by Keli Gwyn
“It sounds more like he’s in need of a family and thinks she and Tildy would make a good one. Considering the strained relations Elenora has with her father, I can see how she and this man would be drawn to one another. So, what are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do? Ellie’s one of the most determined women I’ve ever met. When she makes up her mind about something, there’s no stopping her.”
Mother squeezed his hand. “That’s nothing new. She’s been out to best you since she set up shop. What’s really troubling you? The fact that you have feelings for her, or the fact that she doesn’t return them?”
He jumped up and pitched three pairs of trousers into the basket, one right after another. “I don’t have feelings for her.”
“There are those who might believe you, son, but I know you. And I know you have what it takes to convince her to stay—if you really want her to.”
He did. Desperately. He just needed to figure out how.
Elenora stood inside her shop a week after the trip to Sacramento City and listened to the symphony of construction sounds out front. Never in her life would she have imagined being so excited about the rasp of saws slicing through wood or the clanging of hammers on nails, but today they were as welcome as one of Handel’s arrangements. Why, if people wouldn’t think her addlepated, she would grab her violin and serenade the workers with “The Hallelujah Chorus.”
And the smell. She inhaled deeply. No perfume was as pleasing as the scent of freshly cut lumber.
After four weeks the work was finally underway. Only three more days and she’d be able to throw open her new door and invite her customers inside. With everything she had planned, her reopening should be a grand affair.
“Ye look happy, Mrs. Watkins.” The carpenter handed the cabinet-maker a piece of the fir that would frame the sheet of plate glass, which had arrived the day before with not so much as a scratch. Sawdust clung to Mr. MacDougall’s red hair and bushy beard.
“I am.”
“With Tommy and Timmy’s help we’ll have ye back in business before ye can say, ‘my heart’s in the Highlands.’”
She laughed. “Your heart may be in Scotland, but mine’s right here in El Dorado, and it’s so full it feels like it’s about to pop, as Tildy would say.”
“I haven’t seen the lassie around. I thought she’d want to watch the goings-on.”
Tommy looked up from where he knelt on the walkway with a saw in hand. “She was walking toward the livery with Mr. Rutledge a ways back. I heard him say he had a surprise for her.”
Elenora stepped though the opening where her door would soon be hung and glanced down the street. “I thought she was with his mother.” She caught the carpenter’s eye. “If you don’t need me, I’ll head over there and see if they’re expecting anything for me today.”
“We men have things well in hand.”
She entered the livery moments later. The blend of animal scents, hay, and leather didn’t bother a farmer’s wife like Pearl, but the combination never failed to make Elenora queasy. Or perhaps her queasiness stemmed from the fact that she must face Mr. Rutledge again. Ever since their conversation on the train, things between them had been strained. He brightened when he chatted with Tildy, but the rest of the time he seemed distant, which wasn’t like him.
“Mama!” Tildy dashed up to her. “Guess what? Mr. Rutledge is going to the Independence Day celebration in Placerville, and he said he’d be happy to take us. There’s a parade and a horse race and games for the children and—”
“That sounds like fun, sweetheart, but I’ve already made plans to join the Duprees for a picnic at their place.”
A cloud passed over Tildy’s face, sending her sunny disposition into hiding. “It won’t be as much fun if he’s not there.”
“You’ll have a good time with your friends. And I happen to know that Mr. Dupree bought some firecrackers.”
Her eyes wide, Tildy stared. “You’ve never let me anywhere near fireworks.”
Mr. Rutledge joined them. “Fireworks? Where?”
“At Constance’s,” Tildy said. “Her pa’s going to set them off on the Fourth of July. Mama said we’re going there—not to Placerville with you.”
“What is Will thinking? They’re dangerous and could cause a fire. I refuse to sell the blasted things.”
Elenora pulled Tildy to her side. She’d never heard him use such a strong word. While she didn’t like the idea of firecrackers being set off, he seemed to have strong feelings about them. “Mr. Rutledge, please watch your language.”
