by Caroline Lee
These three gowns had to be perfect. This was the year, she vowed. The year that her creations finally got Eunice and Mabel noticed by some man, and married. They were desperate to be courted, and Ella was desperate to get them out of her hair. At nineteen and twenty-one, they were the belles of the area—to hear Sibyl tell it while her sisters preened. But so far no young beaus had stepped forward.
This year, Ella planned to make them gorgeous, elaborate dresses, and fill their picnic baskets with as many delicious concoctions as she could manage. Some man in the Everland area would bid on their baskets and start courting her sisters, or she’d pull her own hair out.
Ella would get her stepsisters married, by God.
Everland had certainly grown since the last time she’d been to town. Of course, that’d been several years ago, and only to buy new slippers, so it was no wonder that no one recognized her. She didn’t recognize any of them, and just barely remembered the layout of some of the shops. With the railroad spur, hundreds of new people must come through Everland each year, and the town had expanded accordingly.
Unfortunately, though, the stores were having trouble keeping up with the rush. With the Independence celebration so near, the mercantiles had been picked over. Both shops she’d visited that morning had only a few fabric trimmings left. She’d picked up a lovely half-bolt of white lace for Mabel’s pale pink confection—Papa spared no expense when it came to his princesses—but she still needed something for Sibyl and a fringe for Eunice.
There was one place left to try. Mrs. Pedlar over at the dry goods store had reluctantly sent her this way, saying that she didn’t think there’d be any good fabric at all here, because the owner was a man, and what did he know? But Ella was desperate; she wasn’t likely to get another trip into Everland.
So now she stood in the dusty street in her sturdy boots, looking up at the porch in front of the little storefront. The hand-painted sign proudly proclaimed it “Crowne’s Mercantile” and there were three dogs stretched out on the wooded boards. One—a shaggy mountain of an animal—panted in the heat, but the other two appeared to be sleeping. As she stepped onto the porch, though, they all lifted their heads, and one of them whined slightly.
Mr. Heyward spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the dirt road behind her, and Ella winced at his disgusting manners. Her stepfather’s right-hand man had ridden into town beside her on his imposing black horse—which kept trying to nudge her for some reason—and had been following her around to the stores, waiting outside. She hated the man, and for more than just his casual cruelty and his lewd smirks. She hated him because he was always the one who Papa set to watching her, if she had to be out of the house. Having him beside her was the ultimate proof of her stepfather’s power over her life, and that’s why she really hated him.
But at least Papa had let her come to town, even if it did mean putting up with Mr. Heyward’s lewd smirks, bad breath, embarrassingly naughty jokes, and the way he was always looking at her like she was some kind of tasty morsel. She was having an adventure, by Heaven, and nothing he could do was going to hamper that.
The door to the shop was open to catch the breeze, so she lifted her chin and stepped through. Inside, Crowne’s was neat and tidily organized and filled to the brim with goods. There were ropes strung tautly across the room about seven feet up, being used as a sort of advertisement, with goods dangling off of them. Barrels overflowed with nails and flour and pickles, and there were tins of food and folded piles of ready-made clothes and bolts of cloth. Ella gave a little sigh of relief when she saw how many were there—surely there’d be trim to go with it?
She made a beeline for the table with the fabric, and had to move some of the bolts out of the way. There was flannel and denim and cotton and silk, but that was it. She didn’t see any lace or embellishments anywhere! Ella made a little sound of frustration.
“Can I help you find something?”
She glanced towards the counter, intended to wave away the offer, but when her brain caught up with her eyes, she stopped mid-movement. Frankly, it was remarkable that her jaw didn’t drop.
There, behind the counter, was one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. He had rust-colored hair neatly combed back, and a lovely dark vest, and glasses perched on a straight, regal nose. A regal nose? Where had that thought come from? Ella would’ve scoffed at herself, if she could stop gaping long enough to do so. The man had been working in a ledger, but now straightened, and she could see the sprinkling of light hair at the base of his neck where his collar fell open.
