A Bride in Store (12 page)

Everett’s voice grew scratchy, his eyes unfocused. “Though your friend dies in your arms, you have only one boot, and you weep at night for your mother—you still have to clean your gun and take your turn standing watch. Fighting isn’t easy, but it’s what you do.”

Will rarely heard Everett or his father talk about the war. He held his breath lest he interrupt the man’s recollections.

Matthew crawled into his papa’s lap and laid his head against his shoulder.

Everett exhaled. “But then, wars end. If you survive, you can move on to better things.” He kissed the back of his son’s head. “Though the battle with your sin nature doesn’t end this side of heaven.”

“Then there’s no hope?”

“For you to conquer sin with willpower? No.” The corner of
Everett’s mouth lifted into a crooked smile. “But the good news of the gospel is still the same. Jesus died for your sins, all of them—the ones you committed yesterday and today, and the ones you’ll commit tomorrow. I think God often uses our defeat to force us to depend on Him.”

Will nodded, looking far out into the fields. He knew God was faithful to forgive, but how he conducted himself affected his relationships here on earth. He had to stop thinking about Eliza. Otherwise he’d not survive working at the store after she and Axel married.

He needed to fight to get himself under control—immediately.

God, please help me. I need to conquer
this.

Chapter 9

One hundred thirteen or just thirteen? Will blinked, the numbers blurring worse than usual.

Just thirteen, like it should be.

He’d stayed up all night trying to finish checking the store’s ledgers—for naught. It seemed he’d done every one of his sums correctly. So why didn’t they match what the bank said he had in the store’s account? Finding a huge problem on the last page was unlikely, but he wanted to finish. Business was slow, and Eliza handled the morning customers easily without him.

Which was good. Ensconcing himself at the back desk had kept his mind from wandering to her very often. He’d managed not to look at her for an entire hour and a half today.

Eliza’s warm voice selling Lynville more soap tugged at him, but he refused to look their way. Was Lynville bathing his pigs with store-bought soap? No man needed as much as he’d bought this last week—unless he was washing livestock by hand.

“Do you need anything else, Mr. Tate?”

“I’m going to get one more thing.”

Behind Will, the thud of Lynville’s purchases hitting the counter
and the scratching of Eliza’s pencil against paper endangered his focus.

When Lynville’s boot steps stopped, he caved and looked toward them. Lynville’s cheeky grin was surely the most annoying thing on the planet. Not that it was working on Eliza at the moment—she evidently had no problem focusing on sums.

“Add this, would ya?” Lynville laid a bouquet on top of his pile. “You pick these? They’re right pretty.”

“Yes.” She fingered a leafy purple stalk. “I’ve never seen these before. Probably a weed, but they make the yellow stand out.”

Will turned back to the ledger, the numbers jumping around more than usual. Once Lynville left and Eliza busied herself elsewhere, then he could focus. Hopefully.

He was thankful medical schools were lecture based. He could absorb information better by hearing than reading, and the hands-on portion would help.

He scanned over to the negative number at the end of the last column.

Or maybe he’d been dreaming about school for nothing—he’d never get there.

“That’ll be $8.65.”

Will pursed his lips in appreciation. This week alone, Lynville had spent more than he had in the past year. How would his spending habits change when Axel showed up and claimed—

No. He wouldn’t imagine Axel and Eliza together—that would steer him toward trouble again. He pulled out his notepad of verses and started reading to keep his mind from envisioning Eliza’s smile, Axel’s arms around her . . . or how she’d feel in his own.

He jabbed his pen into his paper.
Focus on reading verses,
Stanton.

“Put it on my account, if you would, Miss Cantrell. And these are for you.”

“What?” Eliza’s confused voice stole Will’s attention again.

Lynville tipped his head forward in a mock bow, bouquet extended over the counter.

“Oh, Mr. Tate, I . . . I can’t.”

Eliza held the nosegay of yellow wild flowers loosely between two fingers, as if the bouquet had molded.

“Of course you can.” Lynville’s smile was more saccharine than the taffies he’d purchased. Were those for Eliza too?

Would she tell him about Axel?

She visibly swallowed. “That’s kind of you. I’ll get a vase and set them on the counter for everyone to enjoy.” She disappeared into the back.

He shook his head. She was too concerned about profit. What mental gymnastics had she done to justify keeping her engagement secret?

Not that he minded that she didn’t appear eager to announce her engagement. Perhaps that meant—
No, stop hoping, Stanton.

War. He was at war with his stupid thoughts.

The door chime jangled again. Another victim for Eliza’s eyelashes to overpower? Though she’d not yet come out of the storage room.

A woman’s voice echoed through the store as she called to her husband, and Lynville’s fancy bootheel clicks followed their footsteps outside a minute later.

Will grabbed a ruler, positioning it under an annoying line of wriggling numbers. One more page to go. At least doctoring didn’t require much math, only dosages—though he could kill someone if the dosage was wrong. Oh, why had God seen fit to give him his father’s reading problems?

Eliza’s slippered feet shuffled back from the storeroom. The sound of a glass vase thunked behind him.

Forty-five
cents plus
—

“Are you almost done?” Her sleeve tickled his shoulder.

He flicked the ledger shut. Too bad there weren’t any customers
to keep her busy—to keep her away from him. “Did you need something?”

“Do you want me to double-check the figures?” She frowned at the closed ledger.

“No, thank you.” He’d not let her see the records right now, not until he figured out why his books weren’t matching up. Maybe he needed to dig out every one of the invoices they had piled up in the back . . . somewhere.

Relief filled him as she left and busied herself with a stack of denims.

