Regina Jennings Read online

  “What kind of shoe are we commissioning for you?”

  He was cheerful. Too cheerful. Molly ground her teeth together, knowing the situation could explode like a powder keg.

  “I’ll do that.” She pulled her foot down and bent to finish the job he’d begun. “I need climbing boots.”

  Bailey frowned. “When have you ever stepped off the boardwalk?”

  “I didn’t ask you.” She kicked the boot off her foot. “Where is Mr. Hernandez?”

  Molly jumped when the bell rang again. She pulled her skirt down primly as Edward entered the building. He eased himself into the empty chair next to her and crossed his leg. Pulling out his watch fob, he frowned and then returned it. “Continue, please. Don’t mind me.”

  Edward’s foot tapped lightly against the floor. A mallet pounded somewhere behind the red velvet curtain, but Bailey was silent.

  At her feet he remained motionless. He didn’t move until she raised her face to meet his brown eyes. Unbelief. Hurt. Not until he’d inaudibly communicated his reproach did he reach behind him and produce a sheet of heavy white paper. Pulling out a short pencil tucked behind his ear, he made some notes on the bottom corner, the scratching noise of the soft lead audible in the still room.

  “Climbing boots, you say?” His tone had lost the cheerfulness it’d had before. Molly missed it, hating that she’d destroyed it. “What specifications, exactly?” His head was bent over the page, pencil poised.

  “I don’t know,” she croaked. Why was her throat so raspy? She looked to Edward, whose face grew thoughtful.

  “Oh, they need to be tall but flexible. Sturdy, low heel for a good grip.”

  “You mean for real mountains? Moccasin looking?”

  “Precisely.” Edward beamed. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Are you planning to accompany the lady? We could make you some, if I can find a man’s form in such a small size.”

  Edward laughed easily. “No, my friend. I won’t need any, but if you are going to try to sell extra pairs, it doesn’t do to insult the customer.”

  Molly bit her lip. She didn’t like this. It seemed impossible that the two of them could be in the same room. They occupied different spheres, different arenas of her life that should never overlap. Edward was fantasy, an apparition that served a temporary need. Bailey was her future, although an uncertain future.

  She squared her shoulders. She couldn’t allow Bailey to humiliate her again. Not in front of Edward. “We’re in a hurry. Please measure me so we can be about our business.”

  Bailey’s eyes smoldered, but he laid the paper flat on the floor. Rising, Molly stepped with her stockinged foot onto the paper. On his knees went Bailey. He covered her foot with his left hand without hesitation—a warm and steady pressure—and pressed the pencil against her instep. Molly glanced at Edward’s spotless gloves. Naturally Bailey didn’t pause before touching her. Only on unfamiliar ground did one proceed with caution.

  Once again Molly couldn’t see his face—or hardly his head—over her billowing skirt as he leaned in closer to judge the pattern as he traced.

  How could she be so conflicted? How could she want to draw Bailey to her, run her fingers through his hair, and talk for hours about all that had happened? All that had happened? Edward’s offer was what had happened, and Bailey wouldn’t want to hear about it. The burden she most needed to share, the situation she could most use advice on, she had to find her way alone.

  She forced herself to breathe as his pencil worked its way around her toes and along the outside of her foot. Molly didn’t dare look at Edward but sensed that he was messing with his gold watch again. What was taking Bailey so long?

  “Are you about done?” She wished he would look up to see the impatience in her eyes that she didn’t have the nerve to express with her tone.

  The pencil finished its trek behind her heel and back to the beginning point. Not allowing his hand to linger a moment longer than necessary, Bailey sat back on his heels. Molly moved her foot so that Bailey could examine the sketch. “That’ll do.”

  Edward nodded. “All right, lovey”—Molly winced at the endearment— “remove your other boot and let’s get your left foot traced.”

  “That’s unnecessary. We can reverse the pattern and use it for both.” Standing, Bailey turned his back to them and started toward the red velvet curtain that led to the workroom.

