Teresa Bodwell (8 page)
Authors: Loving Miranda
It was only a few doors up the boarded walkway from Doc Calvert’s office to Wyatt’s store. Miranda marched past the assay office. Sheriff Bradford waved at Miranda from across the street; Miranda saluted him with the rolled papers she was carrying.
When the weather was pleasant, the sheriff often sat out in front of his office, figuring he could prevent a lot of mischief by making himself as visible as possible. Whether it was due to the lawman’s presence or not, the street was quiet now.
Wyatt’s Dry Goods Store was the second busiest place in Fort Victory. Rita’s saloon was the most visited place in town. Seemed as though more people would need the food and other goods that Wyatt’s had to offer, yet Rita’s drew the biggest crowds. Maybe it was just that the folks who frequented Rita’s were a bit noisier and more boisterous.
The bells on the inside of the door chimed as Miranda pushed her way into the store. “Hello?” she called out, though she knew someone—Wendell, Clarisse, or one of the boys—would appear when they heard the bells. As she’d hoped, it was Clarisse who stepped into the store with a welcoming smile on her face. Miranda’s chest tightened at the sight of the baby on her hip, but she returned her friend’s smile.
“Miranda!” Clarisse walked around the counter to greet her. “Look who’s here, Hal. It’s your Aunt Miranda.” The baby gurgled at his mother and she beamed at Miranda. “How are you settlin’ in? Everything the way you remember it?”
“As you warned me, there are plenty of changes at the ranch.”
“Everyone well?”
“Mostly.” She took a deep breath. “Pa had one of his spells.”
“No!” Clarisse looked worried. “He’s been doing so well.”
Miranda shrugged. “Mercy said he has been fine except for the one spell. He’s over visiting with Doc Calvert now. Pa says it’s a waste of good money, but he figured seein’ the doc would be easier than arguing with Mercy.”
“Your father is a wise man.”
Miranda grinned. “You’re right about that.” Both women knew from experience that there was no point arguing with Mercy when she set her mind to something.
“Let’s hope it’s just the one spell. I’d hate to see him like he was just after the accident.” Clarisse shifted the baby to her other side.
Miranda nodded, remembering how easily confused Pa had been. They didn’t dare leave him alone for more than a few minutes at a time.
“What can I do for you?” Clarisse’s question brought Miranda’s mind back to their conversation.
“Oh.” Miranda swallowed. She had no idea why she was suddenly so nervous. “I won’t take a lot of your time.” Miranda walked over to the counter. “I wondered . . .” She sucked in a deep breath. “I have a business proposition for you.”
As Miranda’s mouth was too dry to speak, she spread the papers over the counter and turned them so that Clarisse could see her drawings. It had been months since she’d worked on them. She had put this whole scheme out of her mind when she left Philadelphia.
“Well!” Clarisse pressed one corner back with the index finger and thumb of one hand while Miranda helped her hold the other end of the papers flat. “It’s beautiful.” Clarisse lifted the top paper and the next, carefully examining each of the four sketches Miranda had brought her.
“Is this what women are wearing in Philadelphia?”
“Something like.” Miranda chewed on her lower lip. “I got some of my ideas there. Mostly it’s, well, the sort of dresses I would like to wear.”
“You did these?”
Miranda nodded. “I was beginning to make some of my own designs at the shop when . . . the accident—”
“Accident?”
“I was . . . there was an accident with a buggy I was riding.” She touched the scar on her face. “I was injured.” She looked away. It was much more difficult to tell the story to someone she knew. She wondered whether she’d told it this badly to Mercy, and if so, whether her sister believed any of it.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry you went through that.” Clarisse placed a hand over Miranda’s. “You seem fine now—no lasting injuries?”
“No, I was lucky.” Except for a scar that would mark her for the rest of her life.
Clarisse smiled. “I suppose it could have been worse.”
Miranda nodded. She could hardly imagine anything more difficult than what she’d been through. Dying would have put an end to everything. Instead, her heart kept beating, and here she was pretending to be alive. No—determined to find a new life. That was a better way of thinking of it.
