Gunsmoke and Gingham

by Kirsten Osbourne

  Chapter 6

  His heart jumped into his throat. “What?”

  She turned to him then, her expressive features pleading with him to believe her, to understand. “I couldn’t have you thinking I’d come up with that idea. It was Mother—and Mother alone, I swear it.”

  Must she deny it with such vehemence? No matter what Arrah said, he wasn’t a bad catch. He had a lot to offer a woman.

  “I know,” Liz insisted. “It’s the oddest thing I’ve heard. You must understand, until yesterday morning, when another young man came to call—”

  “Who?”

  “Mr… I—I don’t know.”

  “How many have come to the house?”

  She lifted one slender shoulder in an uneasy shrug.

  Who was he kidding? Liz was a lovely woman—if a bit young. Of course she’d have men coming to call, hoping to catch her attention, wanting to make her acquaintance. This ridiculous protectiveness arose from a sense of duty—and nothing more. The girl would be Dad’s stepdaughter before long. Brothers were supposed to look out for their little sisters.

  Completely normal.

  Why was she so reticent? Had her mother uprooted her from St. Louis, forced Liz to leave a beau at home? It suddenly mattered, very much, that he knew. “Did you leave someone special in St. Louis?”

  She laughed. A melodic, throaty melody that did strange things to his insides. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Why is that funny?”

  “I’ve never had anyone special.”

  No suitors. No special fellow.

  That made no sense. None whatsoever. A lovely young woman such as herself… “Unbelievable.”

  “Why?” Now she looked him full in the eye.

  “I can’t picture you alone.”

  “I’ve never had a beau.” And the lack of male attention pained her. That much was obvious.

  “You’re a lovely young woman, Lizzy. I’m glad fellows around here have stopped by.”

  But he wasn’t. Not glad at all.

  Not one beau?

  “Look—this isn’t about me in St. Louis. This is about Mother’s high-handed plan to push the two of us together. I’ve always known I wouldn’t marry, that I’m not destined for that route, and now, with all of my school friends married for years and years, mothers of several children—”

  “Whoa, whoa.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s my mother who told that young man I’m going to marry you. She’s more aware than anyone I’ve never had a man’s attention, never been courted.”

  “Back up. Further. What makes you think you’re not destined for marriage?”

  “I’m a spinster, Morgan Hudson. Passed over. On the shelf. An old maid.” She sighed, but not in self-pity. The woman, evidently, had grown weary of repeating herself. “Mother’s giddy in love with your dad, and somehow she came up with the idea that I should wed you, hence her disturbing statement to that young man at the door.”

  “I’m still stuck on her refusal to let him see you.” Not that he wanted the unnamed swain to claim Lizzy’s affections.

  Dread settled in his gut. He didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit.

  She swallowed. The delicate movement of her throat drew his eye. “Mother’s always been quick to tell me, as an only daughter, it’s my responsibility to care for her, to remain with her as she grows older. She’s been much worse in the months since my father’s death.”

  That same rush of self-defense perked up its ears but he ignored it. For now. “Your mother holds onto you too tight. You’re young, but I suspect you’re of marriageable age.”

  “Ha. I’m twenty-six.”

  “You can’t be twenty-six. Eighteen, maybe.”

  “Flattery, Mr. Hudson.”

  “Liz—call me Morgan. Mr. Hudson is my father.”

  She smiled, but sadly, and that weak ghost of a smile faded too quickly.

  “Ignore your mother.” He had. And the decision had been a good one.

  “I’ve been torn, all week, between wanting to explain things to you so you’ll understand, and trying to stay out of it.”

  That didn’t sound like something he wanted to know.

  “My mother is…difficult. When all is said and done, she can’t bear to lose anyone else.”

  Widows often remarried long before they were ready. But that was the way of the world. Women needed financial support. Many had no choice.

  “It’s more than my father.” Again, those blue eyes—so blue—pleaded with him to understand. “You heard Mother explain that Sidney remained in St. Louis with his work. That’s true. What she didn’t explain was that Sidney refused to accompany her. Outright refused.”

