The Nanny Proposal
Author
Tracey Bateman
Reads
15.9K
Chapters
19
Chapter One
It seemed only fitting that a sky-shattering crash of thunder accompanied Chester Rubles as he stormed into Murphy’s General Store, clouds of anger darkening the contours of his face. “Murphy!” The word exploded from Chester’s throat, a startling contrast to the otherwise silent room.
Ezra Murphy swallowed down annoyance as the burly blacksmith yanked off his battered brown hat and slapped it against his thigh, flinging rain onto a display table of dime books.
Years of experience behind the counter had taught Ezra that a smile and a pleasant tone of voice could do wonders to soothe an angry customer. Even if that customer were Chester Rubles. So he planted a smile on his face and forced a cheerful tone, despite the fact that at least some of those books were likely going to have to be reduced to five-cent novels. “Hey, Chester,” he said. “How’s the weather out there?”
“How do you think?” Chester snapped, clearly not in the mood to have his anger soothed by Ezra’s attempt at humor. “We need to talk about that boy of yours...again.”
If Ezra had a nickel for each and every time he’d heard those words spoken in outrage, bewilderment or just plain anger, he would be able to purchase every novel on the table—at full price.
Ignoring the rug by the door, Chester stomped up the aisle, leaving muddy boot prints in his wake.
Mud. The bane of Ezra’s existence lately. He’d taken to keeping the scrub bucket filled and handy—for all the good it did. The entire main street had become one big slough over the past week due to the cold October rains. Tempers flared in the misery, and even folks who were generally good-tempered were getting their feathers ruffled over the smallest things.
Holding up his hand, Ezra halted the complaint before the red-faced fellow could give voice to it. “Now, Chester, I know Louie dumped your water pot yesterday and almost broke Mr. Taylor’s new wagon wheel, but whatever’s got you all riled up today, Louie couldn’t have done.” He jerked his thumb toward the outer wall, the direction of the town café. “He’s over at Avery’s having a late lunch with Jennie.” The Avery family had practically adopted Ezra and his brother into their family years ago—and they treated Ezra’s nephew, Louie, like he was one of their own. Jennie and her brother, Wyatt, were Ezra’s closest friends. He trusted them implicitly. “Louie’s been there for the last hour. It’s fried chicken day.”
“Is that a fact?” Chester’s cheeks puffed out with indignation. “Then how come I saw the boy running through my place with that wet, stinking dog just when I was hammering new shoes on Johnny Gable’s old plow horse? Scared the nag so bad, she went to kicking and bucking and liked to have killed me.”
Ezra frowned. Chester might be a bitter old man, but he wasn’t the sort to tell an out-and-out lie just from spite. “And you’re certain it was Louie?”
“Of course I’m sure! I’m telling you, it was him. And his dog! You think I’m blind? And let me tell you, I heard him laughing.”
“Laughing? At the dog?” Ezra frowned.
Chester shook his head in disgust. “He was laughing at the bucking nag. Then he just took off.” He stopped to catch his breath. “This has got to stop. And I mean it has to stop now.”
The bell above the door jangled to announce the entrance of a trio of men—half the town council. They stood just over the threshold, shaking rain from their coats and swiping their muddy shoes across the rug that Chester had completely ignored.
Chester leveled a distinctly satisfied gaze at Ezra. “I told you last time that boy made trouble, it was bound to come to this.”
Mr. Lowe, the town banker and head of the council, led the entourage, reaching the counter first. “Good afternoon, Ezra.” The other men murmured half-hearted pleasantries as Ezra braced himself for what was to come. “As you’ve probably guessed,” Mr. Lowe said. “We’ve come on official town business.”
Chester slapped his hand down on the counter again. “All right, men, let’s get on with this so’s I can get back to the smithy.” He leveled a pointed gaze at Ezra. “I got a lot to clean up when I get back.”
“No one’s stopping you from going. We can take it from here.” Mr. Lowe tossed him an exasperated glance. “Besides, I thought you were going to let us handle it.”
