Harmony (45 page)

Feeling rather tickled by her revelation, she tried one on by putting the wide strap of elastic over her neck and sliding it to her waist, and the other strap on her shoulder. There! The cotton cup fit perfectly over the bend of her elbow, although her forearm felt hung up—her wrist dangled from the support. But if one was going to hold a rifle steady, this was the sportsman's gimmick to have. Her trigger hand remained perfectly motionless as she pretended to hold a shotgun—not that she ever had.

While she took aim at the monstrous grizzly bear, the door opened behind her. Whirling to the sound, she saw Mr. Calhoon with a package in his hand too big for the mailbox.

“Oh . . . hello, Mr. Calhoon.” Edwina relaxed her stance but made no effort to remove the elbow support. And as a matter of fact, she got a brilliant idea. Tom had a bunch of the Spalding athletic supporters and they didn't seem to be selling. Not that she knew anything about elbow supports, but this model was rather tight and seemed quite sound.

Mr. Calhoon gave her an appraising stare with wide eyes, and she figured she must have dust smudged on her nose. “That's nice of you to bring the package in. I'll make sure Mr. Wolcott gets it. I'm minding the store for him.” She walked toward him with an extra supporter in her hand. “I'm glad you've come over. I wanted to bring this to your attention.”

“W-what?” He gazed hard at the Spalding, as if perplexed by it. Apparently Tom hadn't demonstrated them. She had this absolutely wonderful idea to sell all of them before Tom got back—just to show him her business acumen despite not knowing all the merchandise.

“This is the latest in elbow supporters, Mr. Calhoon. As you can see, anyone can wear it.” She touched the
wide elastic on her waist and even snapped it. “It's very comfortable. Doesn't bind. And the cup on the elbow is soft cotton. They're only forty-two cents. Quite a bargain, and I'm certain it will help you with your aim. So how many can I write up for you?”

“N-none.”

“Come now, Mr. Calhoon. I know you're a hunter. You need one of these.”

“M-maybe if I played on Kennison's baseball team,” he muttered.

“I don't know why the team would need elbow supports.” Frowning, she said, “All I'm asking is that you give one a try. I know you'll be pleased.” She waved it in front of him. “Fine balbriggan cotton that can be washed in warm water. I read the label.”

Backing away from the supporter she dangled in front of his nose, he stuttered, “Uh . . . I-I'll take one.”

“One? Two might come in handy.”

“B-but you can only wear one at a time.”

“True. However, the prepared hunter has spares.”

He looked away, unable to give the supporter his attention. “I'll t-take two.”

“Very well.” She rounded the corner and wrote up the order. She found her hand very steady indeed as she took up the pencil.

Mr. Calhoon dashed out the door with his paper-wrapped parcel. He hadn't even let her tie string around it. Odd . . . she'd never noticed that nervous tick at the corner of his right eye before. . . .

The afternoon wore on quickly. Business picked up and a steady flow came in and out. The gentleman from Butte came and bought the deer scent and four of the supporters. She sold one to a man from Waverly—along with the rattle-its and dig-its. Three of the Spaldings went to Chief Officer Algie Conlin and two to Deputy Pike Faragher. Mr. Hess picked up one. So did Mr. El-ward. Also Mr. Zipp from the barbershop, who claimed he didn't hunt but only fished—she'd been able to talk him into one. Throughout the transactions, she kept her
supporter on, and it was amazing the sales it brought just by wearing and describing how the apparatus worked. She couldn't wait to tell Tom.

Between customers, she organized the entire store. As the hour came close to five, she hurried to finish tying the drab curtains back with bright periwinkle bows. Then she gave all the dead animals a dusting. The antlers on the moose looked much better with lemon polish giving them a shiny glow. And the grizzly bear was much improved with the dried flowers in its grasp. The pastel colors of the petals livened up the stiff old thing.

She surveyed the new and improved look and her heart fluttered while she admired her handiwork. The store's conversion had been a complete success.