  Mrs. Speare had obviously messed up her children. “Sidney’s older than you?”

  “By two years.”

  “Twenty-eight?” Not that he believed Liz could be twenty-six, but for now, he’d play along. “Old enough to be on his own.”

  “Not in my mother’s world. After Junior ran away to join the merchant sailors and never returned, then Father died suddenly…”

  She held her breath, probably fighting tears. Who wouldn’t shed a tear, so soon after a parent’s death?

  He gave her a minute, fighting the urge to touch her, merely to show kindness.

  She waved a delicate, feminine hand, dismissing the pause in her explanation. “Mother grew up in an orphanage.”

  Oh. That had to color the way Zylphia saw the world, didn’t it?

  “She’s overwrought, irrational with the fear of being alone.”

  Morgan didn’t want to feel a spark of compassion for his stepmother-to-be. The woman could have been kidnapped by wild savages, sold into slavery aboard a whaling vessel, pressed into service aboard a pirate ship… And he didn’t want to care.

  But he remembered his own mama’s kisses upon his cheeks when he’d grown tall enough he’d had to stoop to allow her to reach. Mama had been quick to express her love, along with urgency to take care. Be careful, Son. You’re my one and only.

  They would’ve filled the new house with offspring, if they’d been able. They’d wanted lots more. But in the end, no more came.

  Mama had fretted over guns and emphasized safety. But she’d let him follow Dad into the business. She’d loved him enough to let him be his own man.

  “My father,” she whispered, “was shot in the street outside our home.” Pain vibrated in her soft voice. “One morning on his way to the dental office. The police never caught the shooter.”

  What could he say to that? His mother’s death was no one’s fault, and had come at the end of a long, terrible road. They’d seen the Grim Reaper approaching, while yet a long way off.

  Which was worse? Too much warning? Or not enough?

  In the end, nothing anybody said had helped. He couldn’t put his arms around this would-be sister, so he rested a hand on her shoulder. Just so she knew he was there. Just so she knew he cared.

  “They say Dad was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She shook her head, disbelief pungent and acrid, like gunsmoke—unmistakable and unforgettable. “Our street. Daylight. Right place. Right time.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Six and a half months ago. Early December.”

  Scented, blue envelopes began arriving in January.

  “I’m sorry.” Empty words that offered no comfort. Empty words he’d hated for the years leading to Mama’s passing and in the unbearable months and years afterward. “I’m sorry, Lizzy.” He ached to pull her close, to hold her. In that moment, they were two people, more alike than he’d known and both grieving the loss of a parent. How could he not feel her pain?

  She cleared her throat. “Rumor is Father had outstanding debts the business couldn’t pay. His partner, another dentist, denied that rumor, but had no money to satisfy creditors. No money beyond the barest of necessities to see him properly buried.”

  Lizzy didn’t need a discussion, she needed to talk, so he clampe
d his jaw.

  This was why he’d become adamant that husbands and wives—or those headed to the altar—needed to talk about money. Men managing the money, without disclosing details to their wives, was a hopelessly old-fashioned and antiquated philosophy. Secrets served no purpose. How could a wife live within her husband’s means if she had no information?

  That argument had fed Arrah’s discontent. In the end that argument had pushed her away—and probably saved them both a lifetime of discontent.

  What had Mr. Speare kept from his wife? Anything? Nothing at all?

  Morgan shook his head, even as he found himself rubbing Lizzy’s shoulder. A caress—nothing less. He’d been pushing this girl, this woman, away. Because she had the gross misfortune of beauty, a strong resemblance to Arrah, and the calamity of birth to Zylphia Speare.

  No more.

  The absurd treatment of this tenderhearted girl would cease. Instantly. Next time she brought him a meal, he’d thank her. He’d look her in the eye. He’d treat her like the compassionate lady she was.

  “So.” She let out a huge breath of air. “Now, perhaps, you understand my mother. And won’t be too hard on her as her machinations play out.”

