Harmony (42 page)

But lately . . . being a businesswoman seemed a little tunneled, a little less broadening, and a little too defined. Those old pangs of wanting marriage for herself, those old dreams of finding a true love and settling into a nest, were surfacing. She hadn't felt them since Ludlow. This was awful.

She'd wanted to go to school partly to get away from her parents' influence and partly to learn something of the world outside of Harmony. In both, she had succeeded. She hadn't known how well having a business degree would help her until Ludlow broke their engagement. Since she'd no longer be a suitable bride, she could at least fall back on something to support herself.

Edwina glanced at the letter once more. If only she hadn't met Tom. How would she feel about Madame's words then? Most likely, jubilant, on a cloud of hope and enthusiasm. Why couldn't she feel that way now?

Heaven help her, she was falling in love with him, the last thing she needed to do. Complexities—loving him would bring such complexities into her life, yet it would change nothing. She still meant what she said about never marrying. And she still stood by her convictions that a woman should bring something good into a marriage instead of debt and worry—and a lack of purity.

Edwina was of the old school in some ways. It would always matter to a man that the woman he wed belong only to him on their wedding night. She and Tom had had nights together that were not sanctioned by a church. They had gone against what society deemed appropriate. She hadn't cared. She still didn't care. But that didn't make the inevitable easier to swallow.

Eventually, their relationship would have to come to an end. They couldn't go on like this indefinitely. Losing Tom would be like losing her only friend. . . . Quiet reflection brought her to that realization. Tom Wolcott was her friend. She had many lady friends, but not a one to whom she could speak openly on almost any topic.

Once, she might have felt this way about Abbie, but they'd grown apart since Edwina had returned home. Abbie hadn't written much in the past seven months, only very brief notes with little information of a private nature. Just mundane, safe subjects—the weather, how she wasn't pursing any kind of vocation with the two-year degree she'd earned from Gillette's. Abbie didn't need the money; her parents provided quite nicely for her. She had an affluent family; going to Gillette's had been nothing more than a diversion from the humdrum.

Edwina wondered if Abbie ever saw Ludlow. Nobody had known about their engagement—Ludie had made Edwina promise to keep it a secret until he could talk to his parents about them. Abbie had known she and Ludie were close—after all, they had gone most places together, but never anything that could be misconstrued as other than a professor and a gang of students having a good time. Although with his being a teacher and they, members of his class, they had gone somewhat over the line socially by fraternizing at the dancing parlors. And there had been the times they'd gone to the ice-cream parlor, or the Midway Plaisance. But there were also those times when she and Ludie had gone off alone. . . .

The fancy black walnut Monarch clock on the mantel gonged the hour: six-thirty. At seven, she was to be at the Stykem house on Crescencia's request. She had a suspicion what the evening would entail.

Marvel-Anne lumbered from the dining room into the parlor. She'd taken her apron off and had looped her pocketbook handles on the bend in her elbow.

“I've put the bread dough in the icebox for tomorrow. It's a new recipe from Mrs. Kirby. I don't know how yeast can live in the cold, but she claims the lower temperature
does something to its composition. We shall see.” Her buxom bosom thrust forward on a tired sigh.

“Thank you, Marvel-Anne. I'm sure the bread will be wonderful.”

“We shall see,” she repeated. “I'll be going home now, Miss Edwina.”

“Certainly.”

Edwina rose and went to the vestibule with the housekeeper as the woman took up her hat and coat from the tree. She placed the unadorned felt bonnet on her salt-and-pepper hair, jamming the pin home in the back. Then she buttoned up to her throat and smoothed gloves down her fingers.

“It's icy out there tonight,” she commented. “I've ashed the walkway, but you mind your step when you visit Miss Stykem. Especially on the sidewalks. The city streets aren't taken care of the way they should be. Those holes on Sugar Maple are a downright menace.”

“I'll be careful.” Edwina held the door open for her and stood next to the jamb. “You be careful, too.”

