A Tailor-Made Bride (6 page)
“Tom and I moved your sewing cabinet inside,” he said without looking at her. “He’s taking the rig back.”
Another nail slammed into place. “As soon as I get this step finished, I’ll bring up your trunks and leave you in peace.”
Still grumpy, Hannah thought, but sweet nonetheless.
“Thank you for fixing the step. I’ll gladly pay you for your time.”
Mr. Tucker glared up at her as if she had just impugned his honor. “I don’t charge for being neighborly, ma’am.”
“So I guess I shouldn’t offer to compensate you for your heroic rescue of me, either, then.” She grinned, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of him, but he never looked up.
“Nope.” He accented his refusal with a final swing of the hammer and jumped with both feet onto the new stair.
His craftsmanship held.
“There.” He tipped his hat back and finally met her eyes. “That should stand up to any amount of stomping you feel the need to dish out.”
His lips stretched, and for a moment she thought he might smile, but his mouth never actually curved. Hannah shifted against the railing, unsure if he had spoken in jest or censure.
“Yes, well, thank you. I never know when the urge to stomp might next come over me.” Although she imagined if it did recur, the man before her would somehow be responsible.
He flicked the brim of his hat in salute and turned to go, but she remembered the table and called out to stop him.
“Mr. Tucker? On your way down, would you help me carry this old table to the shop? It’s too large for me to manage on my own.”
He shrugged and followed her inside. “What’s wrong with it? Planning on ordering a roomful of new furniture or something?”
The playfulness she thought she’d detected in his voice earlier had vanished, leaving nothing but frost in its wake. Well, she needed his muscles more than his cheer, so as long as he was willing to help, he could grouch to his heart’s content.
“It’s a perfectly fine table. The only problem is that I need it downstairs.” She set her purse on the seat of the rickety chair and moved around to the far end of the table. Grabbing hold of the edge facing her, she waited for Mr. Tucker to pick up his end. He chose to stare at her instead, with a look that raised her hackles.
Hannah eyed his shins and aimed the point of her toe in his direction. Lucky for him a hefty piece of furniture stood in her way.
“I don’t plan to entertain many guests up here,” she said, “so I can make do without a table. But I can’t very well cut out patterns for my customers on the floor of the shop, now can I?”
He just stared at her, a clouded expression on his face. She was about to shoo him away, determined to move the table without his help, when he stepped up and clasped his side of the tabletop.
“It . . . uh . . . wouldn’t be nothing fancy . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “But if you want, I could loan you a couple of sawhorses and some spare planks I got piled out back. It’d serve until you could buy a real table.”
The heat of her temper mellowed into a warm pool of gratitude.
“You would do that for me?”
He nodded, finally meeting her gaze. His mouth held fast to its rigid line, but the hard glitter had left his eyes, giving him an oddly vulnerable appearance despite the steely strength that radiated from the rest of him.
“Thank you, Mr. Tucker.” A soft smile curved her lips. “I must warn you, though, that I don’t plan to order any furniture until I’ve successfully established my business, so it could be months before I am able to return the borrowed items.”
“Keep ’em as long as you need. I can always make more.”
“Really?” The seed of an idea sprouted in her mind.
“Sure. I got a heap of scrap lumber left from when I tore out the dividing wall in the wagon shed last year.”
“Enough to spare me four boards that I could use for shelving in my shop? I’d pay you for them, of course.”
He leaned over the table toward her. “Now, don’t you go insulting me again.”
“No, sir,” she rushed to assure him, even though there was no heat behind his words. “But I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity, either. Are you sure I can’t mend a shirt or darn a sock for you in trade? Anything?”
“You can quit your yammerin’ and carry this table downstairs so I can get back to minding my own business instead of messing around in yours.”
His sudden rudeness set her back on her heels, but as he ducked his head to hide behind the brim of his hat, an internal light dawned. This tough cowboy didn’t know how to deal with gratitude. He could repair a step and catch a falling damsel, but try to thank the fellow, and he got all surly. Maybe if she could remember that, he wouldn’t rile her so easily.