  Oh, yeah. Mrs. Speare’s newfound determination to see him wed to her daughter.

  Number one problem with that? He couldn’t abide anybody telling him what to do. Zylphia suggested it, therefore he couldn’t. That simple.

  But this was Lizzy…

  “Lizzy—you do realize it’s ridiculous to buy into your mother’s neediness. You’re a grown woman. It’s not your job to tend her, to make sure she’s not alone. She has my dad now.”

  “I told you all of that so you’d see—it is my responsibility, as an only daughter, to remain with my mother.”

  That rubbed Morgan the wrong way, fingernails on a chalkboard. “I don’t need to ask where you found that fool idea.”

  She shrugged off his hand, rejecting more than his touch. She’d rejected him and everything he’d just said.

  “Ridiculous? You followed your father—did what he wanted you to, when he taught you gunsmithing. Why is this different?”

  “Gunsmithing is an honorable way for a man to make a living. It’s honorable to follow a father, to learn his work.” Her brothers hadn’t followed their dad into dentistry, so she didn’t understand.

  She raised one brow as if to ask, “And?”

  “Do you think for yourself?” he challenged.

  Anger sparked in the blue of her eyes. “Oh, yes. More than you’d suppose.”

  “What are you going to do about your meddling mother?”

  “I’m going to let her think she’s succeeding. That we’re doing what she suggests. It’s easiest. Less messy.”

  “Let her think she’s succeeding? I need you to spell that one out for me—are we talking wedding plans?” He didn’t think he could do that—his wounds had only recently scabbed over. He couldn’t convincingly playact.

  “I’ll work here with you. In the shop. I can wait on customers, even if I can’t repair a revolver.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.

  “We can be companionable at supper. Smile at one another, can’t we?”

  That meant he’d have to sit at the dining room table nightly and watch Dad, the lovesick swain. “Well, yes, but—”

  “Our parents are giddy in love. I walked into the kitchen and caught them kissing.” She blanched. “No peck on the cheek.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but stood a little taller. Chalk up one more tally in the Respect for Lizzy column.

  “They want privacy.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Have you had the incomparable pleasure of walking in on them?” She groaned and covered her eyes. “They’re going to carry on, whether I’m in the house or not. I have no desire to be an unwilling audience. Seven months ago, Mother was kissing my father. I remember them embracing on Thanksgiving Day. I might be the only one who thinks it’s too soon. Have you any idea how difficult it is for me to see her in your father’s arms?”

  That struck home. He cleared his throat and discarded the argument. “You want to come to work here, in the shop, avoid another embarrassing experience. That I can understand.”

  “I don’t want to chaperone our parents.”

  He’d have a talk with his father, just as soon as he came in to bed that night—no matter how late. A talk he was so not looking forward to. But if Liz didn’t want to talk to her mother, he couldn’t make her.

  “Listen to me.” She stood her ground. One more tally mark in the Respect column. “I won’t chaperone my mother. That’s like poking a rattlesnake. She’s a grown woman and she’s in love with your father. I also know she’s decent and has high expectations for proper behavior.”

  “All right.”

  “Back to her statement to that young man, whoever he was. That statement that I’ve chosen you and we’ll soon be married? Trust me—I know my mother. The only way to keep her off our backs is to ensure she believes we’re headed in that direction.”

  “Toward marriage.”

  “Yes.” She scowled. “The world is not coming to an end, Mr. Hudson.”

  “My name’s Morgan. Your mama won’t believe we’re headed anywhere together if you call me Mr. Morgan in her hearing.”

  “Ugh.” She sighed, folded her arms, and held his gaze far longer than he found comfortable. “If we’re keeping company—or at least Mother believes we are—she’ll sit back and let nature take its course. She won’t be harping on it day and night. Won’t dream up ways to force us together.”

  Doing what Zylphia wanted rubbed him the wrong way. “I don’t have to kiss you, hold your hand, dote on your every word?” In short, he didn’t have to act like Dad.