“I always am.”

Edwina stayed a moment and watched as the gruff housekeeper took mincing steps down the walkway.

A thought came to Edwina . . . quite sad and distressing. When she went to Denver, what would happen to dear Marvel-Anne?

•  •  •

Tom and Shay moved around the interior of Hess's Livery. Lamplight from above threw off soft yellow on the walls, the saddle racks, the row of stalls, and tack hanging on doors. From the rafters, several whitetail antler chandeliers hung with kerosene lamps fit inside the network of tines. The cross-braced doors had been closed in an effort to keep the inside heated for the animals as they unloaded gear. The outfitters who'd just returned had gone up to the Brooks House Hotel.

“You got a watch on you?” Shay asked, undoing a double diamond-hitched knot on a chestnut pack horse.

“No. But I suspect it's close to six-thirty.”

Shay walked to the horse's other side and loosened the knots there until the canvas-wrapped pack slipped free of the animal's back. “We've got to be at Cressie's at seven. It's really important. I'm going to have to leave you in five minutes. I want to clean up first. Shave and all.”

“You can leave now, if you want. I can finish this.” Tom removed a set of elk antlers that had been skull-side up and set them in the corner with a front quarter of meat.

“You've got to be there on time, too. I'll just get Winchester ready for a brush-down. There's only one more horse to do after you're finished with Ned.”

Tom pulled a bowline knot free and removed the other front quarter of elk. “Is there anything you can tell me about tonight before I get there?”

Shay cut the distance between them with a side glance. “Not really. Cressie and I want things just right. We've had this planned for five days.” Returning to the bay and beginning to unlatch the cinches, he spoke in a reminiscent tone from the underside of Winchester's belly. “Me and you, we go back a ways.”

“We do.”

“And I never thought about the future and all that. It was just me and you and seeing what we could of the country. I've always thought I was a wandering man. That was until I got here.”

“Felt that way myself. Nice town.”

“Nice women,” Shay added while straightening. “Cressie, now, she's not real smart. And I'm not saying that in any kind of disrespectful way. It's just that she had a hard time with schooling and it just takes her a little longer than most to figure out things. So me and her, we have this common bond, you know? I left school at sixteen and she stuck it out but still struggled. She knows how it is.”

“That's good.”

“Oh—she did tell me she got the typewriter mastered. She'd never changed a ribbon on it until that day you
came into the office. She wanted me to mention that to you so she wouldn't look bad.”

Tom went around to Ned's bridle and unbuckled the ear strap. “No need. I never thought worse of her for it.”

“She didn't want you thinking she was inept. She isn't. Cressie, she tries to better herself. That's why she's going to Miss Huntington's school.”

“An admirable thing for a woman to do.” Tom began to have a feeling where all this was leading. And it really was no surprise. “Women who can understand and respect a man's past and present are good women to love.”

“Yes, I surely love Crescencia.”

“I figured you did.”

“What about you and Miss Huntington?”

Tom went still a moment, then continued working. He hadn't told Shay, and never would, about him and Edwina meeting. Even though he and Shay had few, if any, secrets from one another, this one would go to Tom's grave.

Coiling the ropes into loops, Tom said, “There's nothing about me and Miss Huntington.”

“I was thinking there might be some hope for you that night we took the girls out for dinner. I saw the way she looked at you, Tom. I may not be the smartest of men, but I know a look of pining when I see one.”

“Well, friend, I think you read the message wrong. Miss Huntington said she isn't interested in marriage.”

“Every woman is.”

“That's what I told her. She said otherwise.”

“Damn shame. She's a handsome woman.”

“More than that,” Tom murmured, bending down to snag a curry brush he'd made out of a piece of hand-sized wood and Coke bottle caps; it worked better than a brush, in his estimate, to get the mud off the horse's hocks.

“Maybe you could make her come around. Show her your charm.”

“She's immune to charm.”

“Sounds like she's a tough nut to crack.”

