by Dorothy Love
He looked up in surprise. “Yes ma’am. Do I know you?”
“I’m Ada Wentworth. I saw you at church last Sunday. Mrs. Willis told me about your mother.”
“It’s awful hard, being without her.”
“I know it is. My mother died when I was thirteen.”
Jacob nodded. “Ma might have lived longer if we could’ve got the tonics she needed to build up her blood, but Mr. Pruitt cut off Pa’s credit just when we needed it most.”
“That’s terrible.”
“He’s a terrible man.” Jacob hoisted his box onto his shoulder. “I should be going. Pa’s waiting for these nails.”
They went outside. Jacob set the box in his wagon and climbed up.
“I saw your girl, Sabrina,” Ada said. “At church. She’s very pretty.”
“Yes’m, she sure is.” Jacob blushed to the roots of his hair. “I’m thinking of marryin’ her one day when I can take care of her proper.”
He looked so vulnerable and so full of hope that Ada felt moved to encourage him. “I imagine a girl like that expects a lot from her beau.”
“Ma’am?”
“She’ll want someone steady, with a good future ahead of him. Someone she can depend on. A man who doesn’t quit when a job proves difficult.”
He looked sheepish. “You mean the mill.”
“I’ll bet Mr. Caldwell would take you back if you asked.”
“Maybe I will, if Pa and me ever get caught up. On the farm, there’s always something that needs doing. Plus, in winter, I got my trap lines up at the riverhead. For catching foxes and muskrats mostly, sometimes a mink. I sell the fur.” He flicked the reins. “’Bye, ma’am. And don’t worry none about what Mr. Pruitt said. He don’t like nobody who’s not from around here.”
He started down the road. Ada waved after him, then crossed the street to the bookshop. At the sound of the bell, a gray, yellow-eyed cat blinked awake and jumped up to wind itself around her ankles.
The shop owner, a middle-aged man with side whiskers and gold-rimmed spectacles, sauntered to the counter, his pipe in his hand. “That’s India,” he said, smiling. “I hope you like cats.”
“I love cats.” Ada bent to stroke India. “I had a Persian when I was growing up. Her name was Athena. She lived to be almost seventeen.”
“I’ll remember that next time this one has a litter.” The man puffed on his pipe, and a thin stream of smoke curled toward the ceiling. “I’m Nathaniel Chastain, but everyone calls me Nate. Welcome to my shop.”
She extended her hand across the polished pine counter. “Ada Wentworth.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. Was there anything in particular that you’re wanting?”
“Many years ago my mother had a book, The Hatmaker’s Manual. It was published around 1830, I think. I realize that’s a long time ago, but I was wondering if you might have a copy. I’m beginning a millinery business, and I need to refresh my memory on certain points of construction.”
Nate puffed on his pipe and shook his head. “That far back, it’s probably long out of print, but I seem to recall a similar book that came in a couple of years ago.” He set his pipe down, opened a thick sheaf of papers bound with a leather thong, and ran his finger down the pages. “Yes, here we are. I ordered it for Norah over at the dress shop, but then she changed her mind. I’m sure it’s still around here somewhere.” He smiled. “Not a lot of call for hatmaking books in these parts.”
“Splendid. I’ll take it.”
“Might take me a few minutes to locate it, though.” Nate indicated the jumble of books spilling from every shelf, nook, and cranny. Books were piled on the partner’s desk at the rear of the shop and stacked knee-high beneath the windows overlooking the street. “Take your time and look around. I’ll see if I can scare it up.”
While he searched for the book, Ada browsed the shelves, reading random passages from new works and old favorites. Holding the pages to her nose, she breathed in the smells of paper and ink. Of all the things she’d given up for auction to settle her father’s debts, she felt most keenly the loss of his vast library.
“That’s a good one.” Wyatt stepped up behind her. “I love the part where Becky Sharp finally gets her due.”
Ada jumped. She’d been so engrossed in one of Thackeray’s rambling sentences, its cascade of dependent clauses falling one after the other, that she hadn’t heard the shop door open. She smiled up at him, relieved that his sunny mood had returned.
