Earth Angels

1

EARTH ANGELS

(EVERYDAY ANGEL SERIES, BOOK ONE)

BOBBY HUTCHINSON

CHAPTER ONE

Demersville, Montana, 1889

When the bell over the front door tinkled, Emma Walsh hurried from the back room of Walsh’s General Store, carrying several bolts of the new fabric she’d been unwrapping and admiring.

Her high spirits wavered just a little when she saw who the first customers of the morning were, but she smiled brightly and said in a cheerful voice, “Good morning, Mrs. Graves. And Belinda, how nice to see you,” she lied, setting the fabric down on the wide counter.

The truth was, Mrs. Graves was perpetually dissatisfied, and she and her plump daughter always did their best to make Emma feel like a servant. Nonetheless, they were customers, and as such deserved her best service.

“Nothing good about this weather, it’s fixing to snow again,” Mrs. Graves said in an aggrieved tone. “Why Mr. Graves ever took this wretched posting in Montana, I’ll never know. The weather in California is always sunny, and goodness knows the shopping is far superior. There’s simply no choice in this tiresome little town.”

Emma hung onto her smile in the face of the veiled insult. She’d bought the General Store just six months before, and she was proud of the changes she’d made and the new stock she’d purchased. And the fact that there wasn’t a lot of competition worked in her favor, she reminded herself.

“Is there anything I can help you with this morning?”

“Belinda needs fabric for a new gown for the Valentine’s Day social, nothing too fancy, goodness knows that apart from the church socials there’s not a lot to dress up for in this backwater place.”

“Let’s see what would best suit you, Belinda.” Emma led the way over to the shelves displaying bolts of fabric.

“Oh, Emma, it’s wonderful to have someone my own age running this store,” Belinda gushed.

Emma knew that Belinda was at least six years older than her own twenty-four, but she murmured a thank you anyway.

“That pink velvet looks scrumptious,” Belinda cooed, unerringly choosing the color that would least suit her florid complexion and orangey red hair. And she didn’t seem to realize that heavy velvet was most often used for older women’s gowns.

“Not that color, Belinda. Not with your hair,” Mrs. Graves snapped. “What about this wool tartan?”

Oh, no. That small-checkered pattern wasn’t going to flatter Belinda’s burgeoning hips,
Emily thought.

“I have a lovely light wool in periwinkle blue, it just came in,” she suggested. “It’s with yesterday’s new shipment, I’ll get it.” She headed for the back room, hoping that Belinda would decide on a color and fabric that toned down her freckles and stocky figure. After all, everyone would know that the material had come from the General Store. Emma had her reputation to uphold.

Mrs. Graves was draping purple silk across her daughter’s generous bosom when Emma returned with the blue wool. The expensive bolt of silk was tossed carelessly on the wooden floor, while Mrs. Graves unrolled more and more of it.

“Let’s try this one,” Emma suggested, rescuing the silk and handing over the blue wool, praying the silk hadn’t snagged on the rough boards.

“It’s a pity you don’t have anything in that new shade of mauve, I saw it in Harper’s Bazaar this month. But of course it’s far too modern and stylish for Demersville,” Mrs. Graves sniped.

Emma did, actually. There was a bolt in the back in soft mauve, but she wasn’t going to say so. She was going to make herself a dress from it. It would suit her dark brown eyes and blonde hair. And the mauve color would be just as horrid as the pink on Belinda, she assured herself.

Belinda preened in the long mirror Emma had hung beside the fabric shelves, turning this way and that as her mother wrapped her in the soft blue wool.

“That looks lovely,” Emma said. “The color is exactly right on you.”

It was. It toned down Belinda’s hair and even made her freckles fade a little.

“Well, I suppose it’s the best we can hope for,” Mrs. Graves sighed. “I do wish we had a bit more choice in this town. We’ll take it, along with two pounds of sugar, the matching thread, a block of yeast and a large jar of molasses.”

Emma stacked all the items on the counter and was adding them up when the bell over the door tinkled.

“Why, Doctor Gillespie, good morning,” cooed Mrs. Graves.

The tall, broad shouldered young man promptly tripped over the doorsill, taking two long stumbling steps inside before he recovered his balance. He cleared his throat and shoved his round glasses back up his patrician nose.

“Morning, Mrs. Graves. Hello, Belinda.” His face had turned fiery red with embarrassment.

Emma pretended she hadn’t noticed him stumble. The handsome doctor was endearingly clumsy, painfully shy, and in spite of those traits, one of Demersville’s most eligible bachelors.

Belinda took the other route. “Oh gracious me, are you alright, Doctor? You nearly took a tumble there, really, Emily, you ought to do something about that doorsill.”

“I’m quite alright.” He plunged down a side aisle and pretended to study the collection of iron cooking pots Emma had hung on hooks while he recovered his aplomb.

Belinda followed him. “Will we see you at the church social on Thursday, Doctor? Mother’s making her mile high lemon pie, and I’m bringing my special chocolate cake,” she simpered.

“No, I won’t be attending.”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” Mrs. Graves said in a loud voice. “A shame to miss one of the few social events available here, Doctor.” She paid Emma for her purchases. “Perhaps you’d come to dinner tomorrow, then?”

“Ummm, thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

Mrs. Graves and Belinda both waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, Mrs. Graves said, “Well, what a pity. Another time, soon, Doctor. Belinda, dear, please come and help me carry these supplies.”

