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.
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.
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 voice 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.