Regina Jennings Page 4

  “Bailey? Molly’s Bailey?”

  Bailey lowered his hammer. Did Molly still claim him? He couldn’t really say one way or another. “My hide doesn’t carry her brand.”

  “Of course not,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Molly?” Her brother growled. “Is this the same Molly who stole your Mr. Fenton?”

  Now the unfortunate girl truly was speechless. Her mouth pursed. She blinked rapidly and studied the glowing coals in the furnace. “His hide doesn’t carry my brand.”

  But three men at the forge were all eager to remedy that oversight.

  Bailey’s mouth twisted. The stuffy Mr. Fenton, huh? He’d done his best to nip that thistle in the bud. Bailey pounded on the bar, imagining it decked out in a beetle-brown sack suit. Between ringing strikes he heard Prue’s timid voice again.

  “Mr. Bailey, did you come to town looking for a job?”

  He shot a glance at her father.

  “He’s got one here, if he can take the smoke. Pity such a strong back got paired with delicate eyes.”

  Junior giggled again and earned an impatient look from Prue.

  “I’ve recently heard of one, actually. Bailiff. Pays decent, no smoke, and—” Prue paused until he met her eyes—“a charming co-worker in the land office next door.”

  A smile spread across his face as he recognized a conspirator. “I don’t want to leave your father shorthanded.”

  McGraw spat into the sizzling fire. “Stay around till I get someone else. If you’ll swing your hammer instead of swinging your jaw, that is.”

  Fair enough. He could hardly carry on a conversation over the ringing iron. Bailey watched as Prue disappeared into the house. Molly spoke of Prue with respect, and from her description, Bailey had assumed that Prue was older, matronly. What a surprise. Now, Carrie he knew well. She boarded with Molly and figured into many of her stories, but somehow he couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Prue was perhaps even younger than the other girls. Not an old maid at all.

  The woman in the olive dress reappeared to present her father with a tin pail of fresh drinking water before slipping into the house again.

  The McGraws were respectable, church-going folks. Bailey’s uncle had sent him to Mr. McGraw to ask for job, knowing the man would treat him fairly. Even his mother encouraged him to call on the McGraws. Bailey didn’t know they had a daughter, but something told him his mother did when she and Uncle Matthew procured this job for him.

  “Are you still taking customers?” a familiar voice called from the sunny road.

  “Come on over, Reverend,” Mr. McGraw offered. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for some nails and two heavy hinges. We’re sprucing up the Lockhart parsonage.”

  “You’re leaving Prairie Lea?” Bailey asked.

  Reverend Stoker took a second look. “Bailey? What are you doing here?”

  “McGraw’s letting me try my hand at smithing.” Bailey wiped his irritated eyes.

  With hands in his pockets, the pastor moseyed over to inspect Bailey’s work. “Looks like you can swing a hammer.” He winked at the blacksmith. “To answer your question, I’m splitting my time between the two churches, and Mrs. Stoker would rather live closer to the city than in the little Prairie Lea parsonage.”

  Bailey’s iron bar had cooled. Careful not to impale young McGraw or the reverend, he carried it to the forge and thrust it in the coals. “I’d be glad to help when you move.”

  “Both parsonages are furnished, but there would be a trunk or two. Actually, if you have your evenings free, I could use some help fixing the place up.”

  “I have my evenings free.” The smoke mercilessly aggravated his eyes. Who would have thought he’d be so sensitive? He wiped at them again.

  “McGraw, do you mind if I have a word with Bailey? I won’t keep him.”

  “Talking’s what he does best,” McGraw grunted.

  Well, now he’d have to work late. Smoke or no, Bailey had negotiated for a day’s labor. He’d see to it that McGraw got a day’s work no matter how long it took him. Bailey followed Reverend Stoker out of the shop to stand in the pile of leaves donated by the bare sycamore overhead.

  Stoker’s eyes were filled with concern, peeking from beneath his full gray forelock. “How are you doing, son?”

  Bailey sniffed, his watery eyes having affected his nose. “I’d feel a sight better not breathing in all that smoke.”

