Tall, Dark, and Determined (30 page)

“You know I can't hang my cougar in the
bunkhouse
.” Miss Lyman sounded scandalized at the prospect. “Please, Evie?”

Miss Thompson's deep, put-upon sigh admitted defeat.

It was only later, as he carried the trophy back to the diner, that Chase realized what he'd witnessed.
The obstacles hadn't mattered a bit—Miss Lyman got her own way. Again
.

    TWENTY-FOUR    

T
ime plodded on for Cora. After the unveiling of the cougar and farewell dinner for Granger, the entire week might just as well have been one long, drawn-out day. The routine didn't vary: cooking for the workmen with perfunctory periods of supportively ignoring her own fiancé in awkward visits. Everything else went smoothly, so she counted her blessings.
I think we all expected some sort of trouble once Granger left
.

Oh, there'd been a dicey moment or two when he and Mr. Dunstan shepherded Twyler onto the train. Riordan and Williams flanked them, creating a sort of guard for the criminal on crutches. Clump scurried behind, but somehow Cora doubted the good-natured German would be much use if a fight broke out.

Several of the men had lined up, shouting threats and begging Granger to leave Twyler with them for a few minutes. Lacey's abduction was still a sore spot for both her admirers and the other men who'd missed a chance to prove their bravery to Naomi. Now they wanted an outlet for their frustration.

Granger and Dunstan didn't give it to them. Even in the days since the departure, no fights broke out among the men. As far as Cora could see, Dunstan managed most of it through eye contact. His icy stare quelled conflict, as though the men knew his vigilant watch was a warning. It impressed them all.

Except Braden, whose more subdued behavior lately couldn't be credited to a man he'd never met.
Lacey went to visit him, and he hasn't been the same since. I wonder if something she said got through to him? Or if he's just waiting for Granger?

Evie's fiancé had been giving him daily updates and reports on their progress. Granger answered Braden's questions and ostensibly incorporated some of his ideas into the work routine. Cora didn't really know what all went on with the sawmill—but it occurred to her Braden would want to. Without Granger, he lost his information supply and link to the men. He grew listless.

“Do you think he's starting to come around?” She posed the question to Lacey as they headed for the kitchen one morning. “I mean, he's stopped bellowing all the time, and either I'm becoming accustomed to them, or he isn't putting his heart into his snarky comments.”
Always assuming he still has a heart
.

“Well,” Lacey's hesitation didn't exactly inspire confidence. “I believe he's giving up his plans to force us all from Hope Falls. You know he doesn't like to admit when he's wrong and turns sulky. If you want to call that coming around …”

“No, I don't.” Cora rubbed the back of her neck where the tension built up. “I want him to be realizing how terribly he's repaid our concern for his well-being and hard work to make a success of this town. Sulking isn't the same as remorse.”

“They both make people quiet,” Lacey observed. “We don't have much choice but to give it time. He's already changing plans. Once he admits he's wrong, maybe the regret will come.”

“I hope so.” Cora's fervency startled Lacey, whose eyes widened. “Oh, it sounds awful to wish someone flooded with so much remorse he can't withstand it. But something has to break through this wall he's built around himself, and I think regret might be the only way. He hurts, you know.” The tears welled up.

“Braden refuses the laudanum.” Her friend frowned. “It seems to me the only sleep he gets is when we sneak the medicine so he can't turn it down. Then he's always so furious with us. Why? This stubbornness does him no favors. I keep trying to find the reason for his decisions, but I can't make sense of him.”

Cora dabbed her eyes with a hankie. “More than anything, he needs rest. Otherwise, how can he heal? And if he's in pain all the time but never getting any sleep, is it any wonder his thoughts are so full of himself?” She'd puzzled over this so many times, trying to understand why he changed so drastically.

“Do you think that if he slept, he'd start thinking normally again?” Lacey paused with her hand on the handle of the kitchen door. “Would it improve his condition if we began administering more regular doses of the laudanum, do you think?”

“I don't know.” Cora tucked her hankie away. “Let's not consider whether it will make him angry. He's angry no matter what we do, regardless. But if it might bring
my
Braden back, I'm willing to do just about anything to get the job done.”

“Done!” Lacey nudged the last tin can in place and stood back to admire her sparkling, orderly shop. It had taken days of sorting, stacking, and scrubbing—and that was after she'd conscripted a few of the men to move the shelving one night—but the results made all the effort worth it.
It's what I pictured
.

The wooden counter ran along the far wall, its heavy iron coffee grinder easily visible the moment someone walked through the door. Underneath, it held bins filled with rice, flour, sugar, and cornmeal—all shown through little glass panels along the front.