“That was before the boy acted up again. Don’t I got a right? He just about broke a wheel yesterday and would’ve if I hadn’t moved it lickety-split. And then today he tore up the place. And look here.” Chester bent over the counter and showed off an angry knot the size of a mountain smack dab in the middle of his balding head. “He spooked a horse that shoved me so hard, she knocked me into an anvil. I’ll be seein’ stars for a week.”
Ezra winced just looking at the injury and was about to offer to pay for a doctor visit when Mr. Lowe cleared his throat to speak. The other two council members stood behind him—like Aaron and Hur holding up Moses’s arms.
Ezra felt very small under the weight of their judgmental stares. Worst of all, he had no defense to offer. There was no excuse. Not for him. Not for Louie.
“We’ve always thought highly of you, you know that.” Mr. Lowe hesitated before continuing. “But it seems as though things with Louie have come to something of a crossroads. People have been complaining about the mayhem Louie causes.”
“Well,” Reverend Harper said in the soft way he had of speaking, “I’d call it more mischief than mayhem.”
Ezra met his kindly gaze. “Thank you, sir.” He offered a grateful smile. “Mischief” was how he tended to view it, too. Louie wasn’t sly or vicious, just high-spirited—curious and playful, with an abundance of energy and a knack for getting himself into trouble. He never meant any harm.
Of course, that didn’t actually stop him from doing harm, whether he meant to or not.
“Mischief!” Chester bent toward the preacher, pointing to the knot on his noggin. “Does this look like a child’s mischief? I’d say menace is more like it.”
Ezra gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve made restitution where necessary. And if I’ve missed anyone, all they have to do is speak up.” His nephew—his son, in every way that mattered—was his responsibility, and that meant shouldering all the costs that Louie’s particular brand of mischief seemed to accumulate.
“I’m afraid paying for the damage isn’t enough. Folks around here want to see the damage stopped—and as the boy’s pa, they expect you to discipline him to make that happen. If you don’t...” Samuel Lowe reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. His face spoke his hesitance as he handed it over. “Those folks are threatening to do their trading elsewhere.”
Ezra studied the list, trying without success to shove down the rising disappointment. The names were more than just faceless people. He had known these folks most of his life. He couldn’t believe they’d truly turn their backs on him and his business just because his boy had made a little trouble. “So, they’re threatening to go all the way to Jamesburg to do their trading?”
“For the most part, I’m afraid. But you’ll be given a chance to change their minds. You’re invited to come to the town meeting tomorrow night and state your case. It’s your chance to explain what you’re going to do to change things around here.”
“Humph,” Chester snorted, shaking his head with a vehemence that waved the loose skin around his jowls like a hound shaking off after a splash in the creek. “It sure as shootin’ had better be an explanation and not just more excuses. I’m sick and tired of empty words, mister. And I ain’t the only one. You best come with a plan of action to back up your words. Something to show that you’re finally going to take that boy in hand after all this time of lettin’ him run wild.”
Robert Bohannon stepped forward and looked Ezra square in the eye, firmly but not without sympathy. “We know it’s not an easy thing to ask...taking a firm stance with the boy, considering his ma left and all...”
“I don’t see what that jezebel has to do with anything.” The words nearly exploded from Chester’s throat. “And we ain’t askin’. We’re saying plain as day—”
“Chester,” Mr. Lowe snapped. “You’ve said your piece. No one has to guess how you feel about any of this. Now you stay quiet and let us conduct our business with Ezra without your interference.”
The blacksmith slapped his hat onto his head, then winced as it pressed against his injury. “I got to be going, anyways. It’s fried chicken day at the café.” He narrowed his gaze and pointed a meaty finger at Ezra. “You’ll be there tomorrow night, Murphy, if you know what’s good for you.”
