Brides of Iowa (2 page)

Two hours later, a small group stood around the freshly dug grave on a rise beyond the edge of town. A scattering of makeshift crosses and headstones dotted the grassy area where butterflies played tag among the wildflowers and cicadas provided the funeral music.

Mrs. Dunnigan from the boardinghouse stood beside Tessa and patted her shoulder. Gideon and two other men, each holding his hat in one hand and a shovel in the other, stood opposite the mound of dirt. They listened while the preacher read from the Psalms.

Tessa thought it fitting that he read from Mama’s favorite book of the Bible. She felt a brief wave of relief that Papa saw fit to stay away, but guilt immediately assaulted her for thinking so. Despite Papa’s hateful words and drunkenness, something within her longed for his approval. Couldn’t he see she’d tried her best to take care of Mama? He’d always blamed her for Mama’s illness and told her she was a sorry substitute for the son Mama never had. Was she the reason he sought solace from a bottle?

After the preacher finished reading and praying, Gideon approached her with a bunch of yellow daisies and blue cornflowers. “Here.” He shuffled his feet and handed her the flowers. “I thought you might like to put these on your mother’s grave.”

When she lifted her eyes to his face, the tenderness she saw there unsettled her. Other than Mama, she couldn’t remember anyone ever defending her or extending kindness to her. She barely knew this man. Only his name: Gideon.

She accepted the wildflowers and mumbled a thank-you. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to watch the body of her mother lowered into the hole. Oh, how she longed to feel the comfort of Mama’s arms around her one more time.

She held the flowers to her face while the men filled in the grave. Then she sank to her knees and laid the flowers on the fresh mound. “Mama,” she whispered through her tears. “What am I going to do without you?”

Gideon watched as Mrs. Dunnigan coaxed the poor girl away from her mother’s grave and walked her back to the boardinghouse. With her father a drunk and her mother gone, what kind of life would she have now? She appeared to be close to his sister’s age, and he hated to imagine Martha being left in such a depressing situation.

When he’d placed the bouquet of wildflowers in her hands, her fingers reminded him of the delicate bone china he sold in the mercantile. Her red-rimmed hazel eyes tore at his heart, and her wheat-colored hair escaped its sorry scrap of a ribbon and wisped in a dozen different directions. He was sure Mrs. Dunnigan would help her clean up, but what good would it do if she was destined to fetch and carry for a drunkard?

The image in his mind made him grateful he’d been able to keep the family business going after his father died two years ago. Running the mercantile might not be what he wanted to do, but at least he and Martha had a roof over their heads. Gideon sent a quick prayer heavenward to thank God his younger sister was about to be married in just a few months to a fine, godly man.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Gideon reached Maxwell’s Mercantile. He unlocked the doors and propped them wide open to invite customers. If only opening the doors was all it took to bring in business. The reason for the recent decline in his sales clomped down the sidewalk at that very moment.

“Maxwell.” Henry Kilgore puffed out his chest to display the ornate watch chain hanging from his vest pocket. The ever-present cigar stuck in his teeth made the man sound like he was trying to talk with his mouth full.

Gideon ignored the man and entered the store, pulling his dark blue apron from its hook as he passed the storeroom door. The last thing he needed right now was another visit from Kilgore.

“Maxwell, didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you, Kilgore. What do you want?” As if he didn’t know.

“I was wondering if you’d given any consideration to my offer to take this place off your hands. You’ll have to admit I’ve offered you a fair price. You don’t really want to stand behind a counter waiting on people the rest of your life, do you? I thought you were a bright lad. You could do better than being nothing more than a shopkeeper. But maybe I was wrong.”

Ire grabbed Gideon’s gut at the implied insult, but he refused to give Kilgore the satisfaction of seeing the effect of his offensive remark. He picked up a feather duster and began flicking it over the glass jars lining the counter. “My father was nothing more than a shopkeeper, Kilgore, until you pressured him into an attack of apoplexy. He worked hard, earned an honest living, and managed to provide quite nicely for his family.”

