Harmony (12 page)

T
he dividing wall had been completed late the day before, providing Tom the privacy of his own store and entrance. First thing that morning, with Shay's help, he'd mounted the eagle on the roof line right above the door. Tom had also had a business placard made, with
WOLCOTT'S SPORTING GOODS AND EXCURSIONS
engraved on it; the sizeable piece of wood now hung from the eaves.

After skimming the length of white plaster with a quick gaze, Tom resumed stocking a glass case with knives and ammo while contemplating how he'd arrange some trophies on the new wall and where he'd nail up Buttkiss. One thing for certain, working in the newfound peace that came with not having to be subjected to Miss Huntington's usual cold stares was worth everything he'd paid Trussel—and then some, namely those decoys the handyman had walked off with last night.

Of late, Miss Finishing School had really gotten her Dutch up. He couldn't be sure what over because she hadn't spoken a word to him since last Friday. If she'd found out about the relocation of the dividing line, he figured she would have given him hell by now. Seeing as she hadn't reported the findings from her hardware store
investigation, Kennison must not have told her anything.

Tom wished he'd never bought the vermillion. The joke had been more on him than her. The outside of the building, even with the majestic eagle there to spruce it up, truly did look like it had been defaced by vandals.

Crouched on his knees, Tom could feel the floorboards vibrate from the other side of the wall, as if a lot of furniture was being shuffled from one spot to another. Although it was already well past lunch, the scraping sounds had been going on for a good few hours, as if whatever scheme she'd had for arranging her schoolroom wasn't working out.

He wondered how long it would take her to figure out his double double cross to her double cross—if she even had the nerve to come over and point out that she'd tried to cheat him first. Rather than second-guessing her, he continued unloading boxes.

A faded red Knickerbocker baseball cap, which he wore backward on his head, kept the hair from falling in his eyes while he leaned into the cabinet and arranged shell crimpers, extractors, bags, and belts.

Rising, he was about to get a box of Thunder Head fast flight archery blades, when the store's door opened and Edwina filled the vacancy. Before he realized her intent, a rolled linen measuring tape encased in hard leather left her hand, sailed across the room, and bounced off his head. Luckily, the projectile struck him on his ball cap. The felt band buffered part of the impact; the rest resulted in what he hoped was only temporary blindness in the right eye.

“You measured,” he remarked in a dull tone.

“Not soon enough!”

While squinting and trying to sort out his vision, she charged at him with her fists clenched at her sides. In spite of the smart pulsing on his forehead, he couldn't help thinking her shot had been pretty good.

“How many froggies did you give Abner Trussel?” she shouted, her stride long and voice vexed. Reaching
him, she put the flat of her hands on his chest and shoved him back. Fairly hard for a woman.

Tom hadn't been prepared for a physical assault, so he took a step backward.

Hands still on him, she tilted her face upward. “Well? How many froggies?”

When he didn't immediately answer, she gave him another shove. Although he outweighed her and could have overpowered her easily, he figured that in her warped reasoning, he was due some pushing around—not much. So he barely moved, just enough to make her feel satisfied she'd accomplished something.

“None,” came his laconic reply.

“Don't lie to me, Mr. Wolcott.” If she'd been taller, her nose would have been bumping his, the way she stood on tiptoes trying to get in his face. “You had to have given him something.”

“Duck calls. Super raspies and double clucks. Some decoys, too.”

“Oh, buster, I knew it!”

The heel of her shoe came down on his boot, then she rammed his chest with another strong push. He faltered a little, his foot momentarily shot through with a nagging pain. This was the second time she'd gouged him with her heel. The first time, he'd given her the benefit of the doubt and had called it an accident. Now, he wasn't going to be so generous. He picked her up beneath the arms and held her at arm's length.

While she dangled, he barked, “Don't step on me again.”

“Put me down, you toad! You brute!” A shriek of horror left her lips.

He did so, but he didn't readily release her. “Are you going to calm down?”

“No!”