“You’ve read Vanity Fair?” She set the volume on the shelf.
Amusement glinted in his eyes. “You seem surprised.”
“No! Well, yes, actually. The fortunes of a conniving social climber hardly seems a subject that would interest you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you need to know me a little better before you decide what interests me.” He flipped through a book and set it back on the shelf. “What do you think of Mr. Thackeray’s novel?”
“Not much. Father insisted that I read it as an object lesson on the consequences of gossip and manipulation.” She picked up another book and examined its gold-embossed cover. Would she ever be able to afford such luxuries again?
“I’d say Thackeray did a fair job of getting that point across, and quite elegantly in places.”
She ran her fingers over a row of leather-bound books. “He’s good at clever turns of phrase, but I don’t much care for his low opinion of the fairer sex.”
“Oh?”
“Surely you remember that he compares women to the beasts of the field, incapable of recognizing their own power. It’s quite insulting really.”
Wyatt grinned. “He ought not to have said that. But he also wonders whether realizing one’s desires in the world actually increases happiness. It’s an interesting question.”
“Personally, I’d prefer contentment. Happiness is fleeting.” She thought of her old life in Boston. Of the promises Edward had made and broken. “One’s fortunes can change overnight and take happiness along with it.”
“True enough, I reckon. Still, you should give the book another—”
“Found it!” Nate Chastain materialized from the chaos of his shelves brandishing a small red book. “I knew I had it here somewhere.”
Ada handed him a wrinkled bill, and he turned away to make change.
Wyatt said, “You’re not taking Vanity Fair?”
“Not today. I bought millinery supplies this morning and placed a notice in the paper. Hats by Ada.”
He frowned and pushed his Stetson to the back of his head. “Pardon me?”
Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t meant to tell him so soon. In her excitement at having taken a step toward implementing her plan, it had slipped out. But there was no going back now. And besides, he had big plans for his own future. Surely he’d understand hers. “I’m going to build a business making hats. Eventually I want to move back east and make my living that way.”
“Is that a fact?” He passed one hand across his chin.
Ada hurried on. “Mariah Whiting is my only customer for now. But I’ll need many more, and everybody in town reads the Gazette.” She glanced at him nervously. “You did promise I’d have the evenings for my own pursuits.”
“I assumed you’d spend your free time like most ladies do, playing the piano or reading or writing letters to your friends.”
“I’m afraid my piano playing never progressed much beyond the beginner stage.” Thanks to her father, she no longer had friends back east, but that was irrelevant now.
He leaned against a table piled high with dusty books. “It never crossed my mind that you’d spend your time checking invoices or writing out bills or worrying about shipments and supply orders. Running a business, even a small one, takes a lot more time than you think.”
Her pulse raced. Surely he wasn’t going to stop her before she even got started. It wasn’t fair. “But you know I’m making a hat for Mariah.”
“And it’s a fine thing, making a hat for a f
riend. But this is not the time to begin a commercial enterprise. Not when I need you to look after Lillian.”
“My work won’t interfere with my taking care of her. I understand my responsibilities to her and I—”
“Here’s your change.” Nate returned and dropped the coins into her hand.
Wyatt took Vanity Fair from the shelf and handed it to Nate. “I’ll take this one. For the lady.”
“That isn’t necessary.” Ada tried to hide her disappointment. “I’d rather wait until I can buy it myself.”
“Miss Wentworth,” Wyatt said, his opposition to her fledgling business apparently forgotten, “please let me do something for you, as a friend who happens to share your appreciation for books.”
She started to protest further, but Nate intervened. “Miss? In all my years of running this shop I have never known Wyatt here to buy books for any lady exceptin’ Miss Lillian. If I were you, I’d take advantage of this rare moment of generosity.”
Wyatt handed the bookshop owner a couple of bills. Nate wrapped the books, tied the package with string, and handed it to Ada. “I hope you enjoy them.”
