Harmony (19 page)

“Pull!”

Bang!

“—slight,” she concluded through the gunshot's echo.
“Every subject liable to provoke a discussion of disagreement should be—”

“Pull!”

Bang!

“—avoided.”

Keeping her posture rigid and her eyes averted from the scene of destruction, Edwina silently vowed that when this was over, she was going to tell Tom Wolcott what she really thought of him—that he was a bigheaded, trophy-happy, self-centered man.

Barkly started in with that frenzied bark of his, deep and strained from the back of his throat. She thought he might throw up, he was so excited. She wished he would. Maybe he'd gag.

“Should anyone assume a disagreeable tone of voice or offensive manner toward you, never return it in company.”
Unless the disagreeable person is Tom Wolcott.
“Appear not to have noticed you've been slighted and make it seem the person has failed in his—”

“Pull!”

Bang!

“—objective.”

A breeze came through the grove with enough force to disturb the flower arrangements, toppling the one at Ruth Edward's table. She quickly righted it as her napkin blew to the ground.

“It's all right, dear,” Edwina assured as the girl chased down her serviette and replaced it on her lap. “To continue. Avoid stale and trite remarks, as well as coarse gestures.”
Unless the offense is directed at Tom Wolcott in the form of a stuck-out tongue
. “To speak to a person in ambiguous terms is—”

“Pull!”

Bang!

“—rude.”

Edwina was at her wit's end. She couldn't go on as if nothing were wrong. The entire afternoon was turning into a catastrophe. That dog wouldn't shut up, the sounds of gunfire made a completely inappropriate background
for a luncheon, and to top it all off, big splats of rain had begun to fall.

“Girls, I believe we should collect ourselves and return—” Before Edwina could finish her sentence, Barkly made a strangling sound that caused her to look in his direction. The hound had pulled his rope taut and backed out of the collar to freedom. In a flash, he took off after the pieces of broken plates, collecting one in his chops and running wildly through the grove. He rounded the trees, his galloping feet spraying leaves, then ran back again, coming to a skidding halt. His nose was to the wind, black nostrils twitching; Edwina could swear he was homing in on a scent so strong, nothing would keep him from seeking it.

The scent turned out to be burnt-sugar cake, for the dog took off in a mad run for the tea cart. She was unable to stop him in time; he gobbled two extra slices in two extrawide gulps. Screams perforated the air as Barkly made tracks to the tables, standing up on his hind legs to devour what he could.

“Mr. Wolcott!” Edwina shouted.

Barkly, muzzle slathered with icing, had the nerve to bound on top of Camille's table and steal the remnants from her plate. Then, tail wagging like a whipcord, he proceeded to leap to Meg's table and polish off the leftovers of her sandwich.

Rain increasingly spilled on the mayhem, Barkly doing as much damage as he could before taking off in a clumsy gait toward the large potted chrysanthemum, just into a fall bloom, that Edwina had put out for color. He lifted his leg and watered it—the final insult—then scampered off through the trees.

“Girls!” Edwina called through their giggles, screams, and chatter. “Everyone run home before you're soaked through! Class is dismissed!”

There was a flurry of skirts as girls linked arms and ran. The ill-fated tea party had been abandoned.

Edwina noticed that Tom Wolcott's group had disbanded as well, the dandies striding swiftly up Dogwood
Place, no doubt to the comforts of the Brooks House Hotel. Tom was nowhere in sight, nor was the thing he'd called the Flightmaster. He certainly cared more about taking that to cover than confronting her about the mess his dog had made.

Droplets fell from the brim of her hat as she surveyed the shambles. Plates and flatware littered the ground, napkins blew like little ghosts, punch stained the pretty tablecloths, and the leaves that she had taken such care to get rid of were now thick on her side of the grove—compliments of Tom Wolcott's side.

With a heavy sigh, Edwina whispered, “Dammit all.”

“That about sums it up,” came a masculine voice.

Edwina turned with a start. Tom had snuck up behind her.

The brim of a Stetson kept the rain out of his eyes. His mouth was set in a grim line around a cigarette; smoke swirled on a current of wind. Water marks dappled the front of his buttoned linen duster. Her own striped taffeta bodice was peppered through with rain spots, but she didn't care enough to get a cape from the classroom. Why bother when she was nearly soaked already?

She didn't say a word to Tom when she set out to gather things on the tea cart to bring inside the building. That he pitched in was his own idea.

Together, they cleaned the mess without one utterance between them. Then she locked the school and headed toward home.

•  •  •

Through the general delivery grating, Edwina could see Mr. Calhoon's wide back with suspenders crossed upon it, his visored head bent over a stack of letters.

She cleared her throat to make her presence known.

Mr. Calhoun lifted his head and made a hasty apology for his neglect. “Miss Huntington. Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

She noted his black mustache, stylishly trimmed and
waxed. When he spoke, the ends wiggled. “You just missed your mail.”

She stood there, surprised, her face blank. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Wolcott picked it up along with his. He said you'd be sharing the same mailbox.”

“He did, did he?” The question was more like an attack.