Matching shelves stretched behind it from floor to ceiling, stacked with bolts of fabric and ordering catalogs down one half. The other held delicacies to tempt her customers. A wheel of cheese, a vat of the biggest pickles Lacey had ever seen, and clear jars containing taffy pulls and peppermint sticks beckoned the hungry. Here, too, were laid a massive quantity of paper bags in varied sizes, intended to contain the measured dry goods. A small door in the right corner led to the storeroom.

More shelves abutted the two longer walls, evenly spaced between the freshly washed windows. These held a variety of goods Lacey placed according to value and category—most expensive items resting at eye level. Everything from cleaning supplies to chewing tobacco waited for buyers to find them.

The larger items took more ingenuity to house, but Lacey thought she'd risen to the task. Saws and axes hung to the left of the door. Folded overalls, long underwear, bandannas, and balled socks nestled in wooden crates below the display of tools.

Along the right, she'd placed bins of apples and potatoes. Above these hung a selection of smoked ham and wrapped sides of bacon. A long, low shelf ran down the center of the store, creating two long aisles out of the single room. Here sat the pails of peanut butter, buckets of apple butter, and cans of condensed milk and honey. The Birdseye Sorghum looked up as though wary of anyone wanting baking soda or cream of tartar.

The potbellied stove sat at the midline of the room, back toward the counter. Off to its side, in the warmest spot, she'd set the enormous cracker barrel. A checkerboard leaned against it, ready to be laid down for a game any minute. Two chairs bracketed the barrel, inviting players to while away an hour.

Enough room remained to widen her selection of products once the mill was up and running. Lacey looked around the place and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
Someday families will live in Hope Falls. Our workers will bring their wives and children into my shop for aprons and pennywhistles. Someday …

The bell above the door clanged a welcome as Mr. Dunstan strolled in. Lacey's smile faltered when she caught sight of Decoy—fur looking decidedly grubbier than it had a week ago. Still, his stubborn owner might be her first real customer.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Dunstan?” Her smile returned as she saw the approval on his face as he surveyed the store.

“Nice.” His comment, when it finally came, left something to be desired. The man looked every bit as impressed as he should be, considering how he'd seen the place at its worst.

Couldn't he say something about what an amazing difference she'd made? Or tell her how clean and organized everything was? Lacey would even settle for a simple heartfelt congratulations on her accomplishment. But no. The man came up with “nice.”

Well, that doesn't make
me
feel very nice
. There wasn't much to say, though Lacey wouldn't thank him for dredging up a single syllable to describe days of difficult, meticulous work.

“Mm.” She made her acknowledgment shorter than his.

He didn't notice.

Dunstan stayed absorbed in perusing her shop. He circled the entire place and picked up and put down items from almost every shelf, all without saying another word. Finally, he lowered himself onto one of the checker chairs and placed his order.

“One pickle.” He'd kept her waiting while he touched almost everything she sold, only to buy one lousy pickle?

Lacey yanked the glass lid from the huge vat, grabbed the long tongs lying beside it, and plunged them in to nab a pickle. Pickle chosen, she reached behind her counter and picked up the pail of None-Such Peanut Butter Decoy had desecrated on his earlier visit. Tongs held out far in front, far enough to keep brine away from her skirts, she marched to meet him.

“I'll put it on your tab,” she sweetly told him. “Along with this!” She plunked the pail of peanut butter atop the other chair. Lacey intended to whisk back behind the counter and ignore him, but the man didn't take the pickle she offered.

So she stood there, uncertain, while he gave her one of those long, penetrating looks he used to keep the men in line. She turned, ready to go back behind the counter, return the pickle to its jar, and order Mr. Dunstan out of her store.

He reached up and snatched the pickle. Biting into it, his eyes closed in appreciation. After he swallowed, he mentioned, “I haven't had one of these in months. It's been too long.”

Dunstan proceeded to finish it off before speaking again. “Pickles are tart and salty on their own, Miss Lyman. You don't need to go around with a sour look on your face to spice it up.”

Shock held her speechless for a moment. “Out.” She pointed toward the door, reduced to simply repeating, “Get out.”

“I brought in an elk.” He rose to his feet. “It needs dressing and butchering before it'll fit in the smokehouse.” Apparently he expected praise for this because he paused.

If Lacey hadn't been so riled, she would've grunted, “Nice.” But as things stood, she felt he didn't deserve even that much.

One hand reached down to rub the dog's ears. “Decoy here has a special fondness for elk. It would be helpful if someone watched him while I took care of things. He'll find a way out of the barn if I leave him alone with the smell of elk in the air.”

“You aren't saying you want to leave him here!” Lacey was so aghast she forgot her anger. “In my nice, clean shop?”

“Told you before, Decoy's trained not to bother anything on shelves.” A thoughtful look crossed Dunstan's face. “Or bins either. If he gets restless, you might have a care for those hams you have hanging in the window. They're low enough he wouldn't have any trouble reaching them if he wanted to.”