A Tailor-Made Bride

  Ike turned to face J.T., and the earnestness glowing in his eyes erased the last of J.T.’s reservations. “It is my hope to somehow win your sister’s affection. And if I am fortunate enough to do so, I plan on making her my wife.”

  The man had gumption, J.T. would give him that. He wasn’t afraid to lay his cards on the table and fight for what he wanted. Had to respect that. But other things spoke even more highly of him. The way his expression softened as he spoke about Delia. The way he cared about earning her affection. He would be a good husband to her.

  J.T. stood up and held his hand out to Ike. The other man stared at it a moment before grabbing hold.

  “If she’ll have you, you’re welcome in our family.”

  He could feel the tension drain out of Ike as he released the man’s hand and cuffed him on the shoulder. “ ’Course, you might have to share those lunches for a while longer. With me.”

  Ike grinned. “Deal. Until you find a wife of your own, that is.”

  They shared a laugh, but as J.T. wandered back out to the street, Ike’s parting words climbed under his skin and started itching. A wife of his own. Is that where things were heading with Hannah? He cared about her. A lot. But a wife? He scraped his suddenly damp palms against the sides of his denim trousers. His father had loved his mother, and it destroyed him. J.T. had always blamed his mother for that, but what if his father had been at fault, as well? What if issues other than his mother’s dissatisfaction had contributed to the demise of his parents’ marriage?

  As he neared the livery, Hannah’s shop drew J.T.’s attention. An ache settled in his chest. If he let himself love her, would she love him in return? Or would he carry out his father’s legacy and disappoint her so often that he drove her away?

  CHAPTER 27

  Later that week, Hannah sat at her sewing machine, its low-pitched whir blending with the rhythmic drumming that drifted from next door. Jericho had somehow convinced Louisa to let him install new shingles. He’d spent an hour or two on her roof every afternoon for the last four days.

  And every afternoon for the last four days, Hannah had found a small token on her staircase as she made her way to her room after closing the shop. Always on the second to last step—the one that had broken and sent her plunging into his arms that first day.

  Hannah’s foot slowed its pumping of the treadle, and a bemused tingle danced over her skin as she thought about the collection of pint-sized Mason jars decorating the crate near her bed. Monday’s jar had held a polished stone, round and smooth. Its deep reddish hue carried a horizontal line of quartz along the top that made her think of a fine lady with diamonds at her neck. A small note was included in the jar. For the beauty of the earth.

  Tuesday’s note had read For the beauty of the skies. The jar contained a perfectly formed feather, the color so blue Hannah doubted any jay would have given it up without a fight.

  On Wednesday, he’d deviated from the hymn lyrics to compose a verse with a more romantic bent. For the beauty of your heart. A cottonwood leaf in that very shape sat in the glass cage, its stunning yellow color singing the glory of autumn.

  And yesterday she’d found a blue hair ribbon with a note that said To match the beauty of your eyes. She’d woven the ribbon into her braided chignon this morning in hopes that Jericho would see it.

  Her chest rose and fell on a dreamy sigh, the seam in Cordelia’s skirt only half finished. Jericho Tucker was courting her, truly courting her. At least she assumed it was him. He never signed his name to the notes. But who else could it be? No one else understood the significance of that particular step. No one else had nearly kissed her in the churchyard. Memories of that almost-kiss had distracted her all week. It had to be Jericho leaving the gifts.

  And the notes? Well, they gave her heart the biggest thrill of all. The positive references to beauty in each one led her to believe that he might finally see her as more than a stumbling block and consider beauty more than a plague to be avoided.

  The door to the shop opened, startling her out of her thoughts. A guilty blush heated her cheeks as Cordelia came in.

  “I’m running a little behind schedule,” Hannah said, glancing up, “but I’ll have this ready for you to try on in a jiffy.” She rocked the foot peddle back into motion and zipped to the end of the side seam.

