Hooked (13 page)

Ruth's laughter sounded forced.

Ham straightened and panned his arm around the room, neither giving Gage or either lady the opportunity to partake in the conversation. “The rest of these bums are territorial. Stay in one spot. Your bankers and merchants, and other such city dwellers. Not suitcase men like me and Mr. Wilberforce. They don't know how to talk and bicker. And they believe in the never-never plan.” He snorted. “Installment buying, buying on credit—I say if you don't have the moola, don't buy the merchandise. I only do business cash on the barrelhead. You do the same?”

Not allowed the opportunity to answer, Gage listened as Ham kept right on with his rachet jaw.

“You know what's wrong with America today, ladies? There's too much get up and go. Time's are changing. Automobiles, you know. Can't say as I like them. Trains. That's the way to travel.” Then out of the clear blue to Gage: “What's your line, Wilberforce? Never mind. You don't have to tell me. I'll guess. Bissells.”

He chortled, then winked at Ruth. “Bissells are fine if you like dirt. I'm in the radiator business. Gurney. The best you can buy.” He fingered the inside of his trouser pocket and produced a calling card. “You ever need a dependable heating appliance, look me up.”

Ruth nodded, taking the card. “I'll do that.” She tucked the paper into her purse, then traded glances with her friend. “Well, we should see if Margaret needs our help.”

“Yes, we should.” Hildegarde stepped beside Ruth and the two went on their way. Clearly not interested in Hamilton Beauregarde. Gage couldn't blame them.

“Neither appealed to me,” Ham said in a low
breath. “Well, maybe the blond. But I prefer a different sort of woman.” After a short moment, Ham fastened his gaze on Meg and gave her an appreciative appraisal. “You want to know how I knew you sold Bissells, Wilberforce? The girlie told me you were in the sweeper line.” Then with barely a breath, he continued to flap his chops. “Top notch, those Bissells. Been around. What's your territory?”

Gage folded his arms across his chest, waiting for Ham to breeze right along. When he didn't, Gage glanced at him.

For the first time, Ham paused for Gage to reply. Only Gage didn't have the answer. He had no idea what cities comprised Wilberforce's territory, other than Wilberforce had said it was bigger than most other sweeper salesmen's. Not using an alias and impersonating an actual person was posing complications Gage hadn't had to deal with before.

“You know, Ham,” Gage began, “I'm not one to discuss business at a party. Good grief, if we did, we'd be in a dither over who had the biggest territory. Criminy sakes alive, it's bad enough we're all competing against one another in this fishing tournament. I'll bet you sure know a thing or two about flies,” Gage said. “So tell me, how did you fare in last year's contest? I haven't heard any scuttlebutt other than that talk about Wayne Brooks winning over that Stratton boy.”

Ham's expression soured; his tone lowered as if taking Gage into his confidence. “I don't like to speak ill of those not present, but that Wayne Brooks is a sly fox. Don't know how he pulled it off, but he did. Damn trouble is, everybody saw him catch all those fish.”

Just as Gage had heard.
If he didn't come up with any contrary evidence soon, he was going to believe Wayne's win had been pure luck.

He glanced at Meg. She was engaged in a conversation with a big fellow. A real bruiser. He could crush an ant just by his gaze. Yet the eyes he had for Meg were as soft as butter.

Gage barely heard Ham as he droned. For the first time ever, Gage succumbed to the facts staring him straight in the face.

He could be jealous.

Gage didn't want to believe he might be. There was no room in his life for jealousy, but he'd like to have thought that she'd reserved all those blushes and shy glances for him. But clear as day, her cheeks had just colored that pretty pink over something the big man had said.

“What I wouldn't have given to be a fly on the end of Brooks's hook.” Ham's nasal voice intruded on Gage's thoughts. “I wonder if he had himself some kind of special bait? I heard canned corn kernels are a hell of a lure at certain times.”

His stare on Meg, Gage automatically replied, “Good thing for us he's not entered this year. We'll catch some of those rainbows for ourselves.”

Snorting, Ham declared, “That tributary is known for its rainbows—not that you don't have your browns. It's just that for somebody to catch mostly browns, it just doesn't add up the way it should. And Wayne Brooks caught mostly browns.”