He stomped back up the aisle, knocking into a barrel of apples from Tillman’s orchard. Ezra’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath as the fruit began to roll across the floor and the barrel tipped more. Chester turned at the door and narrowed his gaze. “I’ll just let you pick those up,” he said. “I got messes enough to clean up, thanks to you Murphys. This one’s on you.”
Ezra waited until the door slammed behind Chester, then he turned to the three members of the council. “Am I the only item on the meeting agenda?”
Reverend Harper shook his head. “We have to talk about fixing the church roof, too, and Robert’s hogs smelling up the town.”
Mr. Bohannon scowled. “I don’t know what anyone expects me to do about the smell. Wash ’em down with sweet-smelling soap from Paris?” He snickered. “You have any of that for sale, Murphy?”
Ezra’s lips stretched into a wry grin. “’Fraid not.”
Reverend Harper reached down and picked up an apple that had traveled to the counter. “We can wait until you get those picked up before we discuss any more. Let us help.”
Ezra felt a surge of affection for the aging minister. He’d known the man for most of his life, had been baptized by him and then had grown up as childhood friends with the reverend’s daughter. The man was as decent and kind as they came—but he also wasn’t a young man, by any stretch. The idea of making him stoop and fetch things off the floor didn’t sit right with Ezra. “I’ll pick them up as soon as we are finished here.”
“Well, we just wanted to let you know that you’d likely better show up tomorrow night.” Reverend Harper drew in a deep breath and rubbed the apple on his shoulder before taking a bite.
He smiled and patted Ezra’s shoulder. “I’ll be there to speak up for you—and to push for a solution that eases everyone’s concerns while avoiding either scapegoating Louie or damaging your business,” he said around the bite. “And I’m not the only one hoping for a peaceful resolution, without anyone shunning your store.” He looked up at the shelves behind the counter and rubbed his palms together. “In the meantime, I could use a pound of sugar. My girl plans to bake a cake for that new husband of hers. And how much do I owe you for the apple?”
Grabbing a bag of sugar from the display behind the counter, Ezra shook his head. “Take as many as you like—I’m giving them away. Tillman brought in that barrel after that storm two nights ago. It shook his trees so hard that the apples are all over the ground. Matter of fact, he said anyone can take a basket and pick up as many as possible before they rot.”
The reverend smiled. “I’ll pass that along.”
The door opened a little and Ezra’s best friend, Wyatt Avery, stuck his head inside. “Stagecoach is rolling in!” he announced as though he were a self-appointed town crier, then he left as quickly as he’d come.
“I best be running along.” Mr. Lowe turned up his coat collar. The other two men nodded.
“Don’t be anxious,” the reverend said at the door. “The Lord’s will be done.”
Swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat, Ezra nodded. What was there to say to that? He wanted to trust that the Lord had some extra mercy set aside for him and Louie...but based on Mr. Lowe’s list, it hardly seemed likely. Maybe the best thing he could do was find his son and keep him close for the next twenty-four hours. No need to stir anyone up with new mischief right before the big meeting.
“Jeremiah!”
His young stock clerk stuck his head out of the storeroom. “Yes, sir?”
“Mind the store for me. I have to go find my son.”
As the door closed behind him, Ezra thought he heard the sixteen-year-old mutter, “Again?” But he ignored it and walked quickly along the boardwalk. He would check the café first, but if Louie had escaped Jennie as Chester claimed, he wasn’t sure where the boy would have gone. One thing he was pretty certain about—if he headed in the direction of the nearest ruckus, he was bound to find Louie smack dab in the middle of it.
“Rollin’ into Tucker Springs!”
The wheels that carried Hazel O’Brien through the muddy streets of her new hometown slid one way and slogged another as she fought valiantly to keep from tumbling onto the stagecoach’s floor. Her traveling companion, she noted, wasn’t having as much success. She wasn’t quite on the floor yet, but she was certainly on the verge of it, sliding all over the seat. When the stagecoach steadied temporarily on a straight patch of road, Hazel slid to the other seat.
“What on earth are you doing?” the elderly lady huffed.
“Keeping you in the seat, ma’am.”
