A Bride in Store (27 page)

Swallowing hard at the wonderful sight of three men and Mrs. Graves waiting outside the Men’s Emporium, he slowed to give himself a second more to repent.

Lord, no matter what happens with
my store, Eliza, or the new doctor, help me remember
I’m to seek you above all, to trust in
you and nothing else—even when I’m disappointed.

Chapter 18

Out of breath from marching down the road faster than the donkey carts, Eliza shoved her way into the Men’s Emporium. Sidling past a couple in the aisle, she gritted her teeth to keep from glaring at the crowd that should have been shopping in her store.

She pressed her way toward the back counter. Where was Will?

Right. He’d built a front counter. She whipped around and weaved through the less-congested left aisle.

Will’s crazy ruffled hair rose above a young couple in the corner as he climbed a ladder.

Stopping, she attempted to loose some tension by exhaling slowly through pursed lips. Otherwise she might demand he get down that instant.

How many people were in the emporium? She counted ten from where she stood. Good for him, but why today? Why’d he have to do this to her now?

Her sweaty palm dampened the crumpled paper Mr. Raymond had slammed into her hand. She crunched the wad tighter. Medical checkups? His services were of more value than he should have exchanged for fifteen dollars of merchandise. What could she offer
remotely close to that? One should ask the redeemer to spend more than the price of a free item. Didn’t he understand that?

She glanced sideways and frowned. Where had these shelves come from? Surprisingly, the kitchen items were arranged outside of their boxes in neat rows. She plucked a knife off the second shelf above the floor. Did Will forget about children coming in the store? She grabbed a handful and rearranged the shelving space to put the knives higher. Finished, she moved around the price-tag signs he’d hand-lettered. She glanced down the aisle. Every shelf sported little white signs with printed prices.

“What can I do for you?” Will’s voice, lower and more charming than normal, wrapped around her neck and tickled her ear. She lifted her eyes heavenward, wanting to pretend the flyer she held in her hand didn’t exist for a second, and . . . and . . . and do what? She wouldn’t let the strangely sensuous caress of his breath distract her. She stiffened and turned around.

Ignoring his lopsided, roguish grin, she tilted her head up to meet him eye to eye. “It’s not what
can
you do for me. It’s what
did
you do to me.”

“I don’t understand.” He pulled back.

That was the voice she knew—a bit lost, authentic. “This.” She held up the offending paper ball.

He shook his head, stepping close enough that his trousers disturbed her skirts. “Which is?”

She tried to smooth the flyer, but her angry, jittery hands brushed against his coat, causing them to tremble from another emotion entirely. The paper ripped in two.

Never mind. She smacked the wadded paper into his hand. “Your coupon.”

“Isn’t it great?” His smile transformed his face.

Her irritation threatened to drain away at his enthusiasm, but she held on tight.

He gestured toward the people walking past the end of the aisle. “Who knew a coupon could bring in so many people?”

Oh, sweetheart, of course they’d come
in for this. You gave too much away.
She clamped her hand over her mouth.

But his expression remained quizzical, his gaze as light as normal, his hands casually parked on his hips.

She swallowed and hefted a sigh, thankful she hadn’t said that aloud. She refused to ponder why she’d found it so easy to think of him as
sweetheart
—she was mad at him!

“Are you all right?” His face lost its excitement. He lifted the paper coupon ball. “If you’re not feeling well, you don’t need to buy something from me. I consider you . . .” He poked his tongue into his cheek, his eyes shifting to the side. “I mean, I don’t hold out on family or friends who need medical help.”

“You don’t deny strangers or enemies either.”

“Well, no. But I’m a little busy right now . . . unless you feel it’s dire.”

“I’m not sick.”

He rubbed a thumb against her hairline but quickly turned the gesture into feeling her forehead. Was he covering for what felt like his tucking a strand of hair behind her ear? “Good.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Stanton. I’m ready to pay.” A man in a tattered shirt and mud-caked pants held out a bundle of ready-made clothes and a bar of soap.

Will lifted a finger to signal him to wait. He gripped her upper arm as if he might drag her with him to the cashbox. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She glanced at the timepiece above the front door. “I don’t have much time. I must return—”

“Just wait.” The look Will gave her would make a woman promise him her firstborn—perhaps that’s how Rumpelstiltskin had wrangled such a commitment.

She swallowed. “All right.” Technically, she could stay as long
as she wanted; she set her own hours, after all. But a smart shop owner didn’t stay closed past lunch hour on opening day—though no more than a handful of people had trickled in this morning.

He placed a hand at the base of her neck, turning her around to guide her down the aisle. She closed her eyes against letting her imagination feel his fingers threading themselves into her hair. Though the longer his hand lay against her neck, the desire to stop imagining ebbed.

He pointed to the right side of the store. “Go look where we used to have hanging pots. I think you’ll be impressed.” His hand slid down to her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

With that, he left her to be brushed by customers trying to get around her. Another glance at the clock told her to leave now and talk to him later . . . yet she was curious about what he had done to the pots.

She scooted past an elderly couple and turned the corner. On the west wall behind the wood stove, he’d removed an entire section of shelving. The Wanted posters and hand-written advertisements from folks around Salt Flatts were now all pinned neatly onto a series of boards arranged on the wall. Chairs from the upstairs apartment sat arranged for conversation, four of them pushed against two game tables, one with a chessboard, the other checkers. A newspaper and a Montgomery Ward catalog lay atop another small table.

She’d mentioned to Axel in a letter that they ought to make the store somewhere men would congregate—someplace exactly like this. But had she said anything to Will? She ran her index finger along her scar, feeling the now familiar ridges.

No. She couldn’t think of a time she’d discussed that idea with him. Maybe the man had some business sense after all.

