Probably because of his spontaneous plan to marry Delia.
“When do you expect him home?”
The abrupt question put a halt to the storekeeper’s chatter. He eyed J.T. with suspicion.
“A couple days. Why? You got a problem with him?”
J.T.’s lips tightened into a grim line. “Yes, sir. I do.”
Hawkins yanked the napkin out from under his chin and tossed it aside. “Now, see here, Tucker. Warren told me about his plans to hitch up with your sister, and if you’re thinking to try and scare him off with your high-handed ways, you can forget it.” He advanced on J.T., poking him in the chest.
J.T. held his ground—and his temper. Barely.
“I thought you were above judging a person by his appearance,” the storekeeper spat, “but you can’t see past his birthmark, can you? You have no right to come to my house, interrupt my supper, and accuse my son of not being good enough for your sister. Get out of here.”
The man’s face had gone quite red, and veins popped out of his neck. He backed into the house and would’ve slammed the door in J.T.’s face had J.T. not shoved his foot into the opening.
Jaw clenched, J.T. grabbed the edge of the door and muscled it open until he could see Hawkins’s eye. “I don’t give a fig about Warren’s face. It’s his actions and attitude that I take exception to. Did he tell you that he sprung a proposal on Delia without a single act of courting? Did he mention that Delia turned him down? And did you happen to notice that instead of accepting her answer with gentlemanly grace, he blamed Miss Richards for his troubles, a woman innocent in this whole affair?”
Some of the color faded from the man’s cheeks. “Cordelia turned him down? Warren said she wanted some time to consider his offer. I figured he was hoping to win her acceptance with the financial promise of the new store.”
J.T. released the door and stepped back. “Look. I don’t have any great love for your son, but Delia has considered him a friend since their school days. Out of respect for her, I wouldn’t have come about Warren’s actions, but the safety of someone I care about may be at stake.” He paused a moment, an idea taking root. “Can I show you something? It won’t take long.”
Hawkins seemed to measure him with his eyes and finally gave a jerky nod. “Let me fetch my coat.”
When he returned, J.T. led him to Hannah’s shop. He still had her key, having forgotten to return it during the process of getting her settled.
“Why did you bring me here?” Hawkins asked as J.T. fit the key into the lock.
“You’ll see.” The door swung in, and J.T. entered, his boot heels click-clacking against the floorboards in a hollow rhythm that echoed eerily in the abandoned room. Hawkins followed. Sunset had come and gone, but the twilight of early evening sufficiently revealed the destruction amid the shadows.
J.T. wove through the maze of fabrics and notions, careful not to do any further damage as he made his way to the far wall, intent on collecting the paper ball resting in the corner.
“Was Miss Richards harmed?” Hawkins choked out the question.
J.T. didn’t turn. “No. She discovered this mess when I escorted her home from the picnic this afternoon.” And it had devastated her. J.T. could still feel the heat of her tears as she’d wept against his chest.
He gently lifted a length of blue cloth from the floor and draped it over the counter to clear a path and noticed Hannah’s collection of fashion magazines and pattern books scattered over the counter’s surface and the floor behind. Pages had been ripped from the bindings and showered like giant confetti. A cover from Peterson’s lay beside the blue fabric. The fashionable woman on the cover seemed to glare at him in accusation.
How many times as a child had he wanted to do the same thing? To tear up his mother’s magazines, to set them on fire, or sink them in the river? He’d blamed the world of fashion for stealing away his mother in the same way Warren had blamed Hannah for Cordelia’s lack of interest. The reality hit him like a blow. It sickened him to think he shared anything in common with that worm. But it couldn’t be denied. His hatred of fashion was just as irrational as Warren’s hatred of Hannah. Deep down, he knew this. The truth had been growing in him over the last several weeks. Hadn’t Christ taught that money itself was not evil, but the choice of men to love it, crave it, and make it their god was the sin that destroyed their souls? So it was with fancy clothes.