They had shared the stagecoach since they boarded this morning in Iowa City. Miss Tucker, she knew from Benjamin’s letters, was a very wealthy spinster and part of the founding family of Tucker Springs. It seemed Benjamin was rather besotted with the woman, as he devoted at least a paragraph here and there to her with each letter he had written. Despite that, Miss Tucker didn’t seem to know who he was—hadn’t recognized the name when Hazel had explained why she was moving to town. A circumstance, Hazel had already decided, she would not reveal to her fiancé.
After a day of shared travel, Hazel had learned that the woman ran both bitter and sweet, and Hazel never knew which would flavor their conversation. Still, the risk of being rebuffed seemed outweighed by the threat of an old woman falling and breaking a bone.
“Well, I suppose I’m grateful.” She sighed. “Aging isn’t pleasant, I must say.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, what do you know about it? You’re all of twenty-five years old.”
Hazel smiled at her. “And a spinster. We have that much in common.”
She scoffed. “Not for much longer. Have you spied your young man yet?”
“No, ma’am.” Hazel peeked out through a tear in the canvas flap covering the window. She watched in bewildered silence as the tired, bedraggled little settlement passed by, one shabby storefront at a time. She pressed her lemon verbena–scented handkerchief to her nose, trying with little success to escape a fetid stench that squeezed into the coach, despite the canvas, and seemed to bounce from wall to wall.
At least the canvas was doing a tolerable job of protecting them from the mud churned up by the coach’s wheels. The rain had been a constant and most unwelcome companion since Hazel and Miss Tucker had boarded the stagecoach seven hours earlier, just after dawn. She had scarcely dared to roll up the canvas at any point for fear of ruining her blue velvet gown. Of all the hand-me-downs she’d received from her employer, it was her favorite. Mrs. Wells had risked her husband’s ire by slipping it out of her own closet into Hazel’s as a parting gift. At least she had known Hazel was innocent, even if Mr. Wells would not listen to any of her protests. If things went as she hoped, the gown would also serve as her wedding attire before the day ended.
Hazel held her breath and pushed against the wall with one hand and the ceiling with the other to steady herself as the driver yelled to the horses. She exhaled and sent up a prayer of thanks when the horses finally settled down and the swaying stopped.
“Well, here we are.” Miss Tucker adjusted herself upright, suddenly the regal figure she had been before the jostling of the wagon. “Return to your own seat, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nerves overwhelmed her stomach as she peeked behind the canvas and scanned the boardwalk for Benjamin. Would he take one look at her and be disappointed? Or would he think her beautiful? At twenty-five years old, Hazel had not minded being considered a spinster. In truth, she had thought herself superior to all the twittering, silly women who could think of nothing but ensnaring some man and making a home for him. To her way of thinking, independence had been preferable...but only for so long as she could earn her way. Marriage, in the end, was better than begging on the street to survive. Or worse. And Benjamin Gordon had presented himself well in the letters he’d written over the past three months—well enough, in fact, that Hazel felt a real and true affection for the farmer.
He loved his hometown, and she was moved by his eagerness to share it with her. To build a home and family together. The thought warmed her and almost took away the sting of being sent away from the three Wells children without so much as a farewell. Of course, she hadn’t said a word to Benjamin about her dismissal. And truthfully, they had begun their correspondence afterward. By the time he had proposed, Hazel had spent almost every penny she had saved of her meager salary on the smallest attic room in the dingiest, but proper boarding house she could find.
In the interests of presenting herself in the best light, and securing Benjamin’s affections, she had omitted other minor details about herself that might mean a lot more to her intended, but she would naturally reveal the harshest truths before she allowed Benjamin to become bound to her in holy matrimony. Her husband-to-be would have the right to know about her pa and his tendency to steal anything not nailed to a strong, sturdy surface. She would probably even tell him about her sister, who wasn’t a thief at heart but could not seem to break her childhood ties with their pa’s dishonest life.
