Mail Order Bride- Winter Page 9

  “Your potential husband, the one you’re writin’ to. Why him in particular?”

  Sniffling just a little, she glanced away again, shamefaced. “I didn’t find that many notices posted in the Gazette, or any other big city papers here in the office. And there was something that grabbed me. He just wants to be happy. And that’s what I want. I want someone to share my life with. I want to laugh with that someone special. I just want to feel loved. I just want a husband that is my soulmate. But the ads, well, most of those were—were—”

  “Mongrels?” suggested Gabriel, with a small grin.

  “Well, I don’t know. But they just sounded so—sad... This one really captured my heart. Because he wants what I want. And that’s very important to me.”

  “Was it now, by golly?”

  “Yes. And so I’m going to write to this man, and see if he answers, and whether we can keep up a decent correspondence. And you can’t stop me,” she finished up defiantly.

  “Oh, honey bun, I wouldn’t dream of it. You go ahead and send letters back and forth to your heart’s content.” Suddenly cheerful, he rose and began gathering things together to pile haphazardly, and with a great deal of noise, into the wooden box. “Will you let me know how this mystical communication gets on?”

  “Why, I—I don’t know. Why should I?”

  Amazingly, he bent forward slightly to cup her chin in one of his big rough hands. “Because, Miss Burton, I am a family friend of long standin’, and I’m a nosy ole galoot, b’sides. I wanna keep track of what’s goin’ on. Okay? I just don’t want you to get your heart trampled on.”

  Without further ado, he wrapped a long scarf around his bare throat and pulled his banded black wool derby down over his tousled hair. The wind had picked up its efforts to dislodge anything fastened down, and it would be less than pleasant to plunge on outside from this semi-warm (if you discounted Hannah’s presence) interior.

  “Wait! Wait a minute. I thought you had something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Oh, did I?” Hefting the box under one arm, he struggled to open the door’s latch at the same time. “Huh. Can’t remember what it mighta been. Oh, well, if I remember, we can do this again some time. I really do enjoy your company.”

  Chapter Nine

  ONE NEEDED ONLY A VERY brief acquaintance with Dr. Gabriel Havers to discover that his word was his bond, and he always kept his word. Thus, Hannah was not surprised when he appeared again to disrupt her daily routine, barely a week later. This time he invaded her privacy in the soothing environs of Table of Contents, whence she had taken her weary body and bruised ego to recover under Abigail’s pleasant ministrations.

  True to her mission statement, the entrepreneur had been selling odds and ends from the store at a brisk pace. While the contents varied, the quantity never did. A particular set of fine china teacups splashed with purple violets might be replaced by a tea set rimmed in gold oriental design; one small marble-topped table might see as its successor a hand-carved mahogany what-not. But all items remained similar. Either she had been ordering extra-special, unique supplies through Ben’s Mercantile, or she still held in reserve quite a stock from that New York mansion and the wagon train which had transported it into town.

  An artful marketer, she had put on display all those gewgaws so dear to a feminine heart: bits of glittering jewelry scattered casually about, as if from some lady’s boudoir; powder boxes and hairbrushes; rows of beeswax candles; lacy shawls wearing the imprint of Spain; packages of fragrant sachet and cut-glass perfume bottles. Comestibles, too, were provided, in tins of loose tea, small attractive bags of coffee beans, boxes of delectable chocolates and imported sweets.

  The Table might have been considered a worthy competitor to the Mercantile, were its products not so entirely opposite in design and desirability. Ben dispensed all the practical necessities of life; Abigail dispensed the luxuries. In that, the two establishments could have formed a viable working partnership.

  For whatever reason (usually the paucity of her pocketbook), a customer might choose not to buy some sparkly, tempting bauble from the Table’s stores. But she could at least look. And admire.

