A Tailor-Made Bride

  “Tucker.” He held out his hand to J.T. and shook it with a solid grip. The man’s smile and genuine warmth went a long way to soothe J.T.’s temper. “Sorry for monopolizing Mr. Paxton’s time. I didn’t realize you were waiting.”

  “That’s all right. I haven’t been here long.”

  Warren edged toward the entrance. “Let’s go, Dad. You know how Mother hates to watch the store when she’s trying to get supper on the stove.”

  “You’re right.” Hawkins offered a little wave as he moved past J.T. “Give Cordelia our best.”

  “I will.”

  The two disappeared onto the street, and J.T. barely had time to remind himself why he had come before Elliott Paxton descended upon him.

  “Mr. Tucker!” The banker stretched his arms wide in welcome, his nature so ebullient, J.T. would have cringed had it been anyone else. But that was just Paxton’s way. After five years, he had gotten used to the banker’s fulsome ways. Had the man greeted him with a solemn nod, J.T. would have ordered the clerk to fetch the doctor.

  “Come in, young man. Come in.” Paxton held the door wide until

  J.T. entered the office and took a seat. “What can I do for you today, sir?” he asked as he clicked the door closed.

  “I want to find out if the owner of the property where Louisa James runs her laundry might be talked into selling.”

  The banker sat in the chair behind his desk and rapped his finger against its surface. “I could make some inquiries, I suppose. If I remember correctly, the man in question runs a land company over in Waco. Wouldn’t be hard to send a few wires to the account manager. I can’t say as I’d recommend that building as an investment, though. The place has been in ill repair for years.”

  “I know.” J.T. rubbed his chin. “I’d planned to buy the shop next door, but the owner rejected my offer.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s to be a dress shop, I believe. I spied the new seamstress washing her windows earlier. Lovely woman.”

  “Yes . . . well . . . I had hoped to be able to offer Mrs. James a more suitable location for her laundry business—one with four decent walls and a roof that doesn’t leak. But that opportunity is no longer available. So I figured I could buy the place she’s in, lower her rent, and be a proper landlord. You know, fix the roof, keep the pump in working order—that kind of thing.”

  “I see.” Elliott Paxton tapped a finger to his mouth and contemplated him with an intensity that made J.T.’s throat ache.

  “That’s a commendable plan, son,” the banker said. “I’m impressed.”

  J.T. shifted in his seat and glared at the worn spot on his trouser knee. He hated it when people made too much of things. It wasn’t like he was building Louisa a mansion or anything. He just wanted an excuse to help her out from time to time without raising her hackles. That’s all. Nothing to be impressed about.

  “It’s a rare man who would spend his hard-earned money on a worthless piece of property in order to benefit a widow woman unrelated to him. Why, most would scoff at the idea.”

  Paxton’s commendation waxed on and on, extolling his nonexistent virtues until J.T. could bear it no longer.

  Jumping out of his chair as if the cushion had suddenly grown teeth, J.T. retreated. He strode to the door in two steps and gripped the knob.

  “So, you’ll look into it for me?”

  Paxton nodded, brows arching in puzzlement. He started to rise. “Of course, but—”

  “Thanks.” J.T. waved him off and fled the banker’s office. But the tightness in his chest didn’t loosen until he exited the bank.

  He knew Paxton would be discreet. The man had built a reputation on being trustworthy. Still, it would have been easier if Hannah Richards hadn’t stolen his building. Then there would have been no need to involve the banker in the first place, no awkward conversation, no sneaking around behind Louisa’s back.

  A pang of honesty poked at him. Okay, so Miss Richards hadn’t exactly stolen his building. Nevertheless, the woman was proving inconvenient. Not only did she throw a wrench in his plans for helping Louisa, but thanks to their earlier run-in, he now felt obligated to hang her shelves.

  J.T.’s boots clomped over the boardwalk planks as he made his way to the shop situated at the end of the street. He paused outside the door and drew in a deep breath, probing his shirt pocket for a pick. Placing it between his teeth, he clamped down and reminded himself to keep his mouth shut as much as possible. It wouldn’t do for him to snap at Miss Richards again. She’d been working hard all day and was probably exhausted. Frustrated, too.