“Where did he get them? From you?”
“Do you honestly think I’d sell them? If so, you’ve misjudged me.” Again. “Will had them sent up from Sacramento City, and Pearl said he takes every precaution. He’ll light them in his cleared field, and we’ll all stand back with buckets of water in case they’re needed.”
Tildy shrugged out of Elenora’s embrace and sidled up to Mr. Rutledge. “I wish you were going to be there. I’ll miss you.”
“Well now, I’m sure I could wheedle an invitation out of Mrs. Dupree if I told her Mother would take a bowl of her potato salad. And I could give you that riding lesson you’ve been wanting.”
Tildy jumped up and down, setting some of the horses to shifting in their stalls. He placed a hand on her shoulder to settle her down.
“Do you really mean it? You’re going to teach me? That’s the best surprise ever. Oh Mama, I’m going to be a real Western girl. Isn’t that exciting?”
Elenora didn’t take kindly to being put on the spot. They’d talked about the possibility of riding lessons over dinner several days ago, but as far as she was concerned, they hadn’t reached a decision. “I told you I’d think about it, dearest. As Mr. Rutledge pointed out, you’d need a saddle, but I can’t afford one just now.”
“Mrs. Watkins, Tildy, I have something to show you, if you’ll follow me.”
Elenora trod carefully through the straw. She didn’t relish the idea of stepping in…stuff. They stopped before a stand covered with a blanket, and she drew in a short breath. Only one thing would be under that. “You got her—”
He whisked off the throw.
“—a saddle?”
Tildy squealed, threw herself at him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. He pulled her to him and closed his eyes as though he wanted to savor every second of the embrace. When she drew back, he released her and smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. Rutledge. This is the best present anyone’s ever given me.” She made for the saddle and ran her hands over it. “Isn’t it beautiful, Mama?” She pressed her cheek to the seat and inhaled. “And it smells so good.”
“Yes, dear. It’s quite nice, isn’t it? Why don’t you have a good look at it while Mr. Rutledge and I talk for a minute.”
She gestured toward the front of the livery, and he followed her.
“What is it, Ellie? You don’t sound very happy.”
“I realize this must have been why you made the trip to the saddlery when we were in the city, but I wish you’d have told me what you planned. Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Oh, it was. But it’s far too generous a gift.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “I can afford it. You haven’t driven me to the poor house yet.”
Elenora cast a glance at Tildy, who explored every inch of the saddle, a cute girl-sized one—Western, just like she’d wanted. He certainly knew how to please her, even though his gift was far too extravagant. “It’s not only the money. I don’t want her to get too attached.”
“To me you mean?”
“It’ll make it harder for her to leave, and I can’t bear to see her hurt.”
He rested a hand on her arm. Sincerity coated his every word. “I’d never do anything to hurt her. I care for her—deeply.”
“I know you do. But if I accept Mr. Grayson’s offer…The closer she gets to people here, the more difficult it wi
ll be for her to say good-bye.”
“She’ll have a hard time leaving, no matter what, because she loves it here—even if you don’t.”
Is that what he thought? “I may not be as vocal about my opinions as Tildy, but I’m happy here.”
“I’m not convinced. If you were happy, I wouldn’t expect to see you jump at the first opportunity to leave. Of course, accepting Grayson’s offer would be easier than running a place of your own when you have a thriving business like mine standing in your way of success.”
“You think I’m taking the easy way out because I don’t think I can make it here? Well, you’re wrong about that.” And she’d show him how wrong he was. Wait until he saw what she had planned for her reopening.
The following Monday Elenora flitted from one customer to the next. Many of those she’d visited during the weeks her shop was closed had come to help her celebrate her first day back in business.
“Good morning, Mrs. Barton. Thank you for stopping by.”
