Golden State Brides Page 2

  Elenora patted her midriff, the fat envelope crinkling beneath the layers of fabric. Lord willing, Mr. Rutledge would prove to be a fair business partner, too, who would welcome her ideas for the shop and allow her equal say in how her inheritance from Jake’s parents was spent.

  Since Mr. Rutledge had agreed to take her as his partner and was said to be fond of children, she had hope. Something she’d not felt in a long time.

  The stagecoach rumbled into El Dorado, and Miles Rutledge glanced up in time to see it rush by the windows at the front of his shop at half past two. Confound it! He was late. He’d been occupied helping the last customer and lost track of time. How could he have let this happen? His new partner was on that coach, and he wasn’t there to greet him.

  Miles shed his white apron, tossed it on the counter, and grabbed his short frock coat and hat. “I’m off, Sammy,” he called to his clerk. In his haste, Miles let the door bang shut, rattling its glass center.

  With long strides, he covered the block between his business and the Wells Fargo office, shrugging into his coat as he went. He’d planned to change his collar and comb his hair. From what Mother said, Watkins valued order. Being tardy and looking less than his best didn’t make for a good first impression.

  A young girl stood beside the coach craning her neck. Watkins’s daughter, no doubt. He drew near and beheld a sunny smile that could brighten the darkest day. “You’re Mr. Rutledge, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Tildy. I got permission to talk to you as long as I promised not to be pesky.” Her wide grin revealed a pair of dimples.

  He scanned the area. A petite woman stood a few feet away, a violin case cradled in her arms like a baby, watching them intently while the driver unloaded what must be her luggage. She took a step toward Miles and the girl, making no attempt to hide her interest in their conversation, although she kept much of her face hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat. Not another busybody. El Dorado had its fair share already.

  “We’ve come such a long ways,” the girl continued, “and I’m awfully glad we’re here. I hated sitting on a train six whole days, but I liked riding in the stagecoach. A real live outlaw tried to hold us up. That was the best thing.” She beamed.

  “An outlaw? Around here?” He addressed the driver, who thumped the last of the woman’s three trunks on the wooden walkway. “What happened, Wally?”

  The stocky man straightened and rubbed his back. “For once the Talbot twins done something right. Showed up before the scoundrel could fire a shot and ran him off.”

  Miles nodded. “I’m glad no one was hurt. Any idea who he was?”

  “None. Ain’t seen an outlaw in these parts in a long while. This one was a tall, skinny fellow on a large black horse. Since he beat a path north like a cougar was on his tail, I don’t expect any more trouble. I got to pick up a party in Placerville, but you oughtta have a word with the sheriff.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The woman turned to Wally and spoke in a clear, refined voice. “You don’t think we’re in danger then?”

  “No ma’am. I hear tell the papers back East are full of stories about outlaws and Injuns attackin’ travelers, but them things are more likely to happen in open country. Not here where folks has settled.”

  “Good.” She exhaled audibly and lowered her case to her side.

  Miles rarely saw a woman with a violin. Did she actually play? Before he could steal a glance at her neck to look for the telltale mark, she spoke with Wally, who patted her trunks, pointed to the hotel, and nodded. She turned, revealing the right side of her face, and Miles took in her regal profile. What was she doing in a small town in the Sierra Foothills? Women of her bearing generally gravitated to Sacramento City or San Francisco.

  “Do you sell candy?”

  Miles started. He’d forgotten about the girl. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Yes, Miss Watkins, I sell some candy.”

  She giggled. “I’m not even ten yet. That’s not old enough to be Miss Watkins. I’m just Tildy. My real name’s Matilda.” She made a face. “It was my grandmother’s name, but I can’t stand it. Mama calls me Tildy, but Grandpa calls me Matilda, even though I asked him not to.”

  Miles glanced down the wide main street. Where was the girl’s father? And why had she referred to her mother? Was she still pining for her mama perhaps? He’d heard about people who refused to accept the deaths of loved ones and spoke of them as if they were still alive.