  He winced at the image the thought produced. The gal must have had a rough time of it the last couple of hours. If she stuck with it, that is. J.T. stole a glance through the window, curious to see if she had abandoned her project or if she lay buried beneath it. What he found so startled him, he tipped his hat back and looked a second time for verification.

  A rack of hooks had been mounted on the north wall, perfectly level and apparently secure, for three dresses hung on display. Eight brackets paired in staggered positions jutted out from the south wall with three shelves already in place. Colorful fabric adorned the shelves, and even his untrained eye could tell they were artfully matched. Several of her dummies, not yet clothed, stood in the corner observing their mistress as she fussed with the way the material draped from the corner of the third shelf.

  As his jaw slackened, J.T.’s toothpick dangled unanchored across his bottom lip. Miss Richards’s capability had been no idle boast, and her request hadn’t been a manipulation. But that made no sense. Why would a woman of integrity run a shop that glorified superficial beauty?

  CHAPTER 8

  Hannah awoke to a day full of promise. The sun had not yet crested the horizon, but a soft glow lightened the predawn sky as she dipped water from the stove reservoir to wash her face.

  Wednesday—not the usual day to open a new business, but she was too excited to postpone. She’d spent yesterday evening painting pasteboard signs. One carried the words Open and Closed on opposite sides, and a second one listed her services. Dressmaking and Fine Tailoring took top billing in large block letters with Alterations and Mending mentioned in smaller script along the bottom. One placard for each window. She would order a larger sign for the front of the building later today. Mr. Hawkins mentioned that the blacksmith also cut and stenciled signs. She could visit with him after she returned Mr. Tucker’s tools.

  Pushing her thoughts quickly from the annoying livery owner, Hannah returned to her sleeping area and removed her nightgown. Skirts of any kind hindered the extension of her lower limbs during her calisthenic routine, so she preferred to conduct the exercises in her drawers and shift when privacy allowed. Kneeling down, she pulled a small crate full of exercise equipment from under the bed. She selected the two-pound polished maple dumbbells and positioned herself with the heels of her bare feet together and her toes pointed outward.

  It took thirty minutes to work through the repetitions. Straight arm lifts to the side, overhead, and forward. Then again with bent arms curling up and punching down, up, or out in keeping with the various positions. She continued with backward leans and leg lunges, all with the dumbbells in hand. Next came the floor sweep, where she stretched to her toes, weights overhead, then bent her knees and crouched, touching the dumbbells to the floor. She repeated each motion twenty times before advancing to the next exercise, and by the time the routine ended, her muscles had been well stretched and carried a satisfying ache.

  Hannah sponged the light sheen of perspiration from her body with the wet rag she had used on her face earlier and dressed in her gymnastic costume. She replaced the soiled apron with a fresh one and laced up her low-heeled walking shoes. Since she didn’t know the surrounding area well, she planned to walk along the road to keep her bearings. On the way back, she’d venture farther afield to collect sticks and dry twigs for kindling. She looped the strap of a large canvas bag over her head and shoulder and placed the pouch
behind her, where it wouldn’t interfere with her brisk pace. Then she set out on her first Coventry constitutional.

  Not expecting to see anyone out and about in the early morning hours, Hannah nearly tripped when J.T. Tucker appeared along a crossroad that bordered the livery. She swallowed her surprised gasp and kept moving, offering him only a smile and a tiny wave in greeting as she headed north out of town. He returned her gesture with a raised brow that could have stemmed from either shock or disapproval. It was impossible to tell.

  Hannah lifted her chin and increased her pace to a near jog, her arms swinging at her sides with gusto. Mr. Tucker didn’t intimidate her. He could think what he liked. Vigorous physical exercise was good for a body. Why, it had probably saved her life.

  As the distance between her and Coventry lengthened, Hannah’s steps slowed to their usual pace, quick but not frenzied. The beauty of the morning calmed her with birdsong and sunshine. A cool breeze ruffled wispy strands of hair from her braid, and she lifted a hand to secure them behind her ear.

