Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2) (2 page)

January 1896

t was the nicest, pertiest weddin' I ever did see." The
woman's high-pitched voice soared across the room.

"You're right, Mrs. Warner. Never saw a sweeter couple,"
another woman chirped in reply.

"And so in love," someone twittered.

"Why, the bride fairly glowed."

"Indeed."

The ceaseless nattering of female voices forced twentyseven-year-old Sarah Woodward to find a hiding place in a
far corner behind a bolt of purple gingham in Winthrop's Dry
Goods. Her presence in the store had gone undiscovered since
she'd entered ahead of the others and while the owner was in
the back room. Too embarrassed to show her face now, she
longed to disappear between the slats in the worn wood floor.
After all, the aforementioned bride should have been her.

It seemed a cruel twist of fate that the man she'd agreed
to wed by means of the Marriage Made in Heaven Agency out
east, and had traveled halfway across the country to meet up
with, had fallen in love with the town's schoolteacher before
Sarah even had the chance to lay eyes on him. She should have
known better than to seek the assistance of a mail-order bridal
service for the sake of adventure, never mind that she'd felt
certain God had led the way.

Of course, the man had been a gentleman about it, apologizing profusely for the mix-up in communication. His message to halt the proceedings had not reached her in time, and
he had offered to pay her for her trouble, namely sending her
back to where she'd come from-Winchester, Massachusetts.

Naturally, she'd refused his offer of compensation. She
didn't want his money. Besides, she wouldn't go back to Winchester-not as long as Stephen Alden, attorney-at-law, lived
there. The man seemed bent on marrying her, and it was truly
the last thing Sarah wanted.

It wasn't as if her heart had broken over the news of Benjamin Broughton's plans to wed another. She scarcely knew the
man. No, it was more regret than heartbreak, regret that her
plans had failed. After all, without the benefits of a marriage
license, Stephen would still consider her open territory-might
even chase her down-and she couldn't have that.

Lord, there has to be another way, she'd prayed in earnest
that first night she'd arrived in Little Hickman, Kentucky, and
learned that her trip had been in vain. But if there was another
way, He had yet to reveal it to her.

"And to think that poor Woodward woman traveled all
the way from Massachusetts to marry Benjamin," someone tittered.

Sarah's throat went dry as she covered herself more fully
with the bolt of cloth, praying no one would notice her. So far,
her luck had held, but if the women didn't vacate the place
soon, she felt certain she was in for more humiliation. As if she
hadn't already taken the prize in that department.

The ring of the cash register's drawer opening floated
through the air.

"Yes, it's a shame she made the wasted trip," said one
woman. "Of course, what would one expect? Imagine! Calling
on a marriage service to procure a husband. It's beyond me
why any woman would resort to such measures. It makes one
wonder."

A round of concurrence rose up amid all the yammering.

"Mighty pretty thing, she is. Looks like she comes from
wealth," said Mrs. Warner, the only woman whose voice Sarah
recognized.

"Yes, doesn't she?" agreed one. "She wears such fine cloth„
ing.

"But that hair," rattled another. "Seems to me she ought to
do something about that awful mass of red curls!"

Sarah instinctively seized a fistful of hair and silently rebuked
her mother for having passed it down to her. It was true. Her
thick, unruly, garnet-colored mane had been akin to a curse. For
once, she would like to walk into a room and not feel the stares of
countless eyesas if she'd grown two heads and three arms.

"I agree. It looks like a ball of fire most of the time. Even
hats don't seem to cover the worst of it." Sarah recognized that
particular voice as belonging to the proprietor, Mrs. Winthrop,
a woman seemingly determined to discover everyone's biggest
fault.

Sarah swallowed hard and adjusted her feet, still ice-cold
from her walk from Emma Browning's Boardinghouse. She
waited for the small gathering of gossipy women to disperse,
taking care to keep her head down and her eyes on her leather
tie-up boots.

About the time she thought the last woman had made
her purchase, the bell on the door tinkled softly, indicating the arrival of a new customer. At the door's gaping, a blast
of cold winter air skittered past Sarah's legs, generating an
unexpected shiver that ran the length of her five-foot, fiveinch slender frame.

Voices stilled at the newest customer's arrival, making
Sarah crane her neck in curiosity. Careful not to make a sound,
she peered past aisles and shelves crammed with stitching
supplies-everything from embroidered tapestry to threads,
scissors to needles, and luxurious velvet to sensible cotton. With
interest, she surveyed the source of the women's sudden hush,
thankful that the Winthrops' large inventory made hiding easy.

Looming in the doorway, looking uncomfortable if not
overtly out of place, was the man Sarah instantly recognized
as the uncle of the two young children she'd come into town
on the stage with three weeks ago. Alone and forlorn, the poor
little urchins had lost their mother to some fatal lung disease
and been shipped to an uncle who, she'd learned later, didn't
want them. Her heart had gone out to them almost immediately, for she knew how feelings of rejection could play upon
the psyche of a small child.

Although she didn't know the man, and certainly didn't
care to, she'd surely wanted to give him a piece of her mind.
How could anyone deny small children the affection due them,
particularly when the subjects were family members who had
just lost a loved one?

Her blood had boiled then, and it fairly simmered even
now. Lord, forgive me for despising someone I don't even know.

