A Tailor-Made Bride (9 page)
“I’m sure Delia would enjoy hearing about your plans one of these days.”
Warren’s head shot up, and a grin split his face. Seeing his response, J.T.’s conscience flared up. Maybe he should cut the kid a break. He was still young. A little more life experience and he might grow out from under that oversized attitude of his. He’d never really had to fend for himself, what with his father’s store always being there for him. And from what J.T. understood, Warren had started taking over more responsibilities—keeping the books, making deliveries, overseeing the inventory. Maybe he should make more of an effort to be tolerant.
“I’ll be sure to tell her about it, then,” Warren said, swagger restored. “She’d probably enjoy sharing a meal with a man who didn’t smell like manure for a change.”
Then again, maybe he should just expedite the kid’s real-world education and stuff his tongue down his throat.
J.T. stared at him without moving so much as a finger, channeling all his affront into his expression. The snorting laugh blowing out of Warren’s nose at his careless jest morphed into a cough and, finally, silence. Even after Warren ducked his head, J.T. did not relent. He wanted to bore his glare into the boy’s skull until it stirred up some common sense.
Fortunately for Warren, his father concluded his chat with the banker and came to join them. J.T. lifted his gaze. “Afternoon, Hawkins.”
“Tucker.” He held out his hand to J.T. and shook it with a solid grip. The man’s smile and genuine warmth went a long way to soothe J.T.’s temper. “Sorry for monopolizing Mr. Paxton’s time. I didn’t realize you were waiting.”
“That’s all right. I haven’t been here long.”
Warren edged toward the entrance. “Let’s go, Dad. You know how Mother hates to watch the store when she’s trying to get supper on the stove.”
“You’re right.” Hawkins offered a little wave as he moved past J.T. “Give Cordelia our best.”
“I will.”
The two disappeared onto the street, and J.T. barely had time to remind himself why he had come before Elliott Paxton descended upon him.
“Mr. Tucker!” The banker stretched his arms wide in welcome, his nature so ebullient, J.T. would have cringed had it been anyone else. But that was just Paxton’s way. After five years, he had gotten used to the banker’s fulsome ways. Had the man greeted him with a solemn nod, J.T. would have ordered the clerk to fetch the doctor.
“Come in, young man. Come in.” Paxton held the door wide until
J.T. entered the office and took a seat. “What can I do for you today, sir?” he asked as he clicked the door closed.
“I want to find out if the owner of the property where Louisa James runs her laundry might be talked into selling.”
The banker sat in the chair behind his desk and rapped his finger against its surface. “I could make some inquiries, I suppose. If I remember correctly, the man in question runs a land company over in Waco. Wouldn’t be hard to send a few wires to the account manager. I can’t say as I’d recommend that building as an investment, though. The place has been in ill repair for years.”
“I know.” J.T. rubbed his chin. “I’d planned to buy the shop next door, but the owner rejected my offer.”
“Ah, yes. It’s to be a dress shop, I believe. I spied the new seamstress washing her windows earlier. Lovely woman.”
“Yes . . . well . . . I had hoped to be able to offer Mrs. James a more suitable location for her laundry business—one with four decent walls and a roof that doesn’t leak. But that opportunity is no longer available. So I figured I could buy the place she’s in, lower her rent, and be a proper landlord. You know, fix the roof, keep the pump in working order—that kind of thing.”
“I see.” Elliott Paxton tapped a finger to his mouth and contemplated him with an intensity that made J.T.’s throat ache.
“That’s a commendable plan, son,” the banker said. “I’m impressed.”
J.T. shifted in his seat and glared at the worn spot on his trouser knee. He hated it when people made too much of things. It wasn’t like he was building Louisa a mansion or anything. He just wanted an excuse to help her out from time to time without raising her hackles. That’s all. Nothing to be impressed about.
“It’s a rare man who would spend his hard-earned money on a worthless piece of property in order to benefit a widow woman unrelated to him. Why, most would scoff at the idea.”
Paxton’s commendation waxed on and on, extolling his nonexistent virtues until J.T. could bear it no longer.
Jumping out of his chair as if the cushion had suddenly grown teeth, J.T. retreated. He strode to the door in two steps and gripped the knob.