Most remarkable of all, though, was his size; his shoulders looked like they might break through the seams of his fine white shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows in this heat, revealing powerful-looking forearms. Had she always found forearms so compelling? Right now, she couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember ever seeing a set of forearms so fascinating.
“Miss?” She could hear the laughter in his voice, and would respond, just as soon as she could breathe again. “Can I help you find something in particular?”
“Lace.” Ella managed to choke out the word, and watched him smile in response. Dear God, his smile. He had even white teeth, and were those… were those freckles? He had freckles? My, was it warm in here?
“Certainly. What kind do you need?” Her paragon pulled his glasses off to swipe at them with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. He had green eyes. But not just any green. Ella clamped down hard on her tongue, trying to stop her silly brain for waxing poetic about a pair of eyes, no matter how exquisite they might be.
By turning her attention back to the bolts of material, by touching them instead of his forearms, she was able to get her heart pounding normally again. A deep breath, and then: “I need trimmings for some dresses I’m working on. The other stores’ supplies have been picked over, and I was hoping…” She swallowed. She was hoping for a lot.
She was hoping that Crowne’s Mercantile carried lace and fringe. She was hoping that Mabel and Eunice would get married this year and move out. She was hoping that her sisters’ ugly bullying would stop, and maybe she could be allowed to live her life in peace. She was hoping that Mr. Heyward would sprain his ankle and have to stop following her around. She was hoping that she’d be allowed back into town more regularly. She was hoping the gorgeous store-keeper would come over here and she might get to touch him, somehow.
Looks like she was going to get one of her wishes, at least. From the corner of her eye, she watched him settle his glasses back in place, brace both strong hands on the counter, and straighten further. He’d been perched on a high stool, and now that he stood, she realized just how tall he really was. With an odd little hop, he came around the corner of the counter, and then reached up to grab one of the ropes strung across the store. It wasn’t until he hopped to the next table, holding the rope for balance and bracing his right hand on the displays of merchandise, that Ella looked down.
His right trouser leg—dark and pressed and neat—was pinned below his knee. She swallowed the hot taste in her throat, not sure why this injury would bother her more than the others she’d seen and read about in the decade since the war had ended. Was it because he was so young and handsome otherwise? How remarkable, that he’d been able to overcome the loss of a limb, and still manage this thriving store!
He swung to a stop beside her, and Ella forced her gaze up his body—his very well-built body—up to his face. And immediately felt guilty. Whereas, behind the counter, his expression had been open and welcoming, now he wore a carefully blank look. This close, she could see that his eyes were really a pale blue-green, but were now hooded, his brows tight and his jaw hard.
He’d caught her looking. Well, how could he not? She’d all but been gaping at him from the moment she saw him, and then had stared at his missing leg. She wondered what he’d seen on her face in that moment, and wondered why she felt so guilty about it. Swallowing, Ella offered him a sickly smile. “I’m s
orry.” Sorry for staring. Sorry for making him lose that gorgeous grin. Sorry for his injury.
This time his smile was tight and forced, looking like he was humoring her. A pale comparison to the way his face had lit up when he was laughing at her earlier. “Lace, you said?”
He was all business now. Dropping his hold on the rope, he shifted his hold on the table, canted his right leg out behind him for balance, and bent to reach for a half-hidden basket. Pulling it out from under the table, he hoisted it on top of two bolts of cotton, and Ella sucked in a breath at the way his muscles worked under the skin of those large forearms. No wonder his upper body was so well-built; he had to compensate for the loss of his foot and leg.
She could probably stand there all day, watching him pull smaller bolts from the basket, but he laid out a twist of white lace, as if waiting for her to inspect it. Intently aware of his heat beside her, his compelling bare forearm nearly touching her, Ella smoothed one finger down the white lace, ashamed of the dirt under her nails.
