Harmony (16 page)

One of the men, wearing a straw-colored outfit, asked, “What happened to large?”

“Sir,” Tom replied with a grin, “I don't believe you're ready for the large. I knew an outfitter once who, while coughing, accidentally sucked the large into his windpipe. Every time since when he's belched, his throat makes a rutting sound.”

A chorus of jovial laughter followed.

Edwina frowned. “Mr. Wolcott.”

His smile softened as he faced her. “What is it, Miss Huntington?”

“I'm trying to give a lesson. The noise out here is intolerable.”

“We'll keep it down,” Shay politely assured her as he
ran his hand down the side of a half-asleep yellow dun. “Within the quarter-hour, we'll be out of here.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Dufresne.”

Edwina gave Tom a final stare—one he met with those depthless blue eyes of his—before she returned to the building.

As soon as she headed for the classroom door, the girls scrambled for their seats—all except Crescencia, whose hands lay lightly on the windowsill as she stared outside. Closing the door behind her, Edwina went over and looked out for a moment with Crescencia. Mr. Dufresne walked around each animal, checking their saddles and touching them with a gentle stroke. His shoulders and his way of walking suggested reliability and common sense. Edwina liked him. And it appeared as if Crescencia had taken a shine to him. Edwina would encourage her, but only after she found out if he was available. Unfortunately, that meant asking Mr. Wolcott.

“Take your seat now, dear,” Edwina said quietly.

Then she returned to her desk as well. But her thoughts weren't on the rest of the lesson. They kept drifting to the men outside . . . particularly one man—the wrong one for her.

Stuff and fiddlesticks . . . she had to quit fooling herself.

Any man would be wrong for her.

•  •  •

Tom sat behind his high counter on a stool. Given that the hour neared dinner, the store was empty. An assortment of scrap paper surrounded him, each with different figures on the pieces. One said 5
Big Buck horn mounting kits at $1.02 each.
Another read
2 Ugly Butt targets at 58¢ each.
He had a bunch of them, all meaning something important, yet he couldn't figure out how to put them on a single ledger sheet in an orderly fashion.

Mathematics had always been a perpetual pain in the neck. He'd never mastered any of it with a passing grade during the years he'd spent in school. Once he'd dropped out, he'd never had any use for it, so he'd gotten
rusty with what he did know—which wasn't a whole hell of a lot.

He could add pretty well—subtract if he used his fingers. Multiplication was a lost cause, as was division. Fractions—no dice. But operating a store with a flow of inventory meant he'd damn better keep track of things. He had to know how much he had invested in stock, how much he paid out, how much he took in—just the basics of bookkeeping.

But he'd been sitting there for the past hour and he hadn't been able to come up with a single column that amounted to anything understandable. Everything looked foreign to him. Nothing added up to what it should. According to his figures, he was in the hole a couple hundred. That just couldn't be.

So he'd continued his struggle to put things to rights, but he was beginning to get frustrated. He rubbed his forehead lightly, which reminded him of the obnoxious lump. He'd put on his fishing hat this morning in an attempt to hide the injury from the prying eyes of customers who had been streaming in and out throughout the day for his grand opening.

Staring into space, then back at the mess in front of him, Tom procrastinated yet again making a tally sheet. The broken lead tips from two pencils smudged his wrinkled sheet of paper; he was down to one sharp pencil.

Taping the blunt end on the counter, he made himself a deal. When this last lead broke, he could go home.

Just as he was about to apply firm pressure, the door opened and Edwina came inside. She wore a short cape, hat, and gloves, as if she were on her way home.

“Mr. Wolcott,” she said while approaching, “am I disturbing you?”

He leaned into the edge of the counter with his elbows. “Not at the moment. Do you plan to?”

She sent him an exasperated look. “Not intentionally.”

Reaching the counter, she stood on the opposite side. “I wanted to inform you that my clothing turned up.”

“Figured it would.”

“Yes, well, your dog had quite a night of carousing. My skirt was discarded at the restaurant, and my petticoat, at the billiard parlor, of all places.”

