by Ana Morgan
“Taylor. Jack Taylor. This is my establishment.” He picked up two heavy corner posts and tossed them into the back of the buckboard like they were matchsticks. “Stormy Hawkins would be a real looker if she dressed like a woman, but don’t tell my wife I said that. No reason to upset her. Not that she has cause to worry.” He peered over his shoulder toward the store’s open back doors.
The loading dock was deserted.
“Don’t think about doing more than lookin’ with her,” he said. “Jonathan Vance over at the Land & Loan has claimed her, and you don’t want to get on his bad side. He fights dirty when he thinks he’s been crossed.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” Blade replied with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “What else can you tell me? I hired on with Zed Hawkins for a few weeks.”
“Stormy Hawkins doesn’t have many friends, I can tell you that. One time I heard screeching over in the schoolyard. Sounded like someone was being skinned alive. Turns out Stormy had Emma Schultz by the hair and wasn’t going to let go until Emma took back calling her a tomboy. Hell’s bells, that girl is all boy. Shoots, rides, ropes, all real good. Miss Smithers—that’s the schoolmarm—says Stormy’s too smart for her own good.
“Mother died giving birth,” Jack Taylor continued. “Folks say she was a whore that met up with Zed, Brownie, and Running Bear during the war. They also say she married all three in a secret Indian ceremony.” He paused to load a few more posts. “Alls I know is they work hard and pay in advance for what they order.”
“Yoo-hoo, Jack,” a pretty pregnant woman called. “Sacks.”
“My missus,” he said proudly. “She needs me to load some feed.” He shook hands again. “Stop back anytime. And, come to the Founders Day dance. Emma Schultz is a real looker.”
Blade massaged his hand. Jack Taylor had a bone-crushing grip.
His next stop was Farber’s General Store. Running Bear needed soap, coffee, clothespins, matches, cooking oil, allspice, salt, pepper, and kerosene. Zed had added two tins of Honest Labor pipe tobacco to the list.
Wearing a crisp, snow-white apron, Mrs. Farber rushed up as soon as he entered. “Mr. Masters,” she exclaimed. “Abigail? Abigail, come here. This is the man Stormy Hawkins slapped.”
The hum of business and conversation stilled. Every person in the store turned to look at him.
“He chased after her,” Mrs. Farber declared. “Gave her a stern talking to.”
Before he could correct her assumption, he was surrounded. Eager hands reached out to touch his, accompanied by quick stories about Stormy Hawkins’ unruly temper and bad manners. He tried to memorize names with the faces. Joseph McDonald. Sam Elrod and his wife Georgia. Ellen Sharpe with daughter Dora. Jane Simon and Mrs. Levi Hollingsworth.
Mrs. Farber nudged her daughter forward.
Abigail was proper and plain, about eighteen, with clean, even fingernails and brightly polished shoes. “Are you looking for work, Mr. Masters?”
“I hired on at the Hawkins Ranch for a few weeks,” he said.
A collective gasp swirled through the store. People exchanged furtive glances.
Mrs. Farber shooed her customers back. “We should get your supplies. Is that your list?” She snatched the paper from his outstretched hand and handed it to her daughter. “Come this way, Mr. Masters. I think you’ll want a mail slot of your own. You won’t be with the Hawkins’ long.”
Marveling at her self-assured forecast, Blade followed her past tidy displays of notions and nails. He’d need privacy during the negotiation for the Hawkins property. A separate mailbox would skirt suspicion.
At the mail counter, Mrs. Farber checked several boxes on a form and swirled the paper toward him. “Sign here. And, here,” she said briskly.
When he finished, she smiled in a knowing way, but he didn’t bother trying to guess why. He’d decided long ago to ignore the designs others tried to impose. He knew what he wanted. Wild horses couldn’t drag him off course now.
Mrs. Farber opened a large, deep drawer and pulled out two newspapers, a Harper’s Bazaar, and a Harper’s Weekly. “They’ll be wanting these. The Hawkins’ read more than any family in Prosperity.”
