“I made a deposit yesterday, so there wasn’t much in the till.” Hannah glanced up at him and swallowed. He could sense her lingering unease, and it tore at his heart. More than anything, he wanted to take that from her, absorb it into himself if need be. He held her gaze, as if that limited connection could siphon off some her distress. And perhaps it had, for she sat a little straighter when she turned back to Delia. “I don’t think the vandal was after money. I think he wanted to scare me. He left a note saying I should never have come here.”
Delia gasped and set aside her tea to squeeze Hannah’s hand. “How awful for you.” She shook her head. “To think someone we know could do such a horrible thing. . . . Well, it . . . it defies belief.” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Do you have any idea who the culprit could have been?”
J.T. halted his cup halfway to his mouth at his sister’s question. He’d been wanting to ask Hannah the very same thing ever since they got back to the house, but he’d not had the chance.
Hannah hesitated, her focus dancing from Delia to him and back again. “I can only think of one person who has ever treated me with any degree of hostility.”
His cup clunked against the tabletop. “Who?”
“I . . . I have no proof it was him, of course.”
J.T. pressed to his feet and leaned over the table. “Who?”
Hannah glanced back to Delia, then looked down at her cup. “Warren.”
Delia made a little choking sound. “Warren Hawkins? Surely not. I’ve known him since we were kids.”
J.T. gritted his teeth and pushed away from the table. He whirled toward the wall and gripped the edge of the cabinet that held Delia’s baking supplies. Digging his fingers into the wood until his knuckles whitened, he struggled to master the rage that speared through him.
Warren.
First he’d tried to force Delia into a match she didn’t want, and now he’d taken out his anger on Hannah. The scoundrel needed someone to pound some sense into him. J.T.’s biceps twitched at the thought of fulfilling that duty.
“I’m sorry, Cordelia, but I can think of no one else.” Hannah’s quiet regret inflamed his need for justice. She was the last person who needed to apologize for anything.
When Delia finally responded, her voice broke, as if tears were near the surface. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
“No. Of course not,” Hannah asserted, but when J.T. turned around, Delia was nodding.
“Yes. Yes it is. He blamed you for the changes he saw in me. He probably thought that if you hadn’t come to Coventry, Ike would’ve never paid me any mind. When I refused his proposal, he struck out at you.” Her lip trembled as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Hannah.
Can you ever forgive me?”
Now they both were apologizing! A growl built in his throat, though he pressed his mouth into a thin line to keep it from escaping.
Hannah grabbed both of Delia’s hands. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Cordelia, and I won’t have you thinking you did. We don’t know for sure that Warren is the one who broke into my shop. But even if he was, you’re not responsible. He made the choice to act shamefully, not you.”
J.T.’s jaw ached from clamping it so tight. He hoped the Lord would keep Warren out of his path tonight, because he wasn’t sure he would stop himself from pummeling the man. But Hannah was right. They needed proof.
“I don’t recall seeing Warren at the picnic today. Did you see him, Delia?” He kept his tone as neutral as he could manage but apparently wasn’t too successful, for Hannah’s head spun toward him.
Delia sniffed a couple times, then met his eyes. “I don’t think so. But he might have been avoiding me since I was with Ike. A conversation between us would have been awkward.”
J.T. strode to the door and took his hat down from the peg. He fingered the brim for a moment and then set it on his head. “I’m going out for a while, but I’ll be back.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannah rise and move toward him. “Jericho? What are you—?”
He didn’t wait to hear the rest of the question. Without looking back, he stepped into the night and closed the door behind him.
J.T. pounded on the back door of the mercantile. “Open up, Hawkins. I need a word with you.” He waited a couple seconds and started pounding again.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming. Keep your boots on.” The store owner cracked the door and peered out. “This better be an emergency. I don’t do business after hours.”
“This isn’t business.”
“Tucker?” Hawkins pulled the door wide. “What in the blue blazes are you doing hammerin’ a hole in my door?”
The man had a napkin tucked into his shirt collar, and crumbs speckled his mustache. However, J.T. could summon little regret for disrupting his meal.
“Your boy home?”
“Nope. Took the train down to Temple this afternoon.”
The Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe didn’t depart until around three o’clock, which left plenty of time for Warren to sabotage Hannah’s shop before leaving town. A convenient arrangement.
“Thinking ’bout opening a second store there now that they’re building up the place,” Hawkins rambled. “Used to just be a bunch of railroad men thereabouts, but since they sold off town lots back in June, it’s really growing. I tried to convince Warren to go several months back, but he weren’t interested till recently.”
Probably because of his spontaneous plan to marry Delia.
“When do you expect him home?”
The abrupt question put a halt to the storekeeper’s chatter. He eyed J.T. with suspicion.
“A couple days. Why? You got a problem with him?”
J.T.’s lips tightened into a grim line. “Yes, sir. I do.”
Hawkins yanked the napkin out from under his chin and tossed it aside. “Now, see here, Tucker. Warren told me about his plans to hitch up with your sister, and if you’re thinking to try and scare him off with your high-handed ways, you can forget it.” He advanced on J.T., poking him in the chest.
J.T. held his ground—and his temper. Barely.
“I thought you were above judging a person by his appearance,” the storekeeper spat, “but you can’t see past his birthmark, can you? You have no right to come to my house, interrupt my supper, and accuse my son of not being good enough for your sister. Get out of here.”
The man’s face had gone quite red, and veins popped out of his neck. He backed into the house and would’ve slammed the door in J.T.’s face had J.T. not shoved his foot into the opening.
Jaw clenched, J.T. grabbed the edge of the door and muscled it open until he could see Hawkins’s eye. “I don’t give a fig about Warren’s face. It’s his actions and attitude that I take exception to. Did he tell you that he sprung a proposal on Delia without a single act of courting? Did he mention that Delia turned him down? And did you happen to notice that instead of accepting her answer with gentlemanly grace, he blamed Miss Richards for his troubles, a woman innocent in this whole affair?”
Some of the color faded from the man’s cheeks. “Cordelia turned him down? Warren said she wanted some time to consider his offer. I figured he was hoping to win her acceptance with the financial promise of the new store.”
J.T. released the door and stepped back. “Look. I don’t have any great love for your son, but Delia has considered him a friend since their school days. Out of respect for her, I wouldn’t have come about Warren’s actions, but the safety of someone I care about may be at stake.” He paused a moment, an idea taking root. “Can I show you something? It won’t take long.”
Hawkins seemed to measure him with his eyes and finally gave a jerky nod. “Let me fetch my coat.”
When he returned, J.T. led him to Hannah’s shop. He still had her key, having forgotten to return it during the process of getting her settled.
“Why did you bring me here?” Hawkins asked as J.T. fit the key into the lock.
“You’ll see.” The door swung in, and J.T. entered, his boot heels click-clacking against the floorboards in a hollow rhythm that echoed eerily in the abandoned room. Hawkins followed. Sunset had come and gone, but the twilight of early evening sufficiently revealed the destruction amid the shadows.
J.T. wove through the maze of fabrics and notions, careful not to do any further damage as he made his way to the far wall, intent on collecting the paper ball resting in the corner.
“Was Miss Richards harmed?” Hawkins choked out the question.
J.T. didn’t turn. “No. She discovered this mess when I escorted her home from the picnic this afternoon.” And it had devastated her. J.T. could still feel the heat of her tears as she’d wept against his chest.
He gently lifted a length of blue cloth from the floor and draped it over the counter to clear a path and noticed Hannah’s collection of fashion magazines and pattern books scattered over the counter’s surface and the floor behind. Pages had been ripped from the bindings and showered like giant confetti. A cover from
Peterson’s
lay beside the blue fabric. The fashionable woman on the cover seemed to glare at him in accusation.
How many times as a child had he wanted to do the same thing? To tear up his mother’s magazines, to set them on fire, or sink them in the river? He’d blamed the world of fashion for stealing away his mother in the same way Warren had blamed Hannah for Cordelia’s lack of interest. The reality hit him like a blow. It sickened him to think he shared anything in common with that worm. But it couldn’t be denied. His hatred of fashion was just as irrational as Warren’s hatred of Hannah. Deep down, he knew this. The truth had been growing in him over the last several weeks. Hadn’t Christ taught that money itself was not evil, but the choice of men to love it, crave it, and make it their god was the sin that destroyed their souls? So it was with fancy clothes.