Hooking his boot heels on the stool's rungs, he rolled the pencil beneath his palm. “Could have guessed that one.”

“I wanted to thank you for your tip about the police. Reporting the theft did save me from a scandalous predicament.”

“Any time.”

“There won't be a next time. I fully intend to keep a better watch on my cat.”

Noticing her arm bare of a basket handle, he asked, “Where is the hair ball?”

A sharpness cut into her tone. “I believe you mean fur ball.”

“Whatever.”

She frowned, her lips forming an inviting pout that she was probably unaware of, or she would have set her lips more properly. “I left her at home today. She was too traumatized by yesterday's fall. But I'll be bringing her tomorrow, so I would appreciate it if you kept a leash on that dog of yours.”

He didn't pay close attention to what she said, instead noticing that the bangs she normally kept wispy had more of a curl to them today. “You're wearing your hair differently.”

A hand went up to the roll of curl at her forehead. She gave it a few nervous pats. “It just turned out this way.”

He reached over and raised his hand. “More likely you're trying to hide this.” With his fingertips, he brushed aside her bangs to reveal a purple bruise. He gently caressed her injury, thinking her skin softer than that of any woman he'd ever touched.

“I did think it best not to draw attention. It looks like you thought the same thing . . . that hat you're wearing . . .” Her voice sounded breathless as he continued
to touch her. “How would we explain that we both have the same . . .”

He shouldn't be doing this. The only thing they had in common was that they were wrong for each other. She wasn't his type, not by a long shot. But there was something about her . . .

Reluctantly, he lowered his hand and relaxed on the stool. Picking up the pencil, he tried to look intelligent by scribbling a few numbers on his paper. From the corner of his eye, he could see her gaze taking in the place. Even though he'd had to cram his stuff in half the space he'd originally planned, the store had turned out all right.

Aisles were cramped, but he'd expected that. He'd assembled some cases and a run of narrow tables for his camping gear. The far wall was full of trophies of all varieties, as was half his countertop. Stuffed rodents in your small species and waterfowl, so lifelike they appeared ready to take flight, huddled around the powder scale. The back wall had shelves of hunter's hats and some clothing, basic shirts and trousers. With the south-facing windows occupying most of the space, the front wall was bare except for gun manufacturers' posters. The wall behind him was the focal point of the room. Aside from the Wild Turkey bourbon calendar, a beaver clock, and some fishing spears, Buttkiss had the solid stretch all to himself.

His eyes followed Edwina's as she stared at the clown head. He'd ordered the humpty-dumpty target out of a toy catalogue a year back, but he'd just now had the room for it. There were hinges on the base of the hat, ears, mouth, and tongue. The object was to throw a rubber ball at the mouth, knocking the teeth out and causing the tongue to appear. A thrower also got points for hitting the other parts. Twenty for the hat and ten for each ear.

“You want to take a shot at Buttkiss, Ed?” he asked, facing her. “With your aim, I'd lay odds you'll bust his
teeth out first try. I've got a goose egg on my noggin to prove it.”

She blushed but made no commit about the tape measure she'd pitched at him. “Why ever would I want to knock the teeth out?”

He shrugged. “For the hell of it.”

“I never do things for that reason.”

“I expect most of the time you don't, but I'll bet you have before.” His prompting was met with the arch of a brow. “Come on. I dare you.”

She took in a breath, then let it out quickly. Looking at him, then Buttkiss, she set her pocketbook on the stack of boxed rubber wading boots in front of the counter. She began to unbutton her gloves. “What time do you close?”

The wall-mounted clock—a stuffed beaver holding a luminous Beacon roman numeral face in its paws—read five minutes after five. “I did five minutes ago.”

“Then lock the door and pull your shades.”

False surprise punctuated his words: “Ed, you shock me.”

She glowered at him. “That's all I need—somebody to come by and see me throwing rubber balls at a clown's head. And quit calling me Ed, Mr. Wolcott.”

“Only if you call me Tom, Edwina.”

