“I haven’t made up my mind yet about your methods,” he said, still standing much too close. “I better try these ring things, too. I should make sure they’re safe for Delia.”
“Of course they’re safe,” she snapped. “Children use them.” She tried to move away, but his piercing eyes kept her feet planted.
“Afraid your contraption will prove ineffective?”
“No.” What she feared was that Jericho’s nearness would render her ineffective. But she’d never been one to back down from a challenge, so she hobbled her high-stepping pulse and looked Jericho square in the eye. “Very well, I’ll show you the rings.”
He nodded and stepped back, finally allowing her to draw a full breath. She crouched down by the box and dug out the two cherrywood rings that always found their way to the bottom. Holding one in each hand, she straightened and faced the large man in front of her.
“Those are the rings?” he scoffed. “They can’t be more than six inches across. What are you supposed to do with them? Play horseshoes?”
Hannah speared him with a look. “I prefer braining pompous livery owners with them. Should I show you the technique?”
He raised his hands in surrender and mumbled a halfhearted apology. Though his lips didn’t twitch this time, the skin around his eyes crinkled. If she could just get the two actions together, she might have the makings of a genuine Jericho Tucker smile. Discarding that thought as too distracting, she focused on the fundamentals of her lesson and thrust her arms out toward him.
“Grab hold of the rings.”
The moment he complied, an unwelcome heat surged through her. His broad hands encompassed such a large portion of each ring.
“These were designed to be used by two people of similar height and strength for maximum efficiency.” She tilted her chin up to look him in the face. “Since you are taller and stronger than I am, the exercise will not be as beneficial to you, but I think I can present enough of a challenge to give you an idea of how it works.”
“We’ll see.”
Hannah’s ire sparked. Hesitation fell away as the spirit of competition took over.
“Match my strength and keep up if you can . . . Jericho.”
They began with a series of push-and-pull exercises that mimicked the motion of a piston pumping back and forth. Their left feet stood together in the center while their right legs supported them from behind. At first, he offered her little resistance as she dragged his arm forward and back, but he soon adjusted, and her muscles strained to keep up.
Next, they stood back-to-back and did opposing side lunges with their still-connected arms overhead. Her skirts swished against his legs several times. He gave no indication that he’d noticed, so she affected the same undisturbed mien.
“You should be able to feel a stretch along the outside of your arm,” she said. “These routines are excellent for improving flexibility.”
Jericho grunted in answer.
They did the same position again, only this time they faced each other. Hannah made certain to lean back as they lunged to avoid coming into contact with Jericho’s chest. However, the effects of her extended workout combined with the fact that she was within a hairsbreadth of touching the man whose nearness invited her pulse to polka left her struggling for air.
Which had to be the reason she progressed to the next section of the ring routine without first considering the consequences.
Their right feet together, she and Jericho faced each other and leaned backward as far as possible, using one another’s weight as a counterbalance. Then, she explained, on the second count, they would press their arms forcefully outward, bringing their heads and shoulders together. Like a good student, Jericho followed her instructions not to bend his elbows. Unfortunately, she failed to take into account his much longer arms. As he pulled wide, she was helpless to stop her forward momentum and thumped directly into his chest. His well-braced leg kept them from tumbling onto the ground, but nothing could keep them from pressing so closely together that she could feel his heart beating against hers. For an endless moment, he stared down at her, surprise and something much warmer flaring in his eyes. Then common sense prevailed. He released the rings, held her about the waist, and set her on her feet.
“I think I’ve got the general idea now.” Jericho cleared his throat and backed away until he reached the back fence. “I’m heading to the livery, Delia,” he called to his sister, never once glancing back at Hannah. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
Then he left, his long-legged stride eating up the turf at a near run.
Hannah leaned into the tree for support as she watched him go, a sinking feeling settling into the pit of her stomach. She had no idea if she’d proved anything to Jericho with her exercises, but she’d proven something to herself. Something disastrous. She was falling in love with a man who could never return her affections.
CHAPTER 18
J.T. took the shortcut home for lunch, through the corral and across the strip of land behind his house. As he passed the big oak, he kneaded his upper arm. He hated to admit it, but flinging around those silly clubs had made him a bit sore.
And the rings? He should have taken Hannah up on her offer to forgo the blasted things. She’d been so close to him, he could smell the mist in her hair, see the sky in her eyes. And when she moved, her skirt brushed against his legs like sandpaper scoring a match.
Until she fell and accidentally ignited the flame. It had taken a wagonload of self-control to set her away from him.
He’d spent the bulk of the morning recounting the reasons she was unsuitable for him and asking God for strength to resist her wiles. Only, deep down, he knew they weren’t wiles. Hannah Richards might try to foist her fashionable wares on the people of Coventry, but she’d never foist herself. He’d seen her efforts to maintain a discreet distance between them while they worked through the ring routine, a Herculean task considering they were connected at the fingertips. No, she was just a lovely, misguided woman who tugged at his heart and tempted his body. With God’s help, he could resist. He had to. He’d not repeat his father’s mistakes.
