Regina Jennings Page 3

  “Mr. Fenton, my cousin Bailey Garner.”

  The man stood and offered his hand.

  “Mr. Fenton works at the bank.” Molly set her fork down next to her plate and wiped her fingertips on the napkin. “Our fathers are business associates.”

  He should’ve known. Bailey shook hands with the man and then tried to wipe off the contact on his canvas britches.

  “Pleased to meet you.” But he wasn’t.

  “I heard you’re building a new house,” Weston said.

  “Yes, it’s nearing completion.”

  “Is that the new two-story with the beautiful mansard roof on San Antonio Street?” Molly asked, leaning halfway across the table.

  Fenton nodded.

  “It’s magnificent.”

  Bailey narrowed his eyes. Was she sincere or merely pretending for his benefit? It didn’t matter. Mr. Fenton squirmed like a worm on a hook. He looked longingly at his plate of roast beef.

  “Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me, Weston, Mr. Garner. My dinner hour is nearly over, and I’ve yet to finish my meal.”

  Bailey looked up to see Molly scowling at him. She narrowed her eyes and then cooed to Fenton with the subtlety of an auctioneer, “It’s a pity you don’t have time to converse, but I guess the bank can hardly do without you. Perhaps we can visit with the Mr. Garners some other time.”

  She paused, offering them the opportunity to voice their regrets.

  Boy, was she putting on a show, trying to herd them all exactly where she wanted them. But Bailey wouldn’t be led by the nose. Time to stampede.

  He picked up an empty chair from the nearest table with one hand and slung it between his legs, dropping into it backwards. “There’s nowhere in the world that I’d rather be than here, becoming better acquainted with Mr. Fenton.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

  “Yes, I’ve long been fascinated with the banking business. I’m sure it’s a breathtaking and dangerous venture. And your house, Mr. Fenton?” He batted his eyes and raised the pitch of his voice an octave. “Oh, I so admire everyone who lives on San Antonio Street.”

  Molly’s attempts to incinerate him with her eyes failed. He was fireproof.

  “Bailey,” Weston warned.

  Bailey cringed, not sure by which piece of his anatomy Weston might drag him out, but his mentor could hardly act as barbaric in the eatery as he would’ve on the ranch.

  Weston nudged the leg of his chair. “There’s not room at the table for four. Let them finish alone.”

  But Mr. Fenton blinked first. He smirked at Molly although he spoke to Weston. “No, please. Take my place. It’s an honor I’m willing to relinquish. Please pass the seat on to the next man when he arrives.”

  “You must disregard him, Mr. Fenton. He is leaving.” She got to her feet, but her protests were losing strength.

  Fenton tossed a bill on the table, dipped his head to Weston, ignored Bailey, and left the dining room as fast as his rounded-toe shoes allowed.

  “You ran off my escort. Father will not be happy,” Molly said.

  But she didn’t look upset. Despite the hand on her hip, she seemed relieved. Her eyes sparkled and her pert mouth tilted.

  “I’m trying to help you out,” Bailey said.

  “If you wanted to help, you’d be building a house on San Antonio Street instead of lollygagging about town.” But the only work she was doing was twisting a blond curl around her shapely finger.

  Then she noticed Weston.

  Bailey couldn’t help but be charmed by the change in her. He was captivated by the thought that she had expressions and mannerisms only he was privy to. Decorum replaced the eagerness on her face. She resumed her proper poise, but Weston didn’t notice the difference.

  “Won’t you join us?” Bailey reclaimed his seat. “Weston can chaperone, so I should be safe from your charms.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I must return to the courthouse. Employment seems to be a rare commodity these days. I don’t want to jeopardize my own.”

  With a nod at Weston, Molly clomped across the room so strongly that her square heels could’ve left indentions on the oak floor.

  Weston took a seat across from Bailey as the batwing door swung shut behind her. Leaning back, he crossed his legs at the ankles and frowned at his charge from across the table.

  “You’re playing with fire, Bailey. Playing with fire.”

