Harmony (9 page)

And the last Tom had seen his father had been about three years back. What correspondence he and his dad had exchanged had been infrequent. When mail finally reached Tom, he'd been mining gold in the New Mexico territory. The words Henry Wolcott had penned had surprised him. After his mother's death, his father had deserted the land in Texas, moved to Mexico, and remarried. Rather than toiling over his own fickle soil and having to worry about the elements, he now worked on an
ejidos
—some kind of common farm.

For a couple of weeks, Tom had mulled over the letter; then he'd packed up his gear and gone down into Mexico to some town whose name he couldn't pronounce. He'd seen his dad and his new wife; she'd been younger than him by half. They'd already had two kids, and one more was on the way. He hadn't felt any kind of attachment to the weather-beaten man sitting before him. It was as if he hadn't been born the man's son.

At the age of thirty-two, Tom had lived half his life with his family and the other half making his own way. Any bond that had been forged between him and his dad had vanished. It was fair to say they'd gone their separate ways. When Tom rode out of Zacatecas, he knew he'd never see his father again. And he also knew Henry Wolcott would never see his youngest son by his first wife prosper in ways no one in the family ever had. Nor would his mother. John might, perhaps, if he dried out long enough to earn money for a horse.

Tom had hooked up with Shay in the New Mexico territory again, and they had roamed the countryside doing odd jobs, ending up lumbering in Washington. But nothing had satisfied Tom. He was tired of being another man's money maker. He had to do something on his own. So when Shay had said he was headed east to Idaho, Tom had said he was going farther to see what the lure was in Montana.

With a small amount of capital he'd tucked away in his wallet, he'd been able to advertise and bring men out west. Once he'd felt confident he could make a living as a businessman, he'd relaxed and settled into what he thought was the best-looking place he'd ever seen.

Harmony, Montana.

Giving the store and outfitting his best shot wasn't enough. He had to prove his worth to himself, to achieve everything on all accounts—business and family. He'd eluded marriage for a long time, and now he could finally think about taking the step in the next year—if all went well and he had enough money. He'd go to the altar only if he was financially settled. He'd be damned if any wife of his would have to work herself into an early grave like his mother had.

As for the woman he'd marry, he wanted someone who was fun, who liked to laugh and let her hair down. Someone as easygoing as himself.

Damn certain not that Edwina Huntington—which teed him off because he found her attractive. Even in that shabby getup she'd had on today. The length of her hair hadn't escaped his attention. The ends of thick braids fell well past her waist. He'd wondered what her hair would look like unbound . . . flowing over her bare shoulders. The image he conjured was provocative to say the least.

But she was a north-end girl through and through. Her deal with Trussel had proved she'd put flypaper on his ass without a thought. And that rankled him enough for him to get even and put a snap in her garter.

Footfalls crushed the dry leaves, and Shay emerged from the shadows huddled in a hunter's camouflage coat—just like Tom's.

“Did you bring the brushes?” Tom asked, meeting him.

Shay produced two fat ones from the deep-slashed pockets.

“I've got the paint around the front.”

“Don't you think we ought to burn some lanterns on low so we can see what we're doing?” Shay asked, his breath misting.

“Hell no. Pickering doesn't lock up the Blue Flame until after midnight. We can't chance being seen.” Tom ground his cigarette beneath his boot heel. “Besides, we're not here to see what we're doing. Contrary to what our primary teacher told us about our pen strokes, in this case, neatness
doesn't
count.”

4

V
andals! Hoodlums! Miscreants!

A thunderbolt could have slammed down right in front of Edwina and given her less of a shock.

The warehouse had been sabotaged! With red paint. Everywhere. Not only on the clapboards, but fat ugly drops on the ground, blobs speckling the shrubbery, and beads running down the windowpanes.

For some unknown reason, the culprits had only struck Mr. Wolcott's side. A ripple of relief assailed her, along with a faint pulse of shame for having thought of herself in a time of crisis. Still, that didn't dim the edge of despair that gripped her in its clutches. The building looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse with all that red splattered on everything. The steady yellow dividing line she'd painted cleanly down the middle had been sloppily cut into. Her sweet canary had been killed with vermillion.

A silent shriek surged up her spine and pinched the nerves in her neck. She had to report the crime to the police immediately.

Blazing with hot indignation, she marched up Birch Avenue with her skirts swishing immodestly. She should have checked her pace and not let her upset show. After
all, she hadn't left the house without buttoning her gloves in the vestibule. To do so on the porch was gauche—not to mention that a lady never appeared in public until she was fully dressed. But all that ladylike folderol was inconsequential to Edwina right now. She didn't want to have to think about her actions when her reactions had her in the mood to kick something.

The police department came into view, and she stalked to the gate. She fumbled with the latch as she let herself in. The pickets on the fence had always seemed too wobbly, and as the gate slammed home behind her, they vibrated like a telegraph line. Two iron deer were planted in the lawn, looking somewhat startled and more than a little rusty.

Once at the door, Edwina stopped, her gaze angling in on the note pinned to the door:

Gone quail hunting.

You can like it or lump it.

“Dammit all,” she swore beneath her breath.

