Golden State Brides

by Keli Gwyn

  “She’s doing what?”

  Mrs. Rutledge intervened. “I’m busy with Tildy these days and haven’t time to plan the events the way I did before. I thought Elenora would be an ideal choice to take my place, seeing as how she’s one of the merchants.” She grabbed Elenora’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “How about it, dear? Will you take over for me?”

  “I can’t say. I don’t know what’s involved.”

  “Miles organizes three competitions for the men. You’d do the same for the women. Will and Pearl take care of the games for the children, and a group from church arranges the barbeque. The whole town takes part in the fun.”

  Judging by how close Mr. Rutledge’s brows had drawn, biding her time before answering would be wise. She reached for her water glass.

  “Since I’m the one in charge of the entire event, Mother, don’t you think it would have been wiser to talk to me about this first—privately? I don’t like being put on the spot like this.”

  Elenora spluttered, spraying water down her front. How could he, who’d done that very thing to her in regard to the saddle, rebuke his mother? She had half a mind to tell him what she thought about his show of male dominance.

  On second thought, perhaps showing him would be better. She patted herself dry, turned away from Mr. Rutledge, and faced his mother. “I think the project would be quite enjoyable. I could get some of the women to work with me, but I think it would be more fun for us to devise competitions for the men, and ask the men do the same for us.”

  “What? You can’t be serious. I’m not about to discuss bakeoffs and such with my committee. That’s women’s territory. And I certainly don’t want a bunch of women putting their pretty little heads together and conjuring up competitions no man in his right mind would enter. I’m certain the others would agree. Why, if you had your way, you’d probably put us in frilly aprons and have us chop onions just to watch us cry.”

  She counted to ten in her head before she trusted herself to answer and pasted on the sweetest smile she could muster. “I would never dream of doing anything to endanger your masculinity. In fact, I feel certain we could come up with several ways to emphasize your strengths. My concern is that you men lack a real understanding of what we women are capable of and would be hard-pressed to come up with three contests that would showcase our abilities. So, are you willing to trust us or not?”

  He shifted and helped Tildy out of his lap. Seconds passed as he stared into Elenora’s eyes, his own a deeper shade of blue than she’d ever seen. She didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Just when she thought she couldn’t last one moment more, he slapped his leg. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.” Elenora extended her hand.

  He shook it and grinned. “This year’s event may prove to be more interesting than those in the past. You women had better work hard to come up with the best ideas you can because we men certainly will.”

  Tildy returned to the settee and slumped between Mrs. Rutledge and Elenora, who patted her daughter’s back. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  “Mrs. Rutledge said there’s always been a bake-off for the ladies and a shooting match for the men. But now you’re changing everything, and I won’t be able to enter my dessert.”

  “Oh dear. I didn’t think of that. Perhaps…” She sent Mr. Rutledge a silent plea for understanding.

  “I tell you what, Tildy girl. Since El Dorado Day wouldn’t be complete without those traditional events, we won’t consider them part of the new arrangement. We’ll each think up two new competitions. How’s that sound?”

  She was at his side in an instant, hovering over him. “Thank you.”

  He chucked her under the chin. “Have to keep my little friend happy.”

  Tildy’s grin mirrored his. “I am happy…but you could make me even happier.”

  Elenora tensed. She should say something. She opened her mouth to do just that, but no words came out.

  Chapter 21

  Tildy trailed a hand along the arm of Miles’s chair. “If you married my mama, you’d be my new papa, and I’d be the happiest girl in the whole wide world.”

  He stole a glance at Ellie. She’d been pale before, but her face now rivaled his white dress shirt, and her eyes couldn’t open any wider. Mother’s mouth twitched as though she were stifling a laugh. And Tildy wore a smile wider than the American River, her eagerness evident in her shining eyes.

  What a picture the three painted: astonishment, amusement, and anticipation. And each of them had her attention focused on him. The pressure he’d felt when he’d preformed the Vivaldi solo was nothing compared to this. No matter what he said, he’d be hard-pressed to please them all.

  Lord, I could use a wagonload of wisdom.