  It was an enterprise to be reckoned with. Already Abigail had hired several employees: a couple of women to work varying shifts, baking and serving, or just tending to the shop itself, if its owner needed to be elsewhere; several men for the heavier clean-up, moving and sorting furniture, loading purchased pieces for transfer to their new owner and unloading pieces to fill in for what was gone. She had also engaged the able assistance of the town’s lawyer and accountant to keep her business afloat.

  Table had become quite a gathering place, of local fame. In contrast to the saloons and hotel bar where men could congregate and let down their hair (occasionally, to patrons’ detriment), this was a more genteel emporium. Males seeking something different would sometimes wander in, stay a while in the quiet library, read or converse or choose from a selection of imported cigars.

  The ladies, meanwhile, found it a place of refuge.

  Mere day-to-day existence for the women of those times, whether given a modicum of freedom as town residents or living in relative seclusion on ranches or farms, was a hard one. They lived, often enough, in loneliness and drudgery, growing thinner and more work-worn and sunk down in misery, with every passing year.

  Thus, being able to sink back into the sumptuousness and splendor that surrounded their jaded eyes, came as a brief entrance into heaven. That glimpse gave them strength to return to the dreariness of what they had to endure.

  They could leave behind the messiness of cottage and children to bask in a luxurious Victorian drawing room overflowing with sweet light and sweet scent. They could put aside all demands of ordinary life to ascend (however momentarily) to one richer, fuller, lusher. Out of their own faded dreams, new visions might be attained.

  Abigail offered this hope to the women of Turnabout, and they accepted her offering with gladness and gratitude.

  “But you don’t charge for anything that you serve,” Hannah had curiously pointed out. As if Abigail were not aware of that fact.

  “No. This parlor I’ve designed is, in effect, an extension of my own home. If someone stops by, in the mood for some sociality, then it’s like providing refreshments to a guest. Besides,” Abigail’s bright blue eyes twinkled disarmingly, “if you have not already realized it, dear Hannah, I am a very wealthy woman. I can easily afford this sort of hospitality. Now, you’re looking a bit peaked. Try some of my lovely catnip tea.”

  Meant to relax and soothe the consumer, Abigail’s magic potion had only begun to do its work when Gabriel thrust open the door and lumbered across the snug vestibule.

  “Oh, good, you’re here.” His face lit up against the outside darkness when he spied his prey relaxing upon the plush purple divan.

  “Indeed, Doctor. We’re both here,” said Abigail tartly.

  “Abby. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Supposedly you never mean to be.” Taking a long draught from her cup, Hannah stared at the visitor. “Why are you here? Haven’t you a single patient who needs medical care?”

  “Well—uh—” His well-worn hat was in his hands, being turned slowly around and around. He presented the very image of discomfiture. Much more, and he’d be digging the toe of his boot into the carpet, in aimless circles, like an abashed small boy. “You got a few minutes?”

  Hannah sighed. “I suppose Abigail and I can—”

  “No, not both of you. Just you. Oh, hogwash, there I go again. I apologize, Abby, I didn’t intend to offend you.”

  Smiling, she rose and swished back her elegant turquoise skirts. “You never do, Gabe. By now, I’ve learned to accept your little foibles. Why not go back into the farthest corner of my library? It’s quite private there, and not many people are out and about on this cold night.”

  “Gol’ dang it,” expostulated Gabe, as they threaded their way through furnishings in the
pseudo-drawing room and entered the more discreet area of the library beyond. “I been all over town lookin’ for you. Where’djoo skitter off to?”

  He escorted her to a cozy book-lined ell, somewhat cordoned off from anyone else accidentally meandering in by a velvet portière and occupied by two damask wing chairs—a section deliberately made more masculine than feminine. It wasn’t until Hannah had swept aside her skirt to take a seat that she answered.

  She smirked. “I wasn’t aware that I needed to inform you of my whereabouts.”

  “Well, no. O’ course not. Holy Moley, I went to the Gazette, and the place was as dark as pitch. Then over to Mrs. McKnight’s, but she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you.”