“Well?” Miss Tucker said. “Is the town everything that romantic heart of yours had hoped?”
“It’s not quite what I envisioned. But perhaps that’s only because I didn’t think to envision rain and mud.”
Miss Tucker chuckled. “One rarely does in dreams.”
Hazel stared out at the dismal, grimy, gray town and sighed. It appeared that she wasn’t the only one who had been less than forthcoming in order to cast circumstances in a rosy hue. Neither Benjamin’s advertisement in the Boston newspaper three months ago nor any of his subsequent letters had said a word about ramshackle buildings or revolting, pervasive smells that, frankly, caused a sickening burn at the back of Hazel’s throat. As a matter of fact, the advertisement had clearly stated: “Twenty-five-year-old bachelor seeking a bride to share a life in the charming town of Tucker Springs, Iowa.”
Surely Benjamin had not purposely deceived her—but charming? She glanced down at the tintype she’d been clutching for the past hour. Her fiancé’s handsome face stared back at her. A strong jaw, neat, well-kept hair and eyes that—despite his slightly exaggerated description of this town—appeared honest and kind. Hazel had shown the tintype to Miss Tucker, hoping for some stories of his youth or accounts of his generosity or heroism as a man that he had been too humble to share. But Miss Tucker only said that while he did look familiar, she wasn’t one to keep up with everyone’s names.
At the very least, she hadn’t known anything negative about him, which had given Hazel hope that he was just as he’d presented himself—even if the town didn’t quite live up to his promises. Shaking her head, she carefully tucked the image into her reticule and slid the ribbons over her wrist. Not that it mattered in the long run, she supposed. A home of her own—even in this town composed of mud and stench—was still better than living in alleyways or burned-out buildings. She shuddered as images of her childhood flashed across her mind. She forced back the memories as the driver walked by the window and gave her a nod.
“I reckon you best wait until I unload your trunk.”
“Thank you.” She leaned as far out of the window as she dared in the drizzling rain. “Are you quite certain this is Tucker Springs?”
Miss Tucker chuckled at the question.
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver answered. He frowned in a way that indicated he might have been wondering if she was quite sane.
“Tucker Springs...Iowa?”
“Only one I know of.” He spat a revolting stream of tobacco juice into the mud. “Now you just sit tight. I’ll be there to help you down in two shakes.”
Hazel scanned the crudely built boardwalk, carefully examining the faces of the few men standing outside the stores along the walkway. There were three very old men huddled together next to a leather shop. They were definitely not Benjamin. Sitting on a bench outside the café were a couple of men closer to her age, but they also were not her fiancé.
There was a knock on the stagecoach door, and Hazel drew in a sharp breath. She glanced at Miss Tucker. “Do I look...presentable?” She wanted to ask if she looked beautiful. Would Benjamin find her attractive?
The wise old woman seemed to see through her hesitation and uncertainty. “You are a lovely young woman, Hazel O’Brien. I am sure the young man will find you pleasing in every respect. In five years, I’ll see a passel of redheaded children darting along the walk as I drive through town, and I’ll remember you. Now, open the door, please.”
Hazel did as bidden. Her eyebrows went up at the sight of a slim, tall man of about sixty years of age who most definitely wasn’t Benjamin.
“Ah, Smith,” Miss Tucker said. “Meet Miss O’Brien. Soon to be missus something or other.”
“Delighted, Miss O’Brien.” He nodded his head respectfully but barely smiled. His proper manners and speech indicated he was a servant trained in a wealthy household. He reminded her of the Wellses’ butler. He turned to Miss Tucker. “I shall have to carry you, madam. The mud is deep.”
Miss Tucker allowed herself to be swept up into the man’s arms. She turned to Hazel. “It has been a pleasant enough journey. You may come see me, if you like. Just ask for directions from anyone.”
“I will, Miss Tucker. It has been a pleasure traveling with you.”