His grip remained unyielding. “Then I can't let you go.”

“Of all the mean-spirited, dastardly, underhanded,
low-down things you could have ever done to me! I was entitled to that extra foot!”

“I think you've got the tables turned around wrong. The low-down thing was your bribing Ab Trussel first with spiced plums. All I did was up the ante.”

“All you did was take liberties with half the people in this town. I found out about Mr. Kennison and the police. You should be arrested for tampering with law officials.”

“I did nothing of the kind.”

“I'd say number-nine shot is tampering when the police have to close up their office to try it out!” Wiggling, she tried to free herself, but his grip remained steady. She ineffectively cuffed him on the shoulders. Her hair loosened from its high pile, the curls at the top dancing with her as she struggled. “Unhand me, you vermillion oaf!”

In an attempt to kick him, her right leg swung out, but he sidestepped her in the nick of time, taking her with him. They bumped into the grizzly who stood guard at the heater.

She screamed.

He laughed.

“It's dead,” he commented with a half smile, testing to see what she would do should he let her go. Since she made no other attempts to go for his shin, he slowly uncurled his fingers from her underarms.

Standing away from him, she put herself together, becoming the stuffy version of herself. Primly and properly, she swiped the invisible wrinkles from her puffy sleeves and skirt. Then she jammed a few hairpins in place before the coiffure tumbled down. After all was put to rights, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“Mr. Wolcott, I do believe you owe me an apology.”

“For what?”

Her eyes blazed. Their brilliant hue, lit by sizzle and fire, gave him wicked ideas.

“For taking what should rightfully be mine—one extra foot. I wasn't asking for the moon and stars, just a simple
twelve inches to compensate for having paid more for my share than you did. I don't think that's an unfair request.”

“Trouble is, you never asked me.”

“I stated my feelings quite clearly in Mr. Stykem's office.”

“But you never asked. You demanded.”

She huffed, “Had I asked, would you have given me the extra foot?”

“No,” he replied simply.

The hard-fought ladylike composure faltered once more. She reached out to slug him on the arm, but he caught her hand midswing.

With amusement, he asked, “What color is your petticoat, Miss Huntington? I'd swear with the way you're acting, it's got to be red.” He went as far as reaching for the folds of her skirt, pinching some delicate fabric, and lifting until snowy white was revealed. “Damn, I'm disappointed. When you slammed into me, I thought for sure you'd left modesty at home and scarlet was your color today.”

“H-how dare you!” she stammered, stumbling away from him and slapping down the rumpled print.

“I'm onto you, Miss Huntington.”

“I'm certain I don't know what you mean.”

“I mean,” he took a step forward, pinning her between himself and the table of camp cooking outfits, “you aren't who you're pretending to be, Ed.”

“Don't you call me Ed, you fresh thing, you!”

A chuckle escaped him, and he drew in closer, fully trapping her with hands pressed on either side of her onto the tabletop. “What I can't figure out is why you go to such extremes to hide your other personality. I like you a lot better when you're as spicy as cayenne pepper.”

“I don't care if you like me or not.” She turned her face away from him and gazed down at a stack of tin plates. He drank in her profile: wispy bangs that fell across her forehead, a nose that was charmingly sculpted, and lips full and rounded over perfect teeth.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She refused to meet his gaze. The scent of dried rose petals, the kind ladies scattered in their bureau drawers, filled his nose, sweet as any bottled perfume—perhaps even more erotic than a dose on the skin. The smell clung to her clothing, and when she moved, the fragrance moved on the air. Such a thing could drive a man to distraction. He'd never been this intimately close to her before. She smelled good. Too good. He had to put some distance between them, but he had a hard time moving.

Shifting, he said, “I tell you what—why don't we start over as of today? A clean slate. From now on, I'll be honest with you. Nothing to hide. Likewise, eh, Ed?”

With a toss of her chin, she said, “I don't have to tell you anything.”

“Good. Then that means you don't have anything else to hide.”

“I never did.”

“I'd say different.”