“You want to sell the sketches?”
“No,” Miranda answered quickly. “No, I mean to sell the dresses. If you’ll help me with the fabric and the customers.”
“I see.” Clarisse smiled, her eyes twinkling with delight. “An interestin’ idea.” She took the sleeping baby over to his cradle and set him down. “I sell some ready-made dresses, but this—”
“I worked in a dress shop in Philadelphia. Learned to make dresses that were right fine for the city ladies. We’d make the same dress in different sizes, so it would take only minor alterations for a good fit when a lady came into the shop. Others were sold through mail order and women did their own fitting.”
“Hmm.” Clarisse walked over to set the kettle on the stove. Miranda expected she was trying to find the words to explain why the arrangement wouldn’t be suitable. After all, there was no good reason for her to believe Miranda’s dresses would sell, or make any money at all for the store.
Miranda opened her mouth to relieve Clarisse of the responsibility. “It’s all right—”
“Yes,” Clarisse said at the same time. “Yes, a wonderful idea. It is high time the women of Fort Victory had a source of fashionable clothing. As it is, a woman either makes her own simple clothing from the cloth I sell here, or she must send away for a ready-made in her size. And we both know those never really fit properly.”
“They aren’t made very well either.”
“No, they’re not.” Clarisse nodded. “This is an excitin’ idea. Lots of possibilities. Imagine if we could find a shop in Denver that would carry them.”
“Denver?”
“It’s the nearest city. I’ll wager women there have nearly as much trouble keeping up with fashion as we do right here in Fort Victory.”
Miranda felt her stomach relax for the first time all day. “Do you really think they’ll sell?”
Clarisse grinned. “Honey, we are going to make some money on this venture.”
Miranda smiled until she remembered her sister needed five thousand dollars. She wasn’t going to make that by selling dresses. All she could hope was that the money she earned would help somehow.
The door chime rang and Clarisse called out, “Mr. Lansing! Good afternoon.”
Miranda’s stomach flipped as she turned to see Ben Lansing striding toward her.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” He nodded at Clarisse, then turned to Miranda. “Afternoon.”
He looked over her shoulder, and she realized he could see her sketches laid out on the counter. She spun around to snatch them up, but his hand covered hers, wedging the piece of paper to the counter. And sending her heart racing like a wild horse running from the lasso.
“Fine drawings.” He glanced at Clarisse. “Yours?”
“No, indeed. You’re looking at a new dress design by my partner—Miranda Chase.”
Miranda stared at Ben’s hand, resting over hers. He wasn’t applying pressure. She could move her hand if she wanted. Could have snatched up her sketches and walked away. Instead, she gazed at his poor fingers. It was the first time she’d seen him without gloves. Initially, she assumed his fingers were bent into an awkward fist. Then she realized they weren’t so much bent as missing. Three of them were short stubs cut off at the first knuckle. His forefinger and thumb were present, though they were oddly crooked.
She thought back to the way he’d acted when she saw him attempting to tie a knot in Denver. She’d laughed at him for not taking off his gloves. He must have thought her terribly cruel.
He pulled his mangled hand away and shoved it into his pocket. She thought he might say something. Instead, he reached around her other side with his right hand, gripping the opposite corner of the sheet and lifting it to look at the other pages. She could feel his warm breath against her shoulder.
“Very nice work, Miranda. You have a gift.” He looked into her eyes—so close she could see his eyes weren’t the pure dark pools she’d thought them to be—there were tiny flecks, as though someone had sprinkled gold dust into a cup of coffee.
“I’m no artist, Mister . . .” She swallowed. “Ben.” She turned to look at the picture she’d drawn; the simple lines were nothing special. “Not like bringing horses and men to life the way you did.” She still had a vivid memory of his battle scenes. “These are only pencil sketches.”
“They show a good eye, though.” Ben leaned closer as he examined the pictures again, and she could feel heat radiating from him. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw and made him look even more dangerous than usual. “And a steady hand.”
“Nothing like your work.”