At the moment, Gage didn't give a fig. The information had just further implicated Wayne Brooks, but Gage didn't want to think about Meg's brother or damning him in the newspaper.

Ham rattled on and on in a tone that grew irritating. All Gage saw was Meg Brooks and another man making her laugh.

Gage didn't like it. Couldn't explain why with anything remotely resembling a credible reason. Simply, he just didn't like it.

Without a glance at Ham, Gage said, “Excuse me.”

He went directly toward Meg and left Ham to his own conversation.

*  *  *

Meg could barely keep her eyes off Mr. Wilberforce when Hildegarde and Ruth went over to him. Her two best friends, laughing and standing close to him. Why it was enough to make her . . . jealous.

She barely heard a word Gus Gushurst was saying to her. Then before she knew it, Mr. Wilberforce was coming toward her. She couldn't help smiling at him, paying no mind to Mr. Gushurst's latest comment on the success of her party.

“Miss Brooks,” Mr. Wilberforce said in a low voice. “You've done a fine job.”

“Mr. Wilberforce,” she began, beaming with pleasure inside, “I'd like you to meet Mr. Gushurst.”

Mr. Wilberforce extended his hand to the boxer. “Gus Gushurst.”

“Mr. Gushurst is the president of the Woolly Bugger Club,” Meg explained. “They sponsor the fishing contest.”

“Nice to see the town has a fly-tying club, Mr. Gushurst.”

“No need for formalities. My friends call me Gus,” he returned.

“Then call me Vernon.”

Meg would have liked to call him Vernon, too. But
she didn't dare take the liberty. He might think she was forward.

Gus folded his arms across his wide chest. “So, Vernon, Miss Brooks tells me you're entering the contest.”

“Indeed.”

“Good. Good. Can always use some new competition.” Mr. Gushurst put his hands on his waistband and tugged his pants higher. “That Ham Beauregarde who runs at the mouth always insists he's going to win.” Bushy brows wiggled in contemplation. “He might have had a chance at second place if Oliver Stratton hadn't come in at it. Last year there was a bit of a . . .” His words trailed as he looked apologetically to Meg. “Dispute. But the winner was found deserving so let's not dwell on it after the fact.”

After an awkward pause, Mr. Gushurst stated, “Well, if you two will excuse me. I've got to circulate. Wouldn't want it to be said that I'm playing favorites.”

He wandered toward a group of men. Meg stood there, delighted that she had Mr. Wilberforce to herself. Hildegarde and Ruth had gone to fill their cups with punch.

“You must have experience with giving parties, Miss Brooks.”

“Actually, this is my first big event.”

“I like the decorations.” He casually slid one hand into his trouser pocket, standing in a relaxed manner that would be considered discourteous to a real lady. Meg didn't mind at all. In fact, she wished she could stand in such a way. She'd been on her toes about keeping her posture ramrod stiff, shoulders squared, bosom out, and taking delicate steps as she walked.

“I'm glad you like the decorations, Mr. Wilberforce”
she said, feeling painfully self-conscious of her stiff words. This whole notion of pretending. Talking, standing, thinking. It was so hard to keep it up.

When they'd been alone, she hadn't found it difficult to keep a subject afloat. Now she didn't know what to say without it sounding forced. “I got the decoration ideas from a book on party planning.”

“Indeed?”

Ridiculous.
He didn't care how she came up with the ideas.

To Meg's dismay, Ruth and Hildegarde left the refreshment table and came to join them. Meg watched as Ruth stood beside Mr. Wilberforce—not close enough to be forward. But close enough to make Meg notice.

“Oh, Margaret, you've done a wonderful job,” Ruth said, holding her punch cup. “I think parties are such fun. Don't you, Mr. Wilberforce?”

“Depends on the company.”

“I agree,” Hildegarde added. “My mother says—”

“We don't need to talk about mothers, Hildegarde,” Ruth interjected. “Are you enjoying your stay in our fair town, Mr. Wilberforce?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” he replied, looking right at Meg. She dared hope he was enjoying his time because of her.

Hildegarde's cheeks blushed pink when she asked, “Mr. Wilberforce, do you think you have a chance of winning that prize money?”

