A Tailor-Made Bride

  “You and Delia can settle on a price tomorrow.” He waved her off and stepped down into the street. “I’ve gotta get back to the livery.”

  “Thank you for all your help, Mr. Tucker,” she called out to his back. “You truly have been a godsend.”

  He waved a hand in acknowledgment but didn’t turn around. Clenching his jaw, J.T. pulverized as many dirt clods under his boots as possible while he crossed the road. First he tangled himself up with the dressmaker for another day by promising to make her a table, and now he’d dragged Cordelia into it, too. Exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

  J.T. stormed into his office and shut the door. He pounded the wall with his fist as his rebellious eyes sought Hannah Richards through the window and followed her until she disappeared into the mercantile. With a growl, he spun around and pressed his back into the wall, banging his head against the wood.

  A godsend?

  J.T. tipped his chin toward the ceiling. “If it’s all the same to you, the next time she needs help, send someone else.”

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time all trace of pink had faded from the sky the next morning, Hannah had already completed her calisthenic regimen, arranged her trunks and crates about the room, and organized her food supplies and personal belongings. A mountain of work still awaited her downstairs, but that knowledge did nothing to dim the excitement skittering across her nerves. If all went according to plan, she’d have her shop in basic working order by the end of the day and be open for business on the morrow. The very thought sent her into a pirouette. The shortened skirt of her loose-fitting gymnastic costume belled out around her.

  Now, if only Miss Tucker would arrive with her milk, the day would be off to a grand start. Fighting off a spurt of impatience, Hannah decided to start in on her devotional time without her breakfast cocoa. Whenever possible, she began the day by sipping chocolate and reading from her Bible, but she couldn’t afford to wait on the cocoa with all that had yet to be accomplished.

  She had utilized every scrap of yesterday’s daylight to knock down cobwebs from the rafters and corners of her living quarters, clean out ashes from the stove, scrub the floor, and curtain off her bedroom area. When the early darkness of the autumn evening had finally forced her to stop, she collapsed onto her lumpy mattress like a dervish that had run out of whirl and slept unmoving until a nearby rooster let out his predawn squawk. Spun back into action by the sound, she’d been swirling about in a frenzy ever since. She was more than ready for a little quiet time.

  Hannah pushed the curtain aside, trying to ignore the unattractive fabric as she collected her Bible from the crate next to her bed. When Floyd Hawkins, the dry-goods store owner, heard she was a seamstress, he had dug out a bolt of dusty calico that had apparently been languishing untouched for over a year in his cloth bin and demanded she take it off his hands at the wholesale price. Hannah certainly understood why no one had purchased the appalling fabric. She would swallow a bug before fashioning the orange-dotted cloth into a dress. But knowing she could put it to use, her practical side wouldn’t let her pass up the bargain. Tacked up in pleated folds along a ceiling beam, it offered privacy, if not great aesthetic value. Perhaps she could drape an eye-pleasing swag across the top and add a ribbon to the hem to dress it up a bit when things settled down.

  Bible in hand, Hannah took a seat on the trunk bench she had positioned beneath the window to the left of the stove. She tugged the red satin ribbon that held her place and opened to Proverbs 16, the passage she had been meditating on for the last month as she made preparations for this day. Morning sunlight illuminated the wisdom on the page. Verse three promised that if she committed her work to the Lord, her thoughts would be established. Yet verse eight cautioned that having little while being righteous was better than great revenues without right. Finally, verse nine, the verse of balance, brought her hopes and fears together in a call to trust.

  “ ‘A man’s heart deviseth his way,’ ” she whispered, “ ‘but the Lord directeth his steps.’ ”

  Hannah read the familiar words one more time before sliding her eyes shut. “Father, you know how badly I long for my thoughts and plans to be established. I have dreamed of this dress shop since my first apprenticeship. You have opened doors for me, doors I could not open on my own, and I thank you.

  “At the same time, I confess to wanting success. I want customers to find satisfaction in my designs.” Hannah’s forehead crinkled as honesty warred with her desire not to appear overly ambitious or greedy before her Lord. “All right, more than satisfaction,” she admitted. “I want them to be amazed at my skill. Help me to battle my pride and remember that it is by your grace alone that I have this opportunity.