Pretty fabric and stylish designs held no innate power to corrupt. It was the sinful desires of the heart that turned one to vanity, condescension, or covetousness. If one could learn to manage his money without greed consuming him, surely a woman could do the same with clothing. Hannah lived out such balance every day, and now that he thought of it, so did many other women of the community.
His mother had been weak, and she’d made destructive choices. Yet with a child’s loyalty, he’d been unable to place the responsibility on her shoulders. So he’d blamed the clothes, the man who’d taken her away, and even his father for not fulfilling her needs. He’d thought his growing love for Hannah had erased his prejudice, but with a flash of insight, he realized he’d never be completely free until he let go of the final weight dragging on him.
J.T.’s hand shook as he reached for the magazine cover and smoothed out the bent corner.
Mama, you were wrong and you hurt me. But . . . I forgive you.
His eyes slid closed as a gentle lightness enveloped his soul. For a moment he even forgot where he was and what he was doing. That is, until Hawkins shuffled up behind him.
“My heart goes out to the poor gal,” he said. “She’s a good customer. Always goes out of her way to be kind and include the mercantile in her business. I’m sorry this happened to her, but I don’t see what this has to do with me or my son.”
J.T. snapped back to the present. The hunger for justice still growled to be fed, but the anger that had previously accompanied it had cooled considerably. He sidestepped an overturned display dummy and reached for the wad of paper he sought.
“Miss Richards was reluctant to voice her thoughts when we asked her if she had any idea who could have done this. She had no proof of a specific person’s involvement, but she did mention one name—a man who had treated her with disdain in recent days.” Taking care not to tear the crumpled paper, J.T. opened the ball and pressed it against his thigh to iron out the creases.
Hawkins blew out an impatient breath. “Come on, Tucker. This was probably just a bunch of kids getting into mischief while everyone was away at the picnic. Boys do stuff like this all the time. It’s not some personal vendetta.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” J.T. handed him the note. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
The storekeeper stared at it, and his hand trembled just enough to rustle the paper. “It’s . . . uh . . . hard to tell, what with all the wrinkles on the page and the dim lighting.” But there was a nervous edge to his voice that confirmed J.T.’s suspicions.
“I think we can safely conclude this wasn’t a prank, don’t you think?”
Hawkins pushed the paper back at J.T. as if it pained him to touch it. “The note does seem to . . . uh . . . indicate a more personal agenda. But the woman wasn’t hurt. No lasting damage done.” He looked frantically around the room as if in search of something to validate his desperate words. “The sewing cabinet is intact, the windows unbroken. A true criminal would not have spared those. And really, this is nothing more serious than a large mess. It can be cleaned up, most of the material salvaged. It could have been much worse.”
J.T.’s temper sparked anew. “You didn’t see her face when she walked through the door. You didn’t hold her while she sobbed or feel her tremors as her heart broke. You didn’t taste her fear when she faced the staircase, terrified that a similar violation had occurred in her personal quarters. Who’s to say the man who did this will stop at one attack? How is she ever to feel safe?”
Hawkins backed away, sputtering excuses.
&n
bsp; J.T. trailed him and held the note up in front of his face. “Hannah named Warren as the man who has been acting embittered toward her, blaming her for Delia’s rejection of his suit.” He set his mouth close to the other man’s ear. “Is this your son’s writing?”
“I . . . I can’t be sure.”
J.T. folded the paper into a small rectangle and stuffed it into the man’s coat pocket. “Take it home. Examine it in better light. Compare it to an inventory list or something that Warren has written. Take care of this matter with your son, Hawkins. Because if you don’t, I will.”
CHAPTER 35
Hannah stood in Cordelia’s kitchen after church the next day, drying the dishes while her mind wandered to the shop. Although shivers coursed through her at the prospect, she needed to spend the afternoon sorting through the debris to see what she could salvage. As tempting as it was to take refuge among friends and let Jericho watch over her, she couldn’t allow fear to dictate her actions. Or lack of action, as the case may be.
“Thank you for letting me stay here last night,” Hannah said as she reached for the platter Cordelia held out to her.
