Harmony (8 page)

Up until the slack-skinned dog had come along, she'd prided herself on not making a single drip on the cloths or getting one fleck of paint on herself. Now her fingers were jaundiced from all the turpentine and rags she'd used to clean the windowpanes.

Ready for a cup of hot chocolate before she picked up the paintbrush again, Edwina went to the front of the building. Mr. Wolcott had left a short time ago, but Mr. Trussel was just finishing hammering the door's hinge pins into place. He then laid the key into her palm.

“I'll lock it from the inside, Miss Huntington. You try the key.”

Her fingers curled over the cool brass. A strong sense of independence was her guide as she inserted the key, then turned. The door opened to her touch on the knob.

“You're safe and sound now,” Mr. Trussel decreed.

“But still exposed, so to speak, until the wall is completed.” She gave him a knowing gaze. One he didn't return; instead, his eyes purposefully—and more than a little nervously—averted themselves from hers. Too late, she realized her imprudence at making even a cryptic mention of the wall. “Forgive me, Mr. Trussel. I shan't mention ‘it' again. You have my utmost discretion,” she whispered.

“I've got to head home to the shop and get some other tools.”

“By all means,” she said, pouring a cup of hot chocolate. With his departure, she sat on a hammock chair. She and Marvel-Anne had brought two such folding picnic chairs over that morning. The housekeeper had stayed a time and painted the front of the warehouse while Edwina worked on the side, but then Marvel-Anne had to return to the house to finish some mending she said needed her attention.

Edwina counted her blessings. Marvel-Anne was lending a hand above and beyond her duties, and without being asked. She volunteered. No matter how Edwina's money woes might affect her in the future, she could never cast the woman adrift. At least not without a tidy severance check as compensation.

While Edwina nibbled on a nut wafer cookie, a horse-drawn wagon driven by Mr. Wolcott's associate pulled up front. She could view the assemblage through the sporting goods store's open door. Boxes and crates, not to mention an abundant pile of stuffed animals, filled the bed. The brake went into place, then the man climbed down from the seat.

As he entered the premises, she was reminded that he wasn't an unpleasant-looking man—albeit his facial features were somewhat linear. Lines wore grooves at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Yesterday, after Crescencia had fainted and had been revived, he'd made his introduction. Shay Dufresne. His name had sounded French, especially the last:
Dew-fraine.
She'd thought him a gentleman when his concern for dear Crescencia
had bordered on indulgent. His hand had taken hers, and he'd given her fingers a few quick pats before lifting her head so that Edwina could pass the ammonia bottle beneath Crescencia's nose.

Once her eyes fluttered open, Crescencia nearly fell into oblivion again upon seeing the man she'd collided with standing over her. Edwina would have to impress upon the other woman that contact with a person of the opposite sex wasn't cause for a fit of the vapors. That, in fact, a man's touch could be . . .

Edwina abruptly shook her musings from her head.

“Miss Huntington.” Mr. Dufresne tipped his hat.

A nod blended with her reply of “Mr. Dufresne.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course.”

Momentarily, he went outside to return with one of the boxes. “How's your friend Miss Stykem?”

“I'm certain she's very well today. How kind of you to ask.”

Mr. Wolcott appeared around the door's corner, an animal's black-and-white-striped rear end hoisted in his arms. As it was for the bear, the wall plaque was only half of the body of the poor thing, definitely a victim of rigor mortis. But in this case, the unappealing half—muscled hindquarters with legs and hooves, and a tail with a tuft of black hair on the tip.

Though Edwina had promised herself she'd be congenial, she couldn't refrain from asking, “Was it necessary to remove its head?”

“Never had a head that I saw,” Mr. Wolcott replied, setting the vulgarity on a sawhorse. “This was bagged on a safari in Africa.”

She became duly impressed. “You've been to Africa, Mr. Wolcott?”

“Never claimed I was there. Said that's where the zebra bought it. I picked this up from a marketeer in the Galveston harbor.”

A frown marred her lips. She should have known he'd say one thing to make her think another. Leaning into
the chair's canvas, she tucked her legs beneath the seat. “If you cross the zebra with your bear, you'd have something whole.”