  If he were fool enough to act like a man in love, it wouldn’t be long until those dubious scabs sloughed off…

  Not a good idea, tempting fate like that.

  “No, you do not need to kiss me or hold my hand. This is a ploy, Morgan. To make Mother see what isn’t there. Would it kill you to almost dote on my every word?”

  He glimpsed pain in her eyes in the second before she looked away. This poor girl hadn’t ever known a fellow’s attention. No courtships, no gentleman callers. He couldn’t blame her for wanting a scrap of affection.

  He’d been a fool, an idiot—and unkind. Lizzy deserved better. So much better. Hadn’t he vowed to stop treating her badly?

  “Will you come in for supper?” Her self-assurance was riddled with holes. Holes he’d punched out, one at a time.

  “Yes. I’ll be at the supper table.”

  For her, he’d come back to that dining room table.

  For her, he’d welcome her at the shop, put her to work, find something for her to do…and give up his last safe haven.

  For her, he’d brave the company of an old couple so in love they forgot their manners and reminded Morgan what it was like to love a woman.

  Five minutes with Dad, in the old man’s close association with Zylphia, and Morgan’s thoughts would center on kissing Lizzy.

  Her smile, wide and bright and genuine, shone with the heat of the noonday sun.

  He was in so much trouble.

  Chapter 7

  After one week of working in the gunsmith shop with Morgan, Elizabeth found she’d become quite comfortable with the work. She could write up a work order, sell cartridges, and assist customers who returned to pick up their repaired pistols and rifles.

  The only challenge to the new routine was keeping a tight rein on her feelings for Morgan…and handling the increase in traffic through the door.

  At least Morgan said the day-to-day customers had doubled. Why that made him cranky, she couldn’t understand.

  She couldn’t repair or build custom orders, but she waited on patrons and the predominately male patrons liked her. Astonishing, really, as at first, she couldn’t distinguish a .45 Colt Peacemaker from a .36 Remington Single Action Revolv
er.

  Early in the afternoon of July first, she neatly wrapped Mr. Dahl’s purchase. “Enjoy your day, Mr. Dahl.”

  “You’ve made my day a happy one already, Miss Speare.”

  “Good-bye now.” Elizabeth waved as the elderly man leaned heavily on his cane and with fifty tiny steps, made his way through the door. The bells jingled.

  “You’re not like her.” Morgan leaned on the door frame where the workshop and sales floor adjoined. Morgan had apparently been watching. He did that a lot. No doubt to ensure she handled his customers with kindness. She’d explained that the shop’s success was in her own best interest; the shop supported the Hudsons—and the Hudsons fed and housed her.

  “I’m not like who? Mother?”

  He pushed off the frame and approached. He leaned an elbow on the counter. So near, his heat warmed the space between them. “Yes. You’re not like her. I rather like you.”

  She laughed.

  He made her laugh, often.

  He grinned like a silly fool. A dear, amazing, wonderful fool.

  “I rather like you too.” And that’s where it had to stop. After all, they playacted affection, and pretended courtship. So far, Mother had been blissfully happy and quite clueless about their hoax. Besides, Mother wasn’t in the shop to benefit from the show.

  “Good.” His voice lowered in volume and pitch. “We like each other.”

  Heat crept up her cheeks. She busied herself tidying the counter, brushing the odd scraps of twine she’d trimmed from the ends of Mr. Dahl’s package, and dropped them into the waste basket.

  “You’re blushing.” He bumped her with his shoulder.

  “I am?”

  “Don’t fret. It’s adorable.”

  Heat surged higher. Now her ears would be red.

  “You’re adorable.”

  Why must he delight in making her blush? She’d prefer he make her laugh. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “I finished the rifles Murphy brought in.”

  “Oh, the grocer. Good. He came in earlier, asking about them.”

  “I heard.”

  That was the problem. Morgan heard everything that happened out front. Much of his work didn’t make enough noise to cover the conversation after conversation. As if he stood at her side, all day long.