A Tailor-Made Bride

  The water pot began to bubble, so Hannah grabbed a small bowl and mixed two tablespoons of cocoa powder with two of sugar, added a couple grains of salt, and then stirred in half a cup of boiling water, making a nice paste. She scooped the mixture into the rest of the boiling water for a brief time until she smelled the milk scald. She added the cocoa water to the milk, removed it from the heat, and blended it with an egg beater for two minutes. The aroma of the chocolate made her mouth water, and her stomach let out a hungry gurgle. There was just enough milk left to mix up some biscuits, but she would have to do that later. Ezra was waiting on her.

  By the time she returned downstairs, the breakfast cocoa had cooled sufficiently to be drunk without burning their tongues. Hannah handed a cup to Ezra and took a seat beside him on the edge of the boardwalk.

  “Ya know, I was thinking while you were gone. . . .” Ezra paused to lift his cup to his nose. He sniffed at it as if unsure what is was. Then he shrugged and gulped down a hearty swig. His eyes lit up and he smacked his lips. “Say, this here’s good stuff. Didn’t ’spect to like it, seein’ as how it ain’t coffee, but it’s not too bad.” He tipped the cup to his mouth again. “Just don’t tell the other fellers around town. Wouldn’t want them thinking I’ve gone all soft, drinkin’ such a girly concoction.”

  Hannah set her cup down, placed her right hand over her heart, and raised her left. “I vow not to tell a soul.”

  Ezra winked at her. “Good. Now what was I saying . . . ? Oh yeah. A bench.”

  “A bench?” Hannah scrunched her brows.

  “Yeah. I was thinking that a man might have cause to wait on his woman a good long time if she were in your shop gawkin’ at all those fancy getups. A bench outside might come in real handy.”

  Warmth seeped through the porcelain cup and into Hannah’s hands as she mulled over his words.

  “Back at the house I got one that I put together last spring.”

  “A bench?”

  “Yep. Oak. Sturdy legs. It don’t wobble none.”

  Hannah blew a ripple across her cocoa as she weighed his offer. A bench would be welcoming to passersby and practical for those needing a place to wait, but she didn’t have money for more than necessities right now. Even if the bench were as lovely as the walking sticks. But if she didn’t have to part with any ready cash . . .

  “Would you consider a trade?”

  Ezra nodded and downed the rest of his chocolate in a single gulp.

  Hannah examined his tattered ensemble. “I could make you a new shirt, a fine one with fancy stitching. And I’ll mend any existing clothes you have.” She’d have to boil them first, but she wouldn’t mention the laundering for fear of offending him.

  “Shucks, Miz Hannah. I don’t need all that. I’d give it to you in exchange for sharing a cup of this here cocoa with you every morning.” The light that had brightened his eyes suddenly dimmed. “Unless, a course, having a grizzled feller like me outside your shop would be bad for business.”

  “If we meet early, like we did today, I don’t think any harm would come of it.” Hannah smiled and reached for his empty cup. “But I am going to make you that shirt. It’s the least I can do.” Trying not to think too much about what she was doing, Hannah held out her hand to him. “Deal?”

  Ezra hesitated. Then he wiped his palm on his trouser leg, which was probably even dirtier than his hand, and clasped hers in a firm shake. The dull eyes that had made her heart ache upon first seeing him sparkled with new life, and she prayed that their morning meetings over chocolate would help keep it there.

  “See ya tomorrow, Miz Hannah.” Ezra tipped his hat.

  “Bring an extra shirt with you when you come,” Hannah said. “I can mend any rips there may be or replace buttons, but I can also use it as a pattern for your new shirt. You’ll be my first customer.”

  “I like the sounda that.” He picked up his walking stick and used its support to lever himself up. “Gives me braggin’ rights, now, don’t it?”

  Hannah laughed. “I guess it does.”

  He waved to her, then ambled off down the road toward the railroad station, his mule, Jackson, at his side. Ezra Culpepper was not exactly the type of client she had envisioned for her shop, but somehow she thought Miss Victoria would approve.