  “Well. Yeah. Reckon so. Oh, thanks, Abby—you are one in a thousand!” He looked up to accept the steaming cup of strong black tea their hostess offered before slipping away again. Probably to greet other customers.

  “And you were seeking me for what reason? To talk about who should run for sheriff.”

  “Y’know, Hannah,” shifting position, he grinned, “Didja get your letter written?”

  “My letter. Oh, yes. That. Written, signed, and sent, thank you for asking.”

  “Ahuh. Good. Didja fill the poor guy in on all your little faults, so’s he’ll know what to expect?”

  “No, I listed none. There’s no point scaring off a prospective groom before we can even get acquainted, is there? But I’m sure you’ll enlighten me—and him, should he ever, through God’s good grace, appear in Turnabout—as to the many flaws you see in my character.”

  He sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and surveyed her with as much intensity as if she were some fine and rare oil painting put up for auction and he was planning to offer a bid. “Sure, I could do that. But another time, maybe. You will keep me posted as to what kinda reply you get, right? Like to find out first hand what this fellah is like.”

  “By all means.” The acid in her tone might have etched silver. “I can think of no one with a better right.”

  “Huh. Good to know.” Another grin, but not quite as breezy this time. He paused to drink half his tea in a few gulps before proceeding. “Been wantin’ to talk to you, Hannah. The rest of the town’ll find out soon enough, but I wanted you to be first to know. Well, second, I guess, after my informin’ Letty. I’m leavin’ tomorrow.”

  The cup in her hand suddenly clinked loudly against its saucer. “You’re what?”

  “Yep. Booked a seat on the early stage out in the mornin’.” With his hat flung down somewhere, his hair stood upright and disheveled around both ears, like that of some lusty, full-sized leprechaun just aiming to make mischief.

  “But this—you—have you even—”

  “Ha.” He cocked his head slightly to one side, eyes bright and gleaming as those of a busy parrot. “Do I detect the least bit of surprise in your voice? Chagrin? Regret?”

  “Regret? For what?” she asked. “For the patients you’re leaving in the lurch?”

  “Because you’re going to miss me terribly. You’ll see.”

  “Yes, I will. I don’t want you to leave. Who am I going to argue with? My life will be boring.”

  “Are you saying I brighten your day?”

  “You make it more interesting, that’s for sure.”

  “I knew it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re crazy about me.”

  “You drive me crazy,” she said.

  “I ain’t buying it.”

  She laughed. “You are very full of yourself.”

  “No, not at all. Just confident. Because I feel a spark between us.”

  The thought of him leaving made her stomach flutter. She didn’t want to lose him. And he was the best doctor around. But he was right. There was a spark between them. She could feel it deep down inside her.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” she said, more desperately than she wanted to sound. “We need you here.”

  “I’m not leaving permanently. Turnabout is currently livin’ through a period of medical history—nobody sick, ailin’, or about to expire. B’sides, I’ve given a heads’-up to Letitia. She ain’t near ready to take on full-fledged doctorin’, o’ course, but she’s got the basics down. She can handle anything minor that comes along.”

  She started working herself up into fine feather, plucking words out of the air and throwing them together like the most proficient circus juggling act. “Please don’t leave us. You really have a nerve, to simply prance off in such—”

  His gurgle of laughter stopped her in mid-stream. “Can’t say I’ve ever pranced anywhere, Miss Burton, but I reckon I can give it a try, if you so require. Please understand that I ain’t goin’ anywhere for frivolous reasons. My dear sainted mama is dyin’.”

  “Gabe!” Impulsively, involuntarily, Hannah reached out to clamp her fingers on his wrist, in shock. “What happened?”

  “One of my brothers sent me a telegram, and I need to rush home.”

  Hannah’s shoulders slumped as she worked to calm her racing heart. “I will keep her in my prayers.”

  Draining his cup, he set it aside on a convenient table. “Thank you. I figure to be gone a few weeks, maybe a month. Will you miss me?” Again, he cocked his head, studying her.

  “I think I will,” she said.