“Better than I could do now.”
He stepped away from her and it was all she could do to keep herself from reaching out to him. She wanted to tell him she knew exactly how he felt about his hand. She wished she could hide her face as easily as he shoved his hand into his pocket, or covered it with a glove. The thought made her feel guilty and selfish. Her scar was ugly, but it didn’t keep her from doing simple tasks. She fisted her hand and wondered what it would be like to do without her fingers.
“Miranda and I are going to make them, Mr. Lansing. You’re a city man—what do you think? How do they compare to the fashion women are wearing in Boston these days?”
Ben looked back through the pictures. “I’m no expert on fashion, but I imagine Boston ladies would be pleased to wear these.”
“I think so, too.” Clarisse picked up the papers and walked over to the fabric lined up against the wall. “Don’t know if I have any cloth here that suits. We may have to order something nicer if we want to start a new fashion in Denver.”
Miranda was relieved to have an excuse to step away from Ben. She ran her hand over the many colors of cloth, then thought of Mrs. Wick. “I expect we’ll do better if we can sell them for a good price.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Clarisse pulled a red wool off the shelf, then set it back. “One thing about having money, it tends to make people appreciate a good bargain.”
“That is why the rich always grow richer.” Ben’s voice came from right beside her and Miranda jumped, causing her arm to brush against his. Instead of moving back as any decent man would do, he edged closer to her. “I think the blue there is very nice.” Ben reached for a sky blue gingham and pulled the end in front of her face. “It would bring out the color in your eyes.”
Miranda’s foolish heart was now thumping so violently in her throat she couldn’t speak. Even more vexing was the fact that nothing remotely clever came to mind.
“Oh, Mr. Lansing,” Clarisse said. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten to ask what you need.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Wyatt. You have good reason to be distracted.”
Again, his eyes met Miranda’s and she felt the same warmth as when his hand had touched her. It was time to escape. “ . . . I should go to Doc’s and find Pa.” Miranda hastened toward the door. “I’ll stop in later, Clarisse.”
After Ben has gone and I’ve regained my ability to think clearly.
After Ben has gone and I’ve regained my ability to think clearly.
Once out in the bright sunlight, she stared up at the mountains.
Dammit, Miranda, get some sense. May as well put the silver in a bag and hand it to the thief as fall for that man’s charm.
She stood tall and marched down the street and right past the doctor’s office. She stopped when she reached Rita’s and looked up and down the street, hoping no one was watching as she turned and headed back to her destination.
Dammit, Miranda, get some sense. May as well put the silver in a bag and hand it to the thief as fall for that man’s charm.
She stood tall and marched down the street and right past the doctor’s office. She stopped when she reached Rita’s and looked up and down the street, hoping no one was watching as she turned and headed back to her destination.
That evening Ben was ready to do just about anything to take his mind off Miranda Chase. Hell, he’d even ordered a whiskey to try and rid his memory of the scent of lavender that filled his nostrils as he leaned over her—much too close for propriety. Damn it, he knew better.
He gazed across the table at the lovely lady he’d invited to join him. “Rita Diaz.” Benjamin toyed with the glass, swirling the amber liquid around. “You’re Spanish, then?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Does this surprise you?”
“No, although I am surprised to see a Spanish lady running a saloon.”
She laughed again. “I’m a widow. This”—she spread her arms, indicating the saloon—“was the only thing my husband left me.”
He set his full glass down again, then looked into Rita’s dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am, for your loss.”
She acknowledged his words with a tilt of her head. “It has been many years.”
He had persuaded Rita to join him for a few moments, but he hadn’t yet found the words to ask his question. He wanted to have a sense of Rita’s position in the town first. After a few moments of conversation, he had found her open and charming. No doubt she knew as much as anyone about everything that went on in Fort Victory. This saloon, perhaps even more than Wyatt’s store or the church, provided a central meeting place for the community. Everyone in the area—ranchers, townspeople, miners, and soldiers—came to Rita’s occasionally. Even Thad Buchanan. According to Rita, he was a regular at her poker table.
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