  Cordelia ambled behind the counter, perfectly at home in Hannah’s shop, and sat on the corner of the worktable. “I’m in no hurry. In fact, I could use some time to think.”

  “About what?”

  “Warren.” Cordelia exhaled with enough force that Hannah felt a stirring on the back of her neck.

  Hannah repositioned the fabric, folded in a dart, and continued sewing. “He’s giving you a hard time again?”

  “Yes.” The word leaked out of her, slow and miserable. “He was waiting for me when I came out of the telegraph office. I think he might have overheard me asking Ike to join us for the Founders’ Day picnic.”

  Stopping the treadle, Hannah turned around in her chair. “How did that go, by the way?”

  A shy smile temporarily erased the worry on Cordelia’s face. “Ike said he was too fond of my cooking to turn down the invitation.”

  Hannah grinned. “I saw the way he was stammering around you at church last Sunday. I think it’s more than your cooking that draws him.”

  “I’m starting to think so, too.” Cordelia ducked her head, her cheeks turning a delighted pink.

  “I knew he couldn’t stay blind to you forever.” Hannah laughed, truly happy for her friend. “I can’t wait to see you two together at the picnic next Saturday.”

  “Seeing the two of us together is what got under Warren’s skin.”

  Hannah clipped off the thread ends and flipped the skirt right side out. “I think Warren’s sweet on you, Cordelia.”

  Her friend let out a groan of frustration. “I didn’t want to believe you when you suggested that before, but I can’t deny it any longer. He proposed to me. Right there on the boardwalk.”

  Unable to disguise her shock, Hannah sucked in a too-fast breath and started coughing. Cordelia came over and pounded her on the back. Eyes watering from her choking spell, Hannah looked up at Cordelia’s grimacing face. “He proposed?”

  “Oh, Hannah. It was the most dreadful experience. He insulted Ike and said that he only looked at me because of the change to my appearance. He said Ike didn’t care for the true me—not like he did— and if a man was too ignorant to love me when I was a shy little mouse, he wasn’t worth having.”

  “He actually called you a mouse?” The man had no skill in wooing whatsoever.

  Cordelia nodded and started pacing around the table. “I didn’t know how to respond, so I asked him why he had never declared himself before.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He claimed he’d been waiting to establish himself in his father’s business in order to offer me a secure future. But he’s been working there for years and never said a word to me.”

  “Would you have accepted him if he had?”

  Cordelia stopped pacing. “No. At least I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t know.” She crossed her arms over her stomach and hugged her ribs. “I’ve never had romantic feelings toward Warren, but with no one else knocking at my door, I might have considered it.”

  “Then I’m glad he never said anything.” Hannah laid the skirt aside and went to her friend. “You and Warren would have been a wretched match.”

  “I know.” Her breath quivered as she struggled to contain her emotions. “We were friends in school, though. Two outcasts finding camaraderie with one another—he with his birthmark and me, the shy mouse with the shameful mother everyone gossiped about. We were quite a pair. But having each other eased the loneliness. Whenever he grew too sullen, I would make up silly stories, one more ridiculous than the last, until he smiled. He’d sneak me peppermint sticks and lemon drops from his father’s store. There is kindness in him. It’s just not as apparent now tha
t he’s grown.”

  Conscience pricked, Hannah closed her lips against the uncharitable comments that had sprung to her tongue. Though sullen and insensitive, Warren deserved a measure of compassion. It couldn’t have been easy growing up with such a large mark upon his face. But that wasn’t sufficient reason for Cordelia to sacrifice her future by binding herself to a bitter man.

  “Did you give him an answer?”

  “I tried, but he must have sensed I was working up to a negative response, for he interrupted and said that he would call on me tonight after supper.”

  Sensing Cordelia’s dread over the impending visit, Hannah ushered her into the fitting room. She helped her undress and slipped the new skirt up over her hips. As she made a minor adjustment to the waistline, she met Cordelia’s gaze in the mirror.

  “You should tell Jericho.”