Laughter erupted from him, a deep and rich earthy sound that unexpectedly gave her a shiver of delight. Against her will, she smiled with him. His lips were firm and sensual, the white of his teeth an engaging contrast next to sun-bronzed skin.

Too soon, he broke the spell and looked away.

“Wouldn't do me any good to put them together.” The lid to his coffeepot was lifted, and apparently, the pot was empty, because he scowled. “One of these days, I'm going to make a clock out of the zebra. The tail's going to be the pendulum.”

Edwina's brow arched.
A clock?
Out of a zebra's behind . . . ? How positively and utterly . . . stupid. Managing to speak in a serious tone, the best she could muster was “I'm certain it will be a conversation piece.” And something she'd never care to see.

“No more coffee?” Mr. Dufresne asked.

Mr. Wolcott clattered the lid into place. “Just the dregs.”

Opportunity had knocked, and Edwina graciously rose. “Gentlemen, I have hot chocolate. And cookies.”

Mr. Dufresne accepted first, striding toward the hamper and extending his hand for several of the cookies. Then she poured him a cup of the hot chocolate.

“Thanks.”

“You're quite welcome.”

While turning, she said, “Mr. Wolcott, would you care for a—” The words were swallowed in a gulp of panic.

Mr. Wolcott stood on the chalk line, gazing from one side of the room to the other. Edwina's heartbeat slammed against her ribs. Pushing herself into motion, she took quick steps, with the cookie platter outstretched in her hand. She all but shouted, “Nut wafer cookie?” in hopes of distracting him.

His gaze remained planted on the floor, so she lifted the bowl higher to block his view. Eyes the color of blue
ice lifted and plugged into hers. She couldn't face the indescribable expression in them, but neither could she take her gaze elsewhere.

“Was this your doing?”

Dismay clutched her. How had he figured out the line was off without even taking the room dimensions on each side? He must have measuring eyes, because he'd certainly sized up her intentions.

His premature discovery hadn't given her time to come up with a reasonable explanation other than the truth—which she intended to tell him. Just not at the moment—rather, after the wall had been framed and plastered and would be too much of an inconvenience to tear down and redo.

“So, can you paint and bake cookies?” His resonant voice intruded on her rioting thoughts.

“W-what?”

“The cookies. I asked if you made them.”

“You did?”
Was this your doing?
Of course, he'd meant the cookies! “Oh, you did ask. Yes . . . I baked these.”

Taking several, he popped one whole into his mouth and chewed. “They're good.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled, her nerves still wrapped in knots. “Can I offer you some hot chocolate?”

“Sure.”

She went through the motions of pouring, but she didn't know what she was doing. The episode too close for comfort, she couldn't seem to calm down enough to catch her breath. Handing him the mug, he accepted and stayed right smack on that line, his gaze skimming its length once more. She couldn't stand it, so she all but took him by the coat sleeve and offered him her chair.

“Have a seat, Mr. Wolcott. You must be tired from all your moving.”

He wouldn't budge. “I'm all right.”

“But I insist.”

Quite by accident, she gouged his instep with her heel
as she moved to stand closer to him in an effort to prod him away from the chalk line.

His eyes captured hers and all she could manage was an encouraging smile in favor of the chair. Finally conceding, he fit his lean body awkwardly into the soft canvas. The chair's wooden frame groaned, as if unable to take his full masculine weight. He balanced the steaming mug on one of the arms.

Seeing that he'd finished his cookies, she quickly offered more. He scooped a pile of them into his wide palm, then settled into the picnic chair with his right boot on his left knee, without taking another glance at the line.

She exhaled, unaware that she'd been holding her breath. She'd just averted a major disaster with nut wafer cookies. Thank goodness they were Marvel-Anne's speciality.

•  •  •

A sickle moon ascended above the silhouettes of the oak trees. Tom had told Shay to meet him at the warehouse at eleven. Standing in the shadows, he waited for his partner in crime to arrive.