As Hazel watched them walk away through the ankle-deep mud toward the fine carriage that seemed to be waiting for them, worry edged its way through her. That heavy sense that something was not right had been a lifelong companion, a result of her precarious childhood. Only during the last seven years had she been able to quiet the voice of foreboding, thanks to the stabilizing influence of her work for the Wells family—a position secured for her by her teacher Miss Hastings. Two years later, Hazel had procured a maid position for her sister, Rose, hoping that honest work would be the boon to her sister’s comfort and peace of mind that it had been to her.
The eldest of the Wells children had been no more than a year old on Hazel’s first day of employment, and two more children had followed during her time as their nanny. Her arms ached for the children. Her heart ached for them, as well. But Mr. Wells had been resolute in his dismissal. A woman whose sister was a thief was not a suitable nanny for his children. Oh, if only she hadn’t recommended Rose for the post.
Hazel watched as one of the men from the boardwalk stepped down to help the driver carry her trunk, and the two men who had been sitting on the bench laid boards down between the stagecoach and the boardwalk to provide her a path somewhat less hampered by mud. The driver returned, breathing heavily from his exertion. He offered her his hand. She nodded her thanks and stepped onto the crude wooden plank, looking at the few people walking back and forth in front of the storefront buildings. Could one of the men be her Benjamin? For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t stepped forward to claim her. She’d telegrammed him to let him know when to expect her. He was supposed to be here to meet her.
Soft mud sucked at her new shoes as the board sank into a good two inches of the stuff. If only she’d worn sensible boots. Dainty shoes were not meant for a day like this—as was proven when the mud sucked one of her shoes right off her foot.
Irritation rose in Hazel as she looked back at it. Wrestling it out of the muck seemed likely to tip her over. And even if she retrieved it, what then? It was already quite ruined. There was no choice but to consider the mud a burial ground for shoes.
“Pardon me. Miss O’Brien?”
Hazel forced a pleasant expression and glanced up at the soft sound of a female voice coming from the boardwalk a couple of feet away. The young woman standing there was tall and willowy with blond hair piled atop her bare head.
A frown touched Hazel’s brow. “Yes. Do I know you?” Obviously not. But the woman seemed to know Hazel.
“I’m Ivy—” She hesitated for a beat. “Gordon. Ben got your telegram and he—well, he’s been delayed, but I offered to come meet your stage until he could get here.”
That explained it. Benjamin would certainly have spoken about her to members of his family. “Then you must be Ben’s...” She frowned. This woman could be a sister, sister-in-law, cousin, niece. Well, gracious, why guess? “I’m sorry, but what relation are you to Ben?”
The woman’s face reddened suddenly, and she reached a trembling hand to the cameo pinned at her throat.
“Did I say something to upset you?” Hazel asked.
Miss Gordon glanced over Hazel’s shoulder. “Please, Ben will be here any second. Come out of the street, and when he arrives, we will discuss the situation further.”
“Further?” Hazel said, beginning to be annoyed at the woman’s evasiveness. “We haven’t discussed anything...”
She took one soggy step toward Miss Gordon, but the sound of a high-pitched bark behind her, followed by a child’s equally high-pitched yell, stopped her in her tracks.
“Ar-r-r-chiiee!”
Instinctively, she spun toward the commotion.
“Louie, no!” the other woman screeched.
With a gasp, Hazel caught a glimpse of a blond blur dashing toward her just as her feet became entangled with something small and energetic that was too twisted up in her skirts for her to identify. Nothing on earth had the power to stop the inevitable as the ground rose up to meet her. She had just enough presence of mind to put her hands out, catching herself in time to avoid a mouthful of mud.
“Oh no!” The sound of a man’s voice broke through the commotion. Please, dear Lord, let that be Benjamin.
“Miss O’Brien!” the other woman called out. “Are you all right? Oh, dear! Someone help her. Ezra!”
Sputtering, indignant, completely unaware of what had happened, Hazel sat up, shaking her arms, flinging mud from her hands. She glanced about, trying to gather her wits.