  The three-story sandstone courthouse looked like a castle, complete with turrets and a waving flag at the pinnacle. Entering through the red sandstone arch as the giant clock chimed, Molly could almost imagine that she was a princess returning to a celebration in her honor. Smiling, dipping her head, she could keep the fantasy alive until she crossed the golden tiles in the entry and reached the land office.

  The wooden door eased open just enough for Molly to squeeze her lobster-tail bustle through. Open it any further and the movement would be visible from Mr. Travis’s office, and getting caught meant—

  “Miss Lovelace, did you not hear the courthouse clock chime one? There was a vacancy at your desk when the event occurred. Again.” Mr. Travis’s beard hung on sagging skin and hid his jaw completely.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” Molly untied her hat and exchanged it for her inky apron that hung on the pegboard. She pressed a hand to her rosy cheek, willing it to fade, along with the memory of her tumultuous dinner. Hopefully her father would think she’d suffered enough and wouldn’t require her to make another attempt with the prickly Mr. Fenton. Dinner would’ve been a complete loss if it weren’t for Bailey’s appearance. And what was even better, he’d seen her with another man. Complete triumph.

  “Being sorry doesn’t get the work done. I answer to the taxpayers of Caldwell County, and I can’t justify spending their funds on workers who neglect their stations.”

  Behind Mr. Travis, Molly’s co-worker Carrie rolled her green eyes and flapped her hand open and closed like a duck’s beak quack, quack, quacking.

  “. . . empty all the waste bins after hours—that means on your own time. And see that you aren’t tardy again.”

  “Yes, sir,” Molly repeated.

  As soon as the latch on his office door clicked into place, Carrie slid off her stool and rushed to Molly’s work station.

  “How was dinner? What did he do? Did he talk about Prue?”

  Molly unbuttoned four buttons on her right wrist and pushed back the cuff. If only her situation excited her as much as it did Carrie.

  “I survived. That’s all I’m going to say.” Molly touched her neckline and straightened her hair.

  Carrie’s sharp eyes searched her face. “What happened? You’re hiding something.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as I expected. That’s all.”

  “Do you think he’ll leave Prue? He didn’t make advances, did he?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Molly shuddered at the thought. How high a price was she willing to pay to please her father?

  Turning her back to Carrie, she took the stack of letters delivered during the noon hour, opened the top envelope, and extracted the payment. The smell of ink and the newly bound ledger cleared her head. Numbers were faithful friends. They didn’t expect you to waste your youth waiting. They didn’t tempt you and then embarrass you publicly. They stayed on their paper until you had time for them, and they always followed the rules.

  “Mr. Saul Nimenko, sixteen dollars and twenty-two cents.” Molly dipped her quill in the inkpot and scratched the entry onto the page. Then she slid off the stool and followed Carrie to the wall of bookshelves. Land parcels in the northwest section of Prairie Lea—that was the volume she needed. Carrie took the heavy book for the south central region of Lockhart in both hands and stepped out of her way.

  “Northwest, northwest,” she whispered to herself. She’d never met Mr. Saul Nimenko, but if his property tax was a measly $16.22, she didn’t need to meet him. She’d do just as well with Bailey.

  The rat.

  The
office door squeaked open, and a sturdy brunette peeked around the corner.

  Prue.

  Molly ducked her head as Carrie silently waved her friend over. Former friend. The lady would certainly never claim any association with her now.

  “Prue, what are you doing here?” Carrie set the heavy book on her table without a noise. “Is court out of session?”

  “The jury is in deliberations, so I slipped away.” She smoothed her dark skirt, and with another furtive glance toward Mr. Travis’s door, she leaned across the counter to whisper, “How are my friends in the land office doing?”

  Molly lowered her eyes. She felt bad enough already. She mumbled a greeting, trying not to recount Judge Rice’s words. Evidently Prue didn’t believe that any association between her and Fenton was merely endured. She sighed. It was strange that a man like Mr. Fenton had become besotted with the blacksmith’s daughter. Molly expected her to attract a nice humble boy—someone as good as gold and shabby as burlap—not a connoisseur like the banker.