  “The reason I ask is because lately you’ve been the topic of several conversations between my wife and me, and she asked a pertinent question. Do you think you might be called to the ministry?”

  Bailey put his throbbing knuckle to his mouth and then spit out the nasty-tasting salve. “The ministry?” He shook his head. “I’m not fit for the ministry.”

  “That’s for God to decide, isn’t it? You have a heart for the Lord and a way with people. Something to keep in mind as you search.”

  “My way with people got me in trouble. I can’t be all holy unless I quit loving—” Bailey stopped. “Is this confidential?”

  “Why are you concerned now? You’ve already unburdened your soul before the whole church.” Stoker chuckled. “Caring for Molly isn’t wrong. Only when you love her more than you love God does it become a problem.”

  “With God so far away and Molly so . . . here . . . it’s hard to keep my sights on the target.”

  “And how about Molly? Where are her eyes fixed?”

  Bailey caught a leaf floating down and twirled it by the stem, afraid to answer the question. He didn’t know about her relationship with God. He was too busy trying to shore up her relationship with him, and the longer they were apart the more concerned he became.

  But how could he be a good influence for her if she was with someone else? Had God taken that into account?

  Molly’s new gown with the mandarin collar was making its debut on the damp streets of Lockhart that morning. She’d waited until the leaves had scattered before breaking out the emerald taffeta, hoping that an infusion of green would bring warm thoughts to those she encountered, although she usually had to wait until her noontime break before meeting anyone interesting.

  Was her digestion going to be ruined by the woebegone sighs of Mr. Fenton, or was her dinner unclaimed? She couldn’t remember. Thoughts popped up in Molly’s head as numerous as soap bubbles, and the only way to keep up was to record them in her blue leather journal. Since it contained her personal musings, she kept it close. Risky, but better to write her plans and achieve them than allow them to remain vague and unreached. She flipped to her daily reminders.

  To Do List:

  Take shirtwaist to Mrs. Leeth’s to replace ink-stained cuffs.

  Buy Father a cigar and beg him to forget Mr. Fenton.

  Regretfully decline Prue’s invitation.

  No dinner with Fenton mentioned. All was good. She returned the journal to her beaded bag and swung it against her skirt, throwing flecks of light on the damp gravel road leading to the town square. Was the rain from the preceding night enough to bring the river up? If her father could stop hauling the lumber across land, he wouldn’t be so desperate—or so he claimed, but by now Molly had learned that her father’s slightest whim was everyone else’s emergency.

  Down the quiet lane she meandered in zigzags, keeping her steps on the driest spots. She’d left the boardinghouse a little early, wanting to put some distance between her and Carrie. Boarding with her co-worker had seemed like a good idea at the time, but sometimes Carrie’s harsh remarks stung. While they were probably meant in jest, continued exposure to her sarcasm affected Molly’s spirits. Occasionally she needed to get away from Carrie’s prying. The girl had noticed how Molly looked around every corner and jumped when the courthouse door opened.

  “Expecting someone?” she’d laughed.

  No, Molly didn’t expect anyone to come looking for her, but if Bailey did, she wanted him to catch her having the time of her li
fe.

  She paused when she reached the mimosa tree in Mr. Hernandez’s yard. The man strolling through the intersection didn’t see her, his morning promenade being one of intense reflection. Molly squinted at the curiosity. Strangers weren’t unusual in Lockhart. As the jumping-off point of the cattle trail, cowboys comprised a large chunk of the landscape, but the man passing before her was no cowboy.

  She fell into step behind him after he’d traveled a respectable distance. Where had she seen him before? Medium build, perfectly tailored suit, bowler hat—at the bank, of course. As if reenacting her memory, he reached into his coat and pulled something out. The wallet wasn’t distinguishable until he dropped it on the ground.

  “Oops.” Molly covered her mouth.

  He didn’t hear her. She watched as he pushed aside his coat and stood with his hands on his hips contemplating the wallet. Why didn’t he pick it up? It had fallen into a depression of sorts and was surely getting wetter the longer it remained in the puddle.

