A Tailor-Made Bride (8 page)

The shop door clicked shut. She refused to turn. His boot heels pounded against the wooden boardwalk, then thudded as they hit the dirt of the road, but she didn’t look his way. He’d offered no apology, no parting words.

Grabbing her bucket, she strode into the shop, uncaring that water was sloshing onto her shoes as she went. She held her head high just in case he was watching, but the moment she closed the door, she deflated. Indignation could only fuel her for so long before regret crept in, and her affront had quieted enough to let the voice of conscience through. And the lecture it wrote on her heart shamed her.

She had no right to harangue the man just because he didn’t want to help her. After all, she’d done nothing but impose on him since arriving in town. He clearly wasn’t the cheerful sort, and while he shouldn’t have jumped to such uncomplimentary conclusions about her, he didn’t deserve her wrath. He had rescued her from a potentially harmful fall, arranged for his sister to supply her with milk, made her a table without being asked, and even gave her free wood to use as shelving in her shop.

Hannah ran a hand along the edge of one of the boards he had set against the wall just inside the door. Not wanting to get a splinter, she traced it lightly until she realized that the surface was smooth. She took a closer look, handling each plank in turn. All of them had been sanded from stem to stern and cut to a uniform length. Spare wood from a scrap lumber pile wouldn’t be this ready for use without someone taking the time to cut and sand each one.

Now she felt even worse.

Why did the man have to be such a contradiction? His actions exuded kindness and consideration, going well beyond the neighborly help she had requested of him. Yet his surly demeanor riled her like a tangled bobbin thread that refused to unknot. Which side of his character was she to believe?

A muted thump sounded on the other side of her door. She probably wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been standing so close. Hannah pivoted toward the sound and caught sight of a familiar male form passing by her window. Taking a deep breath, she scrambled to find words for a proper apology, then opened the door. She stepped outside to call to him but tripped over something in her path. Lurching forward, she sucked in a pain-filled breath as she caught her balance. By the time she steadied herself, Mr. Tucker was entering the laundry next door.

Toe throbbing and heart equally sore over her missed opportunity to make amends, Hannah turned around and limped the few steps back to the door. Glancing down to see what she had tripped over, she bit her lip, her toe forgotten.

There, in front of her door, lay a level and screwdriver.

She gathered the tools in her arms, her gaze trailing the path Mr. Tucker had taken to the laundry. She might never figure him out, but something told her she had just received an apology, one that spoke with an eloquence that outshone any words he could have offered.

A barrage of steamy heat accosted J.T. as he pushed through the laundry house door. He tugged his hat from his head and closed the door behind him, wishing he could leave it open to create a breeze, but Louisa would scold him good if he let dust blow in to soil her clean wash.

“Pickin’ up or droppin’ off?” a harried voice called from the back room.

“It’s me, Louisa.” J.T. frowned as he surveyed the warped floorboards and chinks in the wall. The roof probably leaked, too. If he couldn’t move her into a different building, he’d have to find a way to repair this one, which was tricky since the laundress’s pride prickled faster than a cactus pear.

“Come on back, J.T.”

After consumption took her husband two years ago and left her with three kids to feed, Louisa James had sold her farm and rented this space in town. She’d barely had anything left after paying off the mortgage, but she managed to eke out a living washing trousers and starching shirts for the townsfolk. He admired her grit, yet it was that same toughness that made her reject anything that smelled of charity.

He wound his way past tables stacked with cleaned and pressed items awaiting their owners, empty washtubs, and folded drying racks that could be set up inside when the weather turned rainy. Stepping through the doorway, he found Louisa bent over her ironing table, sadiron in hand, smoothing wrinkles from the sleeve of a man’s white cotton shirt. With a practiced motion, she set her iron on the stove, clicked the handle off, and snapped it onto a hotter one while six-year-old Mollie handed the finished shirt to big sister, Tessa, then pulled another garment from the oversized basket on the floor and laid it in place for her mother. Tessa, the middle child at age eight and the most outgoing of the bunch, looked up at him and smiled.

