Regina Jennings Read online

  Molly groaned. With one last searching, pleading gaze at Bailey, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched inside to take her medicine.

  The next morning found Bailey at Reverend Stoker’s, wishing he’d volunteered to help out at the local saloon rather than with the parson. It would have been easier on his conscience. He hadn’t spilled his guts yet, but shame was eating away at him.

  “Glad the cold spell blew through quickly. That kind of weather isn’t compatible with my old bones.” Reverend Stoker removed his coat and stretched under the tentative afternoon sun. “Once we get this step rebuilt, my wife will have no trouble getting off the porch. Every time she walks out the door, I’m reminded of my shortcomings.” He laughed. “And those papists think clergy shouldn’t marry. Cowards, that’s what they are.”

  Cowards? Bailey took the plank the reverend held out to him and found the pencil mark showing him where to saw. He had the courage. Nothing he wanted more than a little wife and family. Nothing he wanted more? Was that his mistake?

  “Talked to Deacon today,” Stoker said. “He told me about Thomas’s attack. You were there?”

  Bailey leaned into his work and wondered how he was going to sidestep the stinking piles of the conversation. “Yeah, I was there. Figured he’d be walking the streets of gold today, from the looks of it.”

  “God is merciful.”

  I hope so.

  Bailey plied through the board, sending sawdust flying in all directions. The scrap end of the plank dropped to the ground. Surely helping the reverend would absolve some of his guilt in God’s ledger.

  Stoker pushed his white hair out of his eyes and straightened. “How’s Molly doing?”

  “She’s taking it hard, no doubt about it.” He didn’t say any more. Bailey dropped nails into his palm and nodded at the hammer. “We can chew the fat later. Don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  A sly smile played at the corners of Stoker’s mouth. “You are aware of my calling, aren’t you? This is my work.” The man watched him a moment before kneeling again and taking up the hammer. “Whenever you’re ready. Something’s bothering you, and I’m guessing it’s more than concern over Thomas Lovelace’s health.”

  Taking a board from the scrap pile, Bailey stood with handsaw in position. What could he say? How could he confess the same mistake twice? Dropping the saw and board, Bailey dusted the sawdust off his trousers, unsure what words were fixing to come out of his mouth.

  “I should’ve known better, but I volunteered to drive her home.”

  “Aww,” Stoker’s eyebrows rose, “but you wouldn’t lay a hand on a lady under those circumstances. No, the Lovelaces trust you, and for good reason.”

  Bailey turned away, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I don’t know about that. Even with Mr. Lovelace stricken, Mrs. Lovelace still had reservations. I had to give my word.” The handshake with Nicholas. Bailey’s stomach turned. He’d looked the man square in the face.

  “Don’t be upset with Mrs. Lovelace. It takes time to earn trust. You might be eager to restore that relationship, but you can’t blame her for being careful. Besides, she gave you another chance, didn’t she? Prove yourself trustworthy and the next time won’t be as hard for her.”

  Bailey turned desperate eyes to him. He had tried to seduce a woman while her father lay on his sickbed. What kind of man would do such a thing? He sat on the sawhorse. His throat tightened painfully. Pulling one knee to his chest, Bailey bowed under the guilt.

  “But I was tempted.” He shook his head. “Here she is crying and worrying about her pa, and I . . . I wanted to kiss her.”

  Wanted? His cheeks flamed at the half-truth, but even that tidbit was humiliating. The whole story would be unbearable. Bailey waited, hoping Stoker would bring the fire and brimstone, hoping the man would make him pay.

  “Son, resisting temptation is a victory. You were in a delicate situation. The fact that you managed to withstand is admirable.”

  “No, I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” His foot hit the ground. He picked up a hammer and swung it into his palm. “I feel rotten over the whole deal.”

  “I don’t think you should be so hard on yourself. You’re a good man.”

  “No . . .” He looked into Stoker’s honest face and couldn’t bring himself to destroy the trust he saw there. “If I’m good, then I’d hate to know what the bad ones feel like, because I’m miserable. I’ve tried to forget her. I’ve tried to stay away from her, but I can’t. Must be why the Bible says it’s better to marry than to burn.”