  An hour later, Hannah emerged from her upstairs room a changed woman. Gone were the loose-fitting exercise clothes and the single braid that had hung down her back. She had set aside her cocoon to stretch her butterfly wings in a smart day dress in deep mauve, button-up heeled shoes, and a tasteful straw bonnet with matching ribbon. Her hair was twisted into an elegant chignon designed to impress but not outshine the women who might visit her shop.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she took a deep breath. The idea of opening her shop wracked her nerves, but even more unsettling was the other task she’d have to complete before placing the Open sign in her window. She still owed Mr. Tucker an apology for snapping at him yesterday.

  Over her arm hung a basket containing his tools along with a peace offering that she hoped would please him. Hannah worried that, with a sister like Cordelia who could bake muffins that melted in a person’s mouth, Mr. Tucker would find the biscuits and jam she offered lacking. But they were fluffy and warm, without a single burnt bottom, and the jam she’d bought at the store was sweet. Since he didn’t want anything to do with her needlework, food was the best she had to give.

  Exhaling a shaky breath, she straightened her shoulders and marched across the street. Better to get the daunting task over with now so she could concentrate on running her dress shop.

  She found Mr. Tucker outside the livery, standing in the bed of the hay wagon. Hannah stopped short. The man was slinging giant forkfuls of hay above his head into the loft door as if they weighed no more than feathers. The fabric of his cotton shirt pulled snugly against his muscular shoulders as he scooped the fork forward. . . .

  Mr. Tucker certainly has no need of a daily constitutional.

  At the same time that thought ran through her head, J.T. Tucker’s gaze locked with hers, lighting fire to her cheeks.

  CHAPTER 9

  J.T. caught the rosy blush that colored Miss Richards’s cheeks and flexed his muscles. The roses deepened before she turned her head, and something instinctual within him cheered. Just in case she looked his way again, he pitched another two loads of hay, each larger than the last. Remembering the challenge she’d issued of catching him smiling, he schooled his smug grin into an annoyed line, hoping she would think him irritated at the interruption. He wanted to tease her something fierce, but that wouldn’t serve his purposes. He was supposed to be putting distance between them, not instigating a flirtation.

  That reminder put an edge to his words as he addressed her. “What do you need, Miss Richards? I’m a little busy.”

  “Yes, I . . . I see that.”

  Her stammer only bolstered his ego. He guessed it was rather childish of him to enjoy her discomfiture, but for the first time since he met her, he was the one with the advantage, and it felt awfully good.

  She tipped her chin up to him, and he swore he could see her spine stiffening. There went his advantage. He stifled a sigh and leaned on the handle of his pitchfork.

  “I came to return your tools.” She raised her arm, lifting a basket that he supposed contained the level and screwdriver he’d dropped off at her shop yesterday afternoon.

  He nodded toward the small door off to his right. “Just put them on the desk in my office.”

  J.T. tried to dismiss her by turning his back and shoving the fork into the hay, but she didn’t take the hint.

  “I have something else for you, too, Mr. Tucker. A peace offering.”

  Of all the harebrained female ideas. The last thing he needed was peace between them. If she started being nice to him . . . well, it would be that much harder to fight his growing attraction.

  “I owe you an apology for the way I spoke to you yesterday.” Her soft vo
ice sounded much closer. He speared the pitchfork into the dwindling pile of hay and spun around to find her less than a foot away from the wagon.

  Her brows arched at his abrupt movement, and he scowled. Why did her eyes have to shine up at him like deep reflections of the mill pond on a spring evening?

  “You don’t owe me anything, Miss Richards. We both spoke out of turn. Now move along and let me get back to work.”

  She stiffened and set her jaw. He couldn’t help but wonder how hard she was biting her tongue to keep from lambasting him.

  “By all means, continue your work, Mr. Tucker. Don’t let my olive branch stop you.”

  J.T. took her advice and grabbed his pitchfork again, half expecting her to find a real branch and start thrashing him with it.