The flame of a match momentarily took the chill off his fingers as he cupped his hands together to light a smoke. He would have rather been lounging on his bed with the funny papers, catching up on the wisecracking “Katzenjammer Kids.” Instead, he had to do his ambushing under the cover of night because the element of surprise was just too tempting to pass up.

He'd almost changed his mind that afternoon when Edwina had stuffed him with fancy cookies and hot chocolate. But then he'd caught her furtive gaze on the chalk line, and he'd been reminded exactly why he was the recipient of her doting hospitality. His performance had rattled her, just as he'd intended, and she wanted to throw him off the scent. Too bad. He already knew what she was up to. Even so, he couldn't quite correlate the low-down tactic with a woman of her character.

Her green eyes were veiled by a reserve he didn't
entirely believe. She was smartly quick-tongued—a trait that didn't go with a woman who held her spine without compromise. Too many mannerisms about her seemed to be contradictions. One minute in Stykem's office, she'd been submissive with hands folded in her lap; then the next, she'd been trying to bargain her way out of paying for her share of the renovations because of the fifty dollars. Not something someone's maiden aunt would do. He knew. His Aunt Evelyn would have rather choked on her own indignation than blurt her real feelings.

Tom took a slow walk around the building's perimeter to keep the circulation flowing through his limbs; his thoughts occupied his mind while he waited for Shay.

Early adult experiences with women resulted in Tom's tendency to be drawn to the types who flaunted themselves and had glittering eyes that meant anything goes. But in his boyhood, he'd wanted the cream of the crop—only he hadn't been good enough for her. All in all, he'd had a lot of fond memories growing up south of the tracks in Texas. Throughout his school years, he'd been the class prankster. His mischief had gotten him into the parlors of the well-to-do, where he wouldn't normally have been invited, because he provided entertainment.

Elizabeth Robinson, a spoiled little minx but the prettiest girl in Texarkana, planned a Christmas party the year he'd been expelled for a week for unbolting the outhouse hinges. His family had been poorer than Job's turkeys, his father being a dirt farmer and his mother taking in wash. One day after school, he found the fancy invitation waiting for him on the table. He couldn't believe Elizabeth had asked him to come.

Of course he wanted to go—to see how the rich lived.

The Robinsons' house could have been used for photographs on postcards. Pictures in heavy gilt frames almost covered all the white-and-gold wallpaper in the parlor. Hand-painted roses glowed on the lampshades, and bigger roses spread through the carpet pattern. Crowded on the sofa and in chairs set close together,
the well-off kids from his school looked like real young ladies and gentlemen.

Elizabeth met him, looking more beautiful that night than any girl sitting in the room. She showed him to a seat, then proceeded to enlist everyone in a game of Spin the Platter. He'd never heard of it. Elizabeth's eyes were a sparkle of daring, so he said he was in. She spun the plate, then called out a name. His. Coaxed into standing up, he did so. A sticky crackling on his rear end made him whirl around to try to see what had affixed itself to him.

Flypaper.

When he glanced at Elizabeth, she was laughing so hard, tears had formed in her eyes. Cursing, he tore at the paper, but only small bits came off, and then they stuck on his fingers.

He'd gotten out of there, slamming the front door behind him, swearing all the way home. That Monday, he found out she'd invited him on a dare, and he'd been sap enough to fall for it. From then on, he never went back to that school. At the age of fifteen, he stuck to his side of the tracks and took up the plow like his old man.

Although he couldn't say that Christmas had been exactly when he'd decided, he could see that the incident had been the cornerstone. The Wolcott name wasn't going to be laughed at. It was that part of him that drove him to success. Even if there wasn't anyone in his family to see
Wolcott
on a business placard.

Thoughts of his older brother surfaced, as did the images of the turbulent life he led. After John was tall enough to stand over their father, he never broke a sweat in the fields again, choosing instead to spend his days in the saloons and gamble the money he made finding water for farmers. There was one thing about John—he had a talent with a divining rod that a rare few had. Too bad he wasted a talent that could have been used in a respectable, worthwhile profession.

Rarely did Tom hear from John. Old letters every once in a while caught up to Tom. Since he expected to
stay in Harmony, Tom could write back now and tell John to come for a visit—if he was of a mind to.