  “Mama said your first name is Miles. I like it. My teacher told us about a famous man named Miles Standish. He was one of the Pilgrims on the Mayflower. Do you know about him?”

  “I’ve heard of him. But I’m not named after him. Like you, Tildy, I’m named after a grandparent, my mother’s father.”

  He fought to stay focused on the child’s chatter, all the while trying to make sense of the references to her mother. The woman from the coach must be waiting for someone, because she hadn’t gone away. Instead she’d moved closer and was sure to hear every word he and the girl said. He must locate Watkins.

  “Mama told me you live with your mother.”

  “She lives with me, yes. You’ll meet her shortly. Right now I want to meet your papa. Where is he?”

  Tildy stared at him, her mouth gaping wide enough to catch a swarm of flies. She shook herself. “He died a long time ago, when I was a little girl.”

  “I beg your pardon. Did you say your father has passed on?” He knew about loss. But what this girl said made no sense.

  “Uh-huh. But I’ll tell you a secret.” She beckoned him with a crooked finger, and he drew near. With her hand cupped around his ear, she whispered, “I’m not sad. I just wish Mama could find a nice man who could make her eyes shine like Grandpa’s do when he looks at his new wife. I don’t like her being sad.”

  So Mrs. Watkins had misled him, had she? What exactly did the E. F. on her stationary stand for then? Exploitative Female? Had she seen her chance to invest in a successful business and taken it, heedless of his response?

  Tildy’s breath warmed his cheek. “But she said I’d like you, and she’s right.”

  He straightened and forced a smile. It wasn’t Tildy’s fault her mother had turned out to be a scheming interloper. The woman might have considered her child’s feelings instead of her own aspirations though. He disliked the thought of disappointing the girl, but he had no plans to take a woman as his business partner, especially one he couldn’t trust. If there was one thing he’d learned from his late wife, it was to be wary of women who would say whatever it took to get their way.

  He lifted his eyes to the cloudless sky and uttered a silent prayer. Lord, surely this can’t be Your plan for me, can it? I want to follow Your leading, but I can’t bear to have another woman use me for her own ends the way Irene did.

  “Where is your mother?”

  A puzzled look pinched Tildy’s face. “Mr. Rutledge, she’s right there.” She pointed at the dignified woman beside the trunks, who took a sudden interest in her handbag.

  Elenora busied herself looking in her reticule. Her nerves were tighter than the strings on her violin. Mr. Rutledge didn’t sound any too pleased at the prospect of meeting her. But at least he’d been kind to Tildy. Not once had he shown the slightest impatience, and yet something wasn’t right. She’d made it clear in her letters that Jake had died.

  “Mama, I didn’t prattle, did I?”

  Tildy stood at Mr. Rutledge’s side, gazing at him with adoration. As Elenora expected, Tildy had taken to him like a weary traveler to a way station. After the treatment she’d endured from the men in her life, any kindness would have won her over. But would Mr. Rutledge continue to be as tolerant when he realized she could talk from now until Christmas with little encouragement?

  Elenora gave him a more thorough appraisal. As men went, he was pleasing. He cut a fine figure in his frock coat and derby. His dark brown hair looked recently trimmed. Mrs. Rutledge
had said he was tall, but Elenora hadn’t realized just how tall. She barely came to his chin, one strong and round as a chin should be, not blunt and square like hers. With that unmistakable reddish mark below his jawline on the left side, he must be a violinist, too, although his mother hadn’t said he played.

  “You did fine, Tildy.” Elenora raised her gaze to meet Mr. Rutledge’s. Vivid blue eyes flashed as he looked down his aristocratic nose at her. He advanced and stood so close she fought the urge to step back. This stranger seemed anything but the easygoing, jovial man his mother’s comments had led her to expect. Tildy squeezed between them, and he widened the gap. Elenora could have kissed her daughter then and there.

  “Mama, this is Mr. Miles Rutledge. Mr. Rutledge, may I introduce my mother, Mrs. Elenora Watkins?” Tildy had spoken slowly and politely, which had to be an effort considering she was all atwitter.