J.T. thought back to the day his father had taken him aside to tell him the woman they had both loved was gone for good. His face haggard, his eyes dull, he clapped J.T. on the shoulder with one hand while pulling down the wedding photograph from the mantel with his other. Color slowly drained from his knuckles as he tightened his grip on the thin metal frame until his thumb pressed the glass so hard it cracked.
“Don’t follow in my footsteps, son.”
That was all he said, but it was enough.
J.T. remembered the excuses his father had made when his mother closed herself in her room in one of her huffs, leaving him to finish dinner or soothe a crying baby Delia. He’d said that she was just high-strung, as if that explained anything. Then, more often than not, he had passed the stirring spoon or baby over to J.T. and disappeared behind the closed door to mollify his child bride. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out their history.
When his father met his mother, he must have been so taken by her fine looks and youthful exuberance that he willingly closed his eyes to her faults. She’d been fourteen years younger than he, and J.T. supposed his father had been flattered by her attentions, sure that once she matured and settled down, her pretty pouts and artful manipulations would disappear. But they didn’t. They intensified. J.T. had seen it firsthand. She birthed him two children and complained all the while about the loss of her figure. She demanded expensive clothes and trinkets until her husband’s savings were depleted, threatened to leave him if he tried to tell her no. J.T. couldn’t remember her ever sacrificing something for another person strictly out of kindness—not even for him or Delia.
The day they laid his father to rest, J.T. stood at the grave and vowed to take his father’s advice to heart. And he had. Until Hannah. Something about that woman weakened his defenses, and he needed to figure out what it was. Soon.
/> Reaching the house, J.T. paused on the back porch. He shoved thoughts of his parents back into their pigeonholes and threw a mental blanket over Hannah before pushing through the door. The safety of routine restored the last fragments of his control as he stepped into the kitchen and hung his hat on its hook. “What’s for lunch, sis?”
“Roasted chicken and parsnips, with apple dumplings for dessert.”
Delia opened the warming oven and a blend of savory and sweet aromas filled the kitchen. J.T.’s stomach gurgled in anticipation. He washed up at the kitchen pump and took his place at the table.
Concentrating so hard on keeping everything normal, he was halfway through his meal before he realized his sister was staring at him. Glaring at her over his chicken leg, he swallowed the hunk of meat he’d been chewing.
“What?”
Elbow propped on the table, she braced her chin on her hand. “I think she’s right.”
“Who?”
“You don’t smile. Strange that I hadn’t noticed it before.” After imparting that keen observation, she turned her attention to her plate and stabbed a roasted parsnip with her fork.
J.T. had no doubt to whom his sister referred. Not wanting to encourage conversation in that direction, he said the first thing that came to mind. “The gray’s all healed up.”
Of course, thinking of the injured gelding did nothing to stem the flow of thoughts regarding Miss Richards.
“That’s good.” Delia took a dainty bite of chicken, and only then did J.T. notice that her plate held a much smaller portion than usual.
“You feeling all right?”
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
With a shrug, he cut into his dumpling. Baked apple and cinnamon wafted up to him as he slid a healthy portion onto his fork. He lifted the bite to his mouth, already tasting the juicy goodness when he caught Delia grinning at him with a gleam in her eye. The fork clanked down onto his plate.
“Now what?”
“You and Hannah had a lively time this morning. What’d you think of those exercises?”
Swallowing a groan when he would much rather be swallowing his dumpling, J.T. leaned back in his chair. “I think I would’ve been laughed out of town if anyone had seen me swinging those ridiculous clubs. If you and Miss Richards want to embarrass yourselves with that stuff, be my guest, but don’t expect me to touch one of those things ever again.”
“But did they work?”
Not yet willing to concede that point, he merely grunted. In response, she reached across the tabletop and snagged his fork. Before he could stop her, she slid the fruity tidbit off the tines and into her mouth.
“Hey!” He made a grab for her arm but missed as she flopped back into her seat.
She smiled in triumph, her lips as wide as they could be while still concealing their prize.
“Imp. Get your own dumpling.” He sawed off a second section and crammed it into his mouth before she could steal it.
“I only wanted a bite,” she said as she dabbed her lips with her napkin. “I’m taking the others to Mr. Franklin at the telegraph office.”
“You didn’t make yourself one?” That wasn’t like her. Delia loved sweets.
“Not today.” She got up to refill his coffee cup, and J.T. considered her more closely. Her brown dress was hanging a bit looser around her middle. She was losing weight.
“You sure you’re not sick?”
Delia set the coffeepot back on the stove and began packing a man-sized portion of food into her delivery basket to take to Ike. “I’m fine, J.T. Really. Stop your fussing.”
He lifted his coffee to his lips and sipped the hot brew. “Maybe you should cut back on all that walking and calisthenic nonsense. You’re getting thin.”
“Do you think so?” She looked downright pleased by the idea.
J.T. frowned. “If you’re feeling poorly, you should rest, not wear yourself out with crackbrained exercises.”