If he could just remember that she was a dressmaker, maybe his gut wouldn’t end up in knots whenever she looked at him like that. It was enough to give a man indigestion.
J.T. bit back a groan and flipped the table onto its side before she could distract him further. Miss Richards grabbed the leg and helped him maneuver the table through the doorway. She anticipated his movements and worked well with him as they eased down the steps, never once complaining about the weight or asking to take a break.
They carried the table through the back door and set it up in the workroom. He then returned to finish with the trunks while she carried her only chair down to the shop, as well. Something about needing it for her sewing machine and using her trunks for benches. Maybe he could check into finding her some real chairs.
After he deposited the last trunk, she locked up her room and followed him down the stairs.
“How much do I owe you?”
J.T. glanced off toward the livery, dodging her gaze. “A dollar for the wagon, and two bits for the unloading.”
She handed him a one-dollar note and a silver twenty-five-cent piece. He tucked them into his pants pocket and nodded his thanks.
“Was the dry-goods store down this way?” She bit her lip and pointed toward the south, her blue gaze losing some of the assurance that had blazed there since she’d arrived. “I need to stock up on some supplies before they close this afternoon.”
An offer to escort her rose to his lips, but he quickly suppressed it. It was bad enough that he would have to see her tomorrow when he delivered the sawhorses and shelves he’d foolishly promised when the urge to make amends for his hasty judgments temporarily overrode his good sense.
“Yep,” he said, choosing the safer option. “It’s two doors down. Just on the other side of Mrs. James’s laundry.”
“Thank you.” She smiled in that way of hers, the one that made him feel like he had swallowed his toothpick. He frowned back.
Miss Richards turned away and started down the boardwalk, her skirts swaying in a subtle rhythm. Left. Right. L—
“Oh, Mr. Tucker?” She spun around, and J.T. jerked his focus back to her face. A cough that nearly strangled him lodged in his throat.
“Do you happen to know of someone in town who might be willing to sell me a jar of milk in the morning?”
The Harris family had a small dairy operation on the edge of town, where they sold milk, butter, and cheese to the locals. Will Harris, the eldest boy, usually made deliveries to the folks in town who didn’t keep their own cow, but J.T. hesitated to mention him. He was a big, strapping lad with an eye for the ladies. A woman on her own didn’t need a man like that coming around to her personal quarters in the early morning hours. Will was an honorable, churchgoing fella, yet the idea of him sniffing around Miss Richards set J.T.’s teeth on edge.
“I’ll have my sister bring you some.”
She snapped open the clasp on her purse and started swishing those hips toward him again. “Can I pay ahead for a week? I’ll give you—”
“You and Delia can settle on a price tomorrow.” He waved her off and stepped down into the street. “I’ve gotta get back to the livery.”
“Thank you for all your help, Mr. Tucker,” she called out to his back. “You truly have been a godsend.”
He waved a hand in acknowledgment but didn’t turn around. Clenching his jaw, J.T. pulverized as many dirt clods under his boots as possible while he crossed the road. First he tangled himself up with the dressmaker for another day by promising to make her a table, and now he’d dragged Cordelia into it, too. Exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.
J.T. stormed into his office and shut the door. He pounded the wall with his fist as his rebellious eyes sought Hannah Richards through the window and followed her until she disappeared into the mercantile. With a growl, he spun around and pressed his back into the wall, banging his head against the wood.
A godsend?
J.T. tipped his chin toward the ceiling. “If it’s all the same to you, the next time she needs help, send someone else.”
By the time all trace of pink had faded from the sky the next morning, Hannah had already completed her calisthenic regimen, arranged her trunks and crates about the room, and organized her food supplies and personal belongings. A mountain of work still awaited her downstairs, but that knowledge did nothing to dim the excitement skittering across her nerves. If all went according to plan, she’d have her shop in basic working order by the end of the day and be open for business on the morrow. The very thought sent her into a pirouette. The shortened skirt of her loose-fitting gymnastic costume belled out around her.
