Carol Cox (3 page)

She dropped her hands into her lap and looked out the window. “Lord, why did you have to take him away?” If George were alive, she’d head west in a heartbeat.

A wistful sigh escaped her lips. She bent her head again and skimmed the letter once more, smiling at the way her cousin’s love for her showed in every line. Her lips curved even more at the mention of the hair ribbons. And the promise of work and a roof over her head—wouldn’t that be lovely?

Even though she’d never expected to take George up on his suggestion to join him, just knowing a home was there if she ever needed it had been a comfort on the days when her duties as a governess had become almost unbearable. In her present circumstances, it would be far more than mere comfort—it would be a lifesaver.

Sliding the letter inside the envelope, she pushed it back into the packet with the rest. Its edge caught on another envelope, forcing it out the other end of the stack. Melanie pulled the letter free and smoothed it flat on the desktop, her heart hammering when she recognized the return address.

Dated just after last Christmas, this one had been written by Alvin Nelson, George’s partner in the Ross-Nelson Mercantile, telling her of George’s passing and effectively severing her last tie to a living relation.

She scanned the first part of the letter quickly, remembering
its painful news all too well. Then her eyes fastened on a paragraph farther down the page:

George was the best pard a man could ever have, and I mean to be as true a friend to him as he was to me. I know how much you meant to him. Every time he showed me that tintype of you as a little tyke, I could hear the pride in his voice when he called you his Melly-girl. I want you to know I’ve kept everything he left behind, and it’s all yours. I’ll be sure to keep it safe, should you choose to come out and claim it—and I hope you do. I would be most pleased to make your acquaintance and get to know the young cousin he talked about so much.

Your obedient servant,
Alvin Nelson

In her initial grief at learning of her cousin’s passing, Alvin’s invitation hadn’t even registered, but now Melanie’s fingers tightened on the paper in her hand as she stared unseeing at the wall before her, phrases from the letter dancing through her mind.

“I’ve kept everything he left behind. . . . I’ll keep it safe, should you choose to come out and claim it.”

A seed of hope sent up a fragile tendril. Cousin George might have departed this mortal coil, but perhaps his promise could hold true after all. Alvin Nelson was a man George liked and trusted. A caring soul, from the sound of his missive. After all, he had extended an invitation for her to travel to Arizona to meet him and claim whatever George had left behind.

Melanie’s breath quickened. Once they met, mightn’t that invitation expand into an offer to stay on and work in the mercantile? George’s letter indicated they would be glad for some additional help. Wouldn’t that hold doubly true, now that Alvin Nelson was left to run the store on his own?

Her imagination soared, picturing her arrival at the mercantile and Mr. Nelson’s warm greeting. She could almost hear him asking her to stay on, offering her a job and a place to live. Everything would work out. It had to. And wouldn’t it be lovely? All she had to do was get to Arizona. . . .

The reminder of her circumstances punctured the happy scene she’d been imagining as effectively as a pin pricking a child’s balloon. Alvin Nelson might be willing to take her under his wing and give her a home as she hoped, but the fact remained that she would have to travel to Arizona before that could happen. And she couldn’t do that without money for train fare.

Tears filled her eyes once more. Her employment ran to room and board, plus a small monthly stipend for personal expenses. She didn’t need to check her small purse to know the amount there wouldn’t cover the cost of a train ticket. The purchase of a much-needed cloak in January had eaten up most of her savings, and the meager amount she’d managed to put by since then would barely cover a night’s lodging, let alone train fare for a cross-country journey.

She clasped her hands, crinkling Alvin Nelson’s letter between her fingers. “What am I supposed to do, Lord? I have no place to go, and no one to turn to but you. My grandpa always said you hear the prayers of your people, so please,
please
hear me now.”

A sharp rap on the door jarred her from her prayer. Melanie
took a moment to blot her eyes again before she pushed away from the dressing table and opened the door. Jarvis, the butler, loomed in the hallway.

He held out a sealed envelope. “Mr. Deaver sends this message and wishes to know if you are ready to leave.”

