A Bride in Store Read online

  She sucked air through her teeth, then quickly relaxed her face. The blotch on her handkerchief grew bright red around the edges.

  Will handed her the medication, and she gingerly placed the cap against her lips.

  “You’re not going to want to sip that—drink it right down.”

  She threw back the whole measure, and forced it down with a hard blink.

  He left to wash up in the Hampdens’ upstairs apartment, giving the medicine time to work.

  Carl was pacing the tiny office when he returned, yet the lady seemed relaxed.

  Will sat beside her and reached for her makeshift bandage, his hand cupping hers. “Let me take a look.”

  She removed her hand and stared straight into his eyes. Her irises were a rich brown, like the cloves she’d used to sweeten her breath.

  He forced himself to break from her gaze and focus on her gash. She’d most likely need eight stitches. He pressed the cloth back against her skin to staunch the blood. The heat of her cheek through the handkerchief was uncommonly distracting.

  Mr. Hampden swayed and put a hand on the wall to keep himself upright.

  “Carl, get behind her so you can’t see, and I need you to clamp your arm across her forehead and against your side to hold her still.”

  She shook her head slightly, the loose tendrils of hair tickling his knuckles.

  He should anchor her hair behind her ear, but that would be too intimate a gesture for a doctor. Not that he was one. Maybe that’s why he almost desperately wanted to do that very thing for some reason.

  “I won’t move.” Her eyes were steady and as dark as the hair trailing across his hand.

  He blinked and refocused. She didn’t realize how many stitches he was going to have to put in. “Dr. Forsythe might close this up quick enough you could stay still without help, but you wouldn’t be happy with your scar. Stitches hurt no matter how much Mrs. Hampden talked up my abilities.”

  “I’ve had stitches before,” the lady mumbled. “I’ll be fine.”

  Maybe she would. At least she appeared more resilient than Carl. The man was turning whiter with each passing second, and he wasn’t even looking at Eliza.

  Maybe he should wait for Kathleen to return, but was she strong enough to hold this woman still?

  “When do you plan on starting?” The lady’s eyebrows arched as she tried to peer down at his hand cupping her cheek. She actually looked amused. A woman who could laugh in this situation was a strong woman indeed.

  “I’m giving the medicine time to work.” He glanced down at her hand but saw no wedding ring, then rolled his eyes. The robbers would have stolen it. “What’s your last name, Eliza?”

  “Cantrell.” Her eyelids sagged, then flew open. If she was feeling sleepy, the medicine had done its job.

  “It’s time.”

  His friend anchored her head under his arm, his muscles flexing tight, his Adam’s apple running up and down his throat.

  “Just look at the ceiling and think of lots and lots of sales, Mr. Hampden. Happy thoughts.” Will smiled at Miss Cantrell and scooted closer. “You should close your eyes.”

  She tried to shake her head, but Carl thwarted her. Good.

  “If I can’t watch, I’ll flinch.”

  “All right.” Grabbing a little piece of leather with his free hand, he offered it to her. “Bite down on this. It’ll help steady you.”

  When she nodded, he lowered the handkerchief and began his first stitch. Impressively, she only tensed and forcefully exhaled.

  Will prayed for a steady hand with each poke of his needle. If she stayed motionless and silent, Carl would remain upright and her scar would be minimal.

  After seven stitches, he knotted the silk. “I’m finished.” He smiled into her droopy eyes.

  Carl let go of her head and sighed. “That wasn’t so bad, but I need to go, um, outside for a moment.” He moved toward the door on wobbly knees.

  Will couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the man’s melodrama, not that Carl was paying attention to him. “You impressed me, Miss Cantrell.” Will wiped his hands and pulled out some bandaging. “I should have taken your word for how you’d fare.”

  She gave him a weak smile before her head drooped and her shoulders sagged.

  He frowned. He hadn’t given her enough medicine to cause her to sleep sitting up. “Are you all right?”

  Maybe she’d counted his stitches and realized the extent of the damage. She wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world. She had a fairly long face and big eyes, but every woman wanted to be beautiful, and stitches and the resulting scar wouldn’t help. Though, if she was tough enough to endure sutures without a peep, she’d rise above a fading scar. “In a few years, I don’t think you’ll see any evidence of what happened today. Unless you look really close.”

  He held out the bandage, trying to figure out the best way to wrap her head. “You’ll need to cover your wound until it no longer oozes. Then you should let it air dry.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She handed him her unadorned bonnet and reached for the gauzy roll. “At least my face anyway.”

  “Are you hurt elsewhere?”

  She sighed as she lifted the strip to her face. “My pocketbook.”

  Will put her hat on the edge of the desk. “Where’re you headed? Folks in my church could donate money to get you home.”

  The bandage’s end kept slipping from where she tried to anchor it against her neck with her chin. Will reached out to hold the piece against her skin, velvety like butter. His fingers itched to run along her jawline.

  Watch it, Stanton. You don’t manhandle patients just because they feel soft.

  After she got the first round of gauze started, he let his hand slide down, his double-crossing fingers lingering seconds longer than necessary.

  She stopped unrolling the bandage and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Was she trying to figure out why his hand loitered so long where it shouldn’t have? He met her gaze and tried to breathe normally.

  She watched him for a second before continuing with her head wrapping. Without the aid of a mirror, she smoothed the cloth as she unrolled the bandage.

  He should help her, but he was afraid his fingers might decide to take a trip down her long neck.

  “No need to send me anywhere. I’m Salt Flatts’ newest resident.”

