by Amanda Cabot
Nodding when Lydia offered to refill her coffee cup, Catherine asked, “Is that why you left Syracuse?”
“Not really. The snow was beautiful, and summers are glorious, but after my mother died, there was nothing holding me there. When Edgar said we would be able to build new lives here, it sounded like a good idea.” It still did, although Edgar wouldn’t be a part of whatever life she built.
“So you and Edgar were friends.” Catherine looked as if something about that bothered her.
Though Lydia wouldn’t admit that they’d been more than friends, she wasn’t lying when she said, “He was my best friend.” And that was why it hurt so much to discover that he’d broken his promises. Friends didn’t do that.
She must have frowned, because Catherine reached across the table and patted her hand. “Don’t worry. Travis will figure out where he’s gone. He’s a good sheriff, and,” she added with a conspiratorial smile, “in case you’re interested, he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in Cimarron Creek.”
But Lydia wasn’t interested. It didn’t matter how handsome Travis was, even though he was more handsome than any man she’d met. Marriage wasn’t for her. That was one lesson she’d learned the hard way.
Marriage. Travis took another swallow of coffee in the hope that it would clear his head. Normally he enjoyed the somewhat bitter brew, but not this morning. Even an extra spoonful of sugar hadn’t made it palatable.
He frowned and looked around the kitchen as he sliced bread and prepared to toast it. If he wasn’t careful, he’d become as ornery as his father. He couldn’t let that happen, but he also couldn’t dismiss the thoughts that had been storming through his mind all night, keeping sleep at bay better than a quart of coffee.
Marriage. He should have left the game when it had been apparent that that was going to be the primary topic of conversation. Instead of concentrating while they’d been playing dominoes last night, it seemed all Warner could do was talk about Miss Crawford and how she might be the perfect wife for him.
And then there was Nate, the goat farmer who formed part of their quartet. He didn’t say much, but he’d hinted that he had his eyes on someone and that they might tie the knot next year. Only Porter had remained silent, perhaps because he was already married.
Travis took another swig of coffee, frowning when he noticed how ragged the bread was. Pa would be sure to complain. The man seemed to spend his time looking for reasons to complain. But Pa wasn’t what was bothering him this morning. Warner and Nate were. His good friends were on the verge of making a huge mistake.
Hadn’t any of them looked around and seen what marriage meant? Once the thrill of those first few months faded, the promises of happiness disappeared, replaced by the reality of life with a virtual stranger, a life of endless misery. Travis had seen it enough times to know that was the rule, not the exception.
His mother had tried to hide it, and when he’d caught her crying, she’d claimed she had sensitive eyes, nothing more, but Travis knew better. Ma was unhappy, and Pa was too. Though neither would admit it, at least not to Travis, their marriage had been a mistake.
Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jonas’s life wasn’t much better. When he had been a small child, Travis had loved to play in their yard, but then everything had changed. By the time he began to study law with Uncle Jonas, he could see the strain between them. And then there were Porter and Hilda. Travis couldn’t tell anything about Hilda—she kept a smile on her face whenever Travis was around—but Porter didn’t act like a man who was boots over Stetson in love with his wife.
There had to be some exceptions. The logical part of Travis’s brain told him that, but the other part, the part that could not forget his mother’s tears, knew that marriage was a risk. A risk he wasn’t willing to take.
6
I’m sorry, my dear, but the answer is the same.” Aunt Bertha held out three more slips of paper as she entered the parlor where Lydia was tatting an edging for a handkerchief. For the past day and a half, the notes had been arriving regularly, the result of the inquiries Aunt Bertha had sent on Lydia’s behalf when she’d insisted she wanted to find a way to earn some money.
“No one admits to needing an assistant.” Aunt Bertha frowned and crumpled one of the sheets. “No one said it, but I suspect word of your beauty has spread through town faster than dust in a summer windstorm. The men are afraid their wives would be jealous if you were in their stores all day, and the single women shopkeepers don’t want competition for the bachelors’ hearts.”