He needed to know one more thing. “What about wires?”
“We deliver sealed telegraph messages to Yankton, and they’re sent from there.”
Abigail approached. “Your supplies are ready, Mr. Masters. It came to two dollars and thirty-four cents, and I charged it to the Hawkins’ account. My brother is setting the parcels in your wagon now.”
Blade picked up the mail. “Thank you, Abigail.”
After a prompt from her mother, she walked with him to the front door. “Abby,” she offered with an earnest smile. “Mr. Masters? I hope you’ll come to Founders Day.”
“I’ll try my best, Abby,” he said.
Outside, Blade tossed a tip to the gangly young man standing by the wagon.
The lad wore a long, crisp apron, like Abby and Mrs. Farber. His hair was slicked flat, parted down the middle. “Thank you and come again,” he chirped.
Blade climbed onto the seat and reached for the brake handle.
“Mr. Masters, sir? Would you ask Stormy to save a dance for me at Founders Day? Tell her I’ve been practicing.”
“Practicing?”
“Last year, I didn’t know how to lead, so she did it. Everyone laughed at us.” His boyish face flushed. “I want to try again.”
“Good for you, son. I’ll tell her as soon as I see her.”
After a light tap of the reins on the horses’ backs, he drove slowly down the broad, hard-packed street. Prosperity was going to be his trading post, the town’s residents his neighbors. He’d keep to himself most of the time, but he’d need supplies. And occasionally, information.
He’d learned more about the Hawkins family already, but not what he’d expected. Stormy was the butt of unending gossip concerning her mother. Whenever she came into town, a ‘Never a Lady’ patch was slapped onto her back. It was no wonder she chose cows over friends and books over dances.
His mother had always insisted that attire was the lens through which a woman was judged. He’d never put much stock in her assertions, but he’d always been a bit too much like his father, dismissive because he didn’t care about ruffles and starch.
He passed in front of the clothing emporium. In the shop window, a dressmaker’s mannequin displayed a stunning, plum traveling dress with a matching over-jacket.
Impulsively, he reined the horses to a stop. After setting the brake, he jumped down and opened the store’s door. A small bell tinkled over his head.
An assortment of dresses and suits hung on circular racks. Along the walls, bolts of fabric and spools of ribbon were shelved by hue.
He strode to the window display and checked the velvet ensemble for a designer’s tag. He did not find one. The tailor or seamstress had to be local.
A matron wearing a high-collared shirtwaist and peach walking skirt rose from a secretary desk. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to buy a dress for Stormy Hawkins.”
She cocked her head as if she’d not heard him correctly. “We’ve never sold a dress to Stormy Hawkins. Mister . . .”
“Blade Masters. It’s a surprise.”
“Yes, it is,” she murmured. “Do you have a style in mind? Mature ladies still like their bustles, but the latest fashions from Paris are tight from the neck to the knee with a shallow, flaring train.” She jerked her head up. “Is this for the Founders Day dance?”
Blade nodded.
She tsked. “Stormy would rip the seams. Let’s pick a color first. What do you like, Mr. Masters?”
“Emerald green. And, not too frilly.”
“Green. Let me think. Her hair is so red.” She s
huffled through the rack of women’s dresses and moved to one for older girls. “Yellow is out. She’s in the sun too much.” She dropped her arms and took a half-step back. “She really should try them on.”
He patted his vest pocket. “Surely there is a way, Mrs. . . .”
“Rosenbaum.” She smiled resolutely and fussed through the racks again. “Nothing ready-made will suit Stormy Hawkins. She is petite with a bosom, a difficult shape to fit.” She walked to the back of her shop and parted a curtain. “Laura, would you come out here?”
Turning back, she smiled. “Laura Boe is a wonderful seamstress. She and I could select the fabric and add just enough lace to make it special. I estimate five dollars for the materials.” She glanced at his hand, still on his pocket. “Yes, and ten for the sewing. This is a rush order with the dance coming up so soon.” She quickly wrote a receipt and held it out for his approval.