  “How soon will they be done?” Edward called.

  “You can give them to her for Christmas.” Bailey’s steps never slowed as he slung the curtain behind him and disappeared from view.

  Bailey spread the paper smooth and leaned heavily against the work table, elbows locked, shoulders up around his ears.

  She belonged to him. How could she sit within arm’s reach—in his grasp, even—and allow another man to call her lovey? Molly knew better.

  He squeezed the tabletop until he thought it’d crumble in his hands. She didn’t love that man. Impossible. If she loved that other fellow, wouldn’t she be following his every move with those blue eyes? Wouldn’t she spark when the city dandy took her arm the way she trembled while he traced her foot?

  Bailey straightened and pounded the table with his fist. He’d hurt her when he broke off their courtship, but his ardor hadn’t cooled. Was she testing him? Trying to make him miserable in hopes that he would get his act together more quickly? Well, she was doing a fine job plaguing him, but did that other fellow understand she wasn’t available?

  “See to the man up front.” Hernandez sped by, snatching his awl off the workbench.

  Bailey left his sketch on the board and headed to the storefront. How much more cash did he need before he could resume their relationship? How much before God opened the chute and set him free again? His commissions on shoe sales were adding up. ’Course Christmas came only once a year, but he’d have enough to set up housekeeping if Molly could be content with something similar to the little house in Prue’s neighborhood. Would it be soon enough?

  “Mr. Garner, just the man I’m looking for.” Mr. Fenton stood, stance wide, arms crossed, as if daring Bailey to try to push him over.

  “You found him.” Bailey removed the pencil from behind his ear and tossed it onto the countertop. “How may I help you?”

  “It’s come to my attention that you are mooning for a woman who is far superior to you.”

  Bailey shrugged. “I don’t deny it. What’s on your mind?”

  “I came to appeal to your sense of decency. I can better provide for a wife. I’m already established and offer a secure living for a family.”

  Bailey held up his hand to interrupt. “So if another bloke showed up with deeper pockets, you’d step aside?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “Hate to tell you, but you’re beating a dead horse. I’m not the one standing in your way.”

  Fenton’s mouth twitched. Bailey could tell he wanted to know more, but he restrained himself from asking.

  “I don’t fear the future, Mr. Garner. Not when happiness is within my grasp. If you’ll excuse me, I must be about my plans.”

  Bailey almost choked. Drivel. Unless he was on a stage, a grown man didn’t voice such ridiculous sentiments. Happiness within his grasp? Maybe Fenton would go home and stitch it on a sampler. He’d need something to fill his lonely nights, because Molly sure as shooting wasn’t interested in him any longer.

  7

  No lamp from within the modest yellow house shone to light her way through the dark yard. Molly crept close enough to spot the wash line tied to the porch-swing chain. According to the courthouse records, this was the address, and if she remembered correctly, she’d heard that Bailey’s aunt Frances let her children swing after she hung the laundry in the hopes that the movement would dry it faster. With all the washing she took in, those children must have unflappable balance.

  Now, how to find the correct window? All were opened to take advantage of the cool weather. Molly
crept to the left and heard unabashed snoring wafting over the sill. If that was who she thought it was, she’d turn around and sneak back to Mrs. Truman’s boardinghouse immediately. She wanted nothing to do with any man capable of such offensive noises.

  Bracing herself against the wall, she paused to gather her thoughts.

  Edward would be leaving soon, and his invitation to her had been clear. Although it wasn’t accompanied by an engagement ring and a nervous speech from one knee, he wanted to marry her—and soon. She’d tried to keep the news from her parents, but they sensed that a culmination was imminent. Letters arrived daily from her mother asking for updates. Her father actually snubbed Mr. Fenton at the barbershop during his last visit to Lockhart. They smelled victory.

  She saw defeat.