Though she was disappointed, Lydia wasn’t surprised. Travis had warned her this was likely. Instead of dwelling on her seeming inability to acquire employment in Cimarron Creek, she focused on Aunt Bertha’s explanation. Lydia didn’t believe the older woman’s rationale. Aunt Bertha was being kind, not wanting to admit that no one in town wanted to hire a Yankee. The thought that Lydia’s appearance had anything to do with the rejections was ludicrous.
“I’m not beautiful,” she said firmly.
Aunt Bertha shook her head. “You’re as beautiful as my hair is gray.” She gave her silver locks a pat. “If you don’t believe me, you need only look in the mirror.” Without a pause, she continued, “Pride may be a sin, but not acknowledging God’s gifts is equally sinful. He gave you that beautiful face just like he gave you the ability to teach. They’re both valuable. And before you try to contradict me, let me remind you that not everyone can instill the love of learning in young minds. Catherine struggles.” Aunt Bertha’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded. “That might be the answer. When school resumes, you could help her.”
Though Lydia knew she would enjoy that, she also knew it wasn’t the solution to her dilemma. “Travis told me the town has no money for a second teacher.” And Catherine wouldn’t be ready to resign for another year.
Aunt Bertha shrugged. “That may be true, but I’ve told you money doesn’t matter. I have more than I’ll ever need, so why would I expect you to pay me for the little food you eat?”
It was not the first time they’d had this discussion. Lydia smiled at the woman who’d offered her a home. “You know I want to earn my keep.”
“And you do. Not having to cook breakfast has made my mornings easier, but that’s not all you do. Just having you here to talk to has helped me more than you’ll ever know. I wouldn’t admit it to Travis, but I was lonely. You’ve filled a place that’s been empty ever since . . .” For the first time, she paused, swallowing deeply and staring into the distance.
When Aunt Bertha spoke again, it was obvious she hadn’t wanted to continue that train of thought. “If you want to help, you can go to the drugstore this afternoon. My nephew has some digestive tablets for me. I usually go myself, but I’m feeling a mite tired today.” She turned her gaze back to Lydia. “Do you know where the drugstore is?”
Lydia nodded. “Next to the mercantile. I saw it when I arrived. Catherine told me how proud Warner’s parents are of his profession.”
Aunt Bertha gave Lydia a warm smile. “You remembered his name. Good work, Lydia. Maybe I won’t have to give you a list of all the relatives after all.”
Once the lunch dishes were washed and put away, Lydia donned her hat and gloves and headed for the drugstore. It felt good to be out and about. Though it had been three days since she’d arrived, Aunt Bertha had insisted she stay at home, claiming she would introduce Lydia to the townspeople at church on Sunday.
“Some of them need a while to get used to the idea of another Yankee in Cimarron Creek,” she explained. “By Sunday, speculation will have died down, and with you by my side, no one will dare to be rude.”
Aunt Bertha had made an exception the night they’d had supper with Catherine and her mother but had not stopped to converse with the few people who’d been outdoors while she and Lydia walked to Catherine and Gussie’s home. Though Lydia had been happy for the opportunity to meet Catherine’s mother, after seeing how frail Gussie Whitfield was, she shared Catherine’s belief t
hat they would be unable to travel to Europe this summer. It appeared that merely walking the block from their home to the doctor’s office would sap Gussie’s stamina.
Today it was Aunt Bertha’s stamina that was failing, and that worried Lydia. Though the older woman continued to insist that nothing was wrong, she could not disguise her breathlessness when she climbed the stairs. But Lydia was strong, healthy, and glad to have the opportunity to stretch her legs. More than that, she was happy to be able to do something for her benefactress, even something as trivial as running an errand.
She walked briskly toward Main Street, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, and her lips curved into a smile as she pushed open the door to the drugstore. It would be interesting to see if it resembled the ones she’d visited in Syracuse.
As her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, Lydia saw the same glass-fronted cabinets with the same array of multicolored bottles, the same long counters she’d encountered when she’d bought patent medicines for the headmistress. Though it was more than a thousand miles away, this apothecary had much in common with the ones in Syracuse. There was, however, one difference.