He dropped five dollars into her hand and held the remaining coins where she could see them.
“Ah, there you are, Laura. We have a special order. A dress for Stormy Hawkins.”
The seamstress gazed at her employer with obvious disbelief. “That girl never wears dresses.”
Mrs. Rosenbaum shot the dark-skinned woman a reproving look. “It’s a surprise from Mr. Masters for Founders Day. He’ll get Stormy to come in for measurements.”
“Yes, ma’am. She’ll have to come in tomorrow or there won’t be enough time.”
Blade thought fast. If he enlisted Zed’s help . . .
The shop owner clapped her hands. “I know how we can take her measurements without spoiling the surprise.”
“I’ll make sure she comes in tomorrow. Are we agreed?” he asked. “Mrs. Boe?”
Laura nodded.
Mrs. Rosenbaum held out her hand for the rest of her money. “This is very exciting. Stormy Hawkins in a dress.” Suddenly, she frowned. “You do understand, Mr. Masters, that after the dress is made, we can’t make her wear it.”
Blade smiled as he left the shop. He’d never ordered a dress before, but a land buyer needed to get on his seller’s good side. This dress scheme would demonstrate that he had Stormy’s best interest at heart.
Attending the Founders Day dance in a fancy dress could change how people treated her, and how she thought about her possibilities.
His grin broadened as he imagined Mrs. Boe chasing Stormy through the emporium with a measuring tape while Mrs. Rosenbaum barred the door. He tried to recall the last time he’d felt so light-hearted.
Truth be told, he was looking forward to Stormy’s reaction to his surprise. Delighted would be nice. Furious was a definite possibility. He’d be content with shocked.
~ ~ ~
Jonathan Vance stuck his head out of the Land & Loan door and stared hard at Blade Masters’ back. Masters hadn’t flashed a tin star, and he didn’t carry himself like an itinerant cow-puncher.
According to Ginny at the hotel, Masters had money in his saddlebags but nothing that identified who he was or whom he worked for. Maybe he was a gold digger looking for a rich widow. More likely, he was a land speculator, a lone wolf scouting for properties. It took one to know one.
If he was right, Masters would soon discover the Hawkins spread. The property was magnificent. Parceled up and sold as small sodbuster farmsteads, it was worth a medium-sized fortune. More than enough to set up a smart man for the rest of his life.
Vance retreated to his back room, poured himself a whiskey, and swirled it as he studied his image in front of a full-length mirror.
Last night, when he was in bed with Starlie Benoit above the Kicking Horse Saloon, the whore had suggested a beard might help him look more like an up-and-coming statesman.
He knew better. He was the bastard son of an upstairs maid who’d loved laudanum more than life. He’d learned the hard way that a man determined to become governor didn’t fiddle with his looks. He got himself a landowning wife.
If Stormy Hawkins didn’t agree to marry him at this Founders Day dance, he’d corral her when she defaulted on her loan.
After that, he’d make her dress right and act like a lady. And, on their wedding night, he’d tie her wrists and ankles to the bedposts and show her what he really liked.
Vance downed his drink in a big gulp, put on his jacket, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he stepped out onto the sidewalk. It wouldn’t be hard to find out what Masters was doing in Prosperity, and if he needed to be chased off.
Chapter 5
Just before dawn, Stormy knocked softly on Zed’s bedroom door. Yesterday, she’d lost her temper in front of Blade. And, she wanted to make sure Zed hadn’t made any last-minute changes to the morning work schedule. She didn’t want to get blindsided again.
When Zed didn’t answer, she opened his door.
His bedcovers were thrown back, and the room was empty.
She ran to the open window in a panic. A month ago, he’d suffered bad heart palpitations during a midnight trip to the outhouse. Was he lying outside now clutching his chest? It was still too dark to distinguish forms from shadows.
She stuck out her head and listened for faint cries of help.
Muted voices rose from the living area downstairs. She rushed down the stairs, two at a time.
