The Anonymous Bride (30 page)

“Could I ... uh ... talk with you for a minute?” Miss Blackstone looked hesitant to interrupt her.

“Certainly.” Rachel sniffed and patted the chair beside her, hoping her face wasn’t red and splotchy from crying.

Miss Blackstone sat and glanced sideways. “You all right?”

Rachel forced out a little laugh. “Yes, I just had a confrontation with my daughter.”

“Oh. Well, I was ... uh ... wonderin’ if you could show me how to stitch a shirt for the next bride contest.” She wrung her hands. “I mean, I can sew—some. I ain’t never made a shirt before.”

Part of Rachel wanted to shout no. To jump up and run away like Jacqueline. She already housed and fed the mail-order brides, but they wanted her to help them win Luke’s heart. She simply couldn’t do that. “Of course I’ll help you.”

Miss Blackstone smiled, looking younger than she normally did. “Thanks. That’s right nice of ya.”

Rachel fingered the long hair hanging down the young woman’s back. “I don’t want to offend you, but if you’d like, I could show you some ways to style your hair—so you’d look extra nice for Saturday’s contest, I mean.”

Surprise flashed in Miss Blackstone’s eyes. “Thank you, kindly. I’d like that.” She looked down and seemed to be studying the ground. “My ma died when I was young. I lived with my brother for a while, but he didn’t have time or patience for things like fixin’ hair.”

“I’m sorry about your mother. I lost mine, too. If not for the Lord, I don’t know how I would have made it without her.”

Miss Blackstone gave her an odd look.

Rachel jumped up. “I have about a half hour before I need to start supper. Would you care to get started on the shirt now?”

Miss Blackstone nodded and followed Rachel through the kitchen and into her bedroom. As she reached for the dresser knobs, Rachel’s hands shook. She hadn’t looked at James’s things since she put them away, shortly after his death. She pulled out the bottom drawer and scanned the garments. Several shirts lay next to the stack of store-bought silk handkerchiefs that James had preferred to her homemade ones. She really should get rid of all these things. Why had she kept them so long?

“These were my husband’s.” She laid the four shirts on the bed and rifled through them, finding the one she wanted. “This is a simple design. We’ll need to choose some fabric. I ... uh ... have a small supply.”

Miss Blackstone shook her head. “The marshal’s supposed to give us money to buy cloth and supplies, so I won’t need yours.”

The young woman fingered the edge of the top shirt, a tan one. “Mine won’t look near as nice as yours.”

Rachel forced a smile as she gathered up the shirts. “But mine won’t be in the contest.”

***

Jack’s heart pounded as she shut her bedroom door. Her mother was across the hall, busy with supper preparations, but if she noticed the closed door, she’d surely come to investigate. Jack had told herself that what she was doing wasn’t wrong. In a way, her father’s belongings were partially hers, weren’t they?

Standing in front of the chest of drawers, she forced her hands to stop shaking. It only worked for a second before the trembling started again. She knelt down, slid open the bottom drawer, and scowled. Even after three years, she could still smell her pa’s scent on his clothing, and it was all she could do not to retch in the drawer.

She quickly thumbed through the shirts that lay with his socks and the fancy hankies he’d liked. A soft blue one stood out among the others, and she picked it up and examined its stitching. Perfect, just like all her ma’s sewing. If Jack put her mind to it, she could probably sew as well one day, but the thought of sitting in one spot long enough to make something this nice made her shiver. How did women do it? Sewing hours and hours at a time? They even seemed to have fun at quilting bees, but of course, they chatted with the other women and had food to eat.

Jack shoved the drawer shut and held the shirt in her hand. Luke liked blue. She knew that because he wore that color a lot. But would it fit him? She tried to remember how big her father was, but Luke seemed so much larger. Well, there was nothing she could do about that.

She heard a sound just outside the door and jumped. Grabbing her skirts up, she dove between the bed and the wall. The handle jiggled, and the door opened. Jack stuffed the shirt under the bed and tried to calm her shaking.