“Hi, Mr. Tucker. Danny’s waiting for you out back. He separated out all the small pieces, just like you asked, and saved the big ones for you.”

How the child managed to converse and fold at the same time was a marvel, yet the shirt lay in a tidy rectangle by the time she came up for air.

“Thanks, squirt.” He winked at her and she giggled.

He tweaked Mollie’s nose as he passed her by and nodded a greeting to Louisa. The woman was thin and worn, her hands reddened and creased from her constant labor. Strands of ash brown hair clung to her face, wet with perspiration, yet he’d never heard her complain. Now that harvest was nearly done, she’d be losing her help as the kids headed back to school for the winter term. Many in her position would keep the children home, especially the girls, but Louisa always had them spit-shined and ready before the teacher rang the bell. J.T. figured she didn’t want Tessa and Mollie to end up doing other people’s laundry for the rest of their lives, and he respected her for that. He just wished she’d accept a little help from folks from time to time.

“I need to speak with you, J.T., before you start in on the wood.” Louisa rubbed the underside of her chin with the back of her hand and tipped her head toward the rear door.

“All right.” He followed her outside and welcomed the cool breeze that fluttered across the yard as he slipped his hat back on.

“I met the new seamstress this morning,” Louisa said. “Ran into her at the water pump at first light.”

J.T. nodded as his mind shifted to Miss Richards. He hadn’t expected her to be an early riser. The woman was as unpredictable as a Texas cyclone.

“Offered to pay my boy a dollar a week to keep her woodbox full. Said she didn’t need much, cookin’ for just herself, and she’ll gather her own kindlin’ during her daily
constitutional
, whatever that is.” Louisa crossed her arms over her chest and braced her legs as if preparing for a fight. “I know I ought to’ve checked with you first, seeing as how you’re the one that chops it all, but I accepted her terms, and I don’t aim to go back on the agreement.”

J.T. reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a toothpick. He took his time moving it to his mouth, and only after it was clamped securely between his molars did he address the widow James, hoping she’d relaxed a bit in the interim.

“I reckon you can do whatever you want with it, Louisa. It’s your wood, bought and paid for every time Daniel mucks out a stall at the livery. I pay Tom a wage for the same work.”

“The boy’s only ten. He works twice as long to do half the work Tom does, and you know it.”

“Maybe. But he does the work I ask him to. I don’t hold with slavery, ma’am, so if you don’t consider my chopping wood for you once a month true payment, I guess I can leave off the wood and start paying the boy in cash money. Which do you prefer?” He switched the toothpick to the opposite side of his mouth and angled a hard look at her.

“You know I ain’t got time to chop the wood myself, and the last thing I need is for Danny to try to take over the job and chop his foot off.” He watched pride battle with practicality as she gazed at young Daniel dragging large logs over to the chopping stump. J.T. had only asked Daniel to work at the livery so he’d have an excuse to keep her in wood, and Louisa was too smart not to know that. But with all the water she heated for washing and the stove that had to be kept hot all day for the ironing, she ran through her fuel supply faster than she could replenish it.

Practicality won out, but pride put in a fair showing.

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t offended or nothing. I knew we owned the wood all right and proper.” She sniffed and, with a twirl of her faded skirts, returned to her work inside the house.

Lord, save me from proud, stubborn women
. They seemed to be swarming him lately.

Thankful to be left alone with the only male in the general vicinity, J.T. ducked under a row of clothes still drying on the line and joined Daniel. The kid was a quiet one, which suited J.T. just fine. After tousling the boy’s hair and thumping him on the back, he picked up the ax and started swinging. The two worked side by side—J.T. split the logs; Daniel arranged them on the pile. Simple. No ruffled feathers, no pecking accusations, just a couple of men working together without a lot of gab.

Unfortunately, all he managed to think about while he worked were the ruffled feathers and pecking accusations from one hen in particular. Miss Hannah Richards.

J.T. slammed the ax blade into the log below him with a crack that failed to banish the picture of her from his mind.

He swung again, and the log spit unevenly. J.T. scowled.