From Jarvis’s careful tone and the stiffness of his features, Melanie suspected he was dreading the worst—fits of tears and desperate pleas for more time. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Forcing a dignified nod, she took the envelope and turned away to open it before the butler could take note of the way her hands trembled.

What more could Mr. Deaver have to say to her? He had made it clear enough that she couldn’t expect a recommendation from him. Mystified, she tore open the flap and sucked in her breath when she saw a small packet of bank notes wrapped inside a folded paper. The note was brief and to the point:

Consider this your severance pay.

She stared from the written page to the bank notes and back again. Had a prayer ever been answered so quickly? The amount she held in her hand wouldn’t set her up to live in a lavish way, but it would pay her way to a new life in a new home . . . and that was all she needed.

Whispering a heartfelt thank-you, she turned back to Jarvis. “You may tell Mr. Deaver I am packed and ready to leave.”

She swept up the mementos and tucked them—along with the heaven-sent cash—into her carpetbag and snapped the latch shut. Looping the handle over her arm, she faced Jarvis with a calm smile. “Please see to it that my trunk is taken to the train station.”

The butler’s eyebrows soared toward his hairline. “You’re leaving Marietta? You couldn’t possibly have found a new position so quickly.”

Melanie’s smile broadened as she pressed the carpetbag close to her side. “My days as a governess are over, Jarvis. I’m going to Arizona.”

C
EDAR
R
IDGE
, A
RIZONA
T
ERRITORY

C
aleb Nelson knelt beside a packing crate and leaned on the pry bar, straining as he levered the last nail out of the top. With a screech of protest, the obstinate nail popped loose and flew through the air like a bottle rocket before coming to rest under the mercantile counter.

Leaning the crate lid against the counter, Caleb bent over and peered underneath the work surface. In the dim light, he could just make out the nail’s slender form . . . alongside a scrap of paper. He retrieved the nail, then stretched his arm out again to fish out the piece of paper.

Not another one.
Caleb stared at the crude printing on the crumpled scrap in his hands, wishing he knew what lay behind the menacing words.

Get out of Cedar Ridge. We don’t want your kind here.

A slightly different wording this time, but similar in tone to the other notes he had come across while cleaning out the Ross-Nelson Mercantile after his uncle’s death, and in the
months since then. The open hostility had shocked him at first. Uncle Alvin had been a man without a speck of malice, one who tried to live out his beliefs by caring for his neighbor. Caleb couldn’t imagine anything his uncle might have done that would warrant such ill will.

Even if he had committed an offense worthy of such venomous messages, why had they continued to appear after he passed away? Caleb frowned as he examined the paper, wondering what lay behind the menacing words . . . and whether the sender would remain content to send anonymous notes, or if the spiteful comments would one day be backed up by equally malicious actions.

“Papa?”

The urgent whisper interrupted his musings. Caleb wadded up the bit of paper and stuffed it into his pocket, taking care to smooth the anxiety from his features before he turned to face his son. “What is it, Levi?”

Chocolate-brown eyes—so like Corinna’s—gleamed with excitement. “Over there, Papa. It’s the lady that looks like an
S
.”

Caleb swiveled his head around to follow the six-year-old’s pointing finger. Over the counter, from his crouched position, he could make out Ophelia Pike standing by the shelves near the potbellied stove.

“The lady that looks like an
S.” Caleb cringed at his son’s creative description of the mayor’s wife. After the school shut down temporarily following the teacher’s elopement with an officer from Fort Verde, Caleb had spent his evenings teaching Levi his letters. He’d felt proud of his accomplishment, knowing Corinna would have approved. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“Mr. Nelson, I need your assistance.” The woman’s sharp
voice rang through the mercantile like a fire bell. “You’ve placed these cans too high for me to reach.”

“I’ll be with you in just a moment, Mrs. Pike.” Caleb got to his feet and swatted the dust from the knees of his denim trousers. Then he bent again to slide the crate against the counter so as not to trip unwary customers. He picked up a few stray pieces of excelsior that had drifted to the floor and tucked the strands of the packing material back inside the top of the open carton.