  “Will she marry you? I thought she had objections.”

  Oh, Bailey could recite her objections like the Lord’s Prayer, but when they made their appearance last night, he’d done his best to drown them out.

  What did she think today? Did she hate him for his advances? Did she have the same regrets?

  “Not sure which way she’s leaning. ’Course, she’s tore up about her pa. She’s worried about his health, and then there’s the business, too. Dr. Trench says he can’t work anymore. You know Mr. Lovelace. How long will he live if he can’t go to the sawmill?”

  Reverend Stoker wiped his brow. “How’s your stint at the shoemaker’s going?”

  “It’s slowing down. Mr. Hernandez can’t fill any more orders before Christmas, so there isn’t any commission coming in.” Bailey shrugged. “Fine with me. Boots are necessary and all, but if I wanted to fit shoes I’d do farrier work for the blacksmith.”

  “Sounds like the Lovelaces could use a hand.”

  Bailey chewed this over. Sure enough. Nicholas couldn’t stay in Prairie Lea forever. Someone needed to keep an eye on the office while Mr. Lovelace recuperated. Someone he could trust. Someone who was almost family.

  “That’s not a half-bad idea. Kinda shamefaced I didn’t think of it myself. Of course, it’s not going to help me forget Molly.”

  “You’re not going to forget Molly. Not until you’ve made an honest attempt at winning her. You seem to think God’s brought you together. Maybe it’s time to buckle down and find out. Besides, I know an empty parsonage in Prairie Lea that a fellow could claim as long as he keeps lending a hand at the church there. It’s only half a mile from the mill.”

  Would Stoker be matchmaking if he knew what a lowdown snake he was talking to? But maybe he was right. Maybe working for the Lovelaces would convince them that he could take care of their daughter. It couldn’t hurt to try. And the sooner he got a ring on her finger the sooner he could make amends.

  10

  To Do List:

  Buy some lozenges for sore throat.

  Send money home to Father.

  Find Bailey.

  Heat poured out of the woodstove next to Molly’s desk. The winter might produce days cold enough to justifying wearing her new wool walking suit, but inside the building she was suffocating. That morning she’d felt so chilled she feared the goose bumps would permanently pucker her arms, and now she could barely breathe. She loosened the straps on her clerk’s apron and tried to fan herself with the bib, but the effort increased her discomfort. She’d failed to convince Edward that the Texas winter would not get any colder. For such an amiable man, he wasn’t easily swayed. Every time she commented on the heavy clothes he’d commissioned for her, he laughed and hinted that she would need them soon.

  Molly dipped her pen into the inkwell and neatly scripted the next tax payment on the appropriate line in the ledger. She wasn’t going anywhere. Seeing her father nearly die made home more precious to her. Traveling the world in Edward’s private railcar didn’t hold the allure it once had. Molly would cling to the familiar and hope the security she’d always known as a child wouldn’t vanish.

  Until last week she’d been taught to think of security in terms of riches. Security meant getting what you wanted. Security meant having the funds to solve your problems. But sitting in her parents’ room, watching her father fight for every breath, she realized that the security she sought had l
ittle to do with business and everything to do with relationships.

  Molly had tried to catch the eye of wealthy men and had been moderately successful, but something was missing from the exchange. Just as her parents targeted Mr. Pierrepont for his wealth, she sensed that Mr. Pierrepont viewed her as an accessory, as well. He didn’t love her. How could he? She did her best to hide who she was when he was around. Would he still come courting if she’d railed at him in church like a tinker’s wife? Would he be insulted if she found mistakes in his ledgers? Would he kiss her when her cheeks were chapped and her nose was cold?

  Molly slid off her tall stool and went to fetch the correct ledger from the shelves. Hugging the heavy book to her, she inhaled the newly bound scent that still lurked within the pages.

  Where was Bailey? Every time the door creaked, she jumped in anticipation, but he hadn’t made an appearance yet. What was keeping him? Could she have sent him a clearer message? She glanced at Carrie, fearful that she could read her thoughts, but Carrie was paying her no mind.