  He pulled Tildy onto his lap. She cuddled up to him, filling him with longing for what he’d lost and giving him an idea how to solve his dilemma. “I want to tell you a story. It’s not a long one, but it’s true. I had a little girl once. Her name was May. She was born in May, and”—he swallowed—“she died in May a year later. I loved her very much.” His voice broke, but he cleared his throat and forced himself to continue. “I didn’t think I’d ever be able to open my heart again, but you found your way into it, Tildy girl. If I were to have another daughter some day, I hope she’d be as special as you.”

  Her eyes glistened. “Oh Mr. Rutledge, that was a sad, sad story. I’m sorry God took your baby away. But she’s with Jesus now, and He’ll take good care of her for you. I know He will.” She cupped his face in her hands, pulled him toward her, and planted a kiss on his forehead.

  The tender gesture nearly undid him. He held her close and soaked in the sugar and spice that was Tildy. If only he could tell her how much he loved her, but Ellie would never forgive him if he did. He’d promised her he wouldn’t hurt Tildy, and he’d keep that promise—not only for Tildy’s sake but also, more importantly, for Ellie’s.

  Her choices had forced him to fight her in order to earn his living, but he wanted more than anything to bring some happiness into her life. And he’d like some in his, too. It was about time.

  He sought her gaze. She dipped her head in an apparent attempt to avoid looking at him. Was she upset with him? He’d tried so hard not to say too much, but—Wait. Were those—She swiped a hand over her cheeks. Yes. She’d shed tears for his daughter. Apparently he’d said the right thing to hers after all.

  But would Ellie be as sympathetic when she learned he was to blame for May’s and Irene’s deaths?

  Elenora smoothed her skirt. One petticoat would suffice. Practicality outweighed propriety in this case. There was no way she wanted a repeat of last night. She was sure to hear plenty of comments about her heat exhaustion, since the unfortunate episode had taken place in front of the entire Musical Society. On the bright side though, those who wanted to find out every little detail were likely to come into the shop, and some might make a purchase.

  She peeked in the looking glass above her bureau, patted her chignon, and prepared to face the day. The idea of being the source of hushed conversations behind gloved hands didn’t appeal to her, but Mrs. Rutledge had assured her those prone to tittle-tattle would soon tire of the tale and move on to something else.

  Elenora smiled. Mrs. Rutledge had been so kind and caring last night. And to think that she considered her to be like a daughter. After all the years without a mother, hearing those words had been wonderful.

  “Mama, I’m ready. Mrs. Rutledge is going to teach me to play my first song on the piano today.”

  “I hope you have a good time, sweetheart.” Elenora gave Tildy a hug, and her daughter flitted out the door.

  An hour later Elenora pressed her lips together and pasted a smile on her face. Mrs. Rutledge might have been wrong. There were those who found the scene at the rehearsal a tantalizing bit of news. Mrs. Pratt had been in the shop since it opened, bending one set of ears after another. Since the pile of goods she intended to
purchase continued to grow the longer she stayed, Elenora fought the urge to show her the door. What one would endure for the sake of a sale.

  Mrs. Pratt sidled up to Mrs. Barton. “Did you hear about Mr. Rutledge and Mrs. Watkins? She fainted at his feet at the rehearsal last night, and he flew to her side, scooped her in those strong arms of his, and rushed out of the building with her—like a knight in shining armor. My Stanley said he’d never seen Mr. Rutledge more attentive of a lady. Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard? It sets my old heart to fluttering.”

  Mrs. Barton gave a polite smile. “From what I heard she suffered from heat exhaustion, was wise enough to sit before she swooned, and accepted aid from Mr. Rutledge, who was the first to reach her.” The kindly woman turned toward Elenora. “How are you feeling today, Mrs. Watkins?”

  Elenora smiled warmly. How nice of Mrs. Barton to correct the misinformation. “I’m fully restored, thank you. Mrs. Rutledge was a dear and saw to my needs after her son helped me to the house. I’m grateful to both of them.”