“So, you’ll look into it for me?”
Paxton nodded, brows arching in puzzlement. He started to rise. “Of course, but—”
“Thanks.” J.T. waved him off and fled the banker’s office. But the tightness in his chest didn’t loosen until he exited the bank.
He knew Paxton would be discreet. The man had built a reputation on being trustworthy. Still, it would have been easier if Hannah Richards hadn’t stolen his building. Then there would have been no need to involve the banker in the first place, no awkward conversation, no sneaking around behind Louisa’s back.
A pang of honesty poked at him. Okay, so Miss Richards hadn’t exactly
stolen
his building. Nevertheless, the woman was proving inconvenient. Not only did she throw a wrench in his plans for helping Louisa, but thanks to their earlier run-in, he now felt obligated to hang her shelves.
J.T.’s boots clomped over the boardwalk planks as he made his way to the shop situated at the end of the street. He paused outside the door and drew in a deep breath, probing his shirt pocket for a pick. Placing it between his teeth, he clamped down and reminded himself to keep his mouth shut as much as possible. It wouldn’t do for him to snap at Miss Richards again. She’d been working hard all day and was probably exhausted. Frustrated, too.
He winced at the image the thought produced. The gal must have had a rough time of it the last couple of hours. If she stuck with it, that is. J.T. stole a glance through the window, curious to see if she had abandoned her project or if she lay buried beneath it. What he found so startled him, he tipped his hat back and looked a second time for verification.
A rack of hooks had been mounted on the north wall, perfectly level and apparently secure, for three dresses hung on display. Eight brackets paired in staggered positions jutted out from the south wall with three shelves already in place. Colorful fabric adorned the shelves, and even his untrained eye could tell they were artfully matched. Several of her dummies, not yet clothed, stood in the corner observing their mistress as she fussed with the way the material draped from the corner of the third shelf.
As his jaw slackened, J.T.’s toothpick dangled unanchored across his bottom lip. Miss Richards’s capability had been no idle boast, and her request
hadn’t
been a manipulation. But that made no sense. Why would a woman of integrity run a shop that glorified superficial beauty?
Hannah awoke to a day full of promise. The sun had not yet crested the horizon, but a soft glow lightened the predawn sky as she dipped water from the stove reservoir to wash her face.
Wednesday—not the usual day to open a new business, but she was too excited to postpone. She’d spent yesterday evening painting pasteboard signs. One carried the words
Open
and
Closed
on opposite sides, and a second one listed her services.
Dressmaking and Fine Tailoring
took top billing in large block letters with
Alterations and Mending
mentioned in smaller script along the bottom. One placard for each window. She would order a larger sign for the front of the building later today. Mr. Hawkins mentioned that the blacksmith also cut and stenciled signs. She could visit with him after she returned Mr. Tucker’s tools.
Pushing her thoughts quickly from the annoying livery owner, Hannah returned to her sleeping area and removed her nightgown. Skirts of any kind hindered the extension of her lower limbs during her calisthenic routine, so she preferred to conduct the exercises in her drawers and shift when privacy allowed. Kneeling down, she pulled a small crate full of exercise equipment from under the bed. She selected the two-pound polished maple dumbbells and positioned herself with the heels of her bare feet together and her toes pointed outward.
It took thirty minutes to work through the repetitions. Straight arm lifts to the side, overhead, and forward. Then again with bent arms curling up and punching down, up, or out in keeping with the various positions. She continued with backward leans and leg lunges, all with the dumbbells in hand. Next came the floor sweep, where she stretched to her toes, weights overhead, then bent her knees and crouched, touching the dumbbells to the floor. She repeated each motion twenty times before advancing to the next exercise, and by the time the routine ended, her muscles had been well stretched and carried a satisfying ache.
Hannah sponged the light sheen of perspiration from her body with the wet rag she had used on her face earlier and dressed in her gymnastic costume. She replaced the soiled apron with a fresh one and laced up her low-heeled walking shoes. Since she didn’t know the surrounding area well, she planned to walk along the road to keep her bearings. On the way back, she’d venture farther afield to collect sticks and dry twigs for kindling. She looped the strap of a large canvas bag over her head and shoulder and placed the pouch behind her, where it wouldn’t interfere with her brisk pace. Then she set out on her first Coventry constitutional.