“Thank you.” Her voice caught, and she had to clear her throat. “Thank you, but I picked up something similar this morning.” Hesitantly, she tilted her chin towards him, ready to stare back down at the lace again if he rebuffed her attempt at reconciliation. “Do you have anything else?”
Without answering, he tipped the basket over, spilling out the frills and ribbons and trimmings, and then turned back towards the counter. Ella busied herself pawing through the pile—so different from the ordered structure around her—but she wasn’t really looking at it. No, she was seeing a pair of pale blue-green eyes flickering with disappointment at her rudeness.
With a sigh, Ella squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She flicked her gaze towards the counter again, seeing him bracing his weight on it while he hopped around the edge back towards his seat. Just when she’d thought her stomach couldn’t sink any further, she realized that he’d created this mess for her, and would have to get back over here later to clean it up.
Straightening her shoulders, Ella told herself that just wasn’t possible. She’d neaten up here. Focused now on her task, she examined each piece, roll, and bolt of embellishment, putting aside the ones with possibilities, and placing all the others neatly back into the basket.
Soon, she’d picked out a pretty white ribbon for Eunice’s green silk. Her middle stepsister wouldn’t like the plainness of it, but Ella could pair it with a few yards of this thick white fringe, and Eunice probably wouldn’t even notice it. Without the ribbon to tie the decorations together, the fringe would look out of place… but her stepsisters really only cared about the ostentatious aspects of a dress. And judging from the size and quality of this ribbon, it’d cost Papa a pretty penny—which of course was no issue, as far as they were concerned—and thus would satisfy her stepsisters.
The ribbon would work for Sibyl’s dress as well, but Ella continued to dig through the pile, just to marvel at the different textures and colors. At the very bottom, she found the most beautiful black velvet ribbon. It didn’t go with any of the Miller sisters’ gowns, but it was gorgeous. Ella held the bolt in one hand and stroked the ribbon across her opposite palm, quelling a delicious shiver at its softness against her skin.
Had she ever worn anything so decadent? She’d spent a decade sewing for her sisters, all manner of dresses and gowns for their weekly social outings and monthly suppers. Mabel and Eunice probably had a hundred dresses, between the two of them, and Ella had made all but a few of them. But none for herself. Ella had two dresses, an extra skirt, and a blouse. All of which had once belonged to her sisters, and were even plainer than their nightgowns. She wore her blue cotton in the summer, and her gray wool in the winter, and hoped that she found time to stitch up any rips or tears.
But this, this velvet… Ella sighed again, allowing it to caress her palm one more time. This was like a rich promise of... of… excitement and beauty and adventure.
And you’ll never have the chance to wear it, she reminded herself sternly. Making quick work of rolling up the velvet ribbon, Ella gathered the spool of white ribbon and the fringed bolt, and turned to the counter.
And stopped short. He was smiling again. At her.
CHAPTER TWO
Ian watched the girl’s concentration melt into a look of wonder as she slowly stroked the black ribbon, and he smiled. When she’d entered his store—when she’d gazed at him like he was a chocolate cake with cream and berries on top—she’d looked every inch a woman. An interested woman. But now, seeing the way her face softened and her eyes went all hazy, Ian thought she looked younger. More innocent.
And, as he settled back on his stool, he had to admit that he liked her better this way. He was used to women looking at him like she had at first, seeing his broad shoulders and fine suits. But as soon as they got a look at his leg—or rather, where his leg had been—their expressions inevitably all changed to pity. Every single one of them.
Just like this girl’s had. Oh, he hadn’t needed to be looking into those bright blue eyes to see the pity there—he’d known it from the small gasp she probably hadn’t even noticed, and the way her lips had tightened.
If he’d been smart, Ian would’ve just stayed behind the counter, enjoying this stranger’s brief admiration, and pointed to the basket of fripperies. But he’d long ago promised himself that he wasn’t going to let his injury stop him from doing every single thing that a shop-owner should, and that included waiting on his customers.