  Another fifteen minutes passed before Mrs. Pratt made her purchase and left. Elenora took advantage of a lull to straighten her shop. She’d stooped to put away some hatpins when she caught the strains of a tune—a folk tune. Who would be playing on Main Street in the middle of the workday?

  She walked to the open door and listened. The sound came from the mercantile. Mr. Rutledge stood in the front of his shop with his violin—fiddle—tucked under his chin. Half a dozen people encircled him, three of them clapping with the beat.

  Three quarters of an hour went by, and not a single customer entered her place. He’d had a steady stream at his, and every few minutes he’d played a different tune.

  With cloth in hand, she went out front and wiped some prints from the plate glass window. Tommy Talbot sat on the railing in the shade of the tall trees in front of Richwood House talking with the owner of the boardinghouse. Mr. Roussin was a model of patience. He never seemed to tire of Tommy’s knot tying or Timmy’s cat’s cradle games.

  Tommy glanced up, saw her, and waved. She beckoned him, and he sprinted over. “Morning, Mrs. Watkins. Did you need something?”

  He pushed his curtain of blond hair out of his eyes and tucked several wayward strands beneath his hatband. They stayed put but a moment before tumbling down. Both he and Timmy were in desperate need of a trim, but since Tildy said she thought their long locks made them look like rugged mountain men, they’d refused to let Abe touch their shaggy manes.

  Elenora put her back to the mercantile and lowered her voice. “A number of people seem to be enjoying Mr. Rutledge’s music. Do you know why he’s performing for his customers today?”

  “I ain’t heard anybody talking about it, but I could mosey on over and find out.”

  “I’d like to know, but I don’t think having you go into his place and ask would be the best way to go about getting the information. He doesn’t think as highly of you and Timmy as I do. I did see Mrs. Roussin come out of his place a few minutes ago though. Since you’re on good terms with her husband, I thought you might—”

  “I hear you. I’ll ask him to find out from her and let me know. I’ll be back in three shakes of a rattler’s tail.” He sauntered down the walkway, twirling his short piece of rope at his side.

  Elenora smiled. Anyone who saw Tommy would know he was up to something. He never walked anywhere.

  Less than five minutes later he ambled across the street, peered over his shoulder, and slipped into her place. “Here’s the story. He’s got a contest going. Anyone who buys a whole dollar’s worth of goods gets to name a fiddle tune. If he can’t play it, the person gets to pick out a nickel’s worth of candy and don’t have to pay for it.”

  “My, my.” Mr. Rutledge had come up with a clever idea. “I think I’ll get my violin and perform classical pieces. The first one to name the composer will get an extra Tildy Token.”

  Tommy frowned. “Um, not to throw a block of ice in the bathwater, Mrs. Watkins, but I don’t reckon folks would be able to do that. Leastways, not many of ’em. I don’t know any of them fancy tunes like the Musical Society plays, and my ma don’t neither.”

  “I see. Well then, let me think.” She tapped a finger to her cheek. “I’ve got it! We’ll see if we can stump him.” She’d have some fun, and at the same time she could show Mr. Rutledge what a bright young man Tommy was.

  Ten minutes later Elenora locked the door to her shop, crossed the street, and entered the mercantile. She stood back from the group gathered around Mr. Rutledge and studied him. When he played classical pieces, he rested his weight on the balls of his feet, swayed from side to side with grace, and had a serious expression on his face. His stance when he fiddled was entirely different. When he wasn’t tapping one foot or bouncing on the balls of both feet, he was moving his upper body forward and back in time to the music. And throughout the entire performance a broad smile conveyed his immense pleasure. He was not only a talented musician. He was also a versatile one.

  She hadn’t been in his shop in weeks, so she cast furtive glances around the place. He had an impressive display of ready-made men’s clothing on the far wall that hadn’t been there before. He’d added to his fabric selection and replenished his supply of notions. And he had an array of merchandise in a case bearing a card that read “Golden Gifts,” which, as she’d heard tell, were part of his new program to reward repeat customers.