Straightening, he dusted his hands together and had taken one step toward Mrs. Pike when he spotted his son eyeing the new shipment with speculation. Caleb pointed at the crate and fixed Levi with a stern gaze. “Don’t get into that,” he ordered. “And make sure Freddie stays in his box. I don’t want him scaring the customers.” Levi’s pet frog had already brought complaints from several of the local women.

“Yes, Papa.” Levi offered him an angelic smile.

Knowing better than to trust that innocent expression for a moment, Caleb shot the boy a warning glance and hurried off to help his customer. It wouldn’t take more than a moment to pull a can or two from one of the higher shelves and hand it to her. Then he would get right back to the crate before inquisitiveness overcame Levi and led to a disaster. The six-year-old possessed the curiosity of any number of cats, and the idea of him deciding to help unpack the shipment of crockery dishes didn’t bear thinking about.

Caleb crossed the store to where Mrs. Pike stood waiting, facing the rows of shelves in a way that gave him a full view of her profile. Seeing herself as a leader in fashion, she had adopted the newly revived form of the bustle. The one she wore today made her skirt jut out from the back of her
waistline like a narrow shelf. With her jutting chin, squared shoulders, and accented derriere, her silhouette did resemble the letter
S
. The moment the thought popped into his mind, Caleb averted his eyes and felt a wave of heat creep up his neck.

He cleared his throat. “What can I help you with, Mrs. Pike?”

“I need you to hand me two cans of stewed tomatoes.” She pointed at the uppermost shelf and grumbled as he got them down. “It would be a great help if you didn’t insist on setting the items I need up so high. How do you expect anyone to reach them? Assuming, of course, that your intention is to sell your merchandise and not merely put it out on display.”

Caleb grimaced and glanced around the store, hoping his other customers hadn’t heard the woman’s complaint. It was a futile wish. He knew it as soon as he saw the sympathetic glances directed his way. Mrs. Pike’s voice carried throughout the store like that of a trained stage actress.

She fixed him with a piercing stare. “My husband wanted me to check with you about the bunting we’ll need for the Founders Day celebration. Have you ordered that yet?”

“Not yet,” Caleb admitted. “But there’s still well over a month until Founders Day. We have plenty of time.”

Mrs. Pike sniffed. “Don’t put off until tomorrow what can be done today. Procrastination is a sign of weak character.”

Caleb swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. Has the mayor thought any more about purchasing fireworks for the event? I could go ahead and add them to the order for the bunting.”

Mrs. Pike lifted her chin. “Mayor Pike has not changed his mind. He intends to uphold his promise to the citizens of Cedar Ridge to manage the town funds wisely. Bunting
can be used for a number of years. A fireworks display is a momentary diversion—hardly the best use of the town’s money. You could learn from his example of sound business practice, young man.”

Caleb put on his most conciliatory smile and held the cans out for her inspection. “Shall I ring these up for you, or do you have other shopping to do?”

The tip of Mrs. Pike’s pointy nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “That isn’t the brand I’m accustomed to buying.”

But it’s the only brand I carry now.
Caleb bit back the retort before he spoke it aloud. Uncle Alvin had been most emphatic about treating customers with respect, regardless of their attitude. Keeping his customers’ goodwill would be vital to the mercantile’s success, especially with competition from the emporium that had opened the previous autumn. He couldn’t afford to alienate any patrons . . . including the demanding Mrs. Pike. Instead, he reached back up to replace the cans on the shelf.

“Young man, did I say I didn’t want to purchase those? Just set them aside on the counter while I look through—” Mrs. Pike gasped and stared past Caleb’s left shoulder with an expression of horror.

Caleb whirled around. A dusty cloud nearly obscured the sight of his son squatting beside the open crate, his skinny arms flailing as he tossed a double handful of excelsior into the air with a whoop.

“It’s snowing, Papa!” Levi’s voice rang with glee as the fine wood shavings cascaded over his head. “You said we might not get to see snow again once we moved to Arizona, but I’m making it snow now. Watch me!” He scooped up another handful and flung it overhead.

Caleb stared in disbelief as he took in the sight of excelsior drifting down to blanket his son, the floor around him, and the shelves nearby.