“I wouldn’t miss this. Never once has Mr. Rutledge offered muffins and coffee to his customers. And I want an opportunity to win one of those photographs of Mark Twain you’re giving away. I’ve read his collection of short stories many times and am eager to get a copy of his latest work.” She reached for his recently released book, Innocents Abroad, which occupied a small table at the front of the shop. “However did you manage to get autographed copies when he’s living clear across the country in New York?”
“A merchant doesn’t reveal all her secrets.” Elenora glanced at Mrs. Rutledge, who had volunteered to serve the refreshments, and the two exchanged a smile. “The drawing tickets are at the counter. Tildy will be happy to help you. And remember, you get one just for coming in and a second because you’re purchasing the book.”
The next two hours flew as she assisted one customer after another. At eleven Mrs. Rutledge and Tildy left to see to dinner, leaving Elenora on her own. If she’d known what a success her first morning would be, she would have asked Tommy and Timmy to help. They knew her wares quite well now. However, since other women would need to get home, too, she should be able to handle things on her own.
By a quarter after eleven, the shop had cleared, and she could finally put away the bolts of fabric she’d not had time to tend to earlier. Her back was to the door when the bell chimed. She spun around. “Good morning, Abe. How may I help you?”
“I heard tell you have some new shavin’ soaps from across the pond. I thought I’d take a look-see—or whiff, I should say.”
She slid open the back of the display case and brought out three bars. One by one he passed them under his nose and inhaled deeply. From the spicy citrus to the pungent bay rum, every one brought a smile.
“I’ll take one of each.” He pinched his trousers above the knees, hitched them up, and squatted before the case. “Now, Ellie-nora, let me have a peek at that razor.”
She pulled out the box and removed the cover. Abe straightened, took one look, and gasped. “I can’t believe my eyes. That’s a William Revitt with ivory scales. May I?”
“By all means.” She’d looked forward to showing him the straightedge, but his reaction surpassed her expectations.
The barber rubbed his hands together, smiled, and picked up the razor. With practiced ease, he extended the blade and examined the elegant tool from every angle. “This has wonderful balance. And would you look at the detailed engraving on both ends of the handle? How much you askin’? Not that it matters. I got to have this.”
She told him the price. Although it was steep, he didn’t falter. She would make a tidy profit on the sale.
The day wasn’t even half over, and her cash drawer was bulging. If things kept up like this, she’d have to stow some of the money elsewhere until she could get to the bank.
Miles peered out the window of his shop at the one directly across the street. Several more people entered, accepted the treats Ellie had used to tempt them inside, and made purchases. If things kept up like this, he’d have little to take to the bank.
The bell on the door rang, and he abandoned his post, where he’d spent far too much time keeping an eye on Ellie’s place. “Morning, Mr. Colby. What can I do for you today?”
“I came for my pipe tobacco. You have it in stock, I hope.”
“Right here.” Miles reached in the case and pulled out a drawstring bag.
“You giving anything away?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“She is.” He jabbed his thumb at Ellie’s shop. “I aim to win one of those fancy photographs of Mark Twain she’s got. They’re not like the little ones with the funny name I’m used to seeing either. Them pictures she has are as big as a slice of bread. You know what I’m talking about?”
“They’re called cabinet cards, and they’re over twice as large as a carte de visite.”
“That’s right. He’s done signed ’em, too, just like those books of his she’s selling. Don’t know how she pulled it off, him being back in Buffalo and all.”
“Buffalo?” Miles’s heart plunged into his boots, which he’d had time to polish that morning, thanks to a certain shopkeeper drawing away his business with her ploys.
“Yes sirree. He got hisself a bride in February. Married her in Elmira and settled in Buffalo not far from my niece. She said in her last letter she’s seen the two of ’em in town. Didn’t you tell me once you have an uncle in those parts? Perhaps he’s seen ’em, too.”
“Could be.” There was no perhaps about it. Uncle Marcus had no doubt taken the photograph of Twain in his studio—and asked him to sign the books. How could Mother have done this to her own son? Seeing her over at Ellie’s serving as hostess earlier was bad enough, but helping her lure his customers away was quite another matter. He’d have a talk with Mother later.