“I normally don't make door deliveries, but sometimes special circumstances arise and permit me to make exceptions. From now on, no need to come in and get your mail. It'll all come directly to 47-B Old Oak Road.” His merry eyes slid onto a handled net of some sort, and Edwina couldn't help following the line of his gaze to see what was the object of his broad smile. “It's a beauty, isn't it?” Mr. Calhoon picked up the gear and appeared to weigh it in his hand. “Peerless fyke net with wings. Always wanted one of these. You know, back when . . .”

But Edwina didn't hear the rest. She'd gone storming out the door and was headed straight for 47-B Old Oak Road.

•  •  •

Tom had made a mistake in not checking with Edwina about events; Edwina needed to know that the mayor's visit couldn't be helped. But everything else had been out of his control. To his credit, he had tried to keep Barkly on a rope. Things might not have been so bad if the dog hadn't escaped.

Barkly had really bungled things, putting away food like a glutton and dancing on the tabletops. The hound had just hit his stride when he'd posted a letter on the chrysanthemum pot. Tom had watched Edwina's face change to red fury with that one.

Because the episode had turned into a hell of a runaway train, Tom felt compelled to make things up to Edwina. Even though he'd already made the offer about sharing his mailbox, she hadn't taken him up on it. He figured it was a matter of pride and her not wanting
to be obligated and all. So he did the manly thing: he took charge.

He told Calhoon to deliver her mail to his box, too—even though it had cost him a damn good landing net to convince the postmaster. What the hell was sixty-five cents when the outcome could soothe a woman's ruffled feathers?

She'd better be talking to him today. Yesterday afternoon, he'd have rather she shout blue murder at him than give him the silent treatment He hated when women clammed up.

Dipping a brush into a bucket of brown paint, he proceeded to make his entry door a little more presentable. With Shay still gone, it would take Tom a while to get his half of the building looking decent, but he'd do a stretch at a time.

The brush tip connected lightly on the frame, and with a steady hand, he smoothed the bristles down in a long and even stroke.

“Mr. Wolcott!”

A trail of brown shot across the window glass as Tom flinched, then clenched his teeth while surveying the damage. When Edwina Huntington said his name in that shrill nasal tone that had maiden aunt all through it, he wanted to stuff the paintbrush down her throat.

Turning, he forced an air of congeniality. “What is it, Miss Huntington?”

“I just left Mr. Calhoon. He informed me you've stolen my mail.”

“He said that?”

Pink lips turned down. “Not in those exact words, but that's precisely what you've done. He didn't have the authority to give you my personal property without my consent.”

“I thought mail was government property.”

“All the worse. Theft of government property is a federal offense.”

“Only before Calhoon gets it,” Tom countered, smearing an old rag across the window glass to get the
paint off. “After that, mail is a free-for-all. If it's stolen, it's up to a town what they want to do to the perpetrator.”

Her hands fell to her hips, purse strings looped over a wrist, and she took a militant stance. “Apparently you've stolen mail before.”

“Nope. I just have my facts straight.” With a clean cloth, he wiped his hands clean the best he could. Brown stained his fingers and dirtied his nails. “Ed, let's not argue about this. The reason I had Calhoon give me the mail is to save you the bother of having to pick it up—my way of apologizing for yesterday, for Barkly and all. If I could have, I would have changed the mayor's arrival, but he'd come in from Big Horn and there wasn't another train he could have taken.”

Even to Tom, his explanation sounded satisfactory—although he hadn't looked up the train schedules. For all he knew, King could have hopped a ride on a different connection. He hoped Edwina wouldn't see the need to double-check his story. Just in case, he added in a gentleman's earnest tone, “I really, really am sorry, Edwina. My fault entirely.”

For that, she didn't censure him. Instead, her hands relaxed, and she exhaled audibly. “I appreciate your integrity.”

He wasn't quite sure what
integrity
meant, but he didn't think he had any if it had to do with stuff like honor and chivalry.

“I'd like my mail now,” she said, body aligned in perfect form, toes aimed forward, right in line beneath the angle of her chin. It was as if the Edwina who'd slammed down on him from a tree had never existed. This double personality she had was wearing on him. He wished she'd make up her mind and just be one of them, rather than teasing him with her fun side, then reverting back to the starched-up version.

“I'll get it. It's on my counter.” He went inside and grabbed the assortment of letters, accidentally blotching
them with brown. Once outside, he handed them to her. “Sorry about the paint.”

“Don't be. I'm glad to see you're cleaning up your side.” She didn't give the letters a glance, not a single furtive look. Hell, he got personal mail so rarely, he could barely make it out the post-office door without tearing into it. Just last week, his brother John sent him a letter from California asking for money. Tom sent him some. John wrote he was doing part-time oil drilling, and part-time water finding—and Tom deduced he was probably doing part-time drinking if he was short on cash.

“From now on, I'd prefer it if you left my mail in the box.” She motioned to the black mailbox hanging to the side of his door. “I can get my correspondence out of it myself.” Then she entered her side of the building, firmly closed the door, and didn't bother to lift the shade.

Could be she wanted to read through all that mail in privacy. He hadn't been able to help scanning the return addresses on the half-dozen letters she'd received.

The Glenwood Sanitarium. Scott's Emulsion. Cuticura. Procter's Vegetable Glycerine. Crab Orchard Water Co. Noyes Bros. Blanket Wraps.

For a woman who appeared to be quite intellectual, didn't Edwina know that snake oils and all that crap didn't work?

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