  “I came here to apologize, and I aim to do just that. Whether or not you listen is up to you.”

  Her apology sounded more like a scolding, but he had to respect her for not letting him deter her.

  “I had no right to lecture you on being neighborly. You have shown me much kindness since I arrived. Except, of course, for the arrogant, ill-tempered manner with which you seem determined to goad me, for reasons only the Lord above could possibly comprehend.” She mumbled that last part, but not so quietly that he couldn’t make out the words. “At any rate, I should not have imposed on that kindness, and I am sorry.”

  He grunted as he pitched a load, cuing her to leave. She took the hint. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her moving toward his office.

  “I brought you some biscuits and jam,” she called out to him. “Feel free to give them to Tom or feed them to your horses if you don’t want to sully your hands with something I’ve touched. With as much as you dislike me, they’d probably give you indigestion anyhow.”

  Were those tears he heard beneath her anger? His conscience roared at him. Keeping distance between them was one thing, but actually hurting her was inexcusable.

  He peered through the office window. She emptied her basket, leaving not only his tools, but a generous-sized mound of biscuits wrapped in a bread cloth. Then she swiped a finger under her eye. Twice.

  Blast. I did hurt her.

  A verse ran through his head, unsummoned: “. . . neither cast ye your pearls before swine.” Miss Richards had the pearls, and he was definitely the swine. Not a flattering comparison. He stretched his neck, cracking the first few vertebrae.

  All right, Lord. I get the message. I crossed the line and need to put things right.

  J.T. dropped the pitchfork. He braced his hand against the side of the wagon and leapt over it to the ground. Miss Richards hadn’t emerged from his office yet. She was probably trying to compose herself. A woman as strong-spirited as she wouldn’t want to show weakness in front of the enemy. J.T. pounded his leg with his fist as he covered the distance to the open door. He might not want to strike up an intimate friendship with the seamstress, but that didn’t mean he wanted her to consider him an enemy.

  He burst into the office just as she tried to exit. A tiny gasp escaped her lips as she lurched away from him. She wobbled to the side, her head coming dangerously close to the sharp corner of his tack shelf. He latched on to her elbow to steady her. What was it about them and doorways?

  She gently tugged her arm free and ducked her chin. He tried to meet her eyes, but all he could see was the top of her hat.

  “I’m sorry. Again,” she said, still not looking at him.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m . . . ah . . . sorry, too. And not just for nearly running you down. I was rude to you out there.” He paused. “Forgive me.”

  Slowly, the hat tilted back and her lovely face peered up at him. She had freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her lashes were damp. Those blue eyes of hers spoke of her confusion and pain even though her mouth remained silent. But it was the hint of hope shimmering in their moist depths that penetrated his heart. All at once, he could think of nothing save kissing her. His gaze fell to her lips, and he felt himself sway forward.

  What am I doing? J.T. jerked back and locked his neck firmly in an upright position.

  Clearing his throat, he stepped around her to the desk. “Uh . . . thanks for the biscuits. It was thoughtful of you.”

  J.T. made a point to unwrap the bundle and take a bite of one of the golden brown halves. The crust flaked, the soft center still warm. The strawberry preserves tempted him to take another bite and relish the sweetness, but the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he was not done with his apology.

  “You’re a fine cook, ma’am.”

  She still didn’t smile. Two delicate frown lines veed between her brows. “Why do you dislike me so, Mr. Tucker?”

  Had he been a cursing man, he would have done so just then. Instead he choked on the bite of biscuit that lodged itself in his throat at her question.

  “I don’t dislike you, Miss Richards.”

  She stared up at him, no doubt waiting for an explanation. He stuffed another bite of biscuit into his mouth.

  What exactly could he say? That she frightened him and his rudeness was an act of self-preservation? Yeah, that would go over well.

  “How’s the table working out?” He sat on the corner of his desk, which brought his face level with hers. A mistake. Her gaze bored into him with an intensity that made him squirm. He shoved back up to his feet and strode to the door. She blinked but didn’t stand in his way.