  While the clothing and expanded dry goods section were welcome changes, giving away staples such as soap flakes, harness oil, and moustache wax wouldn’t do much to draw the townspeople in. They’d be more interested in earning a Tildy Token for purchasing the vest chains, watch charms, and handkerchief boxes she’d received in her latest shipment.

  Tommy arrived. He conferred with Sammy, completed his purchase, and kept his back to Mr. Rutledge.

  He finished the piece and grinned at Elenora. After he bid the customers farewell he joined her. “What brings you to the mercantile today? Couldn’t find what you need at the shop across the street?”

  “I’m broadening my horizons. A friend of mine said I might enjoy fiddle music, so I thought I’d see if that’s true.”

  He chuckled. “A friend of yours? I see. And was this friend correct?”

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how hard it had been to keep her foot from tapping. “Perhaps, but I’ve not heard enough to know yet.”

  “Spend a dollar, and you can challenge me to play a piece.” He held up his violin. “If you stump me—”

  “I get some candy, I know. But since I do my shopping on the north side of Main, I won’t be able to test you.”

  Tommy spoke up, right on cue. “I can.” He pointed to his parcel on the counter. “I’d like you to play Air from Suite No. 3 by Johann Sebastian Bach.”

  “You would, would you?” Mr. Rutledge glanced at Elenora. The tell-tale twitch of his moustache told her he knew very well why Tommy had chosen that particular piece, the one Mr. Rutledge had stumbled over at the Society’s rehearsal. “Well, Timmy, I—”

  “I’m Tommy.”

  Mr. Rutledge fixed his penetrating blue eyes on Tommy, but the young man didn’t flinch. He drew himself to his full height, thrust out his chest, and met Mr. Rutledge’s gaze. Elenora’s own chest swelled with pride. Her protégé was performing admirably. Surely Mr. Rutledge would see that Tommy was no mere boy.

  “As I was saying, Tommy, I believe you’ve been counseled by someone unfamiliar with the rules of the contest. You have to name a fiddle tune, not a classical piece.”

  Tommy smacked a hand to his forehead. “That’s right. Mrs. Watkins is the one who’s performed the composers’ works for her customers.” He paused to give his comment its full impact, just as she’d asked him to. Mr. Rutledge’s half-smile confirmed that he was well aware of her attempt to best him at his own game and found it amusing.

  She’d not coached Tommy beyond that point, so he improvised.
“I reckon you thought she had a good idea, seeing as how you’re using it yourself. ’Course, your fiddle music is more to my liking than what she plays. Do you know ‘Camptown Races’?”

  Mr. Rutledge actually grinned at Tommy, and Elenora savored the sweet taste of victory. Her obvious goal to beat Mr. Rutledge in his contest may have failed, but he was treating Tommy with more respect than usual. Had Mr. Rutledge overcome his distrust of Tommy and his brother? “She didn’t tell you to pick that one, did she?”

  Tommy glanced at Elenora. She waved a hand. “We’ve had our fun. You may tell him.”

  “She said I could pick my favorite, and that’d be it. Timmy and I like to race.”

  “I’m well aware of that. You should be grateful Mrs. Watkins is a forgiving person. There are those who believe you two should have received a more severe punishment.”

  She must intervene, or no telling what Tommy would say. He could be as outspoken as Tildy. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear the tune Tommy chose.”

  Evidently Mr. Rutledge still had misgivings about the Talbot twins. Somehow, she’d find a way to convince him they weren’t the troublemakers he believed them to be.

  Elenora reached the cemetery at the top of Church Street. For some reason, once she’d seen Tildy and the Duprees off after church, she’d felt led to climb the hill and pay a visit to the Rutledge plot.

  There were those who insisted God spoke to them. A still, small voice was what some called their encounters. Others reported actually having heard Him, as though He’d spoken audibly. That was poppycock as far as she was concerned. She’d never heard God tell her anything, even though she’d heeded Pearl’s advice and asked Him to make Himself known to her. She was here because she felt the need to be, and nothing more.

  She reached for the latch on the wrought-iron gate, jerked her hand away, and stuck her fingers in her mouth. How silly of her to forget that the black metal would be hot. It was a blistering summer day after all.