“Good afternoon, Miss Crawford.” The look the man behind the counter gave her made Lydia’s smile falter. She had expected Warner Gray to be close to Sheriff Whitfield’s age, and he was. She had thought he might bear some resemblance to Travis, and he did. But she had not expected him to subject her to what could only be called close scrutiny. No one, not even the single men who’d ridden the stagecoach, had looked at her like that. Some of those men had displayed interest, but it had been a warm interest, not this cold cataloging of her features.
Lydia nodded briefly, acknowledging the pharmacist’s greeting. Though he was the same height as the sheriff, his hair was lighter than Travis’s, his eyes blue rather than gray. Right now, those eyes were assessing her, moving slowly from the crown of her hat to the toes of her high-buttoned shoes, looking at her as if she were a specimen under a microscope. Was this what men were taught at the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy? Lydia doubted it.
“I must say that I’m flattered you came in person rather than having Aunt Bertha send a note,” Warner Gray said with a smile that did nothing to warm Lydia’s heart. “Unfortunately, my answer is the same as my fellow shopkeepers’. I hate to disappoint a pretty lady like you, but I have no need of a clerk or an assistant. On the other hand, perhaps . . .”
She didn’t want to hear what alternative he might propose. It might be wrong to form a snap judgment, but Lydia knew she did not want to work for this man.
“You’re not disappointing me, Mr. Gray.” She used the stern voice that never failed to keep mischievous pupils in line. “Possible employment was not the reason I came.” Her firm tone appeared to have no effect on him, for Warner Gray continued to regard her as if she were a piece of merchandise he was considering purchasing. If this was how the other storeowners would have reacted if she’d visited their shops, Lydia was grateful Aunt Bertha had not let her approach them. It was far better to have received their responses in writing than be subjected to such scrutiny.
Since Texans were noted for their friendliness, she could only surmise that Warner Gray’s rudeness was caused by her being a Yankee. Fortunately, the sheriff had never stared at her. He’d been as polite and as helpful as any man could be.
“I’m here as a customer. Aunt Bertha,” Lydia said, using the familiar name deliberately, “asked me to pick up a package you have for her.”
Apparently surprised by the request, Warner nodded quickly. “Yes, of course.” He reached beneath the counter and withdrew a small rectangular tin with familiar lettering. Lydia had purchased the same brand of digestive tablets for one of her fellow teachers. “You can tell her I added it to her account.”
“Certainly. Thank you, Mr. Gray.”
“The pleasure was mine.” He gave Lydia another of those long looks that made her wish she were somewhere—anywhere—else. “Welcome to Cimarron Creek, Miss Crawford. I hope to have the opportunity to get to know you better.”
Lydia had no such hopes, but rather than be rude, she simply slid the package into her reticule and nodded. As she turned to leave, the door swung open, and a man strode in, knocking Lydia aside in his impatience to reach the counter.
“Do you have the rat poison I ordered?” he demanded.
Lydia took a shallow breath as she regained her balance. Though the man was the same height as Warner, the similarities ended there. Less formally dressed than the pharmacist, he appeared to be a farmer or working man with broad shoulders, clearly defined muscles, and a hat that had obviously seen better years. His hair was almost as pale blond as Lydia’s, and she suspected his eyes were a lighter blue than Warner’s. But what made him distinctive was not his appearance. It was the scent of mint that clung to him.
The man took another step, then stopped, as if he’d suddenly registered Lydia’s presence. He turned, his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, doffing his hat. “I hope I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t see you, what with the darkness and all. I assure you I’m not always so rude, especially around pretty girls. My mama taught me better.”
“I’m fine, sir. No harm done,” Lydia told him. This man hadn’t intentionally shoved her out of his way, but Warner Gray had most assuredly intended to stare at her. Even if it hadn’t been his intent to embarrass her, he should have recognized her discomfort and stopped.