  Molly eased past the girl’s desk, amazed Carrie hadn’t ferreted the complete saga from her. If only Bailey would marry her quickly, before she had second thoughts. Her love for him might be a liability when written down in fresh ink, but she was done with calculating. It didn’t matter who you married—one wrong step and you could still end up as poor as a church mouse. You might as well marry for love.

  Molly had just plopped the heavy volume onto her desk when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Out of habit, she whirled, but it wasn’t Bailey. Carrying a hand bouquet of pansies, Mr. Fenton was stalking down the hall, looking as nervous as a bull at a calf-fry festival.

  Oh, fiddle-faddle. Molly’s throat lurched to the roof of her mouth. With all her concern over her father, she’d forgotten about Fenton. Bailey had tried to warn her that Fenton was coming to propose. And here he was—a man on a mission.

  Taking her skirt in both hands, she ran out to intercept him before he reached her desk. “Mr. Fenton, can I talk to you outside?” How could she be so thoughtless? She knew that he’d buckled under his parents’ demands, and she’d done nothing to correct him.

  Mr. Travis’s door swung open. “Miss Lovelace, may I ask what’s caused you to abandon your work station?”

  Mr. Fenton fumbled as he tried to shake Mr. Travis’s hand. “Sorry, sir. I don’t mean to disturb your office.”

  “Let’s go outside, Mr. Fenton,” Molly pleaded. “I have something to say.”

  “No, I’ve put this off long enough, and nothing you say is going to sway me.” He shot a nervous glance up the staircase as Carrie joined them in the hall.

  Mr. Travis crossed his arms. “Well, if you’re going to bring the whole office to a halt, it better be important.” No smile threatened to break through his bristly beard. “A proposal of marriage, at the least.”

  “You don’t give a man much wiggle room, do you?” Fenton swallowed hard. His eyes skimmed over Molly and went to the ground.

  Carrie waggled her eyebrows at Molly and leaned forward.

  “Please,” Molly begged her supervisor with hands pressed together in supplication. “Can’t I take him outside? We need to talk privately.”

  “Miss Lovelace, you are as shy as a politician on Election Day. Why feign timidity now? Are you going to marry him or not?”

  “M-marry me?” Mr. Fenton stammered. “I wasn’t going to ask—”

  “Then get out,” Mr. Travis ordered. “No courting allowed here. She is currently occupied.”

  “Thank goodness.” Molly pressed her hand to her forehead. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  Fenton’s chin hardened. “Don’t flatter yourself. Why would any man prefer you over Miss McGraw? She is the dearest, most sincere”—his voice lowered—“most forgiving woman God created, and I’d be blessed if she would consent to be my wife.”

  “Prue?” Carrie cried.

  “Yes, I’m coming.” She must’ve been listening from the landing above them, for Prue flew down the steps like a dainty brown wren and jumped into Mr. Fenton’s arms.

  Molly couldn’t help but covet her radiant smile. She must have practiced it for years to make it look so natural. Well, her efforts were paying off, and the smile Mr. Fenton returned was just as blissful.

  “These are for me, then?” Prue extended her hand to receive the bouquet. He nodded, speechless once again.

  Mr. Travis’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “Miss McGraw, eh?” He snickered at Molly before turning toward his office. “You other two get to work. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Arm in arm the happy couple strolled out the double doors, leaving Molly and Carrie in shock.

  Imagine! Prue, the banker’s bride? Had the world gone mad? Had Bailey misunderstood Fenton all along? Her throat tightened. What a fool she’d made of herself—in front of Carrie and Mr. Travis, too.

  “What a fine how-de-do,” Carrie called from over the counter. “Who would’ve thought Prue would’ve beaten both of us? And with Mr. Fenton, of all people. I guess his uppity family has decided she’d do their receiving line just fine.”

  Molly grimaced. Or they’d heard about her father’s attack and saw no future for her. She might be in worse financial straits than Prue at this moment. Prue’s father had a trade while Molly’s did not.