  Molly gathered her skirt out of the crackling leaves. Without the bustle to fluff it out, it hung as flat as a cow’s tail and tangled around her ankles. No matter. She could hardly have crawled out the kitchen window with additional padding. Tight enough fit as it was. Besides, no one would see her this time of evening, and even if they did she wouldn’t be recognized wrapped in her old cloak. With her hand against the clapboard siding she worked her way to the back porch, around the kitchen windows, to the lone room on the other side of the house.

  There she heard him. Tentatively, gently, the guitar strings released a melody, one note plucked at a time. Molly crouched under the window and listened to him drowsily croon the ballad. That voice meant so much to her. Teasing, encouraging, adoring—the most precious words ever said to her had been spoken by that voice, and she wanted to hear more.

  Molly pulled her hood back and adjusted her hair. No reason to be unprepared. Considering how much trouble she’d gone through sneaking out of Mrs. Truman’s, she might as well make an impression.

  Molly stood and peered through the open window. The music stopped. She couldn’t see in, but obviously he could see out.

  “Who’s that lady, Uncle Bailey?”

  Oh, fickle pickle! Molly dropped to her knees, but it was too late.

  The slow, drowsy voice she’d been listening for answered. “Probably Slue-Foot Sue. Was she riding a catfish?”

  “I didn’t see one,” a boy’s voice replied.

  “Well, I’ll check. You stay in bed.”

  The metal frame creaked, and Bailey’s head appeared above hers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Pecos Bill doesn’t live here. You have the wrong house.”

  “It’s really her?” The bed bounced again.

  A quick frown and he vanished into the dark room. “Appears so. No lady I know would be sneaking around at night unless it was that brazen Slue-Foot Sue. Now you get to sleep. I played you the moon song like I promised. I’m going to sneak to the kitchen for a drink, but when I come back I want to hear you snoring like your pa.”

  Something rustled inside and Molly heard the distinct snap of suspenders. A tiny shock ran up her spine. Good thing she couldn’t see in the window. She hadn’t considered the peril of peeking into a man’s bedchamber at night.

  Trying not to rustle the leaves, she reached the back porch just as Bailey eased the door closed behind him. No wonder the suspenders had snapped so loudly. They’d hit bare skin.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and came to the edge of the porch. Not wanting to raise her voice, Molly started toward him. Her foot hit the porch step, but with an outstretched hand he stopped her.

  “No you don’t. Get over there.” He motioned to a spot on the other side of the rosebushes lining the balustrade.

  “My goodness, Bailey. Are you that scared of me?” But her voice shook. There was so much of him. Skin everywhere she looked.

  “Don’t you have this confused?” he asked. “In the fairy tales isn’t the prince supposed to come to the sleeping maiden’s window?”

  “I don’t read fairy tales. In real life, nothing good happens while you sleep, only wrinkles.”

  “Then say what you have to say. We shouldn’t be alone at night in a place like this.” He motioned wide to the moonlit yard, his complete naked span from fingertip to fingertip exposed.

  Her breath caught. Until now she’d only guessed what he looked like, based on the hard muscles she felt through his clothing. If she had known . . .

  “Don’t look at me like that. I swear, if anyone deserved to be kidnapped and dragged to the parson, it’s you. If your father had any idea how you go looking for trouble, he’d lock you up.”

  “It’s your own fault. How am I supposed to forget?”

  A hoot owl startled them both. Molly waited until the bird finished its call, waited for the sparks between them to calm, before she spoke.

  “You really hurt me, pushing me away like you did.” She pulled a stem from the rosebush and began breaking off the thorns. “I understand why, but it still hurt.”

  “I know.” She could feel his heavy gaze on her as he spoke. “I thought it was for the best.”

  “This doesn’t feel best.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  Him and his religious talk.

  Come to think of it, she had a confession, too. “Since then, I’ve acted shamefully. I’ve tried to upset you and make you jealous.” A thorn stuck her finger. She squeezed it until a dark drop appeared. “No matter what happens next, it’s not out of spite. I want you to know I wouldn’t go that far.”

  The wind moved the bushes, scratching the banister and sending the cloying scent of old blooms into the air.

