The Courtship

“The way I see it, your father never really settled in Dixon Falls. Oh, he ate and slept out here all right, but he stayed in the past. He kept your mother imprisoned there, too.”

“He did no such thing! Why, Mama went out lots of places!”

He went on as if she had not spoken. “And—forgive me for saying this, Jane—he kept you there, as well. Locked up in that house up on the hill, arranging bouquets and practicing the piano—preparing yourself for a life you’d never have.”

Jane flinched. The words stung because they were true. The only times she was allowed to attend a town social, even visit the mercantile for soap or a spool of thread, Papa always accompanied her. She had been allowed no friends. Sometimes she’d felt so lonely she thought she’d die.

Looking back on it, she wondered why she’d put up with things the way they were. Rebellion, of course, would have been unthinkable. A state could secede from the Union, and fight a long and bloody war over it. But a daughter didn’t secede from her family. That was beyond the pale.

Then, before she knew it, it was too late.

Deliberately, she changed the subject. “I would prefer that you hold my home as collateral for the loan, Mr. Wilder. Not my…person.”

His face changed. “It isn’t the house I want, Jane.”

“And you are most certainly not what I want!” She managed to keep her voice steady, but her hands shook like dry leaves in a wind. For an instant she thought of jamming them under her skirt, but discarded the idea immediately. A lady never sat on her hands, not even when frightened half to death. Or mad enough to commit murder.

“Yeah, well, I figured as much. Nevertheless, those are my terms.”

Honey, she reminded herself. Not vinegar. She unclenched her hands and drew in a slow, careful breath. A whalebone stay jabbed anew. The best way to forget all her troubles was to wear a tight corset; it was hard to concentrate.

As soon as she could trust her legs to support her, she rose. “Very well, Mr. Wilder. You have the advantage of me at this moment, since I do need the money. But, sir, while I may be forced to accept the terms of your wager, do not for one moment harbor any hope of winning. I am an excellent seamstress, and I intend to succeed at dressmaking if it’s the last thing I do in this life.”

His lips twitched. “I understand.”

“And,” Jane continued, unable to stop the words roiling in her brain, “I promise you that if I ever do marry, it will be of my own free will and never, never because I have lost a wager. I am not in the habit of gambling.”

“Certainly not.”

“Neither am I in the habit of failing. I shall not fail!”

“Of course.” His voice was annoyingly calm. He slid open the top desk drawer and counted out three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from his private cash supply. Folding them in half, he handed the money to her.

“There’s an empty storage room next to the mercantile. I own it. You can rent it for three dollars a month, as is.” He extended his hand toward her. “Agreed?”

Jane slipped the currency into her reticule. “It is indeed agreed, Mr. Wilder. Thank you.” She laid her hand in his and gave it a businesslike shake. Even through her glove, heat from his palm surged from her fingertips to her elbow, and she snatched her hand free.

“As we have nothing further to discuss, I will bid you good afternoon.”

Which was most certainly not what she wanted to say. Sometimes she wished she wasn’t a Davis at all, with ladylike manners to remember and a reputation to uphold. Just once she’d like to say what was really on her mind—that Rydell Wilder was a lowdown snake in the grass, an upstart with no sense of propriety and a grievous lack of breeding. Why, he’d even said “hell” in the presence of a lady. The world had come to a sorry place when the likes of him owned the only bank in town!

She resisted an overwhelming urge to slam his office door as hard as she could. Instead, she closed it quietly, relinquishing her grip on the polished brass knob when the latch clicked. The last thing she saw before the door swung shut was Rydell Wilder’s steady gray eyes looking at her from behind his big walnut desk.

Oh! She could gobble down a whole keg of nails, he made her so mad!

The minute she was gone, Rydell folded his fingers into a fist. Jane Charlotte Davis hadn’t a clue how hard real life could be, but by thunder she was going to find out. Was he crazy to lend her the money that could take her out of his life once and for all? Could she possibly make a go of setting up her own business?

Not one chance in a thousand. He rose and paced to the window opening onto the street. A flash of blue caught his eye, sending a familiar ache into his chest.

Oh, hell. Even if she could sew ruffles around a circus tent, she had no experience in trade, no understanding of life in a dusty Oregon lumber mill town. All he had to do was watch and wait—he figured in about ninety days he’d be a married man.

God help him, he wanted her to fail!