  The man kicked at the wallet and missed. Molly stopped walking to observe the gentleman’s odd behavior. With his cane, he dragged the wallet to higher ground and squatted next to it. Carefully taking his gloved hand, he tried to flip it open but jerked at the contact as if it’d bit him. He might be rich, but he was evidently as crazy as a loon.

  He straightened, studied the wallet a moment longer, and then walked away, leaving it lying in the middle of the road.

  What kind of feathers filled his head?

  “Excuse me, sir,” she called out. “You forgot your wallet.”

  He turned, and she giggled at his sheepish expression. His perfectly parted moustache stretched above generous lips and straight teeth as he grinned.

  “Yes, well. I think I’ll do my best to forget it. It’s dreadfully soiled.”

  “You’re going to leave it there? Someone will take it.”

  “I do hope so. I came to tour the Wild West, and frankly, you people aren’t living up to your reputation. Since I haven’t been held up at gunpoint, I’ll make a donation. Yes, that will suffice.”

  Molly bent to appraise the full wallet, not forgetting to arrange her posture to her best advantage. She tilted her head up to him and let her eyes do the smiling for her. “Surely you jest. This is rainwater. Your bills are probably cleaner now than after they’ve passed through the hands of our local residents.”

  He grimaced at the revelation. “I don’t mean to insult your sensibilities, but since I have no interest in reclaiming it, and since you would loathe touching—”

  Before he could say another word, Molly snatched it up. Holding it away from her new gown, she shook it, knocking loose a few stray drops.

  “I’ll dry this out and have it to you tomorrow. I can’t bear the thought of leaving your property behind.”

  “I really don’t want it . . .”

  “It will wash out.”

  “. . . but I would be pleased if our paths crossed again.”

  “Oh.” Molly stopped. She hadn’t meant to elicit an invitation, but she wasn’t about to turn one down. “I’m afraid we’ve not been—”

  “Edward Pierrepont, at your service.” He removed his hat and bowed. His sandy hair was lighter than his moustache. She’d guessed it. Wax. “I apologize that there’s no one present to make proper introductions.”

  “Molly Lovelace. Pleased to meet you.” Goodness, but she was glad she left without Carrie. Keeping his wallet safely away from her skirt, she resumed her stroll, not surprised when he joined her. On impulse she turned left. It would take them to the courthouse—eventually. “From where do you hail?”

  “My family resides in New York most of the year.”

  “New York? How exhilarating. You left New York to come here?”

  “It’s not as you imagine, not if you live there, anyway. The pretenses, the intrigues.” He shook his head. “I yearn for new horizons and adventure, while my set expects to be pampered like the Czarina’s lapdog. Not me. I want to see the world.”

  “And have you?” Molly turned right at the intersection, hoping Mr. Pierrepont wouldn’t notice how their path meandered.

  “Of course. I took the required grand tour of Europe and then traveled even farther for family business—Constantinople, Moscow, Tangiers—and this journey will culminate in the Alaskan tundra. I loved the exotic. The sounds, the colors. Not the smells, necessarily.” His wrinkled nose relaxed into a genuine smile. He really was quite handsome.

  Molly had to tear her gaze away. She shouldn’t be making cow eyes at him. He was a nomad, not husband material. But even rich New Yorkers had to marry someone, didn’t they?

  “Surely you want a family, a wife? Doesn’t domestic felicity appeal to you?” Her heart raced at her brazenness, but if he was merely traveling through, why not have her curiosity satisfied?

  He sighed and studied the rising sun before answering. “I deeply desire to have a woman at my side. Someone who would travel and explore with me. Someone with whom to share my adventures. Who says a woman must stay by the hearth and wait for her wandering man? With ample funds, travel can be luxurious, even out here.”

  Molly pondered as they walked. This new data needed to be organized and filed. Like her tax payments, every idea should fit neatly into well-established categories. She might have to open a new ledger for this possibility. Touring socialite. Would he meet the parental requirements? Would a dalliance with a rich tourist release Mr. Fenton and her from their painful association?