Cordelia laid a damp hand on her arm, and the warm moisture soaked through Hannah’s sleeve. “You can stay here as long as you like.”
Hannah shrugged. “Jericho said that Warren would be out of town until Tuesday, so there’s no reason to impose on you any longer.”
“You’re not an imposition. How could you be? You’re practically family.”
A little thrill shot through Hannah at Cordelia’s words, but she couldn’t let them sway her. She needed to move forward.
Founders’ Day had been a rousing success in showcasing Cordelia’s new style and Hannah’s design skills. In fact, several women had spoken to her about dressmaking projects that morning after services. Retreat now would destroy the momentum she had gained yesterday. And worse, it would mean giving Warren or whomever was responsible for vandalizing her shop exactly what he wanted.
Hannah inhaled a fortifying breath and rubbed the dishtowel along the decorated edge of the oval dish. She stared at the tiny blue flowers instead of the sympathetic eyes of her friend, afraid that the warm acceptance in their depths would erode her determination. “I appreciate all you and Jericho have done for me. Truly. But I can’t hide here. The longer I stay away, the harder it will be to return.” Hannah set the platter on the table and reached for the dripping pan.
Cordelia released the pan, her mouth flattening into a tight line as she shoved a greasy pot into the dishwater. Her elbows wagged as she scoured it with enough vigor to rub a hole through the bottom. “I wish this whole mess with Warren had never started. You’ve done nothing to deserve such vile treatment.”
Guilt lingered behind her friend’s frustration, and Hannah rushed to dispel it. “Don’t worry about me,” she said with a grin and a playful bump to Cordelia’s flapping elbow. “I’ll be too busy catering to all my new customers to think about anything else. Besides, maybe the vandalism will draw extra attention to the shop, and God will turn something Warren meant for harm into a blessing. All I need is an afternoon to tidy things up a bit, and I’ll be back in business. Better than before. You’ll see.”
An answering smile eased across Cordelia’s lips. She lifted the scrubbed pot out of the water and started to extend it to Hannah, but stopped and slipped it back into the dishpan. “Why don’t you take J.T. his lunch since he rushed off in such a hurry today? Then, as soon as I finish cleaning the roasting pan and set my bread dough to rise for Monday’s loaves, I’ll come lend a hand.”
“Perfect.” Hannah draped the dishtowel over Cordelia’s shoulder and untied the borrowed apron from around her waist. Having help would greatly lighten the work, but more than that, it would give her company. Despite her brave talk, she really didn’t want to be alone in the shop. Not if she didn’t have to be. She trusted the Lord to answer her prayers for courage, but in the meantime, a friend to share the load would be a blessing indeed.
Hannah collected the basket Cordelia had set aside for her brother and headed for the livery. She’d thought Jericho had been acting strange when he rushed off after seeing them home, but Cordelia had assured her that he often had to tend to his animals and rigs after services since several townspeople rented them for the drive to church.
Still, a little niggle of disquiet picked at her. He’d been so hard to read last night, coming in from his undisclosed outing with no more to say than that he’d talked to Mr. Hawkins and Warren would be out of town until Tuesday. Then he’d urged her to get some sleep, which had been nearly impossible, what with his pacing in the kitchen like a soldier on patrol. By the time his boots finally fell silent, Hannah had been ready to tie him up herself.
He’d been solicitous that morning, though, watching for Ezra at her request and notifying the older man that she would attend services with the Tuckers. Jericho’s solid presence beside her held her fears at bay and allowed her to focus more clearly on worship. But then he’d ushered them back to the house only to leave them the minute their feet hit the porch. The abruptness of it all had left her feeling shuffled and dumped and more than a little confused.
Did Jericho regret becoming involved with her? Hannah’s stride faltered at the thought. Perhaps all the trouble with the shop reinforced his previous view that her profession was a stumbling block—not only to women, but now to him. After all, he was being dragged into something that undoubtedly put him at odds with men he considered friends and business associates.
What could she do to make it up to him? Close the shop? A swift, stabbing pain speared her side and brought her to a halt at the edge of the livery stable. Could she do that? Sacrifice her dream in order to share a life with the man she loved?