“Sweetie?” Footsteps followed her mother’s voice into the room. “Hmm...”

Jack held her breath. The room was small, and if her ma walked much farther, she was sure to see her hiding—and what excuse could Jack give for being on the floor? That she was asleep and fell off the bed?

Footsteps carried her mother away, and Jack waited a few minutes for her heart to stop banging before she peered over the bed. She nearly gasped out loud when she saw the door was left open.

“Jacqueline?” Her mother called, sounding as if she were yelling out the back door.

Ducking down again, Jack considered how she might get the shirt onto the table with the other brides’ entries. Surely Luke would like her mother’s the best. Nobody could sew like her ma. Jack looked down at her dress, and in spite of hating it, she thought of all the hours her mother had put into sewing it for her. She always had nice clothes made from pretty fabric and had never worn a scratchy flour-sack dress like several of her schoolmates.

She peered over the bed again, keeping watch, and every few minutes, she’d see her ma cross from the kitchen into the dining room, carrying bowls and trays of food. She ought to be helping instead of hiding like some thief. And it wasn’t stealing to take something that belonged to your family, especially if you were going to put it back after the contest, was it?

Her legs had finally quit shaking, and she drew up her knees to stand. If she got up just as her ma went into the dining room, she’d have time to hurry out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She started to stand when she heard a shuffling sound and dropped back down. Her heart set off like a wild mustang again.

It sounded as if someone else slid into the room, and she held her breath. Sure enough, she could hear rough breathing. The person’s shoes tapped out a quiet repetition and then stopped. A drawer squeaked open. Someone muttered a curse, and then the drawer squealed shut again. The bottom drawer was the only one that made a noise like that. Who could be in it, and what was it the person wanted?

She longed to peek but was too scared to move. Her breath turned ragged, almost as if she’d run a long race. After a few minutes of not hearing anybody nearby, she peeked over the bed’s quilt and saw her ma zip into the dining room. Jack jumped to her feet and hurried into the kitchen.

Her ma rushed back in the room. “Oh, there you are. Supper’s finished, and I need your help. I was looking for you.”

Jack ducked her head so her mother wouldn’t see her guilt and grabbed the bowl of biscuits. She hurried into the dining room and set them on the table. None of the brides were there yet, and she wanted to run upstairs and look around to see if one of them had taken something from the dresser. Her mother hadn’t, because she never opened that particular drawer. Jack tiptoed past the kitchen door and dashed into her bedroom. She needed another look, and she didn’t like the thought worming its way into her head. She yanked the drawer open and knew right away that the tan shirt was gone. Someone staying in their home was a thief.

***

“Finish drying the breakfast dishes and you can go outside for a little bit.” Rachel looked around her kitchen, glad that for the moment it was clean again. All too soon she’d have to start dinner.

Jacqueline wiped a dish with a towel and set it on top of the pile of clean dishes. “I’m so glad I don’t hav’ta go to school for a while.”

Rachel enjoyed her daughter being home more, but at times she could be trying. “I’m going out on the porch to mend the red checkered tablecloth. Make sure you come back in time to help with dinner.”

Her daughter nodded, and Rachel left the kitchen, ready to sit down for a while. As she reached the parlor, she heard raised voices.

“I’m going over there right now and take his measurements. How are we supposed to make a shirt for him when we don’t even know what they are?” Miss Bennett asked.

“’Tisn’t proper for an unmarried woman to measure a man.” Miss O’Neil sat in one of the parlor chairs, hands clenched together.

Rachel stood in the doorway, suddenly realizing their dilemma. The women had less than a week left to fashion a shirt for the marshal, yet they didn’t have his measurements. She dreaded the thought forming in her mind, but there was no other option. “I’ll go take the marshal’s measurements. And you’re welcome to use the dining table to lay out your fabric, as long as it can be cleared by dinnertime.”

Miss O’Neil smiled. “Aye, a grand idea to be certain.”

