Harmony (3 page)

Tom laid his palms on his thighs. “What now?”

The curtains fell back into place after Alastair unlatched the window lock and lifted the sash. He took his seat and pointedly gazed at the both of them. “Mr. Magee died on the installment plan. Meaning he owed people money.” A shuffle of papers, and Stykem came up with a long list that he began to read from. “Eight dollars and forty-two cents to one Madame Beauchaine
of Tut Tut, Louisiana, for astrological readings, ten cents to Dutch's Poolroom for dill pickles, three hundred and twenty-two dollars and four cents to the Blue Flame for a bar bill.” Alastair waved his hand over the paper and set it down. “Et cetera, et cetera. Frankly, I don't know why he held onto the warehouse as long as he did. He could have used the revenue.”

“What are you getting at?” Tom questioned.

“Murphy Magee's estate can't give a refund to either of you. After debtors get hold of what he has left of the money you gave him, there'll barely be enough to cover my fees.” Stykem bent his fingers and cracked the knuckles in succession from pinkie to thumb. “I didn't want to suggest this without your being together, but one of you could buy the other out. Of course, that will mean you're paying twice for the property. You'll have to ask yourself how badly do you want it.” Wiry brows arched as he waited for their reaction. Neither of them moved, so the lawyer continued. “Miss Huntington, you pay Mr. Wolcott five hundred dollars and the warehouse is yours. Or, Mr. Wolcott, you pay Miss Huntington four hundred and fifty dollars, and the warehouse goes to you.”

“Four hundred and fifty?” came an indignant female squeak. “Mr. Stykem, I paid Mr. Magee five hundred dollars for the property.”

“Yes, my dear, that is true. But the deal Mr. Wolcott worked out with Mr. Magee allowed him to buy the property for fifty dollars less than you paid.”

Miss Huntington's rose-colored mouth thinned, and a blush crept up the ivory column of her neck. She was either highly embarrassed or angered to the boiling point. Tom couldn't tell for sure. He didn't really care. All he knew was he didn't have an extra four hundred and fifty dollars with which to buy her out. Nor could he afford for her to pay him five hundred for the right of ownership. No other site could enhance his store the way Magee's place could.

The warehouse on Old Oak Road was tailor-made for
his needs. It was tucked away from the town's populace, and the area surrounding it was semiwooded. A vacant lot sat on either side and to the rear of the building. He'd planned on setting up a target practice area out back, along with extension traps. Since stray clay pigeons and bullets would be no threat to another business or other persons, he didn't need a permit for open firearms other than the formality of an intent notice filed with the police department. He couldn't have that luxury in another building within Harmony's town limits.

“Well, hell,” Tom said at length, exhaling. “That buyout idea doesn't work for me.”

“Miss Huntington?” Alastair queried.

“My business adviser would caution me against it. My funds are tied up and cannot be released to buy the building a second time.” The piece of lace had been lowered onto her lap. She wound a corner of the handkerchief around her slender forefinger, then unwound it. Wind, unwind. Wind, unwind.

“There ought to be some kind of law that says the warehouse is mine,” Tom argued.

Miss Huntington cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but I paid for it first. After all, it was recorded to me on a Monday, and you on a Tuesday.” Then, ignoring him, she spoke directly to the lawyer. “Mr. Stykem, don't take this the wrong way, but can't we approach a judge who has a higher definition of the law than you? Surely he could settle this as legally as possible.”

“I've already consulted with Judge Redvers in Butte. When it comes to hard cases, he's got a reputation for using common sense as much as law.” A toothpick rolled from the edges of Stykem's mountain of documents, and he absently fiddled with it. “Judge Redvers said he'd rule on any action like King Solomon. He'd cut the baby in half.”

“We aren't fighting over a baby,” Tom grumbled.

“I know that,” Stykem cut in. “The baby is a hypothetical. The judge would rule to divide the warehouse,
so there's no point in wasting time bringing the case to him when we already know what he'd say.”

Miss Huntington's next query held a note of crispness. “So now what?”

