Harmony (44 page)

Put her into your life.

Shay's words drifted back to Tom. Edwina wouldn't let them go about together openly in her world, so he'd have to bring her around to his side of it. To his life and what he could give her.

A plan had been forming in his head that morning while he worked in the store. He was worried about her. She said she was barely making ends meet. So he had this idea how she could make some cash.

And now that there was a break between customers, he glanced at the pocket watch he'd hung on the wall in lieu of the beaver clock. The hands read 2:12. Perfect timing. Edwina let her girls out at two.

Tom reached beneath the counter, felt his way in an old lure box of knickknacks, and grabbed the metal object inside. He went through the storeroom, knocked once on the back of the closet door, then let himself into the schoolroom.

Edwina sat behind the desk. She looked tired to him. Her eyes seemed puffy, as if she hadn't been sleeping enough. Her face was pale, no pink to her cheeks. Several tendrils of her russet hair, pulled up in a high knot, dragged down her nape. The vaguest notion of a curve at one side of her mouth was enough to make him proceed. He would have liked more than anything to take her into his arms, but he refrained.

“Hey, Ed,” he began and found his voice uncharacteristically taut and hoarse. The strain over not seeing her for nearly forty-eight hours had gotten to him more than he'd imagined it would.

“Hello, Tom,” she murmured quietly.

Good sign. She didn't tell me to get the hell out.

He figured he'd better just come out with it and give her no room to refuse. “I came by to ask you a favor.” Several steps had him directly at the desk's side; then he started talking again without giving her a chance to say anything. “I've got to take some old friends from
Seattle up to Baskin Falls tomorrow for the whole day. Shay, he's out on a run already and won't be back until Sunday some time, depending on how lucky his party is. Normally I'd just close the store, but I'm expecting a guy from Butte to come in and pick up a couple of bottles of Good Sense-Deer Scent—I'm the only one around here who's got it. Then I could have somebody drop in from Waverly to look over some new rattle-its and dig-its—your assortment lures. The real fishing season gets underway in March and a sportsman can never be too early filling his tackle box. So I really need to be open tomorrow.” He laid the key that he held on the desktop in front of Edwina. She stared at it, then at him. “I appreciate your doing this for me, Ed. I'll pay you your fifty cents an hour. Open the place up at nine. You won't have any trouble at all. You'll have to look for prices on the items, but they're there, and the customers usually know what they want. Half the time they know where it's at, too. The goods are pretty much labeled. I'll be back right around five and I can lock up.” Backing from the desk, he nodded. “You're a lifesaver, Ed. If I can return the favor, just ask.”

Then he hightailed it out of there before she could tell him no.

17

E
dwina stood behind the counter of Wolcott's Sporting Goods and Excursions at precisely nine o'clock. How had she been talked into this? Tom had spoken so quickly, without giving her an opportunity to say something like “I don't think so.” Then he'd backed out of the schoolroom in a rush before she could so much as sneeze—if she'd had to sneeze, which she hadn't. And then when she'd stared at the brass key on her desk . . . the plans seemed so final. So undoable. She hadn't wanted to bring the key back to him and refuse—not to mention that she could use the money.

Actually, she felt like she owed him the favor. She'd been stunned the night they'd last spoken, and not at all herself. She hadn't given him a chance to explain the hurtful words he'd said. She understood why he'd say such a thing. At the time, she hadn't wanted to. Now she did. And she couldn't be mad at him. She was mad at herself . . . for . . . for falling for him. She was mad at herself for not being stronger. She didn't want to accept that she was
. . . in love
with him. Admitting it, even to herself, changed nothing. It only made things worse.

For two days, Edwina had felt sorry for herself, damning her fate, damning Ludlow for not marrying her. But
she was infinitely glad that he hadn't. She could see now that she hadn't ever really loved him, loved him in a way that was all-consuming and forever. Infatuation, quite acute, was more like it. He had been her professor. A man about town. The ideal of marriage, the institution itself, had fueled her love for him. But now that she was beginning to see what real love could be . . . and understood what marriage could mean, she couldn't have it with Tom.

It was the grossest of all ironies.

Edwina sighed and fingered tiny rubber fishy things in a tray, mindlessly separating them by size and color.

Well, maybe she could have Tom as her husband. If she'd let herself be the kind of woman he wanted. But she felt too much guilt and remorse over the past. Besides, Tom hadn't declared any feelings of love for her—well, at least not so he meant it. Nor had she for him. Those important words were left unspoken between them. Neither of them dared to confess such a thing to the other for fear of the repercussions.

Edwina knew that was how she felt about the situation. . . . She should tell him. But she was afraid of what the avowal would do to them. To her. She could be only so reckless with her heart. It had been broken once. Mending it again would take a long time . . . years. . . .

But could she ever forget Tom? No . . . sadly, no. Never.

The store's door opened and Mr. Healy from Granite Home and Farm Realty came inside.

“Miss Huntington,” he said in surprise, bushy brows raising beneath the brim of his derby. “Didn't expect to see you minding the shop. Where's Mr. Wolcott?”

“He's had to go out for the day.” She dumped some pink rubber fish in a pile next to some orange rubber fish. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I was going to give him these papers to sign.” The agent stuck his hand into his worsted coat and produced a narrow sealed manila envelope. “Tell him all I need
is his John Hancock and I can proceed in whatever manner he likes.”