Violations in Harmony didn't run the gamut the way they did in big cities, but a deputy officer should have stayed in residence at all times in case of an emergency. While the guardians of law were off in the bushes playing bird stalkers, the criminals were getting away.

“Of all the . . .” she muttered as she dug through her pocketbook. Finding her card case, she opened the clasp, withdrew a calling card with her name and address printed on the front, and stuck it in the door's crack.

Thoughtfully chewing the inside of her lip, Edwina turned and pondered her next move. Under any other circumstances, she would
never
seek Tom Wolcott out at his home. A variety of deportment infractions could be forgiven in a small town, but a lady's visiting a gentleman at his residence was not a small breech of etiquette—it was taboo. She herself didn't give a whit about the rule, but Edwina Huntington the finishing school teacher had to keep proper appearances. On the
other hand, the call wouldn't be one of a social nature. This was official—and urgent—business.

“Oh . . . bother it.”

Her mind made up, Edwina stormed down the walkway, pausing midstride to confront the deer. Looking quickly left and right to see if the coast was clear, she kicked one's leg, and the dilapidated thing fell flat on the brown lawn. Then she proceeded, feeling somewhat vindicated for having found no officer to take her complaint.

The street sloped toward the planked bridge over Evergreen Creek, and then climbed past the pasture behind the livery stable and the blacksmith shop. Able to take the back way, she didn't meet anyone on the main street. Above the livery, a loft had been converted into a small office, then in recent years into a rented residence after Mr. Hess had added onto the first floor. She knew this was where Mr. Wolcott lived, but she had never in her wildest dreams thought she'd be climbing the outside steps to his door.

Once at the top, she calmed herself into a forced display of refinement. She quickly looked at the blue-black foulard of her skirt with its all-over pattern in shaded grays to make sure no grass blades sullied the fabric. A check of her hat found it securely pinned, a cursory inspection of her glove buttons found that they remained in a perfect row, and a slight fluff of the white ruching that edged her boned collar made it stand up in stiff attention. Confident everything was in apple pie order, she sucked in her breath and rapped on the door.

•  •  •

Tom sat at the table next to his heater, wearing a pair of silk-fleeced drawers and a hole-ridden flannel shirt halfway buttoned. He might not have cared about flashy suits, but he did like his underwear to feel good cupped against him. As for the shirt, he'd thrown on his old favorite. The fabric had worn so thin in places, a few spots had frayed. A rag rug might have gotten better
use out of the flannel, but Tom figured it needed a little more breaking in before somebody else stepped on it.

With bare feet tucked on the chair spindle beneath him, he drank coffee while reading the current issue of
American Hunter's Journal.

GOOD SENSE-DEER SCENTS

Hunters,
try the latest in lures—deer in heat estrus. This concentrated scent is highly respected, but be forewarned: you may be attacked if it's not properly used.

We also specialize in cow-pie cover scents. Cover your human scent with cow-pie extract. What better way to hunt in areas where deer live near cattle?

For orders, write to: Good Sense, Minnetonka, Minnesota.

Mulling over the possibilities, Tom scratched his fingertips across the stubble roughing his jaw. What kind of greenhorn would rub himself with cow shit? Besides, any fool could go to a pasture and pick up patties for free.

Now, chasing deer while they were doing the dickydiddle was a whole different story. Could be this deer pee would sell for him. The concept was imaginative enough to attract a customer's attention.

As he made a mental note to order a dozen bottles, a knock sounded on the door. Shay usually came by about now to share a cup of coffee.

“Door's open,” Tom called, thumbing through the journal, his gaze skimming an article heading on carbine kicks.

The knock repeated.
One, two, three.
Delicate-like, yet pressing. Barkly let go with a choppy snore from his sleeping spot by the bureau. The hound lay sprawled out on a bearskin rug.

Tom caught the bottom of the curtain and pulled the
faded cotton away from the window. From his place at the table, he couldn't see who stood on the landing.

Rising, he went to the door and opened it.

Give him a thousand guesses, and he would never have gotten one right. “Jesus . . .”

Edwina Huntington—put together in uncompromising fashion, from the top of her nutty hat—this one had a wide wreath of abundant foliage—to the toes of her shoes—these with big black bows on them.

He'd known she would find him and tell him about the paint, but he'd never figured she'd come to his apartment. Once again, her actions didn't add up to the external image.

“Miss Huntington,” he remarked in a mock surprised tone.

She said nothing. Her mouth had gone agape. Her pupils were dilated and her eyes were wide. She gazed at him for quite a long time—something he didn't mind once he realized what she was looking at.

His half-open shirt revealed a chest covered with crisp brown hair. Though he didn't go around sizing himself up, he thought he was pretty muscular and broad through the shoulders. She obviously found something interesting about the body she was gawking at.

Lowering her eyes a fraction, her gaze fell on his drawers. Their cut fit him fairly snugly. Though the crotch area was half obscured by the hem of his shirt, what part of him did show was obviously defined.

A stain of red in her cheeks heightened her color. The depths of her bright eyes sent strong sexual suggestions to his brain, ones that probably would have keeled her over if she could have read his mind. It amazed him that someone as socially rigid as she could have such an affect on him. He knew better than to fall in lust with her type. But somewhere in those almond-shaped eyes, he could almost see a different woman. And she didn't have a shy demeanor.