Hannah swallowed hard. She visualized herself in a flourishing dress shop, a full-grown Tessa working by her side. Happy clients. A sizable bank account. Yet she’d go upstairs to an empty room every night. No strong arms to embrace her and soothe away her hurts, no tender kisses to make her heart sing, no one to tease and to be teased by in return. Without Jericho, success would be hollow. Could she give it up? Yes . . . if she knew he loved her in return, she could. But did he?
A moan vibrated in her throat. Why did everything have to be so complicated?
A verse floated through her mind about not taking thought for tomorrow since today carried sufficient trouble unto itself. Her lips twisted into a wry grin. The Lord could not have sent her a more apt reminder. Hannah straightened her spine. She’d deal with today’s problems and leave tomorrow in God’s hands. That’s where it belonged anyway.
Stepping into the dim interior of the stable, Hannah paused as her eyes adjusted to the lack of sunlight. The pungent smells of manure and old hay wrinkled her nose, but she made no effort to block the odor with her handkerchief. She needed to get used to it if she hoped to be a livery owner’s wife.
A movement near one of the middle stalls caught her eye. “Jericho?” She started forward.
“Nope. Just me.” Tom turned, a grin stretching wide over his teeth. “Oh, and Mr. Culpepper.”
“Ezra?”
The older man emerged from inside the stall.
“What are you doing here?”
“That you, Miz Hannah?” He shuffled closer and heaved a sigh. “Old Jackson threw a shoe. With the smithy closed on Sundays, I convinced young Tom to let me stable him here until tomorrow. I’ll rent a horse to take me and the buggy home, then return it when I come to the depot in the morning. Don’t want Jackson going lame trudging up to my place without a shoe.”
“Of course not.”
“I am glad I ran into you, though.” Ezra winked at her as he moved past, heading for his buggy. “I brung you something.”
Hannah followed him, her curiosity piqued. “You did?” A tiny thrill of excitement coursed through her at the prospect until a more logical explanation came to mind. “Do you have more mending that needs to be done?”
Ezra’s la
ugh boomed through the stable, eliciting an answering bray from old Jackson. “Now, why would I bring you mending on the Lord’s Day, Miz Hannah?” He shook his head as he reached to retrieve a small paper-wrapped parcel from the seat cushion. “Nah. I brung you a gift.” He presented it to her with a gleam in his eye.
“I meant to give it to you when I picked you up for services this mornin’, but you’d already made plans to trade in my company for that Tucker fellow.”
The parcel sat heavy in her hand, but she ignored it, worried that she had truly hurt the man’s feelings. “Oh, Ezra. It wasn’t like that at all. I just—”
His chuckle cut short her apology. “No. No. I’m just giving you a hard time. A gal as purty as you deserves to be courted by a young buck. Besides, I seen the way he looks at you. Reminds me of when I was courtin’ my Alice.”
Warmth crept into Hannah’s cheeks, and not knowing what to say, she dipped her head to examine the gift her friend had given her. The brown paper crinkled as she unfolded it. She lifted one side, and a small silver cylinder rolled into her hand. The needle case was delicately tooled with a leaf pattern that flowed up the side and over the pull-off lid.
“This is beautiful.” Her hushed voice echoed a reverent tone as she drank in the loveliness of the silver case. “But it’s too much. I can’t accept it.” She tried to hand it back, but Ezra took her hand and folded her fingers back over her palm, trapping the gift inside.
“Alice would want you to have it.”
Tears welled in Hannah’s eyes. He was giving her something of Alice’s?
A wistful look passed over Ezra’s face. “I decided to finally go through her things. The day after you paid me a call, as a matter of fact. I figure on giving most of her clothes to the poor box at church . . . since I ain’t never gonna wear ’em.” He winked at Hannah and she smiled, thanking God for how far this grieving man had come. “And I’ll prob’ly send a box of stuff back to her sister in St. Louis. But when I saw this here case, I knew you were the one who had to have it.