“There's always a chance for anything to happen, Miss Plunkett.”

The girl grinned.

Meg frowned.

“Pardon me, ladies,” Meg broke in and continued
right along on so they couldn't protest, “I need Mr. Wilberforce's services. I see we're nearly out of ice in the bowl of blackberry nectar. There's a block out in front that I could use help chipping.”

She turned and retrieved a clean water bucket from beneath the table. “It's this way, Mr. Wilberforce.” As if he couldn't find the front of the hotel. She hoped he didn't think she was the henpecking type of woman. Far from it. But for some reason, the thought of Hildegarde and Ruth ogling the man she'd pinned her hopes on brought out a streak of possessiveness in Meg.

Thankfully, Mr. Wilberforce followed her as she went outside, closing off the noise from the lobby as she took in the evening.

Dusk settled over the westward sky, streaking it with ribbons of orange and pink. Houseplants in painted cans and tin pails stood along the edge of the hotel's porch floor. Suspended from the awnings were scalloped canvas sunshades. Ferns in wire hanging baskets had been interspersed between the posts. Beside the large picture window to the hotel's lobby sat two white hickory rockers, tilted at an angle so as to face each other for intimate conversation.

Meg had done that. Another one of her special touches.

She went toward the wraparound corner to a galvanized washtub with a gutta-percha liner holding a large, jagged block of ice. An ice chipper laid on top of it.

“Let me do that, Miss Brooks,” he gallantly offered.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilberforce.”

He grasped the sharp pick and began to chip away the solid, cold chunk. “I don't mean to bring up a
touchy subject, Miss Brooks,” he began as he worked, “but what Mr. Gushurst said about a dispute . . . I couldn't help be interested since it was about the flyfishing contest. Could such a problem happen again this year?”

Inhaling and holding her breath a moment, Meg let it out. Reluctant, but knowing she had to speak. “I suppose you'll find out anyway,” she said, leaning against the railing. “As you know, my brother won the contest but there was speculation surrounding his entitlement to the one thousand dollars. But he caught those fish with all honesty and Mr. Gushurst has been a dear to stick by his official ruling that Wayne won fair and square. Others have pressed Mr. Gushurst to have Wayne forfeit his prize and give it over to Oliver Stratton, the boy who came in second. But Mr. Gushurst has remained adamant that Wayne keep his standing in first place.”

“Then he must have thought your brother won legally.”

“My brother
did
legally win.” She didn't want to talk about this. Not when the evening was so soft and pretty. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mr. Wilberforce?”

He grew pensive a long while. She didn't think he was going to answer her. Then his voice wrapped quietly around the night. “I had a sister . . . Virginia. She died.”

Meg knelt beside him and put her hand on his arm. “Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. Was she young?”

“Nineteen.”

Since he didn't turn away, she went on. “What happened?”

Mr. Wilberforce set the ice pick down, slid along
the wall and sat down on the whitewashed floorboards of the porch. Meg did likewise. The pair of them rested beside each other, backs up against the hotel wall, legs out in front of them. Quite unrespectable. Quite pleasant.

“She married when she was eighteen and her husband took her to England with him on an extended honeymoon. She conceived a child while abroad and had been in too delicate a condition to travel home to California.”

“But I thought you said you were from North Dakota?”

Mr. Wilberforce furrowed his brows, then rephrased, “She was living in California with her husband while I was living in Battlefield.” He stared ahead at the sunset. “As the month of her delivery neared, my parents boarded an ocean liner to be with her when the baby came. The
Presidio
was lost at sea near the Isles of Scilly. Two weeks later, Virginia gave birth to a stillborn son and then died of the birthing complications. I think she died of grief over the loss of our parents.”

Meg wanted to cry. How horrible. “Mr. Wilberforce, how you must have suffered, too.”

He brought one knee up and rested his hand on his thigh. “I didn't mean to tell you this.”

“But I'm glad you did.” She gently put her hand on his. “I have two parents who I often take for granted. How terribly hard for you to have lost not only your sister, but your parents as well.”

Turning toward her, she saw the sorrow in his eyes. Genuine. True. He was a man with feelings. His hurt ran deep. She wished she could do something to make him aware that he didn't have to be alone.