Not expecting to see anyone out and about in the early morning hours, Hannah nearly tripped when J.T. Tucker appeared along a crossroad that bordered the livery. She swallowed her surprised gasp and kept moving, offering him only a smile and a tiny wave in greeting as she headed north out of town. He returned her gesture with a raised brow that could have stemmed from either shock or disapproval. It was impossible to tell.
Hannah lifted her chin and increased her pace to a near jog, her arms swinging at her sides with gusto. Mr. Tucker didn’t intimidate her. He could think what he liked. Vigorous physical exercise was good for a body. Why, it had probably saved her life.
As the distance between her and Coventry lengthened, Hannah’s steps slowed to their usual pace, quick but not frenzied. The beauty of the morning calmed her with birdsong and sunshine. A cool breeze ruffled wispy strands of hair from her braid, and she lifted a hand to secure them behind her ear.
Mr. Tucker’s response was no different than that of most people. The lady who ran the boardinghouse she’d stayed at back in San Antonio had pointed out often enough that Hannah had to be out of her mind to waste so much energy walking nowhere.
She supposed it did seem a bit strange. Most Westerners labored from sunup to sundown in physically demanding tasks. They had no need for calisthenics and constitutionals. But for a sickly girl growing up in a crowded city, Professor Lewis’s system of gymnastic exercise had been a salvation.
Hannah strode up a hill and passed the Coventry schoolhouse. Judging by the cross that jutted up from the belfry, it served as a place of worship, as well. A small footpath veered off to the right behind the building, and Hannah decided to follow it. The grassland turned woodsy the farther she went, and she spied several large pecan trees that promised to provide kindling for her. Not wanting to lose her momentum, though, she trudged on until she came upon a creek and an arched wooden bridge that spanned its width.
Enchanted, Hannah scurried to the center of the bridge and leaned her ribs against the railing. She gazed upriver, drinking in the sunlight sparkling on the slow-moving water, breathing in the smell of moist earth and tree bark, and swaying to the whispering melody of leaves rustling in the wind as sung by the river birch and cottonwood trees that lined the banks.
Lord, how marvelous you are. The beauty of your creation humbles me. If I can imitate even a hint of your artistry with my needle, I will be content. May my craftsmanship reflect your glory and bring you pleasure.
Hannah inhaled long and slow, allowing the loveliness of the moment to infuse her spirit with peace. Never did she feel closer to the Lord than when she was in nature. The busyness of town life distracted and misdirected her, but the Lord sought her out with gifts of beauty. Sometimes she was blessed with an experience like this where she was surrounded by his majesty, unable to do anything but praise him. Other times, he presented her with smaller reminders of his presence and his love. A full moon shining white in a black sky; a wildflower springing up through a crack in the boardwalk; a crimson oak leaf falling from an autumn branch, beautiful in death.
That final thought made her think of Victoria Ashmont and her scandalous red burial gown. A sad smile curled her lips, and she mouthed a prayer for the departed woman’s soul. A single act of kindness on her part had changed Hannah’s life forever, and Hannah was determined to prove that the old woman’s confidence in her had not been misplaced.
Hannah made good time on her way back to town, the weight of the full kindling bag adding to her exertion but not slowing her speed. Coming off the hill by the schoolhouse, she spotted an old man and a mule not far in front of her. The man’s stooped shoulders and plodding steps made him the tortoise to her hare, and she overtook them in a matter of minutes. Compassion slowed Hannah’s steps as she approached, but then the wind shifted and something altogether different came over her—a suffocating stench that grabbed her by the throat and triggered a powerful urge to retch.
Thankful to have not yet broken her fast, Hannah concentrated on breathing through her mouth instead of her nose and forced a smile of greeting as the man turned.
“Good day to you, sir. It’s a lovely morning to be out for a stroll.” Her lungs begged to cough, but she wrestled them into submission.
“That it is, young lady. That it is.” He smiled in return, or at least she thought he did. It was hard to tell what shape his mouth formed beneath all the whiskers.