Pretty fabric and stylish designs held no innate power to corrupt. It was the sinful desires of the heart that turned one to vanity, condescension, or covetousness. If one could learn to manage his money without greed consuming him, surely a woman could do the same with clothing. Hannah lived out such balance every day, and now that he thought of it, so did many other women of the community.
His mother had been weak, and she’d made destructive choices. Yet with a child’s loyalty, he’d been unable to place the responsibility on her shoulders. So he’d blamed the clothes, the man who’d taken her away, and even his father for not fulfilling her needs. He’d thought his growing love for Hannah had erased his prejudice, but with a flash of insight, he realized he’d never be completely free until he let go of the final weight dragging on him.
J.T.’s hand shook as he reached for the magazine cover and smoothed out the bent corner.
Mama, you were wrong and you hurt me. But . . . I forgive you.
His eyes slid closed as a gentle lightness enveloped his soul. For a moment he even forgot where he was and what he was doing. That is, until Hawkins shuffled up behind him.
“My heart goes out to the poor gal,” he said. “She’s a good customer. Always goes out of her way to be kind and include the mercantile in her business. I’m sorry this happened to her, but I don’t see what this has to do with me or my son.”
J.T. snapped back to the present. The hunger for justice still growled to be fed, but the anger that had previously accompanied it had cooled considerably. He sidestepped an overturned display dummy and reached for the wad of paper he sought.
“Miss Richards was reluctant to voice her thoughts when we asked her if she had any idea who could have done this. She had no proof of a specific person’s involvement, but she did mention one name—a man who had treated her with disdain in recent days.” Taking care not to tear the crumpled paper, J.T. opened the ball and pressed it against his thigh to iron out the creases.
Hawkins blew out an impatient breath. “Come on, Tucker. This was probably just a bunch of kids getting into mischief while everyone was away at the picnic. Boys do stuff like this all the time. It’s not some personal vendetta.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” J.T. handed him the note. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
The storekeeper stared at it, and his hand trembled just enough to rustle the paper. “It’s . . . uh . . . hard to tell, what with all the wrinkles on the page and the dim lighting.” But there was a nervous edge to his voice that confirmed J.T.’s suspicions.
“I think we can safely conclude this wasn’t a prank, don’t you think?”
Hawkins pushed the paper back at J.T. as if it pained him to touch it. “The note does seem to . . . uh . . . indicate a more personal agenda. But the woman wasn’t hurt. No lasting damage done.” He looked frantically around the room as if in search of something to validate his desperate words. “The sewing cabinet is intact, the windows unbroken. A true criminal would not have spared those. And really, this is nothing more serious than a large mess. It can be cleaned up, most of the material salvaged. It could have been much worse.”
J.T.’s temper sparked anew. “You didn’t see her face when she walked through the door. You didn’t hold her while she sobbed or feel her tremors as her heart broke. You didn’t taste her fear when she faced the staircase, terrified that a similar violation had occurred in her personal quarters. Who’s to say the man who did this will stop at one attack? How is she ever to feel safe?”
Hawkins backed away, sputtering excuses.
J.T. trailed him and held the note up in front of his face. “Hannah named Warren as the man who has been acting embittered toward her, blaming her for Delia’s rejection of his suit.” He set his mouth close to the other man’s ear. “Is this your son’s writing?”
“I . . . I can’t be sure.”
J.T. folded the paper into a small rectangle and stuffed it into the man’s coat pocket. “Take it home. Examine it in better light. Compare it to an inventory list or something that Warren has written. Take care of this matter with your son, Hawkins. Because if you don’t, I will.”
Hannah stood in Cordelia’s kitchen after church the next day, drying the dishes while her mind wandered to the shop. Although shivers coursed through her at the prospect, she needed to spend the afternoon sorting through the debris to see what she could salvage. As tempting as it was to take refuge among friends and let Jericho watch over her, she couldn’t allow fear to dictate her actions. Or lack of action, as the case may be.