Zed sat at the dining table with Blade, Brownie, and Running Bear. He looked fit as a fiddle. As she approached, he slapped the table gleefully, something she hadn’t seen him do in months. “I think it’s a fine idea, son,” he said.
“What’s a fine idea?” she asked.
Blade looked down and fussed with his coffee cup. Brownie picked at a scab on one knuckle. Running Bear got up and walked out the front door.
Zed blinked several times before he answered. “Drawing a detailed map of the ranch.”
“We have to finish the fence,” she said. “We don’t have time to draw.”
“A schematic that includes the new section would be useful,” he said calmly.
“Useful for what?” she demanded. “We know the lay of the land.”
“Blade doesn’t.”
She wanted to shout, ‘So?’ but she could count. Four against one were bad odds. Biting her tongue, she marched into the kitchen. As she dished hash for her breakfast, she heard more whispering and then the scrape of chair legs. Certain now that the men were up to something, she sidled to the doorway and peeked out.
Through a window, she could see Running Bear saddling horses in the corral. Zed, Brownie, and Blade stood in front of the big bookshelf. Zed pulled his box of carved chess pieces from a shelf and opened it.
Blade plucked out a rook. “I’m not very good, but I’d love to play.”
Zed’s eyes shone with a gambler’s lust. “This evening?”
“All right, sir. It’s a deal.”
“Time to giddy-yup!” Running Bear’s voice rolled through the house like a rumble of far-off thunder.
Blade and Brownie scooped up their hats and gloves, and then hightailed outside.
Stormy dropped her plate of food onto the dining table and pushed past Zed. This was not the plan they’d agreed upon last night.
The heated shout rising to her lips fizzled to a soft sigh as she watched Blade stride across the yard. From the heel of his boots to the crown of his Stetson, he moved with the grace of a dancer and the sureness of a hunter. He mounted his mare in one smooth motion and then looked back at her.
His gaze heated her body, lighting fires in places she didn’t know could burn. Just when she was sure she couldn’t endure any more, he touched the brim of his hat, reached for Belinda’s reins, and rode out between Brownie and Running Bear.
Her fluttering heart gradually regained a normal beat.
Two more weeks. He’d leave, and everything would return to norm
al.
She walked back inside. “Why isn’t Blade going for posts?”
“Because you are.” Zed opened the corner wardrobe, where they stored their special occasion clothes.
Her day turned from bad to worse. She could avoid Vance, but as soon as townspeople saw her, they’d remember how she’d slapped Blade in front of the Land & Loan. “No, I’m not.”
Zed pulled a button from the pocket of his Sunday jacket. “I need you to stop at Mrs. Rosenbaum’s. Find a button to match this one or buy thirteen new ones. I’ll sew them on this afternoon.”
Stormy tried to think of an excuse. The clothing emporium sold frilly dresses and breath-robbing corsets. Shoes with ribbon ties. Useless white gloves.
Suddenly, a truly awful image stabbed through her mind: Zed laid out in a pine box wearing this black jacket.
She forgot about the clothing emporium, and how surreal she felt whenever Blade was near. Maybe Zed was feeling poorly and wanted to get everyone else out of the house so he could talk to her alone. “Are you dizzy? Any pains in your chest?”
“I feel fine.” He thumped his chest like a jungle ape. “Good enough to go dancing.”
Skeptical, she set her palm on his forehead. To her relief, it was cool and dry. “No dancing,” she said sternly. “Doctor’s orders. Remember?”
Zed smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
~ ~ ~
“Hello, Stormy,” Mrs. Rosenbaum said. “Come in, dear. It’s nice to see you.”
Stormy looked warily at the shopkeeper, who’d never welcomed her warmly.
Mrs. Rosenbaum slid an arm across her shoulders and kicked the Emporium’s front door with the toe of her shoe. The door shut with a resounding thud. “Laura, look who’s here.”
The gray-haired seamstress flung open the curtain that separated the store’s fitting room from the retail area. A dressmaker’s measuring tape hung from her neck.