Maybe he wasn’t so crazy. He’d worked and sweated for ten years to offer Jane something more than the rough life of a freight line owner’s wife. He’d eaten beans and biscuits for months on end, saved the pay he’d earned riding shotgun for Lefty, and invested it. When Lefty grew too frail to drive the wagon, Rydell had bought him out, and after a few years saw his chance to establish a bank. It was a smart move. Owning a bank made him a lot of money and brought him the respect of the entire town. Now he ate steak every night, shared an occasional drink with Lefty, and was sought after by all the single women, respectable or not.

The only hunger he hadn’t eased over the years was his longing for the shy girl with eyes like a summer sky and thick chestnut hair that hung to her waist. She looked different now, more filled out and sure of herself. He was older, too—work-hardened and female savvy. Even so, the thought of even touching her hand made his heart stutter.

Leave it alone, Dell. Don’t think about her anymore.

Ten long years he’d waited for a chance, and now it was here. He wondered if she remembered him, from before he’d become a man.

He wondered if she knew how a man could feel about a woman.

“Walk you home, Miz Jane? Barton Springer’s the name, case you don’t remember. Drove a wagon for Wells Fargo and knew your daddy.”

Jane tipped her parasol so the shade covered the man’s weathered face. “Mr. Springer, of course I remember you. You were a great help to my father and Uncle Junius at the newspaper office.”

He grinned and fell in step beside her. “Sure sorry to hear about your pa, Miz Jane. ’Specially so soon after Mr. Junius. What you gonna do, now he’s gone?”

“The first thing I will do, Mr. Springer, is stop by the mercantile. I am going into business.”

His bushy gray eyebrows twitched upward. “You, ma’am? All by yourself?”

“All by myself. I’m going to rent the store next to the mercantile. Then I intend to purchase some bolts of fabric—muslin, I think, or perhaps sateen—and some thread. Oh, and maybe a lantern so I can work in the evenings.”

“You gonna need some help totin’ them things, Miz Jane. I’m puttin’ myself at your service.”

Jane surveyed the bent figure trudging beside her. He looked healthy enough, but his right shirt-sleeve was pinned up, indicating a missing arm. She couldn’t bear to embarrass him by declining his offer.

“That is most thoughtful of you, Mr. Springer. First, however, I wish to inspect my place of business. Mr. Wilder said it was right next to the mercantile, but I don’t recall seeing anything that looked like a store.”

The old man gave her a sideways look. “No wonder in that, I guess. ’T’aint much of a store, more like a…well, you’ll see fer yourself, it’s just yonder.”

“I don’t care what it is, Mr. Springer, it’s a start. For me, it’s a whole new life!” For a fleeting moment she wondered at herself, talking so freely about her plans. She’d been taught never to speak of things other than the weather and recipes for rheumatism medicine and who’s having a baby, and here she was chattering on about her ideas. Maybe it was because Mr. Springer’s blue eyes snapped with intelligence. Or was it because he was a sweet, frail man whom she sensed was a bit lonely for company? Perhaps he was a kindred spirit. His interest in her venture seemed so genuine she didn’t even mind too much that he was a Yankee.

“You don’t mind me sayin’ so, Miz Jane, you been frownin’ somethin’ fierce ever since you come outta the bank. I never seen anyone look more serious.”

Jane stopped midstride and stared at him. “‘Serious,’ Mr. Springer, does not begin to describe my state of mind. I am committed. Determined. Resolute!” She stopped herself from adding “desperate” only because he was pointing at something behind her.

“There ’tis. Your store.”

Jane whirled to see. “Where? I don’t see a—Oh, you mean that little add-on next to the…? Oh. Oh, my.” Her heart sank.

A tilting clapboard structure no wider than the back end of a wagon leaned against the mercantile building. She stepped closer. The single window, slightly wider than the plain plank door, was so grimy she could not see through the glass. No matter. At the moment, she couldn’t face looking inside. A weathered wooden sign swung on a chain in the wind. Mercer’s Feed & Seed. Cash Only.

“Used to be Rafe Mercer’s feed storage room. Looks kinda worse for wear, don’t it?”

Jane’s mouth was as dry as field cotton. “It looks like the darky quarters back home in Marion County. Only not as clean.”

“Miz Jane, I jes’ gotta say this. This ain’t no kinda place for a lady. Why don’t you take your momma and go back where you come from?”