  “The table’s a blessing. Thank you.”

  He’d forgotten he’d asked the question until he heard her answer. Escape was too close to stop now, though, so he kept moving through the doorway. “Good,” he called over his shoulder. “Glad to hear it. I . . . ah . . . need to get back to work. Thanks for bringing the tools back . . . and for the biscuits.”

  J.T. scrambled up into the wagon as if the ground were suddenly crawling with snakes. He snatched up the pitchfork and starting throwing hay with a vengeance.

  “Good day, Mr. Tucker.”

  He heard her voice but pretended he didn’t. After three more pitches up to the loft, he risked a glance behind him. Head high, she was walking down the street toward the blacksmith shop. She looked so prim and professional dressed in her fancy pink dress and bonnet, but when he’d seen her in her plain, loose-fitting work dress, he’d found her no less appealing.

  And then she’d waltzed into town with Ezra Culpepper and sat in front of her shop with the man drinking coffee or tea or whatever it was women like her drank in the morning. Which only confused him further. Ezra hadn’t bathed since his wife died last spring, probably hadn’t changed his clothes, either, just added layers as the temperature cooled. He stunk to high heaven. Even if the woman had no sense of smell, one look at the fellow should have been all it took to turn her away in disgust at his unkempt state. Yet she hadn’t turned away. In fact she’d reached out to him.

  What seamstress in her right mind would encourage a connection with a dirty, smelly old man? It couldn’t possibly be good for business.

  Turning back to the task at hand, J.T. gripped the pitchfork and shoved it into the hay. He doubted he’d ever understand Miss Hannah Richards. Trying only made his head hurt.

  CHAPTER 10

  Hannah bit into the bacon sandwich she’d made from her breakfast leftovers, trying not to let discouragement steal her good humor. She’d swept the shop floor, straightened her collection of fashion plates and pattern books at least six times, and repositioned her display dummies twice. Still, no one came. The idleness was about to make her daft.

  Didn’t word of mouth travel at high speeds in small towns? Surely the women in Coventry knew her shop was open for business. Why didn’t they come?

  Hannah set aside her half-eaten sandwich. How was she supposed to entice customers? True, it was only the first day, but curiosity if nothing else should have brought potential patrons to her door. Was something wrong with her display? Had she committed some unforgivable social blunder? Was the fact that she was an outsider ke
eping people away?

  Her stomach twisted and a dull throb crept behind her eyes. Hannah moaned and rubbed at her temples. What did she know about running a business? All her professional life, she’d sewn for someone else—someone with an established clientele. She’d had no need to drum up customers. They’d simply been handed to her. Apparently, her assumption that a notice in the general store and an Open sign in her window would be enough to bring the women of Coventry flocking to her door had been a tad naïve. So now what should she do?

  Not having a good answer to that question, she crammed the rest of her bacon biscuit into her mouth. And of course, that was the precise moment her shop door opened. Mortified, Hannah spun around, cheeks bulging as she tried to swallow the lump of food rapidly expanding in her mouth. She grabbed her water glass and sipped small drinks until she managed to get the bite down, then turned to greet her customer.

  “Good afternoon,” she gushed.

  Louisa James stood in the center of the shop with a daughter clinging to each hand. After meeting the laundress yesterday morning, Hannah had not expected the hardworking woman to be her first customer, but then again, there was no law against a laundress looking her best when the occasion called for it.

  Hannah stepped around the counter to greet the threesome. “What can I do for you ladies?”

  “We come by to welcome you to town, official-like—and introduce you to my daughters.” Louisa’s no-nonsense voice echoed loudly in the quiet room. “You done met my boy, Danny. This here’s Tessa,” she said, lifting the clasped hand of the taller girl, “and this ’un’s Mollie.”

  “What a pleasure to meet such lovely young ladies. Thank you for stopping by my shop.” Hannah kept her smile firmly in place even while her optimism crumbled. Louisa had not come to purchase dress goods.