  “Your friends are doing quite well, thank you,” Carrie said. “At least Molly is. She dined with Mr. Fenton today.”

  Molly groaned. Didn’t Carrie understand how hurtful her comments were? Did she enjoy the discomfort she was causing?

  Prue’s large brown eyes rested on Molly. She pressed her hand against her olive shirtwaist and swallowed slowly. “Did he have his roast beef?”

  Molly nodded.

  “Good. If he eats anything else for dinner he suffers from indigestion. He’d prefer to eat at home, but his kitchen is under construction, and there’s no one to cook for him.”

  “There will be soon, if Molly has her way,” Carrie said.

  “Carrie, stop,” Molly said.

  “Why? Prue’s being a sport. If Mr. Fenton prefers you, it’s best he realizes it before he finds himself bound in holy matrimony to the wrong person.”

  Prue’s face turned gray. “I should go. The jury may have reached a verdict.” She clasped her hands together in a martyr’s pose. “But I have a favor to ask, Molly. If you have a free evening, would you come for a visit? Come for supper if you’re tired of the fare at the boardinghouse.”

  Visit the McGraws? Did Prue really want her there, or was she trying to increase Molly’s guilt? In the long run, it didn’t really matter. She could hardly refuse.

  “Thank you, Prue. I’d like that.”

  And she would if the weight of her father’s schemes didn’t rest so heavily on her conscience.

  Carrie, being free from culpability, had no compunction about voicing her opinion, which she did on their walk home after work.

  “Why doesn’t Prue say what she thinks? She must be fuming. I can imagine how I’d feel if you’d gone after a beau of mine in the same way.” The girls linked arms as they crossed the street in front of the courthouse and made their way to the boarded sidewalk of the square.

  “But I’m not. Not really. It’s all been arranged by our parents.”

  They made a pretty picture promenading before the storefronts, or so Molly thought as she watched their reflection in the windows they passed. She straightened her back so as not to appear slouchy next to Carrie’s flawless posture. And did her charcoal ensemble appear drab next to Carrie’s lemon shirtwaist?

  “She should’ve seen it coming,” Carrie continued. “I can’t imagine why Mr. Fenton has put up with her mousy ways for so long. She should claw your eyes out. Who wants a spineless woman?”

  “Believe me, I wish she’d fight for him,” Molly said.

  Carrie’s long strides moved Molly too fast to produce the correct swing in her skirts. Her hat bobbed as she tried to keep up, Mother’s deportment lessons cast aside.

  “I can’t fault their logic,” Carrie agreed. “What business does a blacksmith’s daughter have with a family like the Fentons? She’d be better off with that cowboy, Bailey.”

  Molly skidded to a stop.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Bailey and Prue would never suit. He’s so . . . dangerous. Wild. He’d scare her knickers off.”

  “Bailey? He seems like more of a goody-goody. Too tame for me. Unless . . . unless Bailey has some potent charm you’ve kept secret.”

  The hair on the back of Molly’s neck stood at an unbidden memory. Stunned, Molly dropped her handbag on the boarded sidewalk. Where had that chill come from? So startled was she that she swooped to snatch it off the ground before considering the right angle for her descent. Carrie didn’t release her hold on Molly’s arm until the last minute, throwing her off balance and causing her to fall on her hands and knees.

  “Be careful,” Carrie snorted. With a firm grip, she hauled Molly to her feet. She held the errant handbag while Molly dusted herself off and straightened her skirts over the boning underneath. “Don’t look now, but we’re being observed.”

  Molly’s furious arranging immediately ceased, and she assumed an air of a queen inspecting her . . . what did queens inspect? Who knew? Molly didn’t have time to read old books while a man like the one standing in front of the bank roamed the earth.

  At first glance she was convinced he was golden. Perfection incarnate. But as she scrutinized him, she realized her opinion was formed more by his bowler hat and silk cravat than his physical attributes. His frock coat was fuller than any she’d seen before, and his trousers were heroically striped, making her workday dress look dull by comparison.