Kilgore threw his head back and guffawed. “You call this providing quite nicely? I don’t see the customers beating down your door.”

Gideon turned to confront the accuser standing in the middle of his store. “I think we both know why that is, Kilgore. Ever since you came to town a couple of years ago, you’ve been buying up as many businesses as you can get your hands on. Many of my longtime customers are now trading at your Willow Creek Emporium. I know you can’t possibly be turning a profit from the prices you’re charging there, especially since you have to pay someone to run the place for you.”

Kilgore pulled a match from his vest pocket, struck it on the bottom of his boot, and lit his cigar. He puffed several times in rapid succession until the foul-smelling smoke caused Gideon to take a step backward.

“I don’t need to make a profit. I’m making enough money from my other enterprises. I can afford to lower my prices for the fine citizens hereabouts.”

Gideon snorted. “It’s not the fine citizens you’re concerned about, and we both know it. You think if you take enough business away from me, I’ll be forced to sell out and then you can charge whatever prices you want. You don’t just want to own Maxwell’s Mercantile. You want to own the town. Well, let me tell you, Kilgore, if I ever plan to sell, it won’t be to you, seeing as how you probably sent my father to a premature grave.” Gideon jerked his head in the direction of the entrance. “There’s the door. Use it.”

Kilgore laughed, but no mirth filled the sound. “I’m a patient man … for now. In another few months you’ll be singing a different tune.” He withdrew the cigar from his mouth and flicked the ashes on the floor. “Don’t wait too long though, Maxwell. I make a practice of getting what I go after, and I just might lower my offer. Remember, I can buy and sell you ten times over if I want to.” An arrogant smirk filled the man’s face. He took a long draw on the cheroot and blew the smoke in Gideon’s direction before sauntering toward the door.

Ordinarily Kilgore’s barbs found their mark and Gideon chewed on the crust of the man’s arrogance all day. But today was different. Maybe because the distracting picture of young Tessa Langford at her mother’s grave stuck in his head.

T
essa fought her way through the grogginess. As she struggled to sit up, the ragged edges of sleep fell away, and she realized two things: It was daylight, and she didn’t know where she was.

Needles of panic pricked her stomach. Her glance skittered around the simple furnishings in the room, from the clean, white curtain on the window to the closed door. Like pieces of a puzzle coming together, Tessa extracted a sense of time and place. She remembered now. That nice lady who ran the boardinghouse tried to get her to eat something and then invited her to lie down and rest.

Along with the understanding of her surroundings came the resurgence of grief. The ache blew through her like a searing-hot prairie wind, and a sob escaped her tight throat.

She almost didn’t hear the soft tap on the door. The boardinghouse lady poked her head in. The woman reminded Tessa of a schoolmarm with her severely pinned, iron-gray hair and creases around her eyes. Tessa guessed the woman either laughed a lot or frowned a lot.

“I thought I heard you crying, poor thing.” The woman came into the room. Tessa’s dress hung over her arm. “You were so exhausted I didn’t have the heart to wake you last night for supper. You needed to sleep.”

Last night? Supper? Bright sunlight streamed in the window.

The woman draped the dress across the foot of the bed. “I hope you don’t mind, but I washed out your dress. There’s fresh water in the pitcher, dear, and I saved you some breakfast.”

Confusion fought with grief for first place in Tessa’s mind. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be stupid, but what time is it?”

The woman lifted the dainty watch pinned to her bodice. “It’s almost ten thirty. You take your time freshening up.” A soft smile deepened the creases in her face as she turned to leave.

Tessa scrambled from the bed and realized she was wearing only her chemise. She snatched up the dress and held it in front of her. “Uh, Mrs.… uh, ma’am, how long have I been here?”

“I’m Pearl Dunnigan, dear. We met yesterday, but I don’t blame you for not remembering. After the funeral, you swallowed a few sips of tea before you collapsed on that bed, and you’ve been asleep ever since.”