The blond-haired man turned toward Warner. “Go ahead, man. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Though the pharmacist appeared unhappy with the request, he complied. “Miss Crawford, this is Nate Kenton. Despite his apparent lack of manners, I feel duty bound to tell you he grows the best peaches in the area, and his goats are without rival. Nate, this lovely lady is Miss Crawford. She’s staying with Aunt Bertha while she’s in Cimarron Creek.”
Nate Kenton nodded gravely, and as he did, Lydia saw that his eyes were indeed the blue she’d expected. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Miss Crawford.”
“And mine to make your acquaintance.” It was the polite rejoinder, the standard reply. And, though she wouldn’t describe it as a pleasure, Lydia had appreciated the fact that while Nate Kenton had inspected her, he hadn’t been as blatant as Warner Gray. His had been the appraisal a single man often gave a woman.
Lydia dipped her head in farewell. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to leave.” As she turned, she saw Warner sling a bright yellow sack onto the counter. “Here you are, Nate. Guaranteed to kill rats.”
Though the fastest way to Aunt Bertha’s would be to retrace her steps and walk north on Main, then east on Pecan, a distance of less than two blocks, Lydia was in no hurry, and so she headed south.
“Lydia!”
She turned, startled by Travis’s shout but pleased by the prospect of a conversation with a man whose courtesy was never in doubt. He appeared to have been walking down the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street, but now he was striding across the street toward her.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” she said as he approached.
Those eyes that could change from silver to thundercloud gray shone with amusement. “I thought we’d agreed on first names.”
“We did, but I wasn’t certain of the etiquette when you’re working.”
Amusement turned to a chuckle. “I’m always working. That’s one of the disadvantages of the job, but let’s not talk about that. I’m glad to see Aunt Bertha let you out of the house. She can be a tad protective.”
Though Lydia doubted Travis meant to be critical, she was quick to say, “Your aunt has been nothing but kind to me. She’s planning to introduce me to everyone on Sunday, and in the meantime she’s asked all the shopkeepers if they need help.”
Travis tipped his hat to the trio of women emerging from the dressmaker’s store before he said, “No luck.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No.”
> “I was afraid of that. There’s not much for single women to do here except—”
Before he could complete the sentence, the sound of boot heels pounding on the boardwalk made both Travis and Lydia turn. Nate Kenton was approaching at the same pace that he’d barreled into the drugstore. It appeared this man did nothing in slow motion.
“No fair, Sheriff,” he said when he reached them. “You can’t monopolize the prettiest girl in town just because you’ve got a star on your chest.” Nate pulled a small bottle from his pocket and handed it to Lydia. “This is for you, Miss Crawford. I never had call to buy it before, but Jacob Whitfield at the mercantile told me the ladies like this scent the best.”
Lydia stared at the perfume, not sure what to do. The etiquette lessons she’d taught in Syracuse had stressed that flowers, books, and candy were the only gifts a lady could accept from a gentleman other than her husband. Items as personal as clothing or toilet water were strictly forbidden. But this was Texas, not Syracuse. Perhaps customs were different here.
“I’m sorry that I can’t accept this,” she said, her regret at rejecting a friendly overture sincere. Though she had no interest in Nate Kenton as a suitor, Lydia did not want anyone in Cimarron Creek believing her to be standoffish. “We’ve only just met.”
Nate nodded, as if he’d expected her response. “This isn’t an ordinary gift, Miss Crawford. It’s an apology for the way we met. I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m some kind of lout who doesn’t respect a lady.” He looked down at the glass bottle. “Take it . . . please.”
His plea was so heartfelt that Lydia could not refuse him. “Thank you, Mr. Kenton.” Not only did she accept the perfume, but she opened the top and sniffed the contents. “It’s very pretty. I’ll enjoy wearing it.” And she would. It had been years since she’d had toilet water. Though many scents were not costly, she and Edgar had agreed to save every penny they could for their move to Texas. He had given up tobacco, and she’d forgone luxuries like perfume and fancy handkerchiefs.