She pulled the tie on her apron, then put it away with all her cleaning wares. Next, she took the rubbish can outside to dump its contents in the bin on the side of the building. As she rounded the corner, she startled Mr. Higgins's Airedale terrier sniffing at the seams of the bin. The dog lifted its wet black nose, locked onto some scent, and came right at her. Even though its teeth weren't bared, she'd never been attacked in such a way. She backed up, but the Airedale continued to charge until reaching her skirt. Then it did the most peculiar thing: it rubbed against her. It stuck its nose to the fabric, then rubbed its face all over the folds of her skirt.

Before Edwina knew what was happening, Mrs. Kirby's schnauzer and the Labrador retriever that resided at Dutch's poolroom had stampeded in and were trying to rub their faces on her skirt as well. Throwing the rubbish can at them, she ran back into the store and closed the door.

She peered out the window to see the three dogs jumping up and down, trying to get inside.

“My Heavens! They've gone berserk.” Flipping the
OPEN
sign over to
CLOSED
, she yanked down all the shades to block the dogs from her view. Then she proceeded to the counter to add up the day's take.

Edwina had just finished the columns, smiling as she
wrote the figure down, when Tom came through the door.

“You're back,” she said with an air of excitement in her tone. “Wait until I tell you.”

Her gaze whisked across him. She took in his height and the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hair curled at his collar. The cut of his coat, snug in the arms. His boots that made him even taller. The features of his face, lean and chiseled. Eyes so blue they seemed surreal, and a mouth wide and tempting for kissing.

“How come there's three dogs outside trying to get in?”

“Oh, them.” She shook her head. “I don't know. But they like me all of a sudden.”

As Tom stepped farther into the store, his gaze locked on the counter. In less than a few seconds, he noticed the tobacco tins of individually colored fishes, the potted plant she'd taken from her own desk, and the bright, bold merchandise price signs she'd penned. Then he made a slow pivot and drank everything in like a wide panoramic photograph in a stereoscope.

He didn't say a word.

She knew he was happily stunned. “Well?” She hung on his next words . . . but her cheery smile faded when she read the expression in his eyes as he faced her. . . .

“You don't like it . . . ?”

•  •  •

Not liking it wasn't how Tom would have described how he felt. It was more like a sock in the gut that left him with a sour stomach, like a jab to his jaw that made his teeth ache.

What in hell had she done? And in only eight hours. The place was too sanitized. Too tidy. Too feminine. What was with the flowers in his grizz's paw? And the price tags clearly marked on everything? And the bows pulling the curtains back.

Tom strode cautiously to the counter and went behind it, his eyes lowering to the shelves: jars and ribbons, neat rows, his walnuts put in a bucket. How was he supposed
to sift through them to find the empties and the wholes? His gun—it was right there in front, not thrown on top of the invoices where he liked it. And the bills of sale were all stacked up. How could he figure out who he'd gotten what from? A left pitch meant the stuff had come in; a right pitch had meant the stuff was still on order. And his empty beer bottles—the one he used for putting cigarettes out sometimes and the one he kept the beaver teeth in. The amber bottles were in a row like soldiers, not in the different spots he kept them in so he knew which one had the teeth and which one had the butts.

“Jesus . . .” he managed to say when his voice came back. “What in the hell did you do this for?”

Too late, he realized Edwina had meant to do well by the changes. The light in her eyes clouded and she looked ready to cry. He didn't mean to hurt her feelings, but she had to know that his store was the way he liked his store. Maybe to the average guy it looked disorganized, but it was very organized to Tom.

“I thought I'd improve things,” she said crisply. “I spent the whole day fixing the place up. Putting everything where it should go.”

“But everything already was where it should go.” Tom leaned over the many tins of walleyes, all sorted by color, and scowled.

“No, it wasn't,” Edwina said in her defense, getting her dander up slightly. Yet she still looked wounded. “The bullet molders weren't with the guns. Now they are. And the can openers are now with the other can openers.”

“I don't sell can openers.”

“Those things.” She pointed, and he swore silently.

“They're shell recappers.”