He led Mr. Colby to the counter and told him the price of the smoking tobacco.
“Don’t suppose you’re offering a discount?”
“Why would I be? That’s the price I’ve charged you for years.”
Colby reached in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a wooden disc that had been painted green. “Got this over to her place. She calls it a Tildy Token. Every time I go in and spend at least fifty cents, she’ll give me one. When I get ten, she’ll give me ten percent off one purchase.”
“What? How can she do that?”
“I reckon she can do whatever she wants. So, you going to offer me a discount or not?”
He couldn’t let Ellie steal his customers, but he wasn’t so desperate that he’d follow suit. “I tell you what. If you’ll buy a second bag of tobacco, I’ll give you a box of safety matches—free of charge.”
Colby grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “Well, now. I figured a sharp, young man like you would come ’round to my way of thinking.”
Miles completed the transaction and ran his thumb and forefinger over his moustache. Ellie was going to be more trouble than he’d first thought. She was out to prove to that Grayson character she had what it took to be a valuable partner. Miles understood her goal and tactics. He admired her for them even. But she might put more of a dent in his profits than he’d anticipated.
She couldn’t afford to cut her profits for long, though. He had reserves, which she didn’t. He could survive the war, but would she?
And what would she think of his way of winning customers back to the mercantile?
Chapter 19
That’s a lovely flower,” Elenora remarked. Mrs. Pratt was known for being free with her information. Perhaps the elderly woman would reveal where she’d gotten the gorgeous mauve bloom. Her husband was bedridden, so he couldn’t have given it to her.
“Isn’t it? Mr. Rutledge is giving a rose to every woman who visits the mercantile today. He said this one’s called a Great Western. I chose it for both its color and rich perfume.” She buried her nose in the flower and inhaled deeply.
He was giving away roses? To any woman who entered his shop? That e
xplained why fewer women had stopped by her place that morning than during the first three days she’d been open. “How generous of him.”
“And those of us who make a purchase receive a gift. Just look at this lovely creation.” She pulled a handkerchief from the reticule on her wrist, a simple white version like those he sold, although Mrs. Pratt’s had been embellished. Apparently Mr. Rutledge had begun to see the value of offering some of the finer things. That could pose a problem.
“He said his mother added the lace edge and embroidered the rose. Her work is exquisite, don’t you think?”
“She’s quite talented, yes.” So Mrs. Rutledge was helping her son now? Well, that should come as no surprise. When she’d volunteered to contact her brother about getting Mark Twain’s books autographed, Mr. Grayson hadn’t made his offer. Now that she knew about him, she must have decided to shift her support to her son.
“If you paid him a visit, he’d have to give you a rose, too, wouldn’t he?”
He had given her one. It lay upstairs between parchment sheets in her Bible, a reminder not to give in to him, no matter how charming he might appear.
When he’d handed her the rose that day in his garden and said those sweet words about how she’d opened his eyes to new possibilities, she’d come far too close to giving in to the pleasure of the moment. But then he’d spoiled the mood by saying she’d have to earn everything else she got.
As hurt as she’d been at the time, the message was one she mustn’t forget. Mr. Rutledge might claim to be her friend—and indeed he had been kind to her on numerous occasions—but he was out to best her in business. Her task was clear. She must make use of every means possible to keep the customers on her side of the street if she were to show Mr. Grayson she was the best candidate for partner.
She couldn’t afford to give way to sentimentality. Even if Mr. Rutledge did have the ability to make her forget herself at times.
Elenora ran a finger around the bowl, gathered the last bit of deviled egg filling, and popped it in her mouth. She’d added enough mustard to give it a nice tang. She put the filled eggs in the cut glass serving tray and placed them next to the bowl of coleslaw in her wicker basket. “Come Tildy. It’s time to go.”