  Elenora extended a gloved hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He grasped her hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. The look in his eyes made her want to flinch. What was it she saw in their depths? Displeasure? Disgust? Or was it anger?

  “Mama, you were right. He is a nice man. And I think he’s handsome, don’t you? I know you were afraid he’d be—”

  “Yes Tildy, he’s, um, a fine-looking man.” She attempted a smile, but it felt strained. Why was he glaring at her? “Did you find out if he sells candy?”

  “Your daughter did ask, Mrs. Watkins. She’s honest about what she wants.”

  “She can be outspoken at times, but she means well. And I’ve told her whispering is impolite. Did she say something amiss?”

  His carefully combed mustache concealed a portion of his mouth, but the small lines at the corners indicated his lips were pursed. “Not at all. Tildy is forthcoming, unlike some people.”

  Elenora fingered the silk violets at her throat. Mama had always said the tiny purple blossoms stood for modesty and served as a reminder to show no impropriety in appearance, behavior, or manner. Much of the time Elenora maintained rigid control, but this man vexed her. What did he mean by those inexplicable lines he’d dropped into their discourse?

  She lowered her violin to her side and passed a hand over her rumpled dress. “Mr. Rutledge, I suggest we retire to your mercantile where you and I can share a private conversation. Would there be someplace for Tildy to wait? Someplace safe?”

  “She could look around the shop while we discuss things in my back room. Sammy—he’s my clerk—would look after her.”

  “Thank you. I guess I’m a little nervous after our encounter on the stagecoach.”

  “As Wally said, that was a rare occurrence. El Dorado is a civilized place, a fact I recall having Mother mention in one of the letters I had her draft. Our sheriff rarely has cause to pull his gun.”

  “She said many things, that being one of them.” But were they true? The town might be a safer place than Elenora had first thought, but was Mr. Rutledge really the kind, amiable man his mother had led her to expect? She’d best find out.

  Tildy tugged on Elenora’s sleeve and lifted eyes full of concern. “Is everything all right?”

  She brushed a hand across Tildy’s cheek. “I’m sure it will be, sweetheart, as soon as Mr. Rutledge and I have an opportunity to…come to an understanding.”

  “Shall we go?” he asked.

  She lifted her gaze to meet his. “By all means.” His glacial look chilled her to the core, and she broke eye contact. Hopefully she hadn’t revealed any of the emotions threatening to twist her insides into a tangled mess.

  He pointed out his shop, and she swept down the rutted road toward it—and her uncertain future. Why had she dared hope things would work out well? She knew better.

  Chapter 2

  The bell on the door of Rutledge Mercantile tinkled as Elenora marched inside, with Tildy in front and Mr. Rutledge behind. Housed in the bottom of an impressive two-story rock-sided building with a brick front, the shop was much larger than Pa’s place.

  Elenora’s bootheels thudded on the even, well-maintained wooden floor. She ran a hand over the smooth top of an oak display case that had been polished to a glossy sheen. Such workmanship. And not a fingerprint could be seen on the cases’ glass fronts. Mr. Rutledge obviously took pride in his business.

  He carried pots and pans of every size and shape, crockery for any use possible, and enough washboards to supply a town twice the size of El Dorado. However, the meager selection of fabrics in serviceable colors would need supplementing. It was so like a man to overlook the finer things.

  She paused before shelves where candles lay in straight rows, like soldiers standing at attention, and fought the urge to smile. A thick sweet scent drew her forward, where she found small bags of pipe tobacco, again arranged with military precision. What she could do with a bit of fabric, some ribbon, and artful arranging.

  “Look, Mama. He has toys.” Tildy darted over two rows and dropped to her knees in front of a case housing an iron bank, two wooden tops, and a bowl of marbles.

  Mr. Rutledge sauntered up to Tildy and tapped her on the shoulder. “I think you forgot something.”

  She followed his hand to where he gestured. “Oh! The candy. And look. You have my favorite. Peppermint sticks. Do you like them, too?”