  Cordelia looked away. “I know. I just worry that J.T. will toss Warren off the porch or something.”

  Hannah bit back a laugh as she recalled holding the man back in the churchyard over Ike. “He might at that. But as your brother, he should know of the offer. He can help you decide what to do and be there to back you up should Warren not like your answer.”

  “You’re right. I’ll tell him.” Cordelia sighed and adopted a woebegone expression that bordered on comic. “I just wish I had a sister to commiserate with after it was all over. Someone like you.”

  Hannah squirmed a bit as she marked the hem. Had Cordelia guessed her feelings toward Jericho? And if so, what did she think about it? Hannah concentrated on matching up the edges of the skirt’s burgundy stripes. “You can commiserate with me anytime you like. You know that.”

  “Tonight?” Cordelia asked, a touch of genuine pleading blending with the mischief in her tone. “Come to supper. I’d feel so much better with you there. And something tells me J.T. won’t mind your company, either.”

  She did know.

  Hannah straightened. “Cordelia, I—”

  Before she could explain, Cordelia grabbed her in an enthusiastic embrace. “You have no idea how happy having you as a sister will make me. J.T. is a little crusty on the outside, but his heart is true and as big as a mountain. He’d be good to you.”

  Hannah backed away. “Are my feelings for him so obvious?”

  “Only to me. Ever since the day the two of you worked those rings together, I’ve had a suspicion that something might be brewing, and the way J.T. cared for you after pulling you from the river confirmed it.” Cordelia stepped out of the skirt and handed it to Hannah, deliberately holding her gaze. “He may not have fully conceded yet, but I have no doubt that you are infiltrating his defenses.”

  Hannah’s stomach dipped and tickled the way it had when she sledded down Parkman’s Hill as a child. Everything within her longed to believe that Cordelia was right. Tentatively, her lips stretched into a smile, and she clasped the hand of the young woman she already loved as a sister. “I’d be honored to join you and your brother for supper tonight.”

  J.T. answered the knock on his front door, his most intimidating scowl already in place. Delia had warned him of Warren’s arrival, and J.T. was none too pleased. He liked and respected the kid’s old man, but Warren was immature and so caught up in proving his worth that he rarely looked beyond himself. J.T. had no issue with his marked face or his occupation, certain that a store clerk could adequately provide for a wife. But the kid made that old nag of his drag his sorry hide up the hill to church every Sunday when the animal should have been put out to pasture years ago. If he was selfish in the way he treated his horse, who was to say he’d be any different in the way he treated a wife?

  Even if Delia favored such a match, J.T. would have been loath to accept Warren’s suit on her behalf. He was thankful his sister’s tender heart and girlhood loyalty didn’t outweigh her common sense. Ike was a much better choice.

  “G-good evening, Mr. Tucker.” Warren barely looked him in the eye. Although, to be fair, that was mostly because the kid’s long hair dangled in the way. J.T. would’ve respected him more if he stood up straight, combed his hair back, and took pride in himself. So what if he had a blotch on his face? If he’d stop reminding people that he was ashamed of it by covering it with his hair, folks might actually get used to the thing and forget about it.

  J.T. was tempted to educate the fellow, but something told him his advice would not be welcome. Instead, he crossed his arms and stared the young man down. “Warren.”

  “Is Cordelia at home? I believe she’s expecting me.” He twitched and flung his hair off his forehead, only to have it fall back in his face.

  “She’ll be along in a minute,” J.T. said. “You planning to visit with her on the porch this evening?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll keep an eye on you from the kitchen, then.”

  Warren tugged on his sleeves, looking about as comfortable in his sack suit as a man who had rolled in poison oak the day before.

  “Stop terrorizing him, J.T.,” Delia said from behind him. “Warren knows how to act the part of a gentleman.”

  J.T. stepped aside to let his sister pass, his eyes still locked on the man who had come calling. A disturbing flare of insolence crossed Warren’s features at Delia’s words, as if he were daring J.T. to contradict them. J.T. unfolded his arms and took a step toward him. The insolence vanished. Satisfied, J.T. retreated into the house and closed the door.