“Whatever. They have to do with guns, don't they?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Guns, rifles, and all that relates to weaponry is now in the glass case. And the merchandise is all clearly marked with its proper price.” She left the counter and walked down the aisle, pointing left and right. “You
didn't have prices showing on anything. I had to find them under the boxes or the backs of things.”

He walked around the counter and stood in front of it, propping his elbow onto its edge. “And there's a damn good reason why.”

Turning, she glared at him. Her green eyes dimmed; her mouth went sullen. “I don't understand.”

“A guy who wants a spool of fishing line is more apt to pick up two or three if they aren't marked. Then when he brings them to the counter and I tell him how much they are, he won't put those back that he didn't really need.”

“Why not?”

“Because he'd look like an ass if he did. Once something is in a man's hands, he won't set it back down, because that's not how men shop.” Tom nudged some of the walleyes out of his way, then jumped onto the countertop to sit down; his long legs dangled over the side. “I don't know how it is with you women when you shop, so ya'll can rearrange your hat shops and such however you see fit.”

“Well, we women look at the price.”

“And chances are you don't buy half of what you see.”

“It depends. Frugality is a concern.”

“Frugality
isn't in a man's vocabulary. He does everything big. Big dogs, big guns, big horses and rigs. Showing him the price is only going to remind him that his wife or his wallet told him he had less to spend.” Tom gazed at the leafy greens of an ivy in a pot and slid it behind him out of view. “You see, Ed, there's a knack in selling retail.”

Not to be deterred, Edwina folded her arms beneath her breasts and tapped her toe. “You had dog muzzles by the hunting clothes. That didn't make sense.”

“Sure it did. A hunter brings his dog with him. And dogs who have trouble staying quiet need a muzzle. Seeing them there by the vests reminds the hunter he needs a muzzle, too.”

“Then explain why you have the elbow supporters by the muzzles and pants.” She reached into the Spalding box and came out with a jockey strap, then walked to him. “Only one left.” A sharp single nod of her head told him she'd been enterprising somehow; only he didn't know how . . . or why she was calling them elbow supporters. “I told every man how much they were before he even held one, and I sold all the supporters in that box but this one. And the only reason I didn't sell this one was because I was wearing it.”

Tom's shoulder sockets cracked from the jolt they received when he abruptly straightened from his lax posture. “What do you mean you were wearing it?”

“I was demonstrating,” she replied with assertiveness. “And after a couple of hours, I got used to the feel of one around my waist.”

“Christ almighty, Edwina! Don't tell me you really wore one! In front of the customers!”

“Of course I did. The cup actually does keep everything nice and snug.” She examined the jockey strap and stretched the elastic between her hands. “I may even get one for myself for when I'm sewing and—”

Tom shot off the counter and grabbed the Spalding out of her fingers. “Give me that!” He jammed the cotton band into his jeans pocket. “Don't ever touch one of those again. Jesus! The cup keeps everything ‘nice and snug,' ” he mimicked. “Ed, don't you know that nothing down there even hangs on you! Don't tell me you put it under your skirt.”

Edwina's brows puckered. “Heavens, no. Over my shoulder and actually, if you must know, one breast. It just rides like that on me.”

“Oh . . . God . . .” Tom massaged his temples. How was he going to tell her? “Ed . . . Ed . . . Ed . . .”

Misgiving marred the curve of her mouth. “What?”

“Ed . . . come here.” He held his hand out for her to take, beckoning with it when she didn't readily come. She finally did, and he guided her to the counter. Placing both hands on her waist, he lifted her onto the top and
blocked her in with arms on either side of her. Better to keep her still once she found out.

Gazing into her waiting eyes, he inhaled deeply to get his thoughts together. That's when he smelled the scent. One sniff. Then two. Just to make sure. “Did you open a bottle of Good Sense, Edwina?”

“Only out of curiosity.”

“Some spilled, huh?”

“Not enough that you couldn't sell the bottle as full.”

Tom lowered his chin to his chest, fought back a grimacing smile, then lifted his head. “Those dogs outside, they tried to rub on your skirt, didn't they?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”