Jostled from behind, she moved to sit in the rocker. More than twelve customers milled around the aisles—all of them with paper coupons in hand.

Now that Will had broken the townspeople’s boycott with the lure of free services, could he keep them there? He needed to make a living, but would loyalty to a shopkeeper who’d grown up in Salt Flatts hurt
her
?

Had she ever seen so many women in this store? If ladies could be lured into a men’s store with a free offer, then they’d be the best targets for a campaign of her own.

How could she top this?

“What mischief are you planning?”

She startled at Will’s voice. The back of her rocker thumped against the wall when she popped up. “Nothing.”

“Do you like how I’ve changed things?”

Taking another glance around, she saw nothing but perfection. She couldn’t have done better herself. “I’m surprised.”

“In a good way, I hope?”

“Yes.”

“And you came to see me because . . . ?”

Why did his voice sound so elated? He knew what he’d done to her.

“I can’t believe you of all people would hand out coupons on a day like today.”

He stiffened. “Did I miss someone’s funeral or . . . ?”

Why was he playing dumb? “My grand opening.”

“Your grand opening?” He squinted.

“My store’s grand opening, of course.”

He blinked. “So it’s already open?”

“Yes. You’re passing these out the day I open, and everyone’s flocking here.”

How could he have missed the sign? Kathleen had come by to congratulate her—though she’d admitted Carl was miffed.

And since Will hadn’t stopped in to congratulate her on her opening day, she’d figured he’d needed time to adjust . . . until Mr. Raymond brought in Will’s coupon.

She hadn’t figured on Will plotting against her.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your store?” Will tucked his hands under his arms, his eyes registering . . . sadness?

She forced herself to swallow. “I didn’t want you to worry about me stealing your business . . . and . . . and this coupon made me think I’d been a fool to believe you wouldn’t do the same to me.”

“You thought I’d try to steal your business?” He looked at the ceiling for a second, his mouth disfiguring into a frown. “Do you understand nothing about me, Eliza?”

She took a step back from the glare he aimed at her.

“When have I ever done anything but help you? I found somewhere for you to stay, I gave you your wages from my savings, I never asked you to pay for those stitches, I offered you a job. If I thought you cared enough for me, I’d have offered . . . I was going to offer . . .” He huffed and looked away. The hand that had been running through his hair again dropped to his side. “Why would you assume I was trying to hurt you?”

Thankfully, the customers shopping around them were oblivious to his rambling, or at least pretended to be. She hugged herself. “You didn’t see my sign? No one told you?”

He blinked repeatedly—almost as though he were about to cry. But no, a grown man like Will wouldn’t cry because she’d opened a store. . . . Could her accusations have hurt him that badly?

“I’ve been really busy, Eliza. I knew something was going on, but I figured you and I . . . Well, I figured you’d at least share with me before . . .” He shook his head and looked away. “This whole time I’ve been rearranging things to your specifications, dealing with Mrs. Raymond and some other patients, waiting for you to—”

“Rearranging to my specifications?” She slid a finger along the edge of the chessboard.

“You think these improvements were my idea?” His face scrunched.
“It’s clear you think me utterly inept. So much so you won’t work for me, help me, talk to me, need me for anything beyond—”

“Excuse me.” An older gentleman hobbled over on his cane. “Can I get assistance? My wife wants another cast-iron pan for her birthday.” He smiled at Eliza. “But if I lean over that far, I might not get back up.”

Eliza forced herself to smile back at the gentleman.

“I’m sorry, Eliza.” Will’s eyes didn’t twinkle like the old man’s. “Seems I can’t talk for more than a few minutes in a row.”

“No need to apologize. My lunch break’s over. I can’t stay.” A grand-opening week held too much potential for her to twiddle her thumbs.

She clasped the apple in her pocket; she’d have to eat on the walk back. Rather unladylike, but her stomach wouldn’t survive until dinner, not with the way it was churning over the mess she’d created.

Of course Will hadn’t meant anything by the coupon. She’d let Mr. Raymond’s anger incite irrational thoughts.

If Carl had pulled something like this, her reaction would have been warranted—he’d have meant it. When she’d thought Will had worked against her it had stung terribly. With Carl, she’d have set her sights on outdoing him the next day, but with Will? She’d come down to blast him because he’d hurt her—not the Five and Dime—but
her
.

“I’m sorry, Will. I was wrong to think you’d deliberately ruin my day.” Now she felt ill enough to need his doctoring. “Can we talk later?”

Will glanced over his shoulder to the elderly man fidgeting with his cane. “I’ll try—”

The man cleared his throat.

She gave the gentleman a tense smile. “Wish your wife a happy birthday for me.”

Will strode past her to open the front door. “I’ll drop by after work to check on Mrs. Lightfoot.”

“I won’t be home right after work.” She held her fingers to her lips. She couldn’t avoid him just because she’d been an idiot. He didn’t deserve that—he deserved the opportunity to yell at her for thinking him underhanded. “I’ll be there around dinnertime, though.”

She couldn’t look at him as she stepped out into the bright sunlight. What a disaster. Her dream of people lining up at her store hadn’t come true, so she’d lashed out at Will.

She deserved his wrath . . . and she also needed better advertising. The sign evidently hadn’t caught enough people’s attention.

She swallowed the moisture in her throat. She’d have to be careful not to chastise herself all day for thinking poorly of Will lest she cry in front of a customer.

Feeling light-headed from skipping lunch two days in a row, Will placed a steadying hand on the counter after handing Mr. McManus his change. He fished for the sack of beef jerky he’d traded Mrs. Underwood in exchange for helping her ailing pig last night. Between the sow and his exhaustion, he hadn’t been able to check on Mrs. Lightfoot or have dinner with Eliza. Not that he’d wanted to see Eliza—at least not until he’d cooled down some.