“Now we'll have to proceed the only other way.” Stykem went to yet another folder and produced a bid form. “I've taken the liberty of having Mr. Trussel look at the property. For a moderate fee, he can construct a wall that will evenly divide the building. And he can frame in another entry door on the east side. You both would have your own entrances; however, he advised me that the storage room in the rear that runs the length of the building cannot be altered. Several of its posts are main supports to the roof and tampering with them could be detrimental to the building's soundness. You would each have your own access to the area, only it wouldn't be sectioned in two like the main interior.”

Tom mulled over the possibilities. He'd have to make everything fit in half the space. Perhaps he could still stock the same amount, but the aisles would be cramped. If he had to overload the walkways, where would he put his grizz? The bear had weighed six hundred pounds before he'd stuffed it. There had to be room for his mammoth eight-point bull elk and the lynx he'd gotten last winter. He had an endless amount of taxidermic fowl and small rodents that required counter space. Hunters liked to see trophies on display. And Tom had a shitload of them.

Massaging his temple, he fought against the idea of sharing the building with a woman who had a flower on her hat bigger than a moose's butt. He didn't like the thought of having to compromise with her. But it seemed to be the only choice he had.

“Forgive me saying so, Mr. Stykem, but I shouldn't have to pay half.”

Tom gave the lawyer no opportunity to respond. “Sure you'll pay half.”

Her gaze landed on his. “I shouldn't have to yield another cent.” The tuft of lace resumed residency at her
nostrils, and she spoke through the weblike pattern. “Already you've gotten your part of the building for fifty dollars less than me.”

Alastair cut in. “I'm sorry, Miss Huntington, but the fact of the matter is, it doesn't matter if he paid one penny and you paid one thousand for the place. You both negotiated separate deals that have nothing to do with one another—except that they're for the same property.”

She straightened. “Then my side should be at least a foot wider than his.”

“There again, Miss Huntington, you can't measure against the original cost of the building. Both halves will have to be equivalent.” A gold signet ring reflected light as Alastair twirled it on his finger. “So, are we all in agreement?”

“I'm afraid you leave us no other choice.” Miss Huntington took the words right out of Tom's mouth.

“Mr. Wolcott?”

“It's like the lady said.”

“Good, then everything is settled.” Stykem tidied the documents on his desk. “It will be up to both of you to inform the postmaster that you'll each be getting your own mail. Miss Huntington, your address will be 47-A Old Oak Road, and Mr. Wolcott, your address will be 47-B Old Oak Road. I'll speak with Mr. Trussel and have him get started with the renovations right away.”

Miss Huntington stood, then walked stiffly around the back of her chair to the umbrella stand and retrieved a folded parasol. “Good day, Mr. Stykem.”

She'd gone out the door when Tom went to his feet and shoved his left hand in his pocket. “Stykem. I can't say it's been a pleasure.”

The lawyer laughed. “I hear that a lot.”

Tom stepped into the receiving office, where Miss Huntington and Crescencia were exchanging words. As soon as he came into the room, they shut up. He went past them, Crescencia saying, “G-good day, M-Mr. W-Wolcott.”

“Yeah, same to you.” He let himself out, thinking he heard Miss Huntington say something like, “Don't you fret about it, dear. You shall overcome, I assure you.” Whatever that meant.

Once down on the street level, Tom went for his cigarettes and lit one while he stood on the boardwalk. As he waved out a match, Miss Huntington exited the building. She gave him a quick gaze, then proceeded. He had to go in her direction, so he trailed her. At the corner, they were forced to wait before crossing while the Harmony Fire Department backed its No. 1 engine into the firehouse.

He stood behind her. In height, he had at least ten inches on her, so he had an aerial view of the top of her hat. The air was as fresh as it could get out here, yet she started up with the handkerchief routine again. Then the reason hit him, dragging his pride down a notch. She thought he stunk. Hell, he knew he did. No wonder she'd had Stykem open the window.

On the toes of her proper shoes, Miss Huntington inched her way toward the curb. What did she think he was? A pig? He didn't like to be this in need of a bath, but when had there been time to put on his coattails before delivering himself to her presence?

