
Once Tildy was inside the shop, she flew past Miles and threw herself at Ellie. “Oh, Mama! You’re alive.”
“I’m sorry you were scared, sweetheart, but I wasn’t hurt.” Ellie rubbed Tildy’s back and looked over her head at the crowd in front of her shop, her gaze passing from one person to the next. “Thank you all for coming, but we’ll be fine. I’ll be back in business before you know it.”
Although she spoke with assurance, Miles stood close enough to note the tremor in her lower lip. Ellie had to put her feelings aside for her daughter’s sake and was doing an admirable job of it, but he’d never forget those first moments when she was near collapse and took refuge in his arms. He’d see to it she didn’t face this crisis alone.
Hank stepped forward. “With all due respect, ma’am, this is a serious situation. You’ll need help. I’m sure I speak for the rest of the townsfolk when I say we’ll be here for you.”
Voices rose in agreement.
“I don’t—” She looked at Tildy and back at Hank. “Yes, Sheriff, I suppose I will need help. Once I’ve had time to appraise the situation, I’ll be grateful to accept that offer.”
Miles stationed himself between Hank and Ellie. “Sammy, run over to the mercantile and grab all the tarpaulins I have. We can get a temporary covering up before dark.”
“Mr. Rutledge.”
“Yes, Mrs. Watkins?”
“Before you do anything, we need to care for your hands.”
How like a woman to fuss over nothing. “Not now. There’s work to be done.”
“Rutledge,” Tiny, the smithy called. “Your mother’s coming.”
Miles stood on one side of the pile, Mother on the other, a hand clasped to her heaving bosom. “How’s Elenora?”
“I’m here, Mrs. Rutledge.” She appeared at his side, her arm around Tildy. “Nothing hit me, not even any of the glass, but your son hurt his hands when he tore through the rubble. I’ve got things ready to tend them.”
“You’ve got more than enough to deal with. I can see to Miles…unless you’d rather I take Tildy and leave you to bandage him.”
She smiled at Mother. “Thank you, Mrs. Rutledge.” She cupped Tildy’s cheek. “I need you to go with her, sweetheart, so I can make things safe for you here. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Tildy trudged alongside Mother and paused at the corner to cast a woeful glance at her mama’s shop before disappearing from view.
Hank chuckled. “We’ll leave you to your, um, nursemaid, Miles, and be back with our tools shortly. Come on, men.”
Miles whipped around to face Ellie, but she was gone.
Elenora drummed her nails on the table in her back room. The audacity of the man. If Mr. Rutledge thought she’d surrender control of the situation to him, he was in for a surprise. She might have made a spectacle of herself clinging to him like one of his roses to a trellis, but she wasn’t the type of woman who wilted in the face of adversity. The sooner she made that clear, the better.
Footfalls heralded his approach. She sucked in a breath and steeled herself for the confrontation. He paused when he reached the curtain. “Ellie?”
Ellie? How dare he call her that? She shoved the curtain aside. “Mr. Rutledge, I realize one is prone to say or do things in the midst of a crisis that are uncustomary, but being that the moment has passed, kindly address me as Mrs. Watkins.”
“I thought—”
“You thought incorrectly. I may have availed myself of your steadying presence, but that doesn’t alter things between us. I’m a lady, a businesswoman, and a person due respect.”
“I do respect you, more than you know. Most women would have dissolved in a puddle of tears, but you didn’t.”
“And I have no intention of doing so.” Never had she seen such compassion in his expressive eyes, but she mustn’t let herself be swayed. He was her competitor, and given his earlier attempts to woo her with kind words, which had been followed by cutting remarks, he couldn’t be trusted.
“If you’ll take a seat, I’ll have a look at your hands.” Although the prospect caused ripples in her stomach, she owed him that much. He had come to her aid after all. If he hadn’t been there, she might have given way to the flood of feeling that had overtaken her. He’d kept her from drowning in a sea of self-pity.
“You don’t need to do this.”
“How will you help hang those tarpaulins if I don’t?”
His smile lacked the warmth she’d come to expect. “You have a point.”
They sat. She forced her hands not to tremble as she took one of his and wiped his palm with the moist cloth. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to play your fiddle for a few days.”
“I’ll manage.” He winced when she dabbed the deepest of the cuts.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You’ll take my customers without a thought but not my offer of help?”
She rinsed out the cloth. “Why should I? You’ve made it clear you resent me being in business and are counting the days until I close my door. When I have one to close that is.” She gave a dry laugh.
“Besting you in business is one thing, but taking advantage of your misfortune is another. I’d help anyone in town who found themselves in a similar situation. You can’t operate your business the way it is. I’m offering you a temporary solution, that’s all. I can clear some of my cases, and—”
“I appreciate your offer, but I’ll find another solution to my dilemma.” One that didn’t involve accepting her competitor’s charity.
Elenora shifted in the rocking chair she’d lugged downstairs to her back room and tucked the quilt around he
r. Thankfully the temperatures in early May didn’t dip too low at night.
She listened for voices but heard only the steady creak of the chair as she rocked and the rhythmic drumming of rain on the metal roof. Hopefully no one else would pass in front of the shop as those intoxicated men with their colorful language had.
Why hadn’t she accepted Mr. Rutledge’s offer to watch her place? He’d be here with his gun. The iron skillet resting at her feet could do serious damage but would be no match against an armed intruder.
Come now, Elenora. Don’t think about such things.
The chime on the mantel clock in her little parlor above sounded twelve times. Five more hours until dawn. And then what?
Mr. Rutledge was right. She couldn’t do business with her shop in such a state. Repairs would take time. Several days or even a week. But they couldn’t begin tomorrow, what with a storm raging and her landlord out of town.
She grabbed the skillet and padded to the front of the shop. Slivers of moonlight crept between the tarpaulins the men had draped over the gaping hole. Cool night air seeped in, causing her to shiver. The sweet scent of potpourri stopped her. A splintered board had landed close to Mama’s crystal bowl, but thankfully the keepsake hadn’t been broken.
Mama. With her voice as soft as a kitten’s underbelly. She’d always had the right words to make things better. What would she say if she were here now?
Pray.
Elenora plunked her skillet on the display case and lifted her face heavenward, but no words came. How could she pray? She’d asked God to uphold her business mere hours before the thunderous crash. Evidently He hadn’t heard her—or didn’t want her to succeed.
Why should it surprise her that God didn’t care about her dreams? No man ever had. Pa had never gotten over his disappointment that she was a girl. Even though she’d loved working in his shop, he’d refused to make her his partner. He’d offered the position to Jake Watkins instead and insisted she marry him. Jake, with his cruel tongue. When he left for the war and she took his place, Pa still refused to consider her anything but his clerk.
Then she’d come to El Dorado filled with excitement, and Mr. Rutledge had rejected her.