They left the shop. Ada turned on her heel and headed for the rig. Wyatt caught up with her. “Miss Hattie’s place is the other direction. Behind the bakery.”
“I don’t care. I find that suddenly I’m not very hungry. And we should get back and check on Lillian. That is my job, after all.”
“Wait just a minute.” He took her arm and turned her around. “Are you mad at me because I squelched your hat business or because of the book? Don’t folks from Boston know how to accept a gift?”
“Of course we do! But I asked you not to buy it, and you went against my wishes anyway.”
His blue eyes darkened. “I see. I’m sorry for my clumsy efforts at friendship. It won’t happen again.”
His apology pierced her defenses. But still . . . She swallowed. “A true friend would want me to succeed.”
“The one thing I can’t abide is deceit. Maybe I’d have been more amenable to the idea if you’d been honest with me from the beginning.”
She clutched the books tightly to her chest. “The way you were honest with me about Lillian’s condition? About the absence of any other staff to help me?”
“I told you how that happened, and I’ve apologized. It was not my intention to hide the truth.”
His accusation was like a dash of cold water to the face. The fact that she might have deserved it made things worse.
Wyatt held out both palms in a “don’t shoot” manner. “Let’s call a truce for now and go eat. I’m hungry.”
“Well, I’m not. Not anymore. I’d rather go home.”
“You can go if you don’t mind walking. I’m going to Hattie’s for the fried chicken I’ve been looking forward to all week.”
“Fine.” Ada strode to the rig to retrieve her parasol. The sun had reached its zenith, and the long walk back to Lillian’s would be brutal. No doubt her feet would be a mass of blisters after the seven-mile walk. Already she regretted her impulsive decision, but she couldn’t give in now without looking like a weakling. She tossed her purchases into the rig, snapped open the parasol, and started walking.
ELEVEN
Wyatt watched her go, his feelings a mixture of desire and frustration. Ada Wentworth was the most exciting and exasperating woman he’d ever met. And the truth was, after only a week of her acquaintance, what he felt for her was more complicated than mere friendship. Her words about leaving Hickory Ridge had taken him aback. He wanted her to stay, and not only because of Lillian. He watched her striding past the mercantile. Clearly this was not the time to say so.
He was sorry that his sour mood this morning had spoiled her visit to the park. He was usually better at leaving the past where it belonged. But Ada, despite her charm, was still a daily reminder of all that he had lost at the hands of the Yanks. He watched her toss her packages into the rig and take up her parasol. He genuinely regretted dashing her hopes for a business of her own, but with the mill running night and day to keep up with demand, he had to rely on her for Lillian’s care.
Still, he had no intention of letting her walk all the way home. He’d let her walk a little way, vent some of her anger, and then go after her. His stomach rumbled, and he cast a sad eye toward Miss Hattie’s. No fried chicken for him today.
“Mr. Caldwell!” The postmaster hurried over, his steps ringing on the wooden boardwalk. “Miss Stanhope at the telegraph office is looking for you. You just received a wire. She says it’s important.”
“Thanks. I’ll go get it.”
Wyatt jogged cross the street to the office, retrieved his telegram, and tore it open.
“Bad news, Mr. Caldwell?” Mary Stanhope’s assistant, a thin girl with short yellow hair and sun-browned skin, fanned her face and gulped water from a canning jar. In the back, Miss Stanhope sat hunched over her desk as the teletype chattered, spitting out another message.
“It’s excellent news, actually. Do you have a pencil? I need to send a reply.”
The girl rummaged through the desk and produced a stub of a pencil. Wyatt scribbled his reply and slid it across the counter. “Ask Miss Stanhope to send this right away, will you?”
He left the office smiling. The telegram confirming yet another order meant that there would be enough work to keep his crew busy harvesting timber through the fall. Once it was too cold to work outdoors, the entire operation would shift to the heated sheds, where the sawyers would turn the raw timber into finished lumber. Normally, Sage Whiting was the first person he wanted to tell when good news happened. But today, despite their disagreement, he wanted to celebrate with Ada.