  He headed for the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. Hannah, a full dishpan between her and the window, was leaning forward, her nose nearly touching the glass.

  “I see I’m not the only one interested in what’s going on out there.”

  She jumped, and a plate slid out of her hand, splashing water into her face. “Oh!” She squinted against the unexpected geyser.

  J.T. hurried to her side, slid a towel from the bar by the pump, and gently dabbed the droplets from her face. He stroked the cotton cloth over her forehead, cheeks, and chin. Then, just for good measure, he lightly ran it over her lips, as well. Her pink tongue reached out to moisten them again, and heat rose inside him.

  “Thank you.” Her low voice sent a shiver through him.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”

  She blinked, and the building fervor in her eyes dispersed, replaced by a teasing twinkle he found almost as alluring. “Now that you’ve got that towel in hand,” she said, “you can dry.” Hannah retrieved the sunken plate and handed it to him with a grin.

  He raised an eyebrow but accepted the dish. “Just don’t tell my sister I know how to do this, or she may put me to work every night.”

  Hannah extracted her dripping fingers from the water long enough to flick him with a few sprinkles. He frowned, earning him a laugh from the sprite at his side.

  “My mama always said dishwater could cure any ailment. It’d be good for you to be close to it more often.”

  J.T. doubted it could cure what ailed him, but then he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to be cured anymore.

  They lapsed into a comfortable silence broken only by the clink of crockery and glassware. As he waited for her to pass him another plate, he admired the line of her neck. Slender and pale, with a perfect little hollow near her collar that his lips longed to taste. Veering away from temptation, his gaze roamed up to the braided knot low on her head. A blue thread peeked out at him from between the strands and his heart gave a little leap. She was wearing his ribbon.

  A part of him had worried that she’d find his gifts juvenile. Heaven knew he’d felt juvenile leaving them, like a kid in short pants bringing his teacher a fistful of dandelions. After all, what kind of man gave a woman a leaf or a bird feather? Yet after contemplating Ike and Delia’s discussion of hymn lyrics, he realized women liked poetry. At least Delia did. His mother would have turned her nose up at a paltry rhyme and objects that cost nothing but patience to acquire. However, he thought Hannah might appreciate them. He’d hoped she would, anyway. A woman who saw be
auty in a shiny button and a wooden hummingbird should be able to find it in other small things, too. Right?

  He’d stolen the first lines of his poetry from the hymn they’d sung at the close of church last Sunday, only adding a few lines of his own at the end. Each evening, he’d hunted the countryside for the right gift to offer the following day, but he never quite worked up the courage to hand it to her in person. So he’d shoved the things into jars and left them on her step. Not knowing his sister had invited Hannah to dinner, he’d left another gift a mere hour before she showed up at his home. He’d run out of poetic things to say, so he’d simply left the jar, filled with a lopsided bouquet of yellow sunflowers.

  Never one to play the coward for long, J.T. steeled himself as Hannah turned to pass him a platter. “So . . . uh . . . did you like the sunflowers?”

  Her eyes widened slightly and roses bloomed in her cheeks, but the smile that followed unclenched his gut. “I loved them. And all the other gifts, as well. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She bent back to her task, rummaging around in the grayish water for something else to wash. “I had hoped they were from you.” She spoke in such a quiet tone, he had to strain to hear her. “I would have thanked you earlier, but there was no signature on any of the notes. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself if the sender turned out to be someone else.”

  That’s what being a coward got a man—confusion and an uncomfortable spark of jealousy. Forcing a casual air to his voice he was far from feeling, he asked the question that burned in his belly. “You got someone else courting you?”

  “No.” The fork she’d been scrubbing slid from her hand, returning to the murky depths. “But then, I wasn’t sure I had you courting me, either. I seem to recall you expressing a number of objections to my suitability in the past.”