Miss Bennett scowled. “I was just heading over to the jail to do that very thing.”

Rachel shook her head, knowing the young woman would use the time alone to flirt with Luke. “I’ve been married before. I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to tend to such a task.”

Miss Bennett harrumphed, grabbed the pile of dark blue fabric she’d purchased, and marched into the dining room.

Rachel returned to her bedroom, found her measuring tape, some paper, and a pencil, and headed to the jail. The breakfast she’d recently eaten churned in her stomach. She thought of being so near to Luke and yet so far. Maybe he wouldn’t even be there, but even as the idea entered her mind, she saw him leaning against the doorjamb, watching the town as he frequently did.

The streets were quiet for a Monday morning. The shops were open, but many folks did their business on Saturday. She waved at Aggie, who walked down the other side of the street and entered the bank.

As Rachel neared the jail, her hands started trembling and her legs felt as solid as melted butter. Luke saw her coming and stood looking out from under his hat like a cougar eyeing its prey. He straightened as she drew near. In the years that he’d been gone, he’d changed from a lithe youth to a tall, broad-shouldered man. Rachel licked her lips, but her mouth felt as dry as flour.

Luke nodded at her. “Come to fetch my breakfast plate?”

“No, I’ve come to take your measurements so my boarders can start sewing your shirts.”

He shook his head. “Don’t know what I’ll do with so many.”

“Wear them, I guess. Although the woman you marry may not care for you to be donning the ones the other ladies made.”

Luke quirked a brow. Rachel wanted nothing more than to tuck tail and run back home, but she forced herself to stand still. “Could we go inside? Or would you prefer staying out here?”

Luke stepped back and allowed her to enter in front of him. Rachel hesitated then walked into the jail with him following. She set her basket on the table, pulled out her supplies, and motioned for Luke to turn around.

“Hold out your right arm.” Luke did as told, and she held the measuring tape against his shoulder, stretching it out to his wrist. The heat of his body burned her fingertips, and she longed to caress his arm. She forced her hand away and wrote down the length, then determined the width of his shoulders and the span from his collar to his hips. She ducked under his arm and stood in front of him. How many times in the past had she been this close to him? Had the right to touch his face or to hug him without giving it a second thought? Now her hand quivered, and she tried to finish her task without touching him again. She swallowed hard and dared to look up. Luke’s brown eyes watched her, almost with—dare she hope?—longing.

“I ... uh ... need your help for this last measurement.”

He nodded, and she handed him one end of the measurer. “Hold that against you chest, please.”

She slipped behind him, wrapped the length around his chest, and pulled it tight, stopping again in front of him. Her breath caught in her throat. Luke smelled of leather and fresh soap and a scent all his own. If she didn’t finish this task soon, she might swoon at his feet.

How bittersweet. If things had been different, she might well be preparing to sew a shirt for Luke herself, as his wife. Through stinging eyes, she noted the number and tugged on the tape, but when it didn’t fall free, she looked up. Her gaze collided with Luke’s.

He stared at her with an intensity she hadn’t seen in years. His breath tickled her forehead.

“Rachel...”

For a fraction of a second, she thought he might kiss her. His gaze roved her face like a starving man eyeing a Sunday potluck picnic. Suddenly, he blinked, his expression hardened, and he stepped back.

Rachel caught her measuring tape as it fell free and snatched up her notes. “Um ... thank you. I’m sure the brides will find this most helpful.”

She spun around and hurried out the door.

“Rach—”

The jangling of a wagon passing on the road drowned out whatever Luke had said. Rachel’s heart plummeted so low she thought certain she would trip on it. Those brides had no idea how much this little deed had cost her.

***

Carly handed the mayor her entry. The tan shirt with dark brown stitching hadn’t been her first choice, but the blue one was gone from the drawer.

“Why, that’s lovely stitchery, Miss Blackstone. I wouldn’t be surprised if the marshal picks your shirt as the winner.”