“That I did.” She started walking his way, a free-spirited smile bedecking her face.
J.T. cleared his throat again and returned to his perusal of the ground beneath the staircase. After a moment, he caught a glimmer of reflected light. The key lay beside the broken pieces of what had once been a secure step. He shoved the purse under his arm and picked up the key, along with one of the defective hunks of wood. The thing was rotted through. He frowned. How many other steps had deteriorated?
Miss Richards slipped up beside him and retrieved the purse and key. “Thank you again, Mr. Tucker. If it weren’t for your quick actions, I would likely have suffered a serious injury.”
He felt her withdrawal, but he had already started inspecting the other steps and didn’t pay her much mind.
“I know you’re anxious to return to the livery,” she said, “so I’ll get the door unlocked in a trice.”
She was halfway to the top when her meaning finally sank into his distracted brain.
“Get down from there, woman, before you take another tumble!” His words came out sharper than he’d intended, but fear for her safety had ignited his temper. That and the fact that when he raised his head from his stooped position under the stairs to call out to her, he got another eyeful of stockings and petticoats.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Tucker. I’m not stomping this time, and I’ve a firm grip on the railing. I’ll be fine.”
Gritting his teeth, J.T. strode out from under the steps and glared up at the stubborn woman whom he had earlier mistaken for intelligent.
“The wood from that broken step is rotten. There might be others ready to give way, as well.”
Her eyes narrowed and the skin around her lips drew taut. “Thank you for your concern, but if they held me the first time, there’s no reason to believe they won’t do so now.”
“What if you weakened them the first time?” He crossed his arms and raised a brow in challenge. Just because the steps he had checked so far had turned out to be sound didn’t mean the remaining ones wouldn’t cause a problem.
The woman deliberately took another step before answering him, her chin angled toward the sky. “You need not treat me like a child, sir. I am perfectly capable of navigating this staircase on my own.”
He snorted.
Her nostrils flared. “I promise not to ask you to catch me again, all right? Now stop scowling.”
Of course he did no such thing.
Those deep blue eyes of hers shot sparks at him, and he had to work to keep his expression stern. The woman was a firecracker.
“Tell you what,” she huffed, “if I fall, you have my permission to gloat as much as you like. How about that?”
Without waiting for his answer, she spun around and marched the remainder of the distance to the top, stretching her stride to span the gulf over the missing stair. He followed her from below as a precaution and didn’t relax until she disappeared into the room that would serve as her personal quarters.
Fool woman. She’d rather risk her neck than admit she might not be able to manage something on her own. He jumped up and grabbed hold of one of the higher steps, testing its strength against his dangling weight. It held. The top step, too, remained firmly in place even after all of Miss Richards’s clinging and scraping. Apparently, the only unstable lumber was the step she fell through. Didn’t matter, though. She still should have waited until he checked it out before trudging up the stairs like Joan of Arc on some kind of crusade.
J.T. pulled another toothpick out of his shirt pocket and wedged it between his molars. His tongue fiddled with it as he stared up through the hole in the staircase. He had to give her credit. Miss Richards knew how to handle herself in a crisis. Not only did she have the presence of mind to latch onto another step to keep from crashing to the ground, but there’d been no screaming, no hysteria, just calm conversation and a polite request to please catch her. Any other woman, his sister included, would have shrieked like a hog at butchering time.
Shaking his head, J.T. headed back to where he had left the dressmaker’s trunk. The box had tumbled to the bottom of the stairs and now lay upside down. He flipped it over just as Tom came around the corner with the other pink-ribboned trunk hefted on his shoulder.
“I done finished the blue ones, J.T., so I thought I’d bring this ’un to ya. How come you’re so slow? I expected you’d be done afore me.”
“Miss Richards had a mishap on the stairs.”
Tom’s eyes widened in glazed panic.
“She’s all right,” J.T. hurried to assure him. “She’s up in her room.”
“W-what happened?”
J.T. hauled the trunk off Tom’s shoulder and set it down next to his. “One of the steps broke and she fell, but she’s fine.”
“If she’s fine, how come I can’t see her anywheres?”
The boy’s breathing came in quick shallow gasps, and his head flew from side to side.
J.T. squeezed his arm to get him to focus on him. “You know how womenfolk are, Tom. She’s probably up there figuring out what kind of curtains she should hang in the windows and where to put all her knickknacks. She’ll be down in a bit.”
The boy glanced up at the open door. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” J.T. stepped behind him and started steering him across the street. “Now, what we menfolk oughta do is fetch a new plank from the lumber pile in back of the livery and fix that step for her so she doesn’t have to worry about any more mishaps. You think you can find me a good board while I dig up a hammer and nails?”
Tom’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” J.T. thumped him on the back and moved into place beside him. They walked several yards in silence, but when they reached the livery doors, Tom turned back to look at the building across the street.
“You know, J.T., since Miss Richards ain’t got no regular menfolk, it’d probably be a good idea for us to look after her. You reckon that’s why God brought her to us? So’s we could take care of her?”