She bit down hard on her lower lip. “I cannot, Mr. Springer. My mother is…unwell at the moment, and…”

And she had no money for train fare, other than what Mr. Wilder had lent her. Besides, even if her mother could travel, she couldn’t leave Dixon Falls with Papa’s debts still unpaid, and now, on top of that, there was the bank loan to pay back.

The old man’s eyes narrowed in unspoken understanding. “I bet you’d hightail it outta here if’n you could find a way.”

“I’ll find a way,” Jane said quietly. “And the first step is to take down that awful sign and scrub that window.” She nodded her head politely. “Good day to you, Mr. Springer. I’d best visit the mercantile and purchase an extra bar of lye soap.”

“You tell Mr. Mercer I’ll tote yer supplies on over to your store for ya. Meanwhile, I think I’ll mosey on down to the Silver Cup and have some words with an old friend.”

“Dell, you outta be horsewhipped fer what you’re puttin’ that gal through. This ain’t no way to court a lady like Miz Jane.”

Rydell downed the last of his whiskey and looked at Lefty across the oak table. “The courting part comes later. First, she’s got to give up that fool notion about supporting herself and her mother by making dresses.”

“You gonna let her work herself to the bone so’s you kin pick up the pieces? Dell, her hands ain’t never done nothin’ but play the pi-anna and embroider tea towels.”

Rydell looked straight at his friend. “I want a wife who’s a partner, not a decoration.”

“Then choose some other gal. Lord knows you’d have yer pick.”

Rydell ignored him. “Jane’s got more inside her than she knows,” he said. He smoothed one finger around the rim of his glass. “I’ve waited for ten years. I’m willing to wait some more.”

Lefty plunked his beer glass down so hard the liquid sloshed over the side. “You waited ten years cuz her daddy ran you off. Now that he’s gone, why’nt you jes’ grab her? I seen you do that with plenty of other women, so don’t say you don’t know how. Jes’ do it!”

“Lefty, you ever think about a man and a woman? What it means for them to be together?”

“Hell, yes, all the time. Nuthin’ complicated ’bout that. Hug ’em, kiss ’em, and rope ’em quick.”

Rydell grinned. “You’re a smart man, Lefty. How come you’re so dumb when it comes to women?”

“I’m a good forty years older’n you, boy, so I know what I’m yakkin’ about. Women is women.”

“There’s more to it than that. Jane is…Jane. She’s not ready.”

The older man groaned. “You’re a smart man, too, Dell. How come you’re so dumb when it comes to Miz Jane?”

Rydell rose and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “She’s a spinster. Overeducated. Underexperienced. But I like her. Always have. She deserves the chance to learn who she is.”

Tossing a coin on the table, he strolled toward the saloon doorway. “Besides,” he said over his shoulder, “she won’t suffer long. As green as she is in the ways of the world, inside of a week she’ll drop into my hand like a ripe peach.”

“I don’t think so,” Lefty muttered. “I think you’re the one who’s gonna learn the lesson.”

But his words, punctuated by the swish-whap of the swinging doors, echoed in an empty barroom.

Chapter Three

“Here’s your tea, Mama.” Jane lowered the silver tray onto the table next to the upholstered settee. “I fixed it just the way you like it.”

“Why, thank you, dear. Such a nice custom, don’t you think? Whenever Ah am in a tizzy, Ah just have my tea and soon it’s all better.”

Jane gazed past her mother’s pale blue eyes to focus on the rose-flowered wallpaper on the wall behind her. How Mama clung to the past, especially when things upset her. Her entire day was made up of rituals from when she had been a belle—hot cocoa served to her in bed, roses arranged in crystal vases, tea every afternoon. Then the War came, and their lives were shattered. Until the day he died, her father referred to that dreadful fighting as The War of Northern Aggression.

“I went to town today, Mama. To the bank and the mercantile.” She forced a gaiety she didn’t feel into her tone.

“I trust you were properly chaperoned?”

Jane hesitated, her hand on the handle of the silver teapot. “No, Mama,” she said softly. She lifted the delicate painted china cup and tipped the pot forward. Her hand shook as she poured.

“Your father spends entirely too much time fussin’ over those peach trees of his. We’ve already got a cellar full of jams and jellies, and Ah can’t bear the thought of another crop comin’ on. We must ask Jonas to bring his darkies to help.”