He picked up his ruler and finished checking the last page.

The final negative number did not change. Should he deposit a sum from his savings into the store’s account to make it balance? Would that be the right thing to do or just another wrong piled on top of many others?

How could he have miscalculated so much? Where was his mistake?

Eliza walked into the Men’s Emporium seconds before tiny raindrops turned into big splats. It hadn’t looked like threatening weather when she’d left the boardinghouse a few minutes ago. What a way to return to work after staying home for a couple days to avoid William.

She swiped at the tiny water pearls on her sleeves and forced herself not to grit her teeth as she stood at the front—not being greeted.

Was William still mad about the stupid comment she’d made at the picnic? She couldn’t believe she’d faked an illness to get away from his coldness, but since he’d stopped talking to her . . . Well, for some reason she couldn’t bear another day with him like that.

But cold-shouldered co-worker or not, she couldn’t make herself hide out at the boardinghouse another day. And for some reason she needed to see William, even if he wasn’t talking to her.

She could hear him fiddling at his gun counter at the rear of the store. She sighed and walked back.

When a board creaked under her foot, William looked up and lifted his hand in acknowledgment but continued working.

“I hope you haven’t been overly busy the last two days.”

He gave her a side glance and grabbed a slender screwdriver from a bucket. “I had a few busy moments. Glad you’re feeling better.”

If he truly was relieved to see her off her sickbed, shouldn’t he at least smile?

Not that she’d been sick . . . or in bed.

She turned and scanned the store’s three aisles, then blew out a breath, straightened her shoulders, and pivoted back to face him. “I’m sorry for what I said at your parents’.”

He flicked his hand, without deigning to look up. “Forgotten.”

Forgotten? He’d given her a week of cold shoulder for her big mouth. “So . . . this is how you treat someone you’re on good terms with?”

He fiddled with something in the gun. “I don’t hold it against you. Everyone thinks I’m wrong for not returning to Forsythe’s tutelage, but I can only do what I feel is best.” He picked up another tool.

Evidently, he was as intent on not talking to her as he’d been since the picnic, so she’d broach the other topic she’d been stewing over. “Do you think I could be paid for the work I’ve done here? Mrs. Lightfoot hinted at me starting to pay her room and board this morning—she said she was kidding, but still, I think it’s fair. I’ve stayed there much longer than anticipated.”

“Sure.” He snagged the cashbox and pulled some bills out from the back corner.

She held out her hand to stop him from dragging out more. “That’s more than necessary.”

He put two more dollars on top and handed her the stack. “You’ve worked hard.” He reached for the ledger.

She licked her lips and looked down the center aisle to the front door. She couldn’t see the street for all the rain. No customer would wander out in that. “Can we talk?”

He said nothing. Confounded man. Well, if he wasn’t going to utter any objections, then he’d have to endure her prattling.

“Do you no longer . . . like me?”

That at least got him to look up for a second. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She meant whatever he wanted that to mean. She had to understand what had caused his change in behavior if she was going to keep working with him. “Why are you acting like this? What happened to the William I first met?”

“I still don’t know what you mean.” A part flew from the table, and he leaned over to snatch the piece off the floor.

“I thought maybe . . .” Her heart started to gallop. What could she say without ruining their business relationship?

He looked over at her, his mouth pursed.

She tucked her hands in the crook of her arms. “Forget it.”

She’d made a commitment to Axel—uncomplicated by questions, uncertain futures, or . . . the sudden strange fluttering in her stomach when Will looked at her now . . . or refused to.

A roll of thunder rumbled close by, and rain slammed against the roof for a few minutes before lagging. She stood beside him, listening to the rain while he went back to disassembling his customer’s gun.

She needed to occupy herself with something.

Stomping to the household section, she stacked the boring sheets and empty ticks more compactly on the shoulder-high shelf and stood on tiptoe to grab the goose-down pillows. To entice customers with their plumpness, they needed to come down a level or two. But her fingers could barely brush them.

With the windows up front fogging, no one would see her, so she jumped and caught one by the corner. The pillow slipped from
her hand and flumped to the floor. She brushed off the dust before setting it on its new shelf.

With an
umph
, she knocked the next one off and caught it behind her head. The third one stubbornly refused to inch forward. She crouched to jump higher.

“What on earth are you doing?” Will stood near her, arms crossed, one eye squinted—a mirror of her father’s expression when he’d thought her silly.

“Getting pillows.” Eliza glared at the obstinate one and jumped as unladylike as she pleased.

It still didn’t budge. What did the pillow have against her?

“You could have asked for help. I’m at least six inches taller than you, and you know we have a ladder, because I’ve seen you use it—a lot.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Why talk about helping me instead of just doing so?”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed the pillow without looking at it.

Rrrriiiiippppp.

A small shower of feathers floated to her feet.

“Hmmmm.” She refused to laugh because he was still so rigidly cold, but her lips quivered in an attempt to keep from smiling.

He batted at the pillow, attempting to pop it off of whatever was hanging it up, but the casing ripped farther, and more down fluffed out. “What is it stuck on?”

“Maybe we should get the—”

Then with a loud rip, a cloud of white poofed, and Will stood frowning with a nearly empty pillow in his hands amidst a fluffy blizzard.

She held a hand over her brows to keep the feathers from catching on her eyelashes and puffed at the ones trying to find shelter in her mouth.

Will sneezed. A rather small sneeze for a man. His hand came
up to his nose, and he leaned his head back for another sneeze, sure to be more intense.

Pew!
His face contorted as if the mouse squeak he’d let out rivaled musket fire.