Edwina took the document. “I'll make sure that he gets them.” She tucked the envelope neatly beneath the cashbox. “While you're here, you might care to browse around. Mr. Wolcott has these for sale.” She pointed to the colorful fish. “Fishing season starts in just a few short months.”

Mr. Healy leaned in for a better look. “Hmm . . . walleyes. I could always use a few more. How much for the marabou jigs?”

“Um . . .” Edwina lifted the tray and read the price written on the bottom tag. “Ten cents.”

“I'll take two.”

Edwina smiled. She'd just made her first sale. Twenty cents' worth. Coins exchanged hands, then Mr. Healy doffed his hat. “Good day.”

Left alone, Edwina continued to sort through the now identifiable walleyes until she had them in tidy piles. She found some chewing tobacco tins in which to put the various colors, then she clearly marked the prices on the front. After that, she placed her hands on her hips and took a good look at the store. The shelves needed dusting, the merchandise could use straightening out, and the hunting clothes had to be refolded more crisply.

Tsking her disapproval, she went into the shared closet and collected her dust pan, broom, polishing rags, lemon oil, feather duster, and her apron. She walked as she tied the bow in back, then decided to tackle beneath the counter first. She'd already noted the rubbish of nut shells. Walnuts. All over. Tom didn't keep them in a container, just left them loose. She quickly rectified that by plunking all the uneaten walnuts in a clean bucket. Then she used the side of her hand to get rid of the hulls.

Next came the disposal of empty blue-and-white cigarette packages. She put all his matches back in boxes. Papers littered the various shelves. Plucking them one by one, she neatened the stack and vaguely glanced at
the writing. Invoices, old and new, for an assortment of merchandise. No wonder he couldn't tally a proper cash flow.

As she continued, she came up with an amber-glass beer bottle. She shook it and heard something rattle in the bottom. The beaver's teeth. She grimaced at the reminder. In the front of the shelf, near the ledge, lay a revolver with its barrel missing. She recalled that Tom had used the butt to smash the nuts.

A pair of men's heavy cable-knit socks turned up below. A tall canister for ground pepper was full of chalk remnants, fishing hooks, lead balls, bullets, and other trinkets that left her clueless. Sitting on the floor, she let it all fall into a jumbled mess, then proceeded to put each object with its match until there were over a dozen piles. Having run out of chewing tobacco tins, she rose and went to the storeroom to get the jelly jars she and the girls had been decorating. There had been extra ones, so Edwina had been able to spare some. They'd been decorating the jars—floral fabric on top with a puff of batting for plumpness and a grosgrain ribbon around the circumference to keep it all in place—for the Ladies' Aid charity.

Standing back after a few swishes of the feather duster, Edwina surveyed her handiwork: neat as a pin, row after row—plenty of colorful, pretty jars. The ribbons were a nice touch. And all the other odds and ends had been cleaned and lined up to rank-and-file precision.

The door opened and a gentleman she didn't recognize came in.

“Ma'am.” He doffed a Western hat as he strode toward her; his spurs made a jingle against the floor. “I was wondering if ya'll carry bullet molders.”

Edwina worried her lip. “I'm certain we do.” She tapped her fingernail on the counter and tried to think: if she were a bullet molder, where would she be? With the guns, of course. “This way, please.” Walking to the aisle that had a glass case of pistols, shotguns, and revolvers
inside, she stared, looking for something other than a gun. She couldn't find anything.

The cowboy had held back, and his voice came to her. “Ma'am. They're right here.”

Turning, she frowned when she saw him at the table with gadgets that were more like those she used in her kitchen. Some looked to be mashers, egg beaters, or can openers. This wouldn't do. Bullet things should be with bullets and guns. She could see now that the whole store had to be revamped.

Edwina helped the man with his purchase, and as soon as he departed, she dug right into the rest of the merchandise, logging it all by theme rather than the haphazard way Tom had set it up. While she did this, customers came and went. She'd rung up nearly ten dollars in sales by noon when she paused to eat a light lunch, then go right back to work. She came to a table that had bottles on it. Good Sense-Deer Scent. She knew what that was. The man from Butte was coming in to buy some.

Picking up the ounce-sized bottle, Edwina unscrewed the cap and lightly sniffed the contents. Musky smelling. Not altogether unpleasant, but not exactly fragrant, either. Kind of mildewlike. The label touted it as being deer scent. She had no idea how a deer smelled. She'd never been that close to one.

As she was about to screw the cap in place, she sneezed. Some of the cloudy liquid splashed onto her skirt in tiny droplets.

“Oh, bother it!”

Quickly securing the bottle cap and placing the container back on the table, she swatted at the spots. She'd have to tell Marvel-Anne to put solvent on them before the skirt went into the wash water.

Heaving a great sigh, she went through the room and came to clothing of all sorts. Hunter's jackets, pants, shirts, vests, hats, and silly-looking elastic things thrown into an open carton directly beside a box of dog muzzles. Peering sideways, she read the manufacturer's red label:
SPALDING ATHLETIC SUPPORTERS
. Taking one out, she
tried to make sense of the three elastic straps and the white cup of cotton in the middle. After examining the item many ways, she deduced it was an elbow support for rifle shooting.