  “As I embark on this endeavor, remind me to cling to righteousness, not to revenue; to look for ways to serve and glorify you, not myself; and to follow where you lead, even if you direct my steps on a path that deviates from the way I have charted. Thank y—”

  A quiet knock thumped against the door, cutting off her prayer and accelerating her heartbeat. Hannah shoved her Bible aside and jumped to her feet. She sent a silent amen heavenward and rushed to the door.

  She opened the portal to find a softer, rounder, and more feminine version of Mr. Tucker standing on her stoop. The woman’s brown hair was pulled into a nondescript knot beneath a plain straw bonnet that seemed more appropriate for a young girl than a grown woman. No frills adorned her brown dress, either. Yet the shy smile on her face erased any semblance of severity, and the aroma of fresh-baked bread that wafted from the basket she held filled Hannah with a sense of comfort and put her instantly at ease.

  “You must be Miss Tucker. Please come in. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  The woman’s cheeks flushed and her gaze fell to the floor, but her smile widened as she crossed the threshold. “Thank you, Miss Richards. I have the milk you asked J.T. about and brought some of my apple muffins as a welcome gift.”

  “How thoughtful. They smell delicious. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.” Hannah took the offered fruit jar of milk and set it on the arm of the stove while Miss Tucker extracted a napkin-wrapped bundle from the large basket hanging from the bend of her elbow. Hannah spied several loaves of bread and additional muffins before the cloth cover was tucked back into place.

  “I supply baked goods to Mr. Hawkins’s store, and it was a simple matter to stop here on the way. No trouble.”

  “A fellow businesswoman.” Hannah accepted the muffins and held the offering up to her nose. “And if these taste as good as they smell, you no doubt turn a tidy profit.”

  Miss Tucker shook her head. “I’m not a real businesswoman. Not like you, with your own shop and everything.” The blush was back, painting her cheeks a dusty pink.

  Hannah examined the woman more closely. She truly possessed some lovely features. Long dark lashes, a dainty nose, full lips. She might be considered a tad plump by some, but Hannah could easily minimize that with the right cut and color of fabric. If she could just get her out of that drab brown and put her into a deep rose or peacock blue. . . .

  “I enjoy baking, that’s all.” Miss Tucker broke into her thoughts, and Hannah refocused on the conversation. “J.T. provides a good living for us, but after all he’s done for me, I’m glad to make whatever contribution I can.”

  “I know what you mean. I still send funds to my mother when I get the chance. She lives with my younger sister and her husband back east and is always worried about being a burden to them. Which, of course, she’s not. Emily’s the nurturer of the family and loves having Mama around, especially now that a child is on the way.”

  “Your family’s back east?” Miss Tucker eyed her curiously. “How did you come to be in Texas, then?”

  Hannah smiled as she moved her Bible to the windowsill and motioned for her guest to be seated on the trunk bench. She gently extricated the oversized basket from Miss Tucker’s arm and set it on the floor.

  “W
hen I was sixteen, my mother arranged for me to apprentice with an established dressmaker in Boston, not far from our home in Dorchester. After three years, I had worked my way up to first assistant when my employer married the brother of one of her clients. It was quite a scandal, although all of us girls thought it terribly romantic.”

  “Did she move her business west after the wedding?”

  Hannah shook her head as she dumped a bunch of potatoes out of a crate and into an empty dishpan. Turning the crate upside down, she drew the short seat across from Miss Tucker and sat down, folding her crossed ankles off to the side.

  “No. Her new husband wouldn’t hear of her continuing to work, so she closed her shop. Unfortunately, that left many of us without employment. I could have hired on as an apprentice-level seamstress with one of the other dressmakers in Boston, but the pay would have been a pittance, and my mother and sister depended on the funds I sent them. So when my employer’s aunt, also a seamstress, came to town for the wedding and offered me a full-pay position if I was willing to return to San Antonio with her, I decided seeing the great American West was an adventure I couldn’t refuse.