"Afternoon, ladies," came the cavernous voice of the powerfully built man, his shoulders so broad it surprised her that
he'd passed through the door without having to shift sideways.

A woolen cap pulled low over his head shaded his eyes,
making their color imperceptible, but failing to conceal his
granite-like stare. Black hair, gleaming in the light, wavy and
unkempt, hung beneath the cap's line, skimming the top of his
collar. A muscle clenched along his beardless, square-set jaw,
automatically triggering a response from Sarah to recoil. Why
did he have to show up now, when she was already eager to flee
the dry goods store?

"Why, Mr. Callahan, I don't believe you've ever graced
our store with your presence," said Mrs. Winthrop, her buttery
tone making Sarah grimace. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm lookin' for some fabric for my niece, Rachel," was his
curt reply. "She needs a new dress or two; warm, serviceable
ones, mind you. I'm also needin' someone to sew them. I was
hopin' you could make a recommendation."

"Oh my! Well, a seamstress for hire is something we dearly
lack in this town. Most make do with their own meager talents."

"Well, I don't happen to be too handy in that department,"
Mr. Callahan snapped, his tone indicating his lack of amusement at the situation.

"Yes, well, I have a few ready-made dresses in stock if you'd
care to look. Or you could place an order if you'd like to glance
through a catalog. What size would your niece... ?"

"I could have gone to Johansson's Mercantile if I'd wanted
a ready-made dress," he cut in, fingering a piece of woolen
material under Mrs. Winthrop's nose. "But I'm not of a mind
to pay for such an unnecessary extravagance. That's why I
came here-seeing as you have so much cloth in stock." His
eyes scanned the place, and for a heart-stopping instant, Sarah feared he'd spotted her lurking in the gingham. But then his
gaze traveled back to Mrs. Winthrop.

"Oh, I see." Mrs. Winthrop's hand went to her throat,
no doubt offended by the mention of her competitor, Eldred
Johansson. The other women each took a step back, feigning
disinterest, but Sarah knew better. They wouldn't be leaving
the premises until Mr. Callahan did, for fear of missing the
excitement. And neither would they be offering any help by
the look of them.

"How are your niece and nephew?" Mrs. Winthrop asked,
folding her hands at her waist, her chin protruding.

"Rachel and Seth are surviving just fine," he replied in a
gruff tone.

"It was a shame-about their mother," Mrs. Winthrop
offered.

"My sister, you mean," he said.

"Of course," Mrs. Winthrop answered. "It must have been
a shock to-well, everyone."

"Not a shock, no. She'd been ill for some time. Now, what
about that seamstress?" His curtness seemed to add an icy
dimension to the already chilled room.

"Well, as I said, I don't happen to know of anyone offhand."

"Any of you sew?" he asked the women, turning an assessing eye on each of them.

"I stitch for my family, but I'm afraid I'm quite pressed for
time right now, what with all my youngins runnin' every which
direction," one woman answered while nervously fingering
her parcel.

Mr. Callahan nodded and looked to the other two women. Both shook their head. "I'm afraid I can barely make do with
my own pile of mending and darning, Mr. Callahan. You'd best
order somethin' ready-made." This from the woman referred
to as Mrs. Warner.

"Well, since I don't intend to spend the extra money on
such a frivolous expense, I 'spect my niece'll have to make do
with what she has, holes or not."

Sarah's blood had fairly reached its boiling point when she
stepped forward, her camouflage no longer important. "I can
sew," she stated calmly despite her inward seething. Perhaps it
was her hasty prayer for self-control that kept her from throttling the man the second she came out of hiding. A little girl
who'd just lost her mother deserved a new dress. How dare he
call such a purchase an extravagance?

"Well, saints above, M-Miss Woodward," Mrs. Winthrop
stammered. "W-where-?" Her eyes went round while the
other women similarly gaped. Shamefaced and clearly mortified, they began a hasty retreat toward the door, filing out
one by one, failing even to proffer a respectable good-bye. Icy
air snaked into the room with the open door, adding to the
already cold atmosphere Mr. Callahan had ushered in by his
mere presence.

"You say you can stitch a dress?" Mr. Callahan asked, his
eyes-a piercing shade of blue Sarah noticed now that she had
the chance to see them up close-coming to rest on Sarah's
face, then carefully sweeping the length of her.

Determined not to allow the man's intimidation to ruffle
her, Sarah replied, "I said I can sew, didn't I?"

"But can you stitch a dress for a girl?" he asked with a
good measure of impatience.

Under his scrutiny, she felt her neck muscles go stiff. "I've
never made a child's dress," she admitted begrudgingly, "but
I've made plenty of other things. I expect with proper measuring and planning I can make her a fine dress."

He gave her another hasty once-over. "You make what
you're wearin'?"

She looked down at the blue satin gown peeking out from
under her long cashmere coat. Her mother had purchased it
for her as a gift before taking ill a year ago. It had been her
final gift from her. An unanticipated wave of sadness threatened to divert her attention but she hastily regained control of
her wobbly emotions.

"No, but I've fashioned some of my own clothing."

"Really." He tipped back on his heels and gave her a disbelieving look. "You don't appear to be the sort who would stoop
to such menial tasks."

Taken aback, she prayed for the right choice of words. "I'll
have you know there is nothing menial about sewing. It's a fine
hobby and one that does a great deal to alleviate stress, Mr.-"
The man was nothing if he wasn't a dolt.