Something wiggly and furry moved beneath Hazel’s legs. She gave a yelp and yanked on her skirts, finally revealing a truly pathetic, mud-matted little dog as a series of terrified yips and whimpers filled the air. The entire ordeal was just so...ridiculous. “Oh, for mercy’s sake. Come here, little one.” She reached forward to reassure herself the wretched animal wasn’t injured.
From the corner of her eye, Hazel could see someone walking toward her. She turned, hoping to see her Benjamin, but instead a man in the shopkeeper’s apron closed the distance. “Louie,” he said. “Apologize to the lady.”
“But you saw how she almost killed Archie, Pa.” A towheaded boy, no more than five or six years of age, swooped down and snatched up the tiny dog. He glared at Hazel. “You leave him be!”
The man quickened his steps. “Louie!”
“Little boy,” Hazel said sternly as the man stopped beside the child. “I will gladly leave your animal be. It is unfortunate the dog didn’t give me the same consideration. If it had, I wouldn’t be sprawled in the mud like the prodigal son, regretting his waywardness, now, would I?”
Clearly unswayed by the truth of the matter, the little boy continued to glare at her, his wide brown eyes flashing in anger. “You almost squished him!”
“Louie,” the man said, a distinct warning in his tone that the boy seemed intent on ignoring.
“But Pa, she’s a minnow to society,” he protested. “And you know what Miss Stewart said about minnows to society. They shouldn’t be walking around all alone getting in trouble.”
“Is that so?” Working hard to suppress a smile, Hazel glanced at the boy’s father before she turned back to the little boy’s stormy gaze. As a nanny, she’d learned the importance of staying stern in the face of misbehavior—even when the misbehaving child in question said or did something that made it almost impossible to keep from laughing. “I’m sure you mean menace. However, if there is a menace in the general vicinity, I’d wager it is that animal and possibly his young owner.” The father reached out to help her. She accepted the man’s assistance and soon found herself back on her feet, her two hands wrapped in his. “Thank you.”
“I hope you will accept my apologies.” His eyes grazed over her mud-soaked gown. “I’m truly sorry for the trouble. I promise you, I’ll deal with my son.”
She gave a short, unsteady laugh. “Well, it wasn’t so much the boy as it was the dog.” Assured that she was steady, she pulled her hands from his.
He slid his hands over the shopkeeper’s apron he was wearing, wiping mud from his hands. He smiled, a sad kind of smile that caused crinkled lines at the corners of his eyes. “The dog was supposed to keep him from getting lonely and make up for him not having a mother, but it was probably not my best idea.”
Hazel’s stomach dipped deeper than it had during the two days of swaying and bouncing in the stagecoach. Was it compassion for this man’s obvious loss or something else? Guilt seized her at the very thought that she could get absolutely lost in those deep dark eyes. Stop it! she commanded herself and forced herself to avert her gaze away from his perfectly squared jaw and full, smiling lips.
“It looks like you lost a shoe.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bewildered at the direction of her own traitorous thoughts, Hazel had forgotten all about the shoe in the mud. He bent down and retrieved it.
“Thank you,” she said. “I thought it was gone forever.”
He chuckled, deep and pleasant. “It probably should be.”
She lifted her muddy foot, stumbled and caught herself by grabbing on to his shoulder.
“Let me help.” He wiped the mud from the top of her shoe and slipped it deftly onto her foot. “There,” he said. As he unbent, her hand slid from his shoulder to his forearm. “All set.”
“Now I just have to keep it in place until I reach the boardwalk,” she said wryly. “A few minutes ago, I would have thought that an easy enough task. At the moment, though, I’m not so sure.”
“Perhaps all you need is an escort.” Taking hold of her hand, he moved it from his forearm to curve around his elbow. “May I?”
“Thank you. I am sorry for the trouble.” For some reason, his kindness eased some of the apprehension she’d felt since she’d seen Ivy Gordon’s flustered expression.
He leaned in closer as though sharing a secret. “This drizzle and all this mud, now that’s trouble. Helping a pretty lady get where she’s going is a pleasure. By the way, welcome to Tucker Springs.”