“Unhand me now, Mr. Wolcott,” she said in a coquettish tone, though her hot gaze was anything but.

Because she'd offered him a challenge with her eyes, he rose to the occasion and gave her a sideways smile. “Yeah, from now on I'll be totally honest. And I'll enjoy it, too.” His fingertip lifted to her full lips, lingering a fraction from their quivering seam. “I like your mouth. I especially like this part here.” He took the liberty of touching the bow on the upper lip, caressing just softly enough to bring forth a shiver from her.

“What do you think you're doing?” she asked, her voice low, yet soft and clear.

Although it hadn't been his original intention, he made a decision and said, “Kissing you.”

Touching his lips to hers, he savored the softness of her mouth and the flutter of her breath against him as they joined. He claimed his kiss as if they were out for a Sunday-afternoon ride—slow, drowsy, and full of pleasure. The shiver of a sigh she gave him tormented him to a certain degree. A desire for her to relax made him
proceed in an unhurried manner, lightly grazing her lips, then slanting his mouth over hers.

She stood rigid in his arms, yet her lips didn't have the marble coldness of a spinster. He detected a sweet pliancy, a vague hint of experience—a few seconds of her kissing him back. Someone had kissed her before. And perhaps that someone had taken advantage, because her muscles tightened and she held herself very still. He didn't want her to feel threatened.

He tucked her curves neatly next to him, holding her close. Stroking a light path down her spine with his fingertips, he tried to coax her to ease into him and mold her body to his. When at last she did, he breathed in. Blood pounded in his brain.

Gradually, he deepened the kiss as she nestled against his chest, making no protest about wanting to be set free. He slid his hands up her waist, feeling the glide of fabric as soft as down against his palms. If she'd truly been an old maid, she wouldn't have felt so much like velvet . . . smelled so much like flowers.

Cupping her oval face in his hands, he stroked his thumbs across her smooth cheeks. The texture of her skin against his calloused fingertips taunted him as he traced a path down the satiny column of her neck. He wanted to pull the pins from her hair and sift his fingers through the thick curls.

Edwina let him hold her, but she didn't kiss him back again. She fought him without physical force, apparently waging some kind of battle within to not reduce herself to feeling something. Whether or not she meant to push him away, her hands came up to his shoulders, exerting pressure.

The gesture was enough to sober him. He pulled back, finding rational thinking difficult as he gazed into her heavy-lidded eyes. Her moist lips parted and a rose flush stained her cheeks.

“You're ruining my life,” she whispered.

Because he didn't feel remorse for having kissed a
woman who'd rather have him in jail than in her bed, his reply could only mirror hers. “Likewise.”

In a monotone, she requested, “Release me.”

He did so, slipping his hands into his pockets and stepping out of her way.

She tugged on the cuffs of her sleeves, putting them in order and brushing off unseen lint. She did a quick check of her hair with a few pats and, finding nothing out of order, she angled her face at him. “Petty incivilities aren't in my nature, Mr. Wolcott. Although you deserved it, I shouldn't have thrown a tape measure at you. Should you incur any bills from Dr. Porter, forward them to me and I'll reimburse you.” With a quiet but desperate firmness, she added, “I'd very much appreciate it if you didn't mention my name when you call on his office.”

“You don't have to worry. I won't be seeing him.”

“Suit yourself.”

Walking around him, she went toward the door. Unlike when she'd entered the store, her stride was at a scrupulous and reserved pace.

“I'd say I was sorry for the wall if I was wrong in telling Trussel not to give you that foot. But I'm not,” he said to her retreating form. “And just so there's no hard feelings, I'll share my mailbox with you.”

She stilled, then slowly turned to glare at him. “Stuff your mailbox.”

“What was that you said?”

“You heard me.” She continued on, her dismissive attitude jabbing at him.

As he moved from the table, he stepped on something. “You forgot your tape measure.”

“You can stuff that, too.”

“So much for petty incivilities,” he said beneath his breath.

“You're deplorable,” she shot back at him.