  “I’m partial to lemon drops myself. Always have a few in my pocket.” With a tilt of his head, he beckoned her, and she tripped along at his side. They reached the jars lining the front edge of the counter, and he paused with his hand over one. “May I, Mrs. Watkins?”

  She opened her mouth to refuse, but one look at Tildy’s eager countenance, and she just couldn’t. “I suppose so.”

  Tildy accepted the red-and-white-striped sweet with one of her sunny smiles. She popped the candy in her mouth but pulled it out quickly, her cheeks bright pink. “Thank you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He tugged one of her braids, and she giggled. “You’re most welcome.”

  Elenora pressed a hand to her chest and felt a swell of pride. Tildy might be prone to chatter, but she could charm most people she met with her enthusiasm and candor. She had Mr. Rutledge eager to do her bidding after a mere ten minutes. How sad that neither Jake nor Pa had warmed to her as many did.

  “Let me get Sammy so he can meet you lovely ladies.” Mr. Rutledge grinned at Tildy, but his expression hardened when he looked at Elenora.

  She tilted her chin a mite higher and straightened. Was she seeing things, or had her gesture caused one side of his mouth to quirk in a smile? She couldn’t be sure because he executed an about-face, made his way to a heavy burgundy curtain hanging in a doorway at the back of the large room, and disappeared behind it.

  Moments later, he reappeared with a young man crowned with a shock of curly hair several shades lighter than Mr. Rutledge’s rich nut brown. After completing the introductions, he ushered her to the brocade curtain, pushed it aside, and followed her into his back room.

  She scanned the scene before her. Boxes and crates, many open and rummaged through, occupied much of the floor space and were tucked haphazardly on rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves filling half the room. The shop was well kept, but this…

  Mr. Rutledge took such care with his appearance. Every hair was in place, his white shirt crisply pressed, and his boots recently polished, but clearly his exacting nature didn’t apply to all aspects of his life. His mother hadn’t exaggerated when she’d written that he could use help establishing order.

  He spun the desk chair around, removed the mountain of papers in it, and waved his free hand at the leather surface now visible. “Be my guest.”

  She took the proffered seat. Because the rolltop desk beside her held mounds of invoices, catalogs, and advertisements, she set her violin at her feet.

  His mother had said bookkeeping was not her son’s forte. It would seem Mrs. Rutledge possessed the gift of understatement. How anyone could conduct a business amidst such chaos, Elenora couldn’t fathom. She was organ
ized, though, and could soon have the back room put to rights.

  Mr. Rutledge grabbed a bentwood chair and placed it in front of her, but he didn’t sit. Instead he strode a few paces away, wheeled around, and held his fisted hands at his sides.

  “You’re a woman.”

  “You’re observant.”

  He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. “You’re going to continue your game, are you?”

  “Game? What game? I don’t understand.”

  He stalked toward her one slow step at a time, his fists planted on his waist, until he towered over her. “I rarely get upset, Mrs. Watkins, but your charade is…is…contemptible.”

  She leaped to her feet, her chest heaving, and stared into icy-blue eyes. Mere inches from him, she heard his labored breathing and saw his jaw flex. What could she have done to drive him to such an ungentlemanly outburst? Perhaps allowing Tildy to meet him first had been a mistake, but she had to see how he reacted to her daughter, to see if he were a patient man. “I’m sorry if you think I used you ill.”

  “You’re sorry? Is that all you have to say for yourself? No explanation? Just ‘I’m sorry’?”

  The smell of sandalwood shaving soap tickled her nose. “I didn’t think you’d mind, and I n–needed to know if you could get along with her.” Oh bother. Why did her voice have to tremble? She must be strong. Hadn’t she vowed never to let another man run roughshod over her?

  He cast his eyes toward the shop. “Her? As in Tildy?”

  “Yes, Tildy. Who else?”

  “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “Everything. As I said in my letters, she’s used to visiting me while I’m working. I had to be sure you would honestly welcome her, not merely tolerate her.”