  From the outer rooms, a sudden hum of conversation, raised women’s voices, and bits of feminine laughter reached them. It was nearly eight on a dark, chilly Friday night; clearly business had picked up here at the Table. Abigail must be holding a soirée.

  “Well, maybe by the time I get back you’ll have yourself a nice shiny new husband.”

  “Life is full of interesting possibilities,” she said enigmatically.

  “It is that. Well.” His fingers were laced together across his middle, drumming soundlessly upon a neat waistcoat. “So. Okay, I need some help.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “What kind of help?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. I have to get some animal care for the time I’m gone.”

  “What, like currying a horse or something? You could try Norton’s Stable for—”

  “Uh-uh. This requires personal care. Real personal.” He shifted uneasily in his chair, hemming and hawing, then decided to go for broke. “I got me a mother cat and two tiny kittens at my house.”

  “Cat? Kittens? But—but—I’ve never taken care of animals, at all. Can’t Letty do it?”

  “Already asked her,” Gabe responded glumly. “She refused. Says with her studies and runnin’ a household and helpin’ with Reese’s new puppy, she ain’t got time to fool around with anything else. They’re awful cute,” he wheedled.

  “But what would need to be done? You mean—food and water, and so on?”

  His expression deepened from discomfort to actual pain. “It’s the ‘and so on’ that’s the problem,” he frankly admitted. “There’s a—um—box of dirt, I keep for her use...needs to be changed every few days. Otherwise, they just need some cuddlin’.”

  “I would love to help out, but I can’t. I can’t have cats in my room at the boarding house. Why, Mrs. McKnight would never allow it! But I sure would love to cuddle up with a kitten.”

  “Aw, sure she would. As a favor to me. I’ll just promise her free medical visits for a few months or so, to make up for the inconvenience.”

  “I doubt that will hold any sway in her opinion. She’s very particular, as you must be aware.”

  He cast her a speculative look. “Well, then, if that don’t work, you could always come stay at my place till I get back. It’s pretty comfortable, and Letty knows her way around.”

  Wishing she could slap that hopeful expression off his face, she shook her head until both garnet ear-bobs twinkled in the lamplight. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I couldn’t come stay at your place; that would be completely inappropriate, and I would be ostracized by the town. Do you even hear yourself?”

  “But I wouldn’t even be there!”
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  “It doesn’t matter. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gabe, surely you can’t be as ingenuous as you sound!” Indignant, she stopped for breath. “Why don’t you invite one of your adoring public to do this favor?”

  “Adorin’ public? Huh. You livin’ in the same town I am, Hannah Burton? Or you just got blinders over your eyes?”

  “Oh, enough. You know how smitten all the single women are with you.”

  “But not one has captured my heart. I have somebody special in mind, and I’ll wait for her as long as it takes.”

  “I’m glad there is somebody special in your life. Maybe you should ask her.”

  “I am. Right now.”

  She was taken back by the remark. “What?”

  He grinned.

  She changed the topic. He was probably was just playing games with her. “I’d love to take care of baby kittens, but I can’t.”

  Another silence. Then, quietly, “C’mon, Hannah, I really got nobody else to ask.”

  “So pleased I can be considered as a last resort.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Only because I knew I’d have to put up with this kinda guff just to get some cooperation.”

  “It’s not that. And I’d to help you out...but...”

  “So. Is it a done deal, or not?”

  Her protests were growing weaker, worn thin by his blatant browbeating. “Since when did you get cats anyway? You strike me as...”

  “I was comin’ home from seein’—uh—a patient the other night, and found the three of ’em huddled together under a bush near my house, tryin’ to survive the cold. So what could I do but stuff the skinny little things into my coat and bring ’em inside to warm up?” He paused, considering. “What do I strike you as?”

  “What? Oh.” Hannah finished her own tea and straightened. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me, please.”

  She laughed. “A dog lover.”

  “I love all animals.”

  “And...”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re someone that makes me smile, I suppose,” she admitted.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m not boring.”