He pulled the cords on the roller shades, flipped the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
, and locked the door.

Heading toward her, he said, “Have at it.” Then he rested his backside on the hammock and tent table, put one ankle over the other, and folded his arms across his chest.

With dainty tugs, she removed both gloves. The balls were in a wide-mouth fishbowl on the counter, and she fingered a few before selecting one.

“Give yourself a disadvantage. Stand at least ten feet back.”

His suggestion was met by an impaling stare tossed over her shoulder. “Ten feet won't be a disadvantage.”

“Prove me wrong.”

Counting off the feet with measured heel-to-toe steps, she turned in place, squinted at the target, and coiled her arm. He had to watch in wonder when she released the ball with as much energy as a professional in the baseball leagues. Buttkiss's painted white teeth shot through his tonsils and his tongue jumped forward.

“That's no country fair pitching,” Tom commented as he left the table and went to reset the clown's teeth. He faced her. “How'd you learn to throw so hard?”

“Launching my shoes at misbehaved dogs.” A smile cultivated a certain mischievous look in her eyes. He'd never thought Edwina capable of flirting, but damned if she wasn't.

He retrieved the ball from the floor and deposited it in her outstretched hand. If he had had an ounce of resolve, he wouldn't have brushed his fingers across hers to close them over the rubber.

Their eyes met and held. She was still smiling. Beautiful. Engaging. He liked her. He shouldn't. In an attempt to resist her captivating grin, he put some distance between them, taking up his watching spot again. “Harmony doesn't have that many dogs on the loose. Where'd you really shore up that aim?”

“The Midway Plaisance,” she replied, her gaze steady on the target.

“Where's that?”

“Chicago.” She bounced a little on the balls of her feet.

“This time, get him in the left ear,” Tom suggested.

She drew back her arm and let go, knocking the hinge and pinning Buttkiss's ear to the side of his head.

As Tom strode to the clown, he mused aloud, “Never figured you for the type of woman to venture out of this mud-puddle town.”

“I would leave this place in a heartbeat if I were able.”

Turning toward her, he saw a hand cover her lips, as if she'd spoken secret thoughts. He detected melancholy . . . an almost quiet desperation in her eyes.

“Then what's keeping you here?”

She looked away and her words were directed at the floor. “Responsibilities I cannot ignore.”

Before he could ask her what they were, her expression changed—a cool and unapproachable façade that warned him to back away. He'd let her get by with it for now, but they weren't through talking about this. Edwina Huntington lived in a cream-puff house. He figured the only reason she taught finishing school was out of boredom. What kind of responsibilities could she possibly have?

With a demure smile he sensed was forced, she changed the topic of their conversation as easily as the wind changes direction in a storm. What she said next hit him with gale force. “Your friend Mr. Dufresne is quite charming. Has he at present engaged a woman's affections?”

Annoyance bit into Tom's gut for no justifiable reason. It was just that he couldn't see her with Shay. He couldn't even picture her with anyone but . . .
him . . .
with her in her drawers and sprawled softly across his body.

Jesus, why had that thought come to him?

True, he'd lain awake for a long time the previous night thinking about how enticing those curves of hers had felt next to him, but he'd reasoned it was because he'd been too long without a woman. He had to get over to Waverly and visit one of the sporting houses, buy himself a lady of leisure for the whole damn night. One who had reddish brown hair let down to her hips and eyes a bewitching green. And one who wore sassy underwear. White frilly stuff. With a figure to do it all justice. A pretty face, breasts just the right size for his palms, a slender waist, and legs that didn't quit.

Scowling, Tom realized he'd been imagining Edwina.

“Well?” Edwina's velvety voice cut into his ribald musings. “Is he?”

Hell's aces, she was talking about Shay Dufresne, his friend and partner. If she wanted to go after him, who
was Tom to tell her otherwise? He had no claim on the woman, so he wouldn't stop her from sinking her claws into Shay. Not that the match would be a very good one. Shay, he had some fine qualities, but what did he know about north-end girls? He'd never been invited to Elizabeth Robinson's house.