Hazel’s cheeks warmed, and her heart lifted a little. She wasn’t sure how to respond, and thankfully she was spared as he continued, “I’m Ezra Murphy. I own the general store...for now, anyway.”
For now? What a curious thing to say. But he didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t feel as though she had the right to ask. “Hazel O’Brien. From Boston.” She wasn’t sure why, perhaps because his boy was so unruly, but she added, “I was a nanny before I...well, came here.” If he wanted advice on how to deal with his son’s misbehavior, she’d be happy to offer it—but she wouldn’t say anything unless she was invited to. He might consider it rude or intrusive, and she didn’t wish to cause trouble with the man who would supply her and Benjamin with so many of their daily needs. She highly doubted that this town had more than one general store. Besides, for all she knew, this man might be one of Benjamin’s friends. No, she’d keep her thoughts to herself until and unless her opinion was solicited.
“Nice to meet you,” he said as they reached the boardwalk. He dropped Hazel’s elbow and tipped his hat to the tall woman waiting there. “Ivy.” He smiled. “You didn’t happen to see which way Louie and the dog went, did you?”
“I’m sorry, he must’ve slipped away.”
He expelled a heavy sigh. “I’d best go look for him. This is Miss O’Brien, from Boston. She’s a nanny. This is Ivy. Her pa is the reverend and her husband is a farmer.”
“Yes, Ezra!” Miss Gordon—Mrs. that was, apparently—said with an edge to her voice. “We have met. Louie is probably in the café with Jennie.”
“I’ll look.” He tipped his hat and sauntered into the café that was just behind them.
Mrs. Gordon offered a piece of crumpled paper to Hazel. “We only received this a few hours ago. We had no time to prepare.”
Hazel glanced down at the telegram, recognizing the message she had sent Benjamin.
I am coming to you, my love STOP
Will arrive by stage this afternoon in Tucker Springs STOP
Yours, Hazel STOP
“Prepare?” Hazel repeated. “We? I don’t understand.”
The other woman’s gaze shifted to focus behind Hazel, and relief flooded her face. “Ben, sweetheart. Here is Miss O’Brien.”
Hazel spun around and stared into the eyes of the man she recognized as her fiancé. “Benjamin.” What an odd thing to finally meet in person the man she had come to know so well through letters. Her heart pounded. The stranger she was about to marry.
“Miss O’Brien?”
“Of course.” She had sent along her own picture—he should have had no difficulty in recognizing her. Though she supposed she was rather cleaner in the photograph.
“You’re all...” His gaze slid over her.
“I took a tumble in the mud.”
“Louie and Archie waylaid her.” Mrs. Gordon’s pitch seemed unnaturally high.
“I see. Well, there’s no easy way to say this.” Ben’s voice cracked, his tone curiously stilted. “I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way. Ivy and I...we...she left town and I thought we would never see each other again. But when she came back, I knew...we knew...” His face flushed and he frowned. “I sent you a telegram telling you not to come.”
“Not to come?” Though she usually prided herself on her keen understanding, Hazel was still reeling from the fall in the mud coupled with the exhaustion from the trip. She could hear what Benjamin was saying, but she couldn’t make the words into any kind of sense. She felt like she was looking through a fog and could not grasp the full picture. “Why?”
“Ivy and I were married three days ago.” He stepped around her and took his place beside the willowy woman.
Hazel stared dumbly, unable to speak. This couldn’t be right.
“Miss O’Brien?” Concern creased a frown between Ivy’s eyes. She reached out to Hazel.
Hazel stepped back, her breath catching as if the shock had made her lungs forget how to contract and expand properly. Black spots formed in front of her eyes, slowly growing and covering the faces of the two people in front of her. Even though she wanted to stomp away and not look back, she felt herself falling. Just as suddenly, she was caught in a pair of warm, strong arms. Before she could wonder who rescued her, everything went black.