Darkies! Jane met her mother’s dreamy gaze. Jonas had been her father’s overseer at Montclair. Numb, she tried to think what to say.

“Mama? We haven’t laid eyes on Jonas, or his darkies, for over a decade. Are you feeling a bit tired?” She set the teacup down and took hold of her mother’s soft, cool hand. The skin was so transparent a tracery of blue veins showed through.

A dull pain pressed near her heart. Her mother was growing frail. Washing the kitchen floor and changing the bed linen, as they had done together each Saturday morning since they’d come west, would soon be out of the question. From now on, Jane would have to manage by herself.

“Mama, I spoke to Mr. Wilder at the bank this afternoon. I—I’m going to start a business.”

“Wilder? I don’t recall the name, dear. Who are his people?”

Jane let an inaudible sigh escape through her lips. As far as she knew, Rydell Wilder had no “people.” Anyway, she didn’t want to think about him.

She moved toward the kitchen. “Finish your tea, Mama, while I fix our supper.”

She concocted a sandwich of sorts using sliced tomatoes and cheese melted on the biscuits left over from breakfast. Jane wasn’t the least bit hungry, and her mother ate both portions.

After washing up the dishes, she opened all the windows and the front door to catch the cooling evening breeze, then pulled the cherrywood sewing cabinet into the front parlor. Tomorrow she’d have to find someone to load it into a wagon and haul it down to her store. But first, she had to scrub the place six ways to Sunday with a bucket of hot soapy water and a broom.

Her mother settled on the settee, propping her feet on a crewelwork-covered hassock to relieve the swelling in her ankles. The kerosene table lamp sent a pool of light over the book open in her lap.

“Jane Charlotte, just listen to what Mr. Tennyson writes. “The old order changeth, yielding place to new…. Whatever does he mean?”

A sob bubbled up from Jane’s throat, and she clamped her jaws tight shut. She thought of Papa, lying cold and still in a grave behind the orchard, of Montclair before the Union army came, the way the sun lit the tupelo tree as they drove the buggy down the drive for the last time. The old order.

“It means that things change,” she murmured. “That we must look forward, not back.”

Right then and there she decided she detested Mr. Tennyson. Things weren’t supposed to change, especially if they were beautiful things—peaceful summer days and evenings so quiet you could hear the darkies singing from their quarters beyond the stables, a father who was strong and brave, a mother like a small exquisite bird entertaining dinner guests dressed in shirred emerald satin and petticoats so wide she had to move sideways through doors. Why, why did such lovely things have to be destroyed?

Worst of all, why did she now find herself beholden to that aggravating know-it-all Mr. Rydell Wilder? Merciful heavens, he looked at her as if he owned her already!

She frowned as something stirred her memory. There was a boy once, who looked something like Mr. Wilder around the eyes. He’d walked her home from school that first day, and she noticed first that he was tall, with a shock of unruly dark hair tumbling over his forehead, second that he was barefoot. He had shoes, he’d told her…. He just didn’t wear them except in winter.

He had a gentle voice, she recalled. He explained about being new in a town and said he would watch out for her. She remembered that his shirt was clean and pressed, but the sleeves were so short his wrists stuck out. When he saw her staring at them, he unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled them up. His knuckles were scraped raw from a fight he’d been in. She wanted to cry at the sight of those bony wrists.

Odd that she’d think of that now. It was so long ago, but for some reason remembering it made her feel warm inside.

“Jane Charlotte, Ah want to read some of this lovely poetry to your father. He is partial to poetry, you recall. Wordsworth and Shelley are his favorites.”

“Mama? Mama, I’ve tried to explain about Papa….” Oh, what was the use? Mama had always refused to acknowledge things that were unpleasant.

Jane stood up, aware that her chest felt tight. The skin over her cheeks burned. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Perhaps it would be wiser to—

“Miss Davis?” A low voice spoke through the front door screen. Jane froze as the tall form of a man loomed on the porch. With the lamplight from inside, she could not see him clearly in the dark. Mercy me, at least she’d latched the screen! Otherwise he could walk right in.

“Who’s there?” she blurted.

Her mother looked up from her volume of poetry. “Jane Charlotte, where are your manners? Is that any way to greet a caller?”

A lazy laugh rumbled from the front porch. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. It’s Rydell Wilder. May I come in?”