Tessa gasped. Papa would be furious. Heedless of Mrs. Dunnigan standing there, she lowered the dress and stepped into it. “Mrs. Dunnigan, I’m so sorry. I had no right to stay here. I told the preacher I had no money—”

Mrs. Dunnigan held her hand up. “It’s perfectly all right, dear. You needed a quiet place to rest. Now come and eat something.”

“But my father will—”

The woman’s expression changed from sunny to stormy in an instant. “Your father will just have to wait a few more minutes.” She clucked her tongue. “His behavior yesterday was deplorable. And such vile language! Didn’t even attend his own wife’s funeral, and the way he treated you … tsk-tsk.”

As if suddenly realizing her words might be offensive, the woman’s cheeks turned bright pink. “Well, anyway, come eat some breakfast. I think there’s still some apple butter left.” She slipped out the door.

Tessa’s fingers fumbled with the buttons down the front of her dress. She pulled on her shoes—Mama’s shoes, actually. Mama told her to wear them a couple of months ago when her own were beyond repair. A simple pair of secondhand shoes, certainly not much to look at, but tangible proof of the footsteps Mama left for her to follow.

After a quick washing of her face and arms, she pulled her hair back and secured it with a frayed scrap of old ribbon. How might she excuse herself and hurry back to the wagon without appearing ungrateful? She couldn’t, in good conscience, take advantage of Mrs. Dunnigan’s generosity and accept food without paying for it.

She followed the heavenly mingled fragrances of coffee, bacon, and biscuits and found the kitchen.

Mrs. Dunnigan turned from the stove when Tessa entered. “Here, dear, you sit down while I pour you some coffee.” She reached for the coffeepot. “How about some bacon and eggs?”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not hungry.” She regretted the lie. “You’ve been so kind. I just wish I could pay you for your trouble.”

Mrs. Dunnigan set a mug of coffee in front of her. “You need to eat something, child.”

Tessa took several tentative sips of the steaming brew. The aroma of breakfast made her stomach growl, but she set her jaw and stiffened her spine against the temptation. The overriding fear of her father’s wrath bullied every other thought—her grief as well as her hunger—out of the way. Despite Mrs. Dunnigan’s kindness, she couldn’t linger at the woman’s table.

She took one more sip of coffee and stood. “Thank you, ma’am, for everything. You’ve been more than kind, but Papa will be furious if he’s had to wait for me.”

Mrs. Dunnigan’s eyebrows dipped in disagreement, but she simply nodded and patted Tessa’s shoulder. “All right, dear. You take care now. And I’m so sorry about your mother.”

The lump in Tessa’s throat prevented her reply, so she forced a smile and returned the woman’s nod. She slipped out the door and scurried down the boardwalk, past the livery to the giant elm tree at the edge of town where Papa left the wagon yesterday—or was it the day before?

She arrived at the place beneath the giant elm tree, but the only evidence of the wagon’s presence was the trunk Tessa shared with her mother, Mama’s treasured hand-carved cabinet, and a crate containing a crude assortment of household items strewed in the bushes.

Tessa’s feet froze in place as she stared at the belongings littering the ground. Beside them, a set of wagon tracks led away from town in a westerly direction. She forced her eyes to cast a wide search of the area. Reality laughed in her face. Papa dumped everything he didn’t want or need off the tailgate and left without her. He’d discarded her like a piece of unwanted baggage.

She sank down in the dirt beside the trunk. Her mother’s cabinet lay sideways in front of her, one door askew. A cracked teacup, a broken crock, Mama’s apron—evidences of a meager existence, tossed aside in the dust. Tessa picked up each item by turn, wiped it clean, and cradled it in her lap. Papa may have viewed these things as worthless and unnecessary, but they belonged to Mama. They were priceless.

She employed some muscle and set the cabinet upright, noticing that the collision with the ground had broken one of the hinges. How could Papa treat Mama’s cherished cabinet with such carelessness?