  But she would cast aside her bruised pride. Bailey was her man. She’d decided on him, and she wouldn’t change her mind. Her parents could live simply—healthily—like the Garners. Of course, she had to admit Mary Garner’s appearance was marred by the brutal Texas sun. Without her French potions and creams Molly would be as wrinkled as a granny, too, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be happy.

  Molly bit her lip as she made her way to her station. Was Mrs. Garner happy? The woman seemed as coarse as Molly’s pumice stone. What would Molly look like after a few children? She already had trouble keeping her corset strings from stretching.

  But it was worth it for love, right?

  Molly somehow managed to survive the rest of Carrie’s caustic remarks. The pain behind her eyes wasn’t imagined. Just half an hour until quitting time. While she wanted to rip out her hairpieces and hide underneath some warm quilts in her room, her first priority was finding Bailey. Whatever evil fairy was playing havoc in her skull would be soothed by a reassuring word from him.

  “Are you feeling all right, Molly?” Prue entered with her wrap on and pansies in her hand. “You can go home now.”

  Molly lifted her head. How had she missed the chimes? “Thank you. I have some peppermint oil in my room. Perhaps if I take to my bed, I’ll be improved by tomorrow.”

  She stood, wincing as she landed on her feet. She should go home. Real home. Not her rented room. If Bailey offered, she’d let him take her to Prairie Lea. She wanted to be with her family and to get their blessing. She wanted to convince them that they would survive. The situation might be different, but they’d all be together.

  And most of all, after the day’s debacle, Molly wanted to go far away from the courthouse. No more Mr. Fenton.

  Although not frigid, the cool air stabbed at her already sensitive eyes. Luckily the cobbler’s shop lay across the square. Keeping her head down, she walked as quickly as her polonaise would allow.

  The leather scent greeted her at the door, and Mr. Hernandez wasn’t far behind.

  “You are here for the boots?” He wiped his hands on his apron.

  She blinked. The boots? “Actually, I came to see Bailey.”

  “Bailey doesn’t work here anymore. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  Molly pressed her hand to her forehead to keep it from exploding. He told her that, right? She vaguely remembered something about him messing up her shoes. Goodness, where was he? She’d go to his aunt’s house. That’s what she’d do. If she could find it in the dark, she shouldn’t have any problem in broad daylight.

  Molly slid her hands into her walking coat, glad for the e
xtravagance as a cool breeze from the door blew past her. “Keep the boots. I don’t think I’m going to need them.”

  “But they’re paid for. You might as well.”

  Soon she found herself with her arms full of boots walking toward Bailey’s aunt’s house.

  The distance seemed to multiply along with the weight of her parcel. If she didn’t find Bailey soon, she might be beyond his help. Instead of searching for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, she should be looking for a doctor.

  Then suddenly she was standing at the door.

  “You want Bailey?” His aunt snapped clothing down from the line without pausing to look at Molly. “He left late this morning. Said he was going home. Probably missed those cows of his. Don’t know when he’ll be back, or if he’ll be back. He hightailed it out after talking to the reverend.”

  Reverend Stoker? Oh no. Molly hugged her boots tightly. Not another confession. What must Reverend Stoker think of her? She wished she could talk to the pastor and find out where Bailey had gone, but something restrained her. Reverend Stoker, as God’s agent on earth, would extend no help to her. Just disapproval. As shallow and frivolous as she was, she could expect no understanding from a man like Reverend Stoker, or from God, for that matter.

  Hadn’t her father taught her that?

  Thanking the woman, Molly dragged herself toward her room, too tired to be humiliated. He’d said that he had regrets. How much of their relationship did he want to undo? If he still wanted to marry her, she needed to know.

  As she crossed Blanco Street she heard her name called.

  “Miss Lovelace, it’s a pleasure to see you.” The young Mexican cowboy reined his horse to tarry at her side. “We’ve missed you at the ranch.”

  It was Rico, a hand on the Garner ranch back in Prairie Lea. Maybe she was clutching at straws, but she saw a possibility.

  “Rico, are you going to George Garner’s tonight?”