J.T. chomped down on his toothpick and clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to think about the Lord purposefully bringing the dressmaker into his life. He had enough responsibility looking after Cordelia and widows like Louisa James. He didn’t want to be bothered with an opinionated, stubborn piece of baggage like Miss Hannah Richards, even if she did fit in his arms like a pistol in a custom-made holster. No, sir. After he fixed her step and finished unloading her paraphernalia, she’d be on her own.
CHAPTER 4
Hannah hid out in her living quarters until the muted male voices below faded away. She peeked out the doorway to make sure they were gone, then flopped into the single wooden chair that resided in her room. It tilted to the side and nearly threw her to the floor before she caught her balance with her boot heel. A frustrated scream welled up inside her, held at bay by the barest thread of self-control. Even the furniture plotted to steal her equilibrium.
A scrap of kindling shoved beneath the too-short leg would fix the chair, but what was she to do about Mr. Tucker? One minute he was a gallant knight, rescuing her from a mess of her own making, teasing and charming her, and holding her with arms that made her feel cherished and safe. The next he was an arrogant, overbearing lout who chastised her as if she were a child and ordered her about on her own property. She didn’t know if she should kiss his cheek or kick his shin.
Right now, the shin kick was winning.
She sighed and tossed her purse onto the worn oak table beside her, the movement highlighting the ache beneath her arms. More concerned with the state of her clothing than any scrapes or bruises resulting from her fall, Hannah raised each arm in turn and examined the fabric and seams. She found a small tear on the left where the side seam met the sleeve—easily repaired with a few strokes of her needle. The snags on the fabric would be harder to fix, but at least they were in an inconspicuous area. The front of the dress had been spared, and she hadn’t lost a single button. Of course, she always
double stitched hers, so she’d expected nothing less.
Having assured herself that the damage to her traveling suit had been kept to a minimum, Hannah broadened her inspection to include the room. A cookstove stood on the left wall flanked by small windows on either side. A primitive-looking bedstead and mattress dominated the back corner. A few hooks protruded from the wall for hanging clothes, but no bureau or washstand could be found. A table and the lopsided chair she sat on completed the tally of furniture. Pretty spare. And it would be more so after she hauled the table and chair downstairs.
Her shop demanded top priority. She needed a work surface for cutting patterns and piecing them together, and a chair was essential for using her treadle sewing machine. Not knowing how long it would take her to build up a steady income, Hannah planned to save whatever money she could.
Once her business was turning a decent profit, she would order furnishings for her apartment. Until then, she’d make do with the trunks she’d brought. She could use them for storage as well as makeshift benches. If she stacked two, they might be tall enough to give her a counter of sorts. An oilcloth cover and her large breadboard would give her a surface for food preparation. That should suffice. She’d have to keep meals simple anyway, with all the time spent in her shop.
Hannah pulled a small tablet out of her purse and began jotting down a list of the items she would need to purchase at the mercantile. Halfway through the word potatoes a thought occurred to her. If the store owner boxed up her purchases, she could use the crates for stools and even a washstand. She smiled and nibbled on the end of her pencil. With a little ingenuity, she’d have all the comforts of home in no time. Of course, she’d have to find someone to supply her with fresh milk. She wouldn’t last a day without her morning cocoa.
A sudden pounding outside made her jump. Grabbing up her handbag and list, Hannah rushed to the door. Three steps down, Mr. Tucker stood bent over the gaping hole in her stairway, legs straddled, arms swinging as he nailed a new stair into place. As he reached for a second nail, he caught sight of her. He gave her a brief nod and then hammered the nail in with a tap followed by a single sure stroke.
“Tom and I moved your sewing cabinet inside,” he said without looking at her. “He’s taking the rig back.”
Another nail slammed into place. “As soon as I get this step finished, I’ll bring up your trunks and leave you in peace.”
Still grumpy, Hannah thought, but sweet nonetheless.
“Thank you for fixing the step. I’ll gladly pay you for your time.”
Mr. Tucker glared up at her as if she had just impugned his honor. “I don’t charge for being neighborly, ma’am.”
“So I guess I shouldn’t offer to compensate you for your heroic rescue of me, either, then.” She grinned, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of him, but he never looked up.
“Nope.” He accented his refusal with a final swing of the hammer and jumped with both feet onto the new stair.
His craftsmanship held.
“There.” He tipped his hat back and finally met her eyes. “That should stand up to any amount of stomping you feel the need to dish out.”
His lips stretched, and for a moment she thought he might smile, but his mouth never actually curved. Hannah shifted against the railing, unsure if he had spoken in jest or censure.
“Yes, well, thank you. I never know when the urge to stomp might next come over me.” Although she imagined if it did recur, the man before her would somehow be responsible.
He flicked the brim of his hat in salute and turned to go, but she remembered the table and called out to stop him.
“Mr. Tucker? On your way down, would you help me carry this old table to the shop? It’s too large for me to manage on my own.”
He shrugged and followed her inside. “What’s wrong with it? Planning on ordering a roomful of new furniture or something?”
The playfulness she thought she’d detected in his voice earlier had vanished, leaving nothing but frost in its wake. Well, she needed his muscles more than his cheer, so as long as he was willing to help, he could grouch to his heart’s content.