Jane stood as if transfixed. Come in? Few people—and decidedly fewer men—ever crossed their threshold.

“Jane Charlotte.” Her mother’s light, clear voice carried over the thudding of her heart. “Don’t keep your guest standin’ on the porch.”

With reluctance, Jane moved forward and unhooked the latch.

Rydell stepped through the doorway. “I’m obliged, Mrs. Davis. If you hadn’t interceded, I might have frozen to death.” He sent Jane a quick look, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“It’s a warm summer night,” Jane snapped. “People don’t freeze to death in July.”

Her mother stirred on the settee. “Wilder,” she murmured. “Wilder…have we been introduced?”

“Some years back, ma’am. When your husband was associated with the newspaper office.”

“Oh, yes. How nice to see you again, Mr. Wilder.”

Jane stepped forward. “What do you want?”

“Jane Charlotte!” Her mother had not raised her voice, but Jane jerked guiltily just the same.

“Ah expect you wish to see my husband, Mr. Wilder? We were just about to have our afternoon tea, won’t you join us? Jane, go set the kettle on and call your father.”

Rydell’s gaze held hers for a long, long moment, and then he dipped his head in a barely perceptible nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis, but my errand concerns your daughter.” He turned to face Jane.

“You left something in my office this afternoon.” He pressed a white envelope into her hand. “The key,” he said in a low voice. “You’ll need it to unlock the store.” He closed her fingers around the stiff paper.

An army of white-hot needles marched along her skin where his hand touched hers.

“Jane Charlotte, do let us have some tea! And call your father.”

Jane fought the urge to scream.

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Rydell said. He looked straight into Jane’s eyes. “There’s no need to bother Colonel Davis. I’m sure he has pressing business elsewhere this evening.”

He released Jane’s hand, bowed to her mother, and turned toward the door. Jane noticed his leather boots were polished to a shine.

“Lefty Springer’ll be there tomorrow, if you need help,” he said.

“I need no help, thank you.” Her hand still tingled, and the sensation made her slightly dizzy. It felt as if that part of her body didn’t belong to her any longer, but belonged instead to him. Goodness, what if he touched my shoulder? My chin? Would those parts of me feel the same? As if they belonged to a different person?

Rydell grinned at her. “Like I said, Lefty’ll be there. You can fire him if you want, but I warn you, he’s almost as stubborn as his employer.”

It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. By the time she’d thought up a retort, he had disappeared through the doorway. The screen banged shut behind him.

Her mother sighed. “My, what a nice young man.”

“He’s a Yankee, Mama!”

“Is he? Well, fancy that. A Yankee in Marion County.”

“Mama, we’re not in…” Oh, what was the use? Maybe it was better this way. At least Mama was not suffering the awful grief widows usually endured.

Jane’s mind buzzed. Her hands itched to be busy. Part of it was the need to escape rather than watch her mother retreat into her pretend world. The rest…well, she couldn’t bear to think of that just yet. Her skin felt stretched tight along the length of her spine and across her shoulders. The sensation was so intense she half expected her body to split in half. She needed to do something!

Her pulse hammering, she climbed the stairs up to the attic for her pattern box and the worn copy of Godey’s Ladies’ Book.

All at once she could hardly wait to begin.

Jane twisted the key in the rusty lock and pushed the plank door wide. A puff of hot, musty air washed over her, smelling of chicken mash—earthy and slightly sweet. For a moment she felt she might lose her breakfast.

She leaned over the mop bucket she’d brought from home, clamped her hand across her stomach, and closed her eyes. She could not do this. The only thing she’d scrubbed in her life was her mother’s already-spotless kitchen floor, and this was a far cry from that. This, she acknowledged, gazing at the cobweb-swathed walls and ceiling and the grains of something moldy heaped into the corners, was one step above a henhouse. Or maybe a step or two below.

Merciful heavens, she had borrowed good money to set up a dressmaking shop in a pigsty! The smell was overpowering.

Another wave of nausea swept over her. She clenched her jaws tight and convulsively swallowed down the bitter saliva pouring into her mouth.

When she could raise her head, she fumbled in the pocket of her blue work skirt for a handkerchief, folded it in half cross-wise, and tied it over her nose and mouth. The scent of lavender masked the odor of the stifling room just enough; if she left the door open and worked fast, maybe she could manage it.