  “I spent the last two years with Mrs. Granbury, and I must say, I’ve developed quite a taste for Texas.”

  “Surely it’s hard to be so far away from your family, though.”

  “Yes.” Hannah thought of Christmases missed and how she wouldn’t be around for the birth of the niece or nephew who was due in a couple of months. Loneliness permeated, and her posture sagged until she caught herself and stiffened her spine. “But it’s not so bad. I’ve had the opportunity to develop my business out here much more quickly than would have been possible back in Boston. And if I’m blessed enough to make a few good friends in Coventry, my life will be rich.”

  As she glanced at the quiet girl who was listening so intently, a feeling of kinship rose up in Hannah. Perhaps the Lord was already paving the road for a lasting friendship.

  Thinking to offer her guest some refreshment, Hannah rose and stepped over to the stove. She pried open the fruit jar lid and poured the milk into a saucepan. Then she reached to the top shelf and pulled down her five-pound canister of Baker’s Breakfast Cocoa, turning it so Miss Tucker could see the trademark Chocolate Lady with her apron and tray. “When Emily and I were girls, Mama took a job at the Baker Chocolate mill to support us after Papa died. She scraped and saved until she managed to buy that first apprenticeship for me. I owe her everything.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful woman.” Miss Tucker smiled, but her eyes held a sad, wistful look.

  “Mama’s also the one responsible for my chocolate craving.” Hannah winked, and steered the discussion in a lighter direction. “Every week, she’d come home with another can of powder, so we drank cocoa religiously every morning. That’s the reason I needed the milk. I can’t get through the day without my cup of breakfast cocoa. Would you stay and share some with me? It will only take a couple of minutes to warm the milk.”

  “I wish I could, but Mr. Hawkins likes me to deliver my goods before the store opens.” Miss Tucker pushed to her feet and collected her basket. “Perhaps another time.”

  “We’ll definitely find a time.” Hannah smiled as she replaced the cocoa canister. “Now, what do I owe you for the milk, Miss Tucker? I would like to pay ahead for the entire week, if that would be acceptable.”

  “I’ll only charge you twenty cents since I skimmed off the cream and kept it for my baking. And please, call me Cordelia.”

  “Gladly, and I’m Hannah.” She handed over the coins and walked Cordelia to the door. “Thank you again for the muffins. Your brother was such a help to me yesterday, and this morning you have made me feel welcome. I am blessed to know you both and would be honored to count you as friends.”

  “I would like that immensely,” Cordelia said, her eyes alight with sincerity. “Oh . . . J.T. asked me to tell you that he wouldn’t be able to bring the wood by until later this afternoon. I hope that will be all right.”

  “Goodness, yes. I’ll be up to my armpits in soapsuds and vinegar water all morning, I’m sure. This afternoon will be fine.”

  As Hannah waved good-bye to Cordelia, her gaze roamed across the street to the livery. An annoying tingle of anticipation wiggled through her stomach at the thought of seeing Mr. Tucker again. Traitorous stomach. The man could seesaw her emotions fast enough to make her dizzy. She didn’t need that kind of distraction today. Nevertheless, the insolent tingle remained.

  J.T. lumbered toward the dreaded dress shop with the crosspieces of two sawhorses under one arm and six stacked planks under the other. Making two trips would have been easier, but he wanted to get this good deed over and done.

  Miss Richards was standing on the boardwalk, rubbing a rag in circles against a pane of glass in her window. When her motions elicited a series of squeaks, she dipped her rag back into the bucket at her feet and moved on to the next pane. J.T. dropped the ends of the boards onto the walkway beside her, making no effort to keep them quiet. Why should he when it was so much fun to watch her jump and squeak at the same pitch as her clean windows?

  Splat!

  Ah. That’s why.