“It’s a perfectly fine table. The only problem is that I need it downstairs.” She set her purse on the seat of the rickety chair and moved around to the far end of the table. Grabbing hold of the edge facing her, she waited for Mr. Tucker to pick up his end. He chose to stare at her instead, with a look that raised her hackles.
Hannah eyed his shins and aimed the point of her toe in his direction. Lucky for him a hefty piece of furniture stood in her way.
“I don’t plan to entertain many guests up here,” she said, “so I can make do without a table. But I can’t very well cut out patterns for my customers on the floor of the shop, now can I?”
He just stared at her, a clouded expression on his face. She was about to shoo him away, determined to move the table without his help, when he stepped up and clasped his side of the tabletop.
“It . . . uh . . . wouldn’t be nothing fancy . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “But if you want, I could loan you a couple of sawhorses and some spare planks I got piled out back. It’d serve until you could buy a real table.”
The heat of her temper mellowed into a warm pool of gratitude.
“You would do that for me?”
He nodded, finally meeting her gaze. His mouth held fast to its rigid line, but the hard glitter had left his eyes, giving him an oddly vulnerable appearance despite the steely strength that radiated from the rest of him.
“Thank you, Mr. Tucker.” A soft smile curved her lips. “I must warn you, though, that I don’t plan to order any furniture until I’ve successfully established my business, so it could be months before I am able to return the borrowed items.”
“Keep ’em as long as you need. I can always make more.”
“Really?” The seed of an idea sprouted in her mind.
“Sure. I got a heap of scrap lumber left from when I tore out the dividing wall in the wagon shed last year.”
“Enough to spare me four boards that I could use for shelving in my shop? I’d pay you for them, of course.”
He leaned over the table toward her. “Now, don’t you go insulting me again.”
“No, sir,” she rushed to assure him, even though there was no heat behind his words. “But I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity, either. Are you sure I can’t mend a shirt or darn a sock for you in trade? Anything?”
“You can quit your yammerin’ and carry this table downstairs so I can get back to minding my own business instead of messing around in yours.”
His sudden rudeness set her back on her heels, but as he ducked his head to hide behind the brim of his hat, an internal light dawned. This tough cowboy didn’t know how to deal with gratitude. He could repair a step and catch a falling damsel, but try to thank the fellow, and he got all surly. Maybe if she could remember that, he wouldn’t rile her so easily.
If he could just remember that she was a dressmaker, maybe his gut wouldn’t end up in knots whenever she looked at him like that. It was enough to give a man indigestion.
J.T. bit back a groan and flipped the table onto its side before she could distract him further. Miss Richards grabbed the leg and helped him maneuver the table through the doorway. She anticipated his movements and worked well with him as they eased down the steps, never once complaining about the weight or asking to take a break.
They carried the table through the back door and set it up in the workroom. He then returned to finish with the trunks while she carried her only chair down to the shop, as well. Something about needing it for her sewing machine and using her trunks for benches. Maybe he could check into finding her some real chairs.
After he deposited the last trunk, she locked up her room and followed him down the stairs.
“How much do I owe you?”
J.T. glanced off toward the livery, dodging her gaze. “A dollar for the wagon, and two bits for the unloa
ding.”
She handed him a one-dollar note and a silver twenty-five-cent piece. He tucked them into his pants pocket and nodded his thanks.
“Was the dry-goods store down this way?” She bit her lip and pointed toward the south, her blue gaze losing some of the assurance that had blazed there since she’d arrived. “I need to stock up on some supplies before they close this afternoon.”
An offer to escort her rose to his lips, but he quickly suppressed it. It was bad enough that he would have to see her tomorrow when he delivered the sawhorses and shelves he’d foolishly promised when the urge to make amends for his hasty judgments temporarily overrode his good sense.
“Yep,” he said, choosing the safer option. “It’s two doors down. Just on the other side of Mrs. James’s laundry.”
“Thank you.” She smiled in that way of hers, the one that made him feel like he had swallowed his toothpick. He frowned back.
Miss Richards turned away and started down the boardwalk, her skirts swaying in a subtle rhythm. Left. Right. L—
“Oh, Mr. Tucker?” She spun around, and J.T. jerked his focus back to her face. A cough that nearly strangled him lodged in his throat.
“Do you happen to know of someone in town who might be willing to sell me a jar of milk in the morning?”
The Harris family had a small dairy operation on the edge of town, where they sold milk, butter, and cheese to the locals. Will Harris, the eldest boy, usually made deliveries to the folks in town who didn’t keep their own cow, but J.T. hesitated to mention him. He was a big, strapping lad with an eye for the ladies. A woman on her own didn’t need a man like that coming around to her personal quarters in the early morning hours. Will was an honorable, churchgoing fella, yet the idea of him sniffing around Miss Richards set J.T.’s teeth on edge.
“I’ll have my sister bring you some.”
She snapped open the clasp on her purse and started swishing those hips toward him again. “Can I pay ahead for a week? I’ll give you—”