“Actually, feeling poorly is exactly why Hannah got involved with Dr. Lewis’s gymnastic system in the first place.” Delia collected his empty plate and set it in the dishpan.
He told himself not to ask, but an irresistible curiosity drove him to it anyway. “She was ill?”
“As a child, yes. From what Hannah told me, she nearly drowned the summer she was ten, swimming in a pond near her home. She developed pneumonia, and her lungs weakened to the point that the doctors believed she’d be an invalid the rest of her life.”
J.T. drew a toothpick from his pocket to clean his teeth and tried to picture a young Hannah lying in bed with nothing to occupy her beyond a needle and thread. The image didn’t fit the woman he knew. It was much easier to envision her as a rambunctious girl bounding over hills and dales in pursuit of rainbows, butterflies, and armloads of wildflowers.
“She’s certainly no invalid now.”
Delia chuckled as she covered the food basket with a clean napkin. “No, she’s certainly not. Apparently her mother ran across a book by Dr. Lewis that emphasized the stimulating effects of sunshine and exercise on curing weak lungs and recommended the use of apparatus such as Indian clubs and lightweight dumbbells. She started Hannah on a simple regimen and built on it little by little until her health was fully restored. Hannah never gave up the habit.”
“Gotta go,” J.T. mumbled. He pushed away from the table and got up, eager to escape the conversation about Miss Richards. The last thing he needed was another reason to admire the woman. Lots of children faced and overcame adversity. It didn’t make her special.
“I’m going to stop by the dress shop on my way home.” Delia’s giddy grin captured his attention. She gripped the sides of her basket as if trying to keep her hands from clapping together in glee. “We’re going to do some preliminary measurements and select fabric.”
J.T. scowled at his sister. “I’d hoped you’d abandoned that notion.”
She released the basket and blew out a breath. “Land sakes, J.T. It’s just one dress. I’m not going to turn into some vainglorious peacock who constantly obsesses about her wardrobe. You raised me better than that. I simply want to wear something nice to the Founders’ Day picnic this year. That’s all.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and broadened his stance. “I’m starting to think that maybe you’re spending too much time with Miss Richards. She’s a bad influence on you.”
Delia gasped. “How can you say that? She’s my dearest friend, and she’s done nothing wrong—to you or anyone else in this town.”
“She operates a shop filled with temptation,” J.T. declared, thrusting his finger in the direction of the offensive place. “Her designs aren’t simple dresses created to keep a person protected from the elements. No, every last one of them has been specifically crafted to draw attention to the figure of the woman who buys it, stroking the customer’s vanity, and giving her reason to snub those less wealthy or attractive than she. And what of those who can’t afford the luxury of such clothing? They are left to lust over ruffles and lace, coveting what is out of their reach when they should be content with what they have.”
“Which am I?”
J.T. chomped down on his toothpick, tension spearing through his jaw. Delia stood before him with her hands on her hips, daring him to place her in one of those objectionable categories.
“I have the means for the dress, saved from my own earnings,” she said, “so that must mean that I’m a status-seeking snob. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Of course not. You’re different.”
“I’m different? Really? Because a moment ago it all sounded very black and white coming from you.”
“Delia . . .” She was twisting things around.
“So you’re willing to concede that it’s possible for a woman, like me, to purchase one of Hannah’s creations without plunging into moral decay.”
“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth, “but she should be more responsible toward those who are weaker. A true Christian wouldn??
?t lay out a stumbling block for others to trip over.”
“Jericho Riley Tucker. When did you get so sanctimonious?” Her lips pursed in distaste. “A true Christian, indeed. I guess a true Christian couldn’t own a gun shop, then. Too much temptation for those with murderous impulses. Or a bank. Greed leads to all kinds of dissipation, you know. Better not open a restaurant, either. Why, the poor soul who is prone to gluttony would be tempted to order mounds of food each time he entered the establishment.”
“Enough! You’ve made your point.” J.T. grabbed his forehead and massaged his temples.
Delia’s arms fell to her sides and she sighed. “If Hannah filled her shop with scanty gowns that incited men to lust and promoted an immoral agenda, I would be the first to help you close her down. But she’s an honorable woman who makes her living sewing high-quality, modest dresses that glow with the colors and beauty God inspires within her. There is nothing shameful in that.
“You are letting what our mother did cloud your judgment, J.T. She was a selfish woman who craved beautiful things, but that doesn’t mean that people who make beautiful things are wrong to do so.”
Arguments swirled in J.T.’s mind, setting him adrift. What Delia said made sense, but he feared her logic was another test of his conviction. He wanted to believe that Hannah was innocent of any wrong. If she were, there would be no reason to continue fighting his attraction for her. Waves of doubt tossed him to and fro until the verse from First Peter about beauty coming from within and not from outward adornment sprang to the surface like a life preserver. He latched on to it.
“She might not be promoting immodesty, but she is promoting false ideas about beauty that could lead others astray.”
“Is that all you can see? Can you not see all the good that she’s done in the short time she’s been here?” Delia came up to him and touched his arm. He flinched and stepped away from her.