Tom gave a low laugh. “Worse than a walnut.”

“If she's what you want, she's worth going after, no matter how long it takes to make her come around to your way of thinking.”

“But a man can go only so far without nicking his pride to hell and back.”

“What's pride when love's at stake?” Shay's expression sobered. “Tom, me and you have caroused with our share of women. I think when you find someone you know you can live with for the rest of your life, you shouldn't let her get away. That doesn't mean making an ass out of yourself. It just means having patience.”

“My patience only goes so far.”

“Then stretch it—if Miss Huntington is worth it. Is she?”

Tom mulled over the question, absently removing his hat and running a hand through his hair. “Yes. But the Edwina I want isn't someone she's willing to share with the world.”

“I don't follow you.”

“She's got a few sides to her that are different from the woman you see when you look at her.”

Shay nodded, all-knowing. “Likes to let her hair down, huh, but doesn't want anybody to know?”

“You could say that.”

“That's a tough one. All I can say is, tell her it's all right to let it down.”

“Tried that and she got into a little trouble.”

“That tree swing you told me about.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Shay said, musing, “if the old birds in this town want to peck, let them.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Make Miss Huntington realize you're the better choice. Put her in your life.”

Tom settled his Stetson back on his head and narrowed his eyes in thought. “Like how?”

“Hell,” Shay said with a laugh, “that's for you to decide. I gave you the idea.”

They went back to work in silence a short while, then as Tom rounded Ned's backside, he noticed Shay had completely stripped the bay of gear.

Shay stilled his hands on the top of the horse's sweating back; steam rose from the damp hide. Then he absently ran a palm through the whorls in Winchester's coat. “You are going to stay in town, aren't you, Tom? No more moving on—right? That's what you said. We've talked about it—you and me. Right here.”

Tom ran the makeshift curry down Ned's back knee. “Of course I'm staying here.” Then his brows knit together. “Why? Are you thinking about moving on?”

“Hell, no. I've got a good job.” He gave Tom a half smile. “I hope business is as good forever as it is now.”

“I don't plan on it changing. As long as there's game to be had, there will be men who want to go after it.”

“That's a comfort to hear.”

Tom laid his elbow on Ned's back and stared at Shay. “You've done a hell of a job with the outfitters, Shay. I couldn't run the business without you. I want you to take all the money from today's job.”

Resting arms on his own horse, Shay groused, “That's not our agreement.”

“I don't give a damn what the agreement is. You're taking all the money.”

“It's not a good habit to get into, Tom. We're partners. We split the runs down the line. I don't feel right taking more than my share.”

Tom shot him a smile. “Then consider it a wedding present.”

Shay looked appropriately nonplused, going as far as shaking his head in a negative way. “But there isn't going to be a—” Then he broke into a grin. “Well, hell, Wolcott, I never could pull one over on you.”

Tom laughed with him. “I'll still act surprised when you and Miss Stykem make the big announcement.”

•  •  •

Edwina sat erectly in the Stykems' parlor chair, her hands folded in her lap. Crescencia, along with her father,
occupied the brocade settee beside her. On the divan at the opposite side of the room, Mr. Dufresne and Tom took up plum-colored wing chairs. Both men were hatless and polished. Hair wetted back, clean shirts and pants. Mr. Dufresne had shaved. Edwina could tell Tom hadn't. But he didn't look any less well attired for not. In fact, she thought she'd never seen him more handsome in a dark tan sweater with lacing at the throat and jean trousers that were a little faded. On him, the worn blue didn't look unkempt at all.

Nobody had said much of anything since Tom and Mr. Dufresne had shown up, several minutes behind Edwina. Offers for tea and moonlight cake were made by Crescencia, but all declined.

Finally Mr. Dufresne stood and cleared his throat. “Since none of us are going to dig into that delicious-looking cake Crescencia baked, I'd like to say what has to be said so we can get on with the evening and do it up proper.” He went to Crescencia, took her hand in his, then bent down on one knee.