The two gathered up the packages and headed for the door. The doctor hurried over and held it open politely, but Emma heard him breathe a relieved sigh when he closed it again.

She smothered a grin. Joseph Gillespie wasn’t an easy man to chat with, and as for flirting….well, she could have told Belinda it was a total waste of time, an entirely useless endeavor when it came to the doctor.

In the months since she’d purchased the General Store, she’d served him two or three times a week, depending on how many items he forgot to add to his list on each visit.

He was endearingly absentminded. She knew other fascinating things about him as well. Running a busy general store provided insight into its customers, probably far more than they ever suspected.

But as for really knowing Dr. Gillespie, the way she knew almost every other single man in town—well, she was no closer than she’d been the first time he came in to buy baking soda. Not to make biscuits, she’d quickly learned. He needed it to ease old Mr. Gunderson’s indigestion.

“Can I help you with anything, Doctor?”

“I can’t seem to locate the molasses, Miss Walsh.”

“How much do you require?” The molasses was in the barrel that might have bowled him over if he moved a scant two feet, right where it had always been. It was one of the few supplies she hadn’t moved since she’d taken over the store.

“I’m making beans. And I’ll need some of those as well. Beans, I mean.”

It amazed her that a man who dispensed medications every day could be so vague when it came to foodstuffs.

She moved familiarly from one aisle to the next, gathering his supplies as he called them out to her. Why didn’t he hire a housekeeper to cook and clean for him? The good women of Demersville kept him supplied with bread, and pies and cookies and biscuits, but his daily meals seemed to consist of far more baked beans and fried bacon than she considered palatable. Or healthy, for that matter. But as preoccupied as he was, she suspected he probably forgot to eat more often than not.

Not that he was thin, she mused as she piled his groceries on the counter. Under the heavy sheepskin coat she knew his shoulders were broad, long arms and legs well muscled. He was lean, slim hipped. Emma liked the fact that he was clean-shaven. He had an interesting face, high prominent cheekbones, strongly carved nose, determined chin with a delightful cleft. There was something elegant, even aristocratic, about Joseph Gillespie.

What would he do if she called him Joseph? Probably turn purple. He was terribly formal, and exceedingly shy, strange for a family doctor.

“I almost forgot, Miss Walsh. I need flannel, the heavy kind, suitable for sheets.” He was peering around as if the item might jump off the shelves and dance for him.

“I don’t have ready-made flannel sheets, Doctor. Most everyone makes them themselves. What size is your bed?” Now there was a personal question if ever there was one. She was being mischievous because she wanted to see him blush again. She went to the shelf where the flannel was and looked at him from under her lashes, flirting outrageously, smothering a grin. She enjoyed teasing him a little because he became so undone.

But he surprised her. “The sheets are not for me. Old Mrs. Simpson keeps getting the grippe, and I’m sure it’s because she’s chilled in the night.” He frowned, and Emma noticed the tiny frown line etched between his eyebrows.

He was sweet and kind and thoughtful, and far too serious for his own good.

“What size is her bed?”

“About this wide.” He held his arms apart and she measured and cut a generous amount, amused by his vagueness and touched by his thoughtfulness.

Old Mrs. Simpson was cranky and opinionated. She lived alone in a tiny house by the Episcopal Church. Very few people knew she was virtually penniless, and fewer still cared.

Emma knew. She always managed to slip a few extras into the old woman’s crocheted shopping bag when she came into the store.

“Who would you recommend I hire to sew the sheets, Miss Walsh?”

“The Misses Templeton.” Emma folded the length of flannel and walked back to the counter. “You’ll need thread.” She chose a large spool from the display. “Eugenia and Mabel will be grateful for the business.” He’d be lucky to get out of their clutches with his clothing intact, however. It was well known that the sisters were man hungry. But she wasn’t about to tell Dr. Gillespie that. He’d have to find out for himself.

Emma smiled at him, her open sunny smile that usually charmed any male from six months old and up. “And why not call me Emma?” She’d wanted to suggest it before, but there were usually other customers around.

He nodded but didn’t return her smile, and neither did he say her name. “Please put in whatever else they might require, and wrap it separately. I’ll drop in on them on my way back to the surgery.”

“Anything else?”

He scrabbled in his pocket and retrieved a scribbled list. “Oatmeal, please, and vinegar.” He sounded abrupt and impatient. She knew it was because he hated shopping. He always ended up sounding this way towards the end of his order.

“I’ll take a half pound of that taffy, and some licorice drops.”

Emma knew he had a sweet tooth, and she made sure the small bag was filled to overflowing.

The bell over the door rang as she was totaling his bill. Oscar Macky swaggered in the door, bringing a blast of icy air. “It’s snowin’ agin,” he remarked in a cheerful tone, taking off his hat and slapping it against his leg. His heavy boots made a great deal of noise on the wooden floor.

Oscar was not a quiet man. “Howdy, Emma,” he boomed. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine today.” He gave her a cockeyed grin and winked with bold black eyes.

“Why, I thank you, Oscar.” Emma smiled up at the tall farmhand, efficiently stowing the doctor’s purchases in the canvas bag he’d brought for that purpose.

“Howdy, Doc. How’s things?” Oscar replaced his wide brimmed hat and lounged against the counter, watching Emma as she tallied the bill.

“Hello, Oscar. I’m pleased to see your arm has mended.”