He quickened his steps. She must have reached the train station by now, maybe even the railroad trestle. He jumped into his rig and headed out of town just as the afternoon train from Memphis arrived, spilling passengers and their belongings onto the platform. At the far end of the street, a couple of his men mounted their empty wagons, preparing to return to the mill after delivering today’s shipment. Wyatt didn’t stop to talk. He needed to find Ada. To make things right.
He drove through town looking for a small, determined woman in a dark-blue dress, carrying a parasol and a big chip on her shoulder. He crossed the trestle and then the bridge, but there was no sign of Ada.
Fear twisted his gut. He wished now he’d told her the whole truth about the Klan, but he hadn’t wanted to frighten her. It was true that they saved most of their vitriol for the coloreds, but their hatred ran deep enough to include foreigners and Yankees. For the most rabid among them, the simple fact that Ada was from Boston would be enough to mark her as a target. Everyone in town knew there was a Yankee woman in their midst.
A worrisome thought assailed him. Had Lillian’s “ghost” actually been someone riding past the house in the middle of the night—a veiled threat to him and to Ada? Why hadn’t he considered this before letting Ada set out on her own?
He urged Cherokee into a gallop, and the rig bounced over the uneven road. He called Ada’s name, scanning the woods at the side of the road. By the time he reached the church, his heart was racing. It has been less than an hour since she’d stormed away. She couldn’t have gone this far. Not in those flimsy shoes of hers.
The horse was lathered and panting in the heat. Wyatt led the mare to the pump and filled the trough with water. While she drank, Wyatt splashed his face with water and sat on the ground, his head in his hands.
Ada was missing. And he was to blame.
He climbed back into the rig. At the mill, he saw that most of his drays had returned from the rail station and were lined up near the loading sheds. The horses had been unhitched and were quietly cropping grass. In the side yard, Josiah Dawson was at work repairing a wagon wheel. Wyatt urged the horse toward Lillian’s.
Nearing the house, he saw two figures in the front porch swing and his heart jerked. Relief flooded his veins like a shot of whisky, followed immediately by a spurt o
f anger. He tethered the horse and crossed the yard. Ada and Libby Dawson rose from the swing.
Libby bobbed her head. “Miss Lillian still sleepin’ like a baby, Mr. Wyatt. That tonic gentled her right down.”
He took a couple of coins from his pocket and pressed them into the girl’s hand. “I appreciate your coming, Libby. Tell your mama I’m obliged for letting you stay here today.”
“She don’t mind. You pay real good.” Libby tucked the money into her skirt pocket. “’Bye, Miss Ada. Thank you for the story.”
“You’re welcome, Libby. Anytime.” Ada closed the book she’d been reading and set it on the swing.
Wyatt waited until the girl had started down the road. Then he grabbed Ada’s shoulders and brought his face within inches of hers. “Of all the harebrained, reckless, stubborn things to do, Ada. I’ve told you—the divide around here runs deep. Some folks can’t stand the sight of a Yankee, and there are a few who would take advantage of any woman walking along the road alone. Don’t you realize that something terrible could have happened if you’d met up with the wrong people?”
She jerked free and stared up at him, her eyes blazing. “If you were so concerned for my welfare, why did you suggest that I walk?”
“I had no intention of letting you get very far. You were angry and needed to cool off. And then you just . . . vanished.”
“You said I’d be all right if I stayed out of Two Creeks. Now it seems I can’t go anywhere. Although you weren’t all that concerned when you made me drive Lillian to church for the quilting circle.”
“It isn’t that far to the church.” He struggled to hold on to his patience. “I rode out just ahead of you and kept an eye out until you passed the mill.” He paused. “How’d you get back here today, anyway?”
“Mr. Whiting was returning from the rail station, and I asked him to drive me home. So you see, you needn’t have worried. I can take care of myself.”
“Ah. That’s right, I forgot. Ada Wentworth doesn’t need anyone.”
“Well, I want to be independent, but you’ve quashed that notion, haven’t you?” She wiped away angry tears.