  Pungent vinegar fumes scratched his throat and would have made his eyes water if they weren’t already wet from the rag that had just slapped across his face. The rag slid down the length of his face in a cold, slimy trail, rolled down his chest, and plopped onto the ground. Blindly, he angled the boards toward the wall and leaned them against the frame of the building, then bent his knees and set the sawhorses down on the opposite side. They clattered and probably tumbled off the boardwalk, but he didn’t care. As he straightened, with deliberate slowness, he drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped the moisture from his face while the esteemed dressmaker unsuccessfully stifled her giggles. Once he deemed it safe to open his eyes, he glared at her.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Tucker.” She covered her mouth with her hand for a moment, probably trying to stuff the rest of her laughter back inside so as not to spoil the effect of her pretty apology. When her hand fell away, she was biting her lip, but even her teeth could not contain her smile. “You really oughtn’t sneak up on a person like that. You startled me and the rag flew right out of my hand.” She demonstrated the action as if he hadn’t been right there to witness it firsthand.

  “Maybe you should pay more heed to your surroundings.”

  “I’ll try to do that. I have a tendency to get absorbed in my thoughts at times, especially when I’m debating strategies.” She tipped her head sideways and gave him a thoroughly coquettish glance over her shoulder. “What do you think, Mr. Tucker? Would a lavender morning dress be too pale for a window display, or would the demure cut be more likely to attract clientele than a flashy party gown?”

  He rolled his eyes, and her laughter showered over him.

  “Never mind. I won’t draw you into my dilemma. I’m sure you have more manly tasks to pursue.”

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t recall a single one of those tasks as he watched joy flow out of her like a stream of sweet-tasting water.

  She stooped to pick up the fallen rag, and he realized she had tied a remarkably similar one over her hair. Some ugly tan thing with orange blotches all over it. One would think such a sight would be enough to make him look away, but even combined with her stained, shapeless work dress, it wasn’t enough to deter his gaze.

  Hadn’t his past taught him anything? Beautiful women were nothing but trouble—shallow, empty husks that would blow away the minute life got a little uncomfortable. J.T. had vowed never to allow feminine beauty to overrule good sense. He wouldn’t fall into that trap. If he ever married, it would be to a woman of spiritual depth who selflessly served others. A helpmeet, someone to encourage him and stand by his side as stalwartly in hard times as in easy. Not a pretty piece of fluff who would tangle herself around his neck and drag him down like a millstone.

  “One day I’m going to catch you in the g
rips of a full-blown grin, Mr. Tucker,” she said, wagging a finger at him, “and when I do, watch out because I’m going to crow in victory.”

  “We all need goals in life, Miss Richards.” J.T. swung two boards up onto his shoulder and peered down at her. “Mine’s to get this stuff delivered before the first snow falls. You think I got a chance at making that happen?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Hannah shook her head and tiptoed up the stairs, determined not to let Mr. Tucker catch her stomping again. He might have crawled under her skin and set her temper to itching, but she didn’t have to scratch it.

  He set the boards down inside the door and without a word headed back down for the sawhorses. Once he returned, it only took a minute or two to erect the makeshift table. She dipped a cupful of water while he worked and had it ready for him when he finished.

  Frowning, as usual, he reluctantly accepted the cup. The competitor within her whooped over the small victory. Mr. J.T. Tucker might tilt her off balance, but from now on, she refused to let him take her feet out from under her. She’d prove her mettle to him, and maybe in the process, she’d finally witness that elusive grin.

  “Thanks.” He thrust the cup into her hands and turned for the door. “I’ll move those shelves inside the shop for you, then be on my way.”

  Gulping down a quick drink of her own, Hannah tossed the cup into the dishpan on the floor and scurried after him. By the time she locked up and ran down the stairs, he was already inside. She leaned against the door and reached for the handle to follow him, but it fell away from her grasp as he wrenched it open from within. Hannah tumbled through the doorway, her head colliding with Mr. Tucker’s chest.

  Strong, yet surprisingly gentle hands clasped her arms and steadied her. Heat flooded her face. Hadn’t she just resolved not to let this man knock her feet out from under her? The fact that her resolution had been figurative, not literal, gave her no comfort. Twice in as many days she had fallen onto the poor fellow. No wonder he was in such a hurry to escape her.