  “Have you already decided what happens next?” Bailey bent at the waist and rested his arms atop the simple wood railing. “Mr. Fenton told me he’s ready to declare his intentions. I have to applaud you. Looks like you’ve been successful.”

  Molly blinked and then waved that suggestion away like a horsefly. “Fenton? Never. I’m not interested in that pompous goat.”

  “You played interested not too long ago. Has someone else caught your eye?”

  She squirmed. Had Edward Pierrepont fulfilled all her aspirations, or had he made it clear that no one would replace Bailey?

  “How’s your job with the cobbler?” she asked.

  “Sales couldn’t be better, but I’ve been a disappointment to Mr. Hernandez in the workshop. He tried to teach me to make those tiny stitches, but they’re impossible to see. Once the Christmas rush slows down, I’ll most likely be looking for another position.”

  “That’s too bad.” Molly wrung every drop of disappointment out of the words until they were left dry. “Do you think you’ll be unemployed again?”

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Pierrepont—that man who bought me the boots—he’s leaving soon.”

  “’Bout time.”

  “He wants me to go with him.”

  The balustrade creaked under Bailey’s weight. Molly looked away, unable to bear the hurt on his face. The crickets chirped. She pulled her cloak around her tighter, wishing she could creep inside and hide.

  “And you don’t know what you’re going to do?” His voice fell gently, almost sympathetically.

  “You don’t understand. Every dance lesson, every music teacher Mother hired was to prepare me for an advantageous marriage. My parents raised themselves from obscurity to prominence. For me to marry poorly would be a reversal of fortunes for my family. Still, I’d do it for you—if you were ready.”

  “Wait for me, Molly. There’s no hurry.”

  “I waited on Weston, and he married someone else. What if you do, too? What if you fall in love with Prue? In the meanwhile, my corset’s getting tighter, my cheeks are getting paler—”

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  “But I’m not young anymore. Besides, once Edward leaves I won’t have that opportunity again.”

  “If he loves you—” Bailey’s voice caught, but he forced the words out— “he’ll come back.”

  Molly didn’t answer.

  “He loves you, right?”

  Did he? Edward must or he wouldn’t offer marriage. With his riches
and position, he wasn’t desperate. Any girl would be lucky to catch him, just as any girl would be lucky to secure Bailey’s regard.

  “That’s not a requirement according to my parents. You know my situation.”

  “And I’m doing everything I can to get you out of it.” Even in the dark she couldn’t miss the longing in his eyes.

  Molly moved toward him and stepped into the rosebush.

  “Ouch!” She pulled away, snatching her cloak from the grasp of the thorns she’d missed.

  “My hedge of protection.” He chuckled. “Those church folks are praying for us. I hope while they pray for my defense against your charms, they remember to pray for my financial situation, as well.”

  His efforts to cheer her weren’t lost on Molly. Her frown relaxed into a smile that he shared until their gazes deepened, and then he broke it off. Just as well. At least one of them had some sense.

  Bailey straightened and surveyed the dark homes around them. “No one can tell you what you want, Molly. You’re a big girl and will have to live with your decision. But for now, I’m going to do everything I can to help you, even if it means sending you to your room. You really shouldn’t be out alone at night.”

  “Fiddle. These streets are as safe as Grandmother’s parlor.”

  “Not hardly. If you want to talk, don’t wait until dark—unless that’s the only time you can escape your escort.”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “You get to bed. I won’t keep you up any longer.”

  “Yes you will.”

  And even after Molly reached the alley she could still make him out, standing on the porch behind the rosebushes.

  December eighteenth marked the one-year anniversary of the reopening of Bradford’s Mercantile, and it was swarming like an anthill drenched in lemonade. The cobbler had given Bailey a half day off to travel to Prairie Lea for the celebration, and the trip was worth it. His entire family would be in attendance. Even Molly’s brother, visiting from Garber, had stayed to congratulate the proud shopkeeper.