Using his crutch in the store, however, was just silly; he hated having to maneuver around the displays. Instead, ropes ran around the store—he could use them for advertising, too—which he relied on for balance. Most of his customers had gotten used to seeing him hopping and shuffling and lifting himself around the store, but with the influx of people from the railway, he always got some stares.
He could swallow down the anger their pity left him feeling, and smile politely to make sales, because that’s what mercantile owners did. They made sales. And judging from the amount of ribbon and whatnot this girl was collecting, he was about to make a big one.
So he was still smiling when she finally turned to him, her arms full of rolls and spools. And stopped dead. The look of surprise and bemusement crept back over her face, and Ian’s smile grew. Yeah, maybe he was teasing her a little, but it shouldn’t matter. She couldn’t hide her pity at his leg; he wasn’t going to hide him amusement at the way she stared.
But almost a minute went by before he finally broke the spell. “Miss…?
“Ella.” That was definitely a blurt. She blurted out her name, and Ian hid his chuckle by clearing his throat.
“Nice to meet you, Ella.” Although they hadn’t officially “met”, that didn’t seem to bother her. “I’m Ian Crowne.”
“This is your store?” Her dark brows went up, and he wondered if she was impressed.
A nod, and Ian didn’t bother to hide his pride. “It is, indeed. Almost three years now, one of Everland’s staples.” She didn’t need to know that it was a struggle to maintain the place by himself through the summer rushes, or to make enough through the long winter months.
Almost hesitantly, she picked her way toward his counter. Each footfall made a heavy clu-clunk, and Ian’s trained eye picked out the boots—the kind the cowboys wore—peeking out from her worn blue dress. It was an odd choice of footwear for such a delicate little thing, but maybe she had a reason for wearing them. He’d heard from one of his regulars that the upcoming celebration had drawn a bunch of strangers—mysterious and otherwise—into town. And if she was coming through on the train—he’d definitely never seen her before—then maybe the footwear made sense.
He was thinking about the possibilities of ordering a few sets of sturdy boots for the women coming through when the girl dropped her purchases on the counter in front of him. He glanced up from them to find her smiling shyly, and he cursed himself for the sudden thickness in his throat—and his tro
users. She was just a girl, passing through, who pitied him.
Still, he’d spent most of his life selling people things. “This ribbon will be lovely on you.” He might not have many young women who shopped at his store yet, but he knew that compliments always worked. “For a dress you’re making?”
She blushed. She actually blushed, and looked away, pretending great interest in a jar of hard candies. Ian studied her profile; skin pale enough that her cheeks pinked prettily, high cheekbones, a bottom lip a man might want to suck on, all capped with a head of black-as-coal hair. She’d pulled the mass of it back, but enough tendrils escaped around her forehead, ears and nape to prove that it was long and wavy. He’d always liked women with dark hair, and decided that—whatever her thoughts on him—he didn’t mind looking at Ella one bit.
“It’s not for me.” Her admission was almost a whisper.
“You’re a seamstress then?” That was a useful profession for a woman looking to start a new life out west—or wherever the train was taking her. Or maybe she was one of the unknown newcomers who were camped outside of town, and was hoping to one day set up shop here in Everland? He wouldn’t mind seeing her more often.
“Of… Of sorts, I suppose.” If he hadn’t been staring at her, he might’ve missed the flash of blue when she peeked at him; because he didn’t, Ian smiled gently and was rewarded with another blush. His chest puffed, thinking that he made a pretty girl blush. That was a feather in any man’s cap, cripple or no.
Her hands fiddled with the ribbon, so he picked up the small bolt of fringe. “How much of this do you need?”
“Um…” Her finger skimmed over the ribbon gently, reverently. There were calluses on that finger, which Ian hadn’t expected to see. A seamstress would have scars on her fingertips—his own mother had been one, and he remembered the way her fingers would be poked with needles and pins while making dresses for her clients—but not full calluses. Perhaps they were from her journey westward? “All of it, I think. Just to be safe.”