Now that he’d had time to think on the matter, he realized her protests didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t been hinting for him to come help her. She probably just didn’t want to admit it. After all, most women didn’t know one end of a screwdriver from the other, and she looked pretty beat from her day of cleaning. She’d be too tired to lift those boards high enough to place shelves. He still needed to take care of some business at the bank, but afterward he could stop by her shop to save himself from having to deal with her on the morrow.

An hour and a half later, after he’d split all the logs in the yard, J.T. washed up at the pump, shook hands with the little man who had helped him, and headed for the bank. Louisa might not willingly accept charity, but J.T. had a plan to get around that. She couldn’t refuse his help if she was unaware of it, now, could she?

C
HAPTER 7

J.T. entered the bank just as the clerk set the
Closed
sign in the window. The fellow nodded a greeting to him before scurrying back to his teller’s cage. The proprietress of the local boardinghouse stood at the counter impatiently tapping her foot, apparently displeased by the interruption of her transaction.

“Is Paxton in?” J.T. asked.

The clerk disappeared behind the counter, then opened the gate of his window and met J.T.’s eye around a bent plume in the lady’s bonnet. “He’s with a customer at the moment, but you can take a seat on the bench outside his office. He should be finished shortly.”

“Thanks.”

J.T. fingered his hat and nodded to the woman, who glared at him over her shoulder before swinging her accusing eyes back to the unfortunate clerk. After sharing a commiserating look with the two cowhands standing in line, all three males grateful to be on the customer side of the counter, J.T. took his cue and meandered over to the bench.

Too restless to sit, he propped a foot on the seat of the bench and braced one elbow on his thigh. He didn’t like sneaking around behind Louisa’s back, but the woman didn’t leave him much choice. The Good Book taught that a man should give without his left hand knowing what his right was doing. Louisa was just playing the role of the left hand. Still, the secrecy grated on him, made him feel as if he were doing something disreputable.

The quiet swish of a well-oiled door opening drew J.T.’s attention. He dropped his foot to the floor and straightened his stance.

Floyd Hawkins and his son, Warren, emerged from Elliott Paxton’s office. The elder Hawkins chatted amiably with the banker while his son separated himself from the conversation.

Warren pushed his overlong hair out of his face and caught sight of J.T. His eyes widened a bit, and his neck stretched as if his collar had suddenly grown too tight.

The kid was always nervous around him. Never used to be. But lately, Warren had been acting different, like he was trying to impress him or something.

Not that his efforts had been paying off. The kid had a chip on his shoulder the size of Gibraltar’s Rock. He wasn’t a bad egg, just irritating with his sullen looks and woeful attitude. Seemed to think the world owed him something because he was born with a mark on his face. J.T. could sympathize with the embarrassment and frustration that went along with schoolyard teasing, but Warren wasn’t a boy any longer. Time to stop the pouting and start acting like a man. Respect wouldn’t come any other way.

As if Warren had heard his thoughts, he straightened his shoulders and approached.

“J.T.”

J.T. cocked his head. Either his ears needed a good scrubbing or Warren had just lowered the timbre of his voice a couple of levels below normal. J.T. fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Warren.”

The kid tugged on his coat lapels and pushed up on his toes. “Dad and I are considering an expansion of the business. Mr. Paxton is helping us plan the finances.”

“That so?” J.T. really had no particular interest in the Hawkins family’s business endeavors, but Warren seemed to expect some kind of reply.

“I . . . ah . . . thought your sister might like to join us for dinner one evening to discuss the expansion. Since the change will affect her. . . . I mean, because we sell her baked goods and all.”

J.T. arched his brows and shot Warren a look that must have communicated how senseless he thought that comment was, for the kid dropped his gaze and scuffed his toe against the wooden floorboards.

Why would Delia care about them opening another store somewhere? It wasn’t like she was going to bake anything for it. Hers was strictly a local operation.

Still, Delia considered Warren a friend, and she wouldn’t want J.T. giving the kid a hard time—no matter how much he deserved it. So he cleared his throat and came as close to an apology as he could manage.