  She couldn’t see the color of his hair because of his hat but assumed it to be the same shade as his light-brown moustache, unless it was heavily waxed. Yes, the part above his full lips evidenced wax. She smiled. Good grooming meant good breeding. Between the hat, his gloves, and his spats, very little of him was actually visible—only lively eyes and an arrogant jaw.

  A queen inspecting her noble courtiers. That’s what Molly would inspect if she were queen.

  Aware they couldn’t return blatant stares, Molly and Carrie resumed their stroll, but not before Molly noted the cane and thick gold chain leading undoubtedly to a heavy pocket watch.

  “An interesting development,” Carrie said. “Not that he’ll pay me any mind. He only had eyes for you.”

  Molly pretended to pick lint off her shoulder to get another look. He remained in front of the bank, folding bills into a thick wallet. “Let’s pray my parents don’t hear about him.”

  3

  “Ow! That’s hot!” Bailey dropped the tongs as his knuckle brushed against a smoldering bar of iron. He popped his finger into his mouth.

  “It is a blacksmith shop,” Mr. McGraw groused as he pumped the bellows. The flames in the forge burst from orange to white hot, radiating enough heat to keep the structure sweltering, even though the double doors were thrown open and summer had long gone.

  Picking up his tongs, Bailey found the wooden bucket and immersed his hand. Ah, relief. But his hand would heal before his eyes would. His first day on the job and his eyes felt like he’d rubbed them with onions. Maybe the smell of manure back on the ranch wasn’t so bad after all.

  He took a swipe of the ointment offered by the thick blacksmith and smeared it on his knuckle, the blister already filling with fluid. “I’ll work the bellows for you. It looks safer.”

  Mr. McGraw’s muttonchops swung as he slid his jaw around. “Naw, go over there. That iron is ready. Draw it out on the anvil, and when it gets an eighth of an inch thick, bring it to me. Oh, and Bailey, use the tongs, not your bare hands.”

  McGraw’s son laughed from his bench near the forge. The younger McGraw stood half a foot shorter than Bailey and possessed forearms the size of hams and a schoolgirl giggle.

  “Reckon I deserved that.” Bailey swung the glowing iron his way and grinned as his eyes grew big. He had been so clumsy today the man had every right to worry. Positioning the iron bar on the anvil, he squeezed the tongs firmly and swung the hammer. The vibrations of the blow reverberated up his left arm. Renewing his grip, he struck again.

  Satisfying. Sometimes a man needed to work out
some frustration. Bailey wasn’t a fighter, but the more he thought about Molly with Fenton, the more he could picture himself overturning tables, firing off a few rounds into the night sky, and maybe even kicking a dog. There he’d be—on the fringes of society like that no-account Michael James. If Molly married Fenton, Bailey might as well loiter outside the local saloon with Michael and harass passersby. He smiled in spite of himself, imagining the church folks’ shock. Well, he’d raise a glass to them and . . . no, he wouldn’t. Bailey possessed equal parts fear of the Lord and fear of his ma. The Lord would have the final judgment, but his ma might move up the trial date if he crossed her.

  Bailey flipped the rod and banged on the other side. Molly would wait on him. She’d want him to worry over her, sure, but she knew he was trying to do right by her. And God would reward him, too. He was finally setting out on the right path. If he wanted to be successful like Mr. Lovelace, he needed to find his place in the world. As much as he loved his own father, he didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. He didn’t want to live season to season barely squeaking by.

  The smoky air burned his lungs. He wiped his tears with his sleeve before young McGraw saw it and laughed at him again. The smithing job came available at the right time, but it might not work out after all.

  “Howdy, Prue. Quitting time already?” Mr. McGraw called.

  The young lady looked ill at ease in her olive dress, as if even the simple gown were too fine for her. She hurried to old McGraw’s side and kissed him on the cheek. “Let me change, and I’ll offer what little help I can.”

  “No hurry. Bailey is giving us a hand.”

  Prue straightened. “Then I’ll get supper on.”

  She tarried at the edge of the shelter. Bailey swung his hammer twice more before she worked up the nerve to speak.