Mrs. Pike harrumphed. “Really, Mr. Nelson, you need to keep that boy under control.” Her nose quivered, punctuating her statement. “If he was my son, I’d know how to put an end to such behavior.”

With a sniff, she turned toward the door. “I can see you have your hands full, with that mess to clean up. I’ll be back another day . . . unless I decide to take my business to Mr. O’Shea instead.”

“What about the tomatoes?” Caleb held up one of the cans, but Mrs. Pike never broke stride as she exited the store. Through the window, he could see her angling across the street in front of the Cedar Ridge Saddlery, making a beeline for O’Shea’s Emporium at the other end of town.

Heaving a sigh, he put the cans back on the top shelf and turned back to the mounds of shavings that littered the floor. Levi had evidently tired of creating his snowstorm and was currently engrossed in lining up his tin soldiers along the shelf under the counter. Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, wishing he were a better father, one who knew how to cope with Levi’s behavior.

He couldn’t deny that there was some truth in what Mrs. Pike had said. He couldn’t expect customers to feel comfortable in the mercantile when they never knew what the boy might do next.

But how was he supposed to corral his exuberant son? Spending his days inside the mercantile was no life for an active six-year-old. Levi ought to be burning off that excess energy by playing outdoors under the watchful eye of his mother.

And that was where the problem lay. The only eyes available to watch the boy were Caleb’s, and evidently he was doing a mighty poor job of trying to be both mother and father.

“Don’t let her get to you.”

Startled by the voice at his elbow, Caleb spun around to find Earl Slocum leaning on the counter, a grin creasing his grizzled cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“The Pike woman. I heard what she said.”

Caleb grimaced. “You and everyone else in the store.”

Slocum’s grin widened. “Not to mention anybody outside who was within earshot.” He clapped Caleb on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. My sister had three boys who were the same way. You’re doing a fine job. He’ll grow out of this, but right now you just have to roll with the punches. In the meantime, it looks like you have some sweeping to do.”

He left the store chuckling, and Caleb crunched across the excelsior to the back room, found a broom, and went to work. The store might not be a suitable place to raise a rambunctious child, but it showed substantial promise from a business standpoint. Cedar Ridge boasted only a couple of hundred residents, but the growing number of miners and ranchers in the outlying areas, plus the soldiers who rode in occasionally from Fort Verde, provided plenty of customers to give him and Levi a comfortable life . . . providing Levi didn’t chase them all off first.

Twenty minutes later, he had swept the shavings into a neat pile and wiped the shelves clean of excelsior and dust. The store was free of shoppers for the moment, as good a time as any to finish unpacking his newly acquired merchandise. He bent over and tugged the crate into the open again, removing the excelsior with care to reveal the set of crockery within.

He lifted the first piece out and examined it carefully, pleased to see that it appeared to have survived the journey without breakage. He set the plate on the counter and was bending to retrieve the next when the bell over the door jingled.

He turned to see a comely, chestnut-haired young woman enter the store, carrying a brocade carpetbag. He didn’t recall seeing her before, and he would have remembered—he felt sure of that. Caleb brightened—new customers were good for business.

Thankful that he’d finished sweeping up the remains of Levi’s “snowstorm,” he set the second plate beside the first and smoothed his hair back with both hands, eager to make a good impression.

His new customer stopped a few feet inside the door and stood staring around, taking in the shelves and stacks of merchandise. Maybe she needed help finding something. He’d started to move out from behind the counter when she pivoted suddenly and marched straight toward him.

Caleb put on a welcoming smile. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

The woman looked at him with clear gray eyes. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Nelson, please.”

Caleb blinked. “I’m Mr. Nelson.”

A tiny frown puckered the creamy skin between her delicate eyebrows, and she gave her head an impatient shake. “Mr.
Alvin
Nelson?”

Caleb’s smile dissolved. “Oh. Alvin was my uncle, but . . .”

She turned away from him, hoisted her carpetbag, and set it down onto the counter with a thump. Rummaging inside, she pulled some folded papers from its depths and fixed
him with a stare that reminded him of a prim schoolmarm. “Would you go fetch your uncle, please? Tell him Melanie Ross is here in response to his letter.”