  Mr. Tucker’s response was no different than that of most people. The lady who ran the boardinghouse she’d stayed at back in San Antonio had pointed out often enough that Hannah had to be out of her mind to waste so much energy walking nowhere.

  She supposed it did seem a bit strange. Most Westerners labored from sunup to sundown in physically demanding tasks. They had no need for calisthenics and constitutionals. But for a sickly girl growing up in a crowded city, Professor Lewis’s system of gymnastic exercise had been a salvation.

  Hannah strode up a hill and passed the Coventry schoolhouse. Judging by the cross that jutted up from the belfry, it served as a place of worship, as well. A small footpath veered off to the right behind the building, and Hannah decided to follow it. The grassland turned woodsy the farther she went, and she spied several large pecan trees that promised to provide kindling for her. Not wanting to lose her momentum, though, she trudged on until she came upon a creek and an arched wooden bridge that spanned its width.

  Enchanted, Hannah scurried to the center of the bridge and leaned her ribs against the railing. She gazed upriver, drinking in the sunlight sparkling on the slow-moving water, breathing in the smell of moist earth and tree bark, and swaying to the whispering melody of leaves rustling in the wind as sung by the river birch and cottonwood trees that lined the banks.

  Lord, how marvelous you are. The beauty of your creation humbles me. If I can imitate even a hint of your artistry with my needle, I will be content. May my craftsmanship reflect your glory and bring you pleasure.

  Hannah inhaled long and slow, allowing the loveliness of the moment to infuse her spirit with peace. Never did she feel closer to the Lord than when she was in nature. The busyness of town life distracted and misdirected her, but the Lord sought her out with gifts of beauty. Sometimes she was blessed with an experience like this where she was surrounded by his majesty, unable to do anything but praise him. Other times, he presented her with smaller reminders of his presence and his love. A full moon shining white in a black sky; a wildflower springing up through a crack in the boardwalk; a crimson oak leaf falling from an autumn branch, beautiful in death.

  That final thought made her think of Victoria Ashmont and her scandalous red burial gown. A sad smile curled her lips, and she mouthed a prayer for the departed woman’s soul. A single act of kindness on her part had changed Hannah’s life forever, and Hannah was determined to prove that the old woman’s confidence in her had not been misplaced.

  Hannah made good time on her way back to town, the weight of the full kindling bag adding to her exertion but not slowing her speed. Coming off the hill by the schoolhouse, she spotted an old man and a mule not far in front of her. The man’s stooped shoulders and plodding steps made him the tortoise to her hare, and she overtook them in a matter of minutes. Compassion slowed Hannah’s steps as she approached, but then the wind shifted and something altogether different came over her—a suffocating stench that grabbed her by the throat and triggered a powerful urge to retch.

  Thankful to have not yet broken her fast, Hannah concentrated on breathing through her mouth instead of her nose and forced a smile of greeting as the man turned.

  “Good day to you, sir. It’s a lovely morning to be out for a stroll.” Her lungs begged to cough, but she wrestled them into submission.

  “That it is, young lady. That it is.” He smiled in return, or at least she thought he did. It was hard to tell what shape his mouth formed beneath all the whiskers.

  His gray, matted beard hung halfway to his belt, an inch or two longer than the stringy hair that draped down his back from under a hat so caked with dust she couldn’t determine its original color. The only thing not filthy about him was the tall walking stick clasped in his left hand. She’d never seen one like it. Fashioned from a twisted branch that had been stripped of its bark and varnished to a high gloss, it stood proudly beside its owner, as tall as the man himself. The wood’s rich cinnamon color blended with lighter yellow streaks to create a stunning contrast that sent Hannah’s creative mind whirling with ideas of how to mimic the effect with fabric.

  “What a beautiful staff. Is it made from mesquite?”

  “The very same. It shines up right purdy, don’t it?” His tone was friendly, but his faded blue eyes groaned with sadness. “I sell ’em down at the depot along with my other carvings.”

  Hannah examined the mule’s load more carefully. What she had initially assumed to be firewood was actually a cluster of handcrafted walking sticks. The animal also packed two large sacks that undoubtedly held the other items he mentioned.