Now, if only Miss Tucker would arrive with her milk, the day would be off to a grand start. Fighting off a spurt of impatience, Hannah decided to start in on her devotional time without her breakfast cocoa. Whenever possible, she began the day by sipping chocolate and reading from her Bible, but she couldn’t afford to wait on the cocoa with all that had yet to be accomplished.
She had utilized every scrap of yesterday’s daylight to knock down cobwebs from the rafters and corners of her living quarters, clean out ashes from the stove, scrub the floor, and curtain off her bedroom area. When the early darkness of the autumn evening had finally forced her to stop, she collapsed onto her lumpy mattress like a dervish that had run out of whirl and slept unmoving until a nearby rooster let out his predawn squawk. Spun back into action by the sound, she’d been swirling about in a frenzy ever since. She was more than ready for a little quiet time.
Hannah pushed the curtain aside, trying to ignore the unattractive fabric as she collected her Bible from the crate next to her bed. When Floyd Hawkins, the dry-goods store owner, heard she was a seamstress, he had dug out a bolt of dusty calico that had apparently been languishing untouched for over a year in his cloth bin and demanded she take it off his hands at the wholesale price. Hannah certainly understood why no one had purchased the appalling fabric. She would swallow a bug before fashioning the orange-dotted cloth into a dress. But knowing she could put it to use, her practical side wouldn’t let her pass up the bargain. Tacked up in pleated folds along a ceiling beam, it offered privacy, if not great aesthetic value. Perhaps she could drape an eye-pleasing swag across the top and add a ribbon to the hem to dress it up a bit when things settled down.
Bible in hand, Hannah took a seat on the trunk bench she had positioned beneath the window to the left of the stove. She tugged the red satin ribbon that held her place and opened to Proverbs 16, the passage she had been meditating on for the last month as she made preparations for this day. Morning sunlight illuminated the wisdom on the page. Verse three promised that if she committed her work to the Lord, her thoughts would be established. Yet verse eight cautioned that having little while being righteous was better than great revenues without right. Finally, verse nine, the verse of balance, brought her hopes and fears together in a call to trust.
“ ‘A man’s heart deviseth his way,’ ” she whispered, “ ‘but the Lord directeth his steps.’ ”
Hannah read the familiar words one more time before sliding her eyes shut. “Father, you know how badly I long for my thoughts and plans to be established. I have dreamed of this dress shop since my first apprenticeship. You have opened doors for me, doors I could not open on my own, and I thank you.
“At the same time, I confess to wanting success. I want customers to find satisfaction in my designs.” Hannah’s forehead crinkled as honesty warred with her desire not to appear overly ambitious or greedy before her Lord. “All right, more than satisfaction,” she admitted. “I want them to be amazed at my skill. Help me to battle my pride and remember that it is by your grace alone that I have this opportunity.
“As I embark on this endeavor, remind me to cling to righteousness, not to revenue; to look for ways to serve and glorify you, not myself; and to follow where you lead, even if you direct my steps on a path that deviates from the way I have charted. Thank y—”
A quiet knock thumped against the door, cutting off her prayer and accelerating her heartbeat. Hannah shoved her Bible aside and jumped to her feet. She sent a silent amen heavenward and rushed to the door.
She opened the portal to find a softer, rounder, and more feminine version of Mr. Tucker standing on her stoop. The woman’s brown hair was pulled into a nondescript knot beneath a plain straw bonnet that seemed more appropriate for a young girl than a grown woman. No frills adorned her brown dress, either. Yet the shy smile on her face erased any semblance of severity, and the aroma of fresh-baked bread that wafted from the basket she held filled Hannah with a sense of comfort and put her instantly at ease.
“You must be Miss Tucker. Please come in. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
The woman’s cheeks flushed and her gaze fell to the floor, but her smile widened as she crossed the threshold. “Thank you, Miss Richards. I have the milk you asked J.T. about and brought some of my apple muffins as a welcome gift.”
“How thoughtful. They smell delicious. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.” Hannah took the offered fruit jar of milk and set it on the arm of the stove while Miss Tucker extracted a napkin-wrapped bundle from the large basket hanging from the bend of her elbow. Hannah spied several loaves of bread and additional muffins before the cloth cover was tucked back into place.