Now that he realized she was bothered by him, he cut the distance between them. His chest nearly pressed against her shoulder blades. He would have gone in even further if his jaw hadn't been in jeopardy of being run through by the lethal pin sticking out of her hat.

When she moved again, she went a bit too far and teetered. He grabbed her by the elbow before she could fall into the street.

“What's the matter, Miss Huntington?”

“Nothing.” She'd swung her body halfway around so that she could gaze at his face. Exotic green eyes held onto him as physically as his hand held onto her arm. It was a damn shame such pretty eyes belonged to a guardian of morality.

The silkiness of her dress felt good beneath his fingertips,
so he didn't readily release her. Because he'd been so bogged down in his business, it had been a while since he'd held a woman and explored the delights of perfumed skin. He wouldn't have guessed that by touching her elbow he could become aroused. But damn if he wasn't.

What had started out as teasing her was teasing him.

He let her go, then took a deep pull on his cigarette.

“What are you going to do with your side?”

Her voice intruded in his head. Regaining a sense of indifference, he replied, “Sell sporting goods.”

Speculation filled her gaze. “Oh . . .”

He felt obligated—not that he wasn't curious—to ask, “What are you going to do with your side?”

“Open a finishing school for ladies.”

“What for?”

“To educate them in the rules, usages, and ceremonies of good society.”

“You mean to make them like you.”

Her chin lifted, and for a minute he thought she might jab him with the point of her unopened parasol. “I should hope.”

The boardwalk traffic began to move, but Miss Huntington stayed. “By the way, I hope you aren't
allergic.”
She said the word as if she wished he was. “I'll be bringing my cat.”

After giving her an uneven smile, he crossed the street and called over his shoulder, “No problem. I have a dog who
loves
cats.”

•  •  •

Edwina stood on the corner watching Mr. Wolcott disappear from her view. She made a mental list of all his offenses in the presence of her company.

Number one: Not removing his hat.

Number two: Reaching for cigarettes.

Number three: Not practicing personal hygiene.

Number four: Openly staring at her without her invitation.

Number five: Using a swear word.

And number six: Verbally insulting her good character.

A half-dozen demerits. She would have counted touching her if his gesture hadn't been somewhat of a valiant attempt to keep her from falling into the street. But then he'd forced her into moving too far off the boardwalk.

Number seven: Unacceptable bodily contact.

In spite of herself, faint tingles rushed to the spot he'd touched. His fingers had been firm yet gentle when he'd held her elbow. Crystal blue eyes had scowled at her beneath down-turned brows. A mane of tawny hair laid in a disarray across unscrupulously wide shoulders. At first his gaze had been bright with humor, but then it had changed to a dark, unfathomable hue. She didn't want to think about what he'd been thinking about.

The man was a toad. She had to give today's women the opportunity to choose the right husband for themselves and not settle for whoever lived in Harmony's tight-knit circle. Ironically, Mr. Wolcott had unwittingly been her helper.

She had been aware that he entertained Eastern gentlemen by taking them on hunting jaunts. The steady visits of well-bred clientele had given her an idea this past summer.

Harmony's eligible young ladies should be introduced to men of respectable professions—not that the selection in town was dire. But those who stayed after graduating the normal school rarely set their sights beyond a trade or working at Kennison's Hardware Emporium. And the handful who had aspirations of bright futures left for college and didn't often return once they saw what the outside world had to offer them.

While in Chicago attending business college, Edwina had fallen in love with a man about town. Their relationship had been chocked with spontaneity, but it hadn't resulted in marriage. Smarter now, she realized she'd lost herself to a beau who heeded his mother's opinions rather than his heart. By enlightening girls about the facets of courtship—especially the do's and don'ts—she
hoped to empower them to know the difference between real love and passing affections. There were good men who came from large cities, and just because Edwina had chosen the wrong one didn't mean that she thought all Easterners were mollycoddled. On the contrary, those who sought the West for recreation were of a different breed. She saw them as adventure-seekers.