  As they neared the edge of town, Hannah discreetly turned her head to the side and gulped in two quick breaths of less potent air.

  “If any ladies debarking the trains ask about dressmakers,” she said, “send them my way. Today is the grand opening of my new shop here in Coventry. I’m Hannah Richards,” she said with a nod.

  “Pleased to meet ya, Miz Richards. Ezra Culpepper at your service.” He dipped his head and doffed his hat with the walking-stick hand. “You can call me Ezra.”

  “And you must call me Hannah,” she said, charmed despite the unwashed odor wafting from the crusty fellow. Maybe it was his red flannel shirt or the gray hair or the loneliness he radiated, but for some reason, he reminded her of Miss Victoria. The woman would no doubt be horrified by the comparison, but Hannah couldn’t escape the feeling of similarity, and her heart softened toward him.

  “I’m afraid I don’t get the chance to speak to many of them there ladies, Miz Hannah. They tend to give me a wide berth.”

  She could certainly understand why.

  “But I could inform the stationmaster, so’s he can pass the word to any females what need new duds.”

  “I’d be much obliged. Thank you, Ezra.”

  They passed the livery, where a hay wagon stood out front, a heaping load ready to be delivered, but there was no sign of Mr. Tucker. Unsure if she was disappointed or pleased by that fact, Hannah turned her attention away from the livery and toward her shop.

  Pride surged in her breast as she gazed through the clean windows to the well-dressed display dummies. She itched to place the Open sign in her window and see who came through the door first. Mr. Hawkins had promised to post a notice in his store to advertise the shop, although she knew she’d be foolish to expect much, having only been in town two days. A seamstress had to build up a reputation before her business could flourish. That required time, satisfied customers, and word of mouth. Nevertheless, little bursts of excitement rebounded through her like popping corn.

  “This your place?”

  Hannah beamed at the old man beside her. “Yes, sir. What do you think?”

  Ezra halted and scratched a spot behind his ear. “Looks nice, I reckon. Don’t know much about such things, a course, but if my Alice were still around, I’m sure she’d be knocking on your door.” His eyes glistened with moisture as he gazed at the shop window.
“Alice was a simple woman, but she always wore a pretty ribbon in her hair. I think she woulda liked having a place like this to visit.”

  Sensing his grief, Hannah tentatively touched his shoulder. “If you can spare a few minutes, I would love to have you join me for a cup of cocoa.” She’d seen Cordelia’s milk delivery at the top of the stairs. “I could have it ready in minutes.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Miz Hannah.” Ezra dipped his chin, but not before she caught the longing in his eyes. “I know I ain’t fitting company for a gal like you.”

  “Nonsense.” Hannah patted his shoulder. A delicate tickle crawled along the back of her hand, sending shivers shooting through her like heat lightning. Keeping her smile bright and praying he didn’t notice, she dropped her hand away and shook it vigorously behind her. She wanted to befriend the poor man, but offering hospitality to any vermin he might have been carrying was out of the question. “It would be doing me a favor,” she cajoled. “I’m a little nervous about opening the shop today, and having someone to talk to over a cup of cocoa would take my mind off of things. Please?”

  “Well . . . if you insist.” His eyes brightened a shade as he wagged a dirt-encrusted finger at her, the nail black around the edges. “But I ain’t gonna risk your reputation by coming inside. Jackson and I will wait for ya right here.” He jabbed his finger toward the boardwalk steps and lowered himself to a seat with a groan.

  Ezra Culpepper was a lot more astute than his appearance suggested. Hannah got the distinct impression that he had recognized her gift to him and had responded with one in return.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll be back in a trice.”

  She rushed up the stairs, collected the fruit jar of milk Cordelia had placed on her doorstep, and let herself into her room. Using some of the kindling she had brought back with her, she stoked up the fire in the cookstove and pulled out a pair of small pots. She measured two cups of milk into the first and two cups of water into the second. While she waited for them to boil, she rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her hands with her strongest lye soap—just in case any unwelcome guests had crawled or hopped onto her without her noticing.