  All too soon she realized the courthouse was looming before them.

  “I’ve enjoyed our stroll, Mr. Pierrepont, but my destination is ahead. Thank you for escorting me.”

  “To the courthouse? It’d be my pleasure to walk you to the door.”

  “No, no. That’s unnecessary.” No use in piquing Carrie’s curiosity. “But what about your wallet?”

  “You may find me at the McCulloch Hotel, with or without the wallet, but please don’t trouble yourself. Our paths will cross again.”

  Molly blinked at the certainty in his voice.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Lovelace. My morning wanderings have left me somewhat disoriented. Isn’t the hotel a block down Market Street?”

  He’d noticed. She blushed in what she’d been told was a charming manner. “Yes, that’s the most direct route. Good day, Mr. Pierrepont.”

  He tipped his hat and performed a complicated pirouette to avoid another puddle as he departed.

  Molly filled her lungs with the damp morning air and steeled herself for another day at the thin mercies of Mr. Travis. She hoped he was in a fair mood. She hoped the river was high again. And since hoping was free, she’d hope that Bailey had found a job—one that paid generously.

  Another week gone by and she hadn’t heard from him. He was making good on his promise to keep his distance, but what if his reasons weren’t as noble or charitable as he claimed? What if he had tired of her but didn’t have the heart to tell her?

  The man in the spiffy suit disappeared behind the livery stable as he turned the corner. How many opportunities might slip away while she waited for Bailey? Was he waiting for her?

  4

  Broken pickets littered the walkway and slowed Molly’s progress. After work, Molly had dawdled at the courthouse, delaying her trip to Prue’s, but once on the seedy street she couldn’t get there quick enough. She lifted her skirt to fit her foot precisely between the staves lying on the ground. Of course, if she would’ve said no in the first place, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. On afternoons like this, Molly’s lack of fortitude irked her to no end.

  Would you like to buy the matching bracelet? May I have this dance? Are you hungry for seconds? Usually her weaknesses didn’t leave her quite so distraught, but when Prue asked, “Don’t you want to join us for supper?” Molly found herself traipsing across the canal to the smoky neighborhood of the tanner, the butcher, and the blacksmith. The further she walked from the town square, the smaller the
houses and the larger the families grew.

  Molly stood before the McGraws’ house and evaluated it as accurately as Mr. Travis the tax assessor could. How had Mr. Fenton endured his visits to the McGraws’? The house on San Antonio Street belonged to a different realm. Molly couldn’t imagine what had enticed him so far from his natural habitat. Perhaps he had trouble saying no, as well.

  “Be sure and come around front,” Prue had admonished—as if Molly would dream of walking through the hazy yard amid the clanging iron and sweaty men. No indeed. So what was she doing eating dinner with them?

  The last time she’d visited, Prue’s mother had concocted a feast that made Molly long for the cuisine of Lola, the Lovelaces’ cook, but Prue’s mother had succumbed to consumption last year, leaving the quality of the meal she was about to consume in question. She hoped Prue knew her way around the kitchen, or the evening would be a complete disaster.

  “Come on in,” Prue called through the open window.

  Molly hesitated inside the doorway, unsure where to hang her hat and shawl. The tiny half-moon table crowded the entryway, and the vase of chrysanthemums left little room for anything else. Molly buried her nose in the flowers before remembering she didn’t like their smell. Even so, she had to admit the arrangement was gorgeous.

  One step into the parlor brought her to the settee against the wall. She quickly dropped her wrap there and joined Prue in the kitchen.

  “Can I help?”

  “Sure. Can you make the gravy?”

  “Gravy? Sorry.” Molly scratched her elbow. “I could set the table.”

  Prue nodded toward the cupboard with the plates. The efficient kitchen hadn’t changed since Molly’s last visit. Although the décor was less than fashionable, it still possessed a pleasing ambiance. A little oasis of peace in the boisterous neighborhood.

  The whisking noise stopped as Prue turned to Molly. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, but before the men join us, I’d appreciate it if we could have a little talk.”