  “Oh.” Will scurried to think of any Cantrells in the area, but none came to mind. His tongue suddenly felt dry. “Are you alone?” She had to be, since no one was with her, but why had she come? There weren’t many available jobs in Salt Flatts for single ladies. “Do you need a place to stay? Maybe a member of my church could house you until you can send for money to stay at one of the boardinghouses.”

  She tied a neat little bow under her chin and indicated she wanted her hat. “If you’re wondering when I will pay you, don’t worry—”

  “Oh no, ma’am.” Will handed her the bonnet. “I don’t charge people.”

  She cocked her head and scrunched her brows, as if witnessing nuts falling out of his ears. “You aren’t charging me because of the robbery?”

  “No. I don’t charge for my services because I’m not ready to hang out my shingle as a doctor.”

  She puckered her mouth as if he’d said something that didn’t make sense. “People seem convinced you’re better than the county physician, so why wouldn’t you ask for payment?”

  Why did he feel as if she’d pulled out an augur, readying to drill a hole in his skull to check for brains? “I just don’t.”

  She shrugged. “You’re selling yourself short. If Mrs. Hampden insisted I see you because you do such great work, then you’re worthy of being paid.” She flung up empty palms. “Not that I have any money at the moment.”

  “As I said, don’t worry about it.”

  “But I’ll pay soon.” She took a sidelong glance toward the door and leaned forward to whisper. “You’re looking at a woman who’s going to be running the most prosperous m
ercantile in town. Just wait and see.”

  His eyebrows froze near his hairline. “A mercantile?” Salt Flatts had one too many stores already, if his financial woes were an indication.

  “Have you heard of F. W. Woolworth of Pennsylvania?” Her serious face had transfigured in the same way his little sisters’ did when they talked about kittens. “I’m going to—”

  The door creaked open, and Kathleen came in, arms void of children. “Are you done already, Will?” She smiled upon seeing Miss Cantrell’s bandaged face. “I didn’t hear anything while I was putting Gretchen down—not even my husband’s unconscious body hitting the floor.”

  Kathleen giggled and squeezed Will’s shoulder before taking a seat next to Miss Cantrell. “Do you need Carl to get your things? I should’ve asked who was waiting for—”

  “No need.” Miss Cantrell clamped both her hands around Kathleen’s. “I’ve got plans.”

  Will turned to pack up his box, pushing his emaciated savings purse farther back into the corner.

  Great. Another mercantile owner. If Miss Cantrell was about to compete with the Hampdens, the Lowerys, and him and Axel for Salt Flatts’ sales revenue, he’d never make enough to afford medical school.

  Chapter 2

  “William!”

  Will stopped and turned in the middle of the road, barely avoiding being hit by a mule cart.

  Carl waved at him from the front of his store. The man’s color was looking better.

  Will sighed and jogged back. “Did I forget something?” He mentally checked his medical supplies. He’d repacked them while trying to ignore Eliza chattering to Kathleen. The less he knew about their newest business competitor the less depressed he’d get.

  Competing with the Hampdens’ hadn’t hurt their friendship . . . but he had no time for sparking, and for some reason, he wanted to sit and stare at the woman who’d proven herself tougher than his mother—and few ladies in this world could hold a candle to Rachel Stanton.

  “Do you want lunch?” Carl rubbed a hand across his flat stomach. “We’ve got nothing prepared, and I’m starving.”

  Will glanced over his shoulder, though he couldn’t see his store past the bustle on the street. “I don’t know.” If Miss Cantrell was about to open another store, could he afford to be closed for lunch? “Do you know anything about the name Woolworth?”

  “Might’ve heard the name.” Carl rubbed his chin. “But it’s not coming to me. Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” No need to alarm him. Nothing was likely to come of a single woman trying to start a store with no money anyway.

  “Let me get the women so we can head to the hotel.”

  Both women? “I’m not so sure—”

  The door slammed behind Carl, and Will huffed. Too rude to just walk away. He liked Carl—he really did—but the man wasn’t the greatest conversationalist. And from the way Miss Cantrell ceased divulging her business plans the moment Kathleen returned, she surely wouldn’t speak of them in front of the Hampdens. So the next hour would be him listening to what? Talk of knitting and fashion?

  Miss Cantrell walked out of the store, her hat repositioned to hide the bandage knot crowning her head. Handfuls of eastern women had arrived over the years, and none of their outfits had been so . . . so . . . dull.

  So they most likely wouldn’t be talking fashion during lunch, since his mother’s mourning dress had more ornamentation than the flat black cloth Miss Cantrell sported. Not that her plain dress didn’t accentuate her curvy—

  Miss Cantrell’s hands latched above her hips, and she cleared her throat.

  He looked up and blinked, trying to find an excuse for his wandering gaze as she walked closer and asked, “Is something wrong?”

  She had no way of knowing what he’d been thinking, but that didn’t stop the heat from rising to his face.

  “I got lost in thought.” He hoped his skin hadn’t turned as red as it felt. Doctors shouldn’t blush. He’d studied enough medical diagrams to know what a woman looked like under—

  He rubbed his hand across his eyes as if he could wipe away the image he’d pulled up. What was wrong with him? Miss Cantrell wasn’t pretty enough to tempt a man into immoral mind wanderings.

  “William!” Mrs. Graves called out a few yards away.

  Oh, how he wished his cheeks weren’t burning at the moment. He took a step away from Miss Cantrell and turned to face the woman hustling toward him.

  “Glad I caught you.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “I’ve run out of whatever concoction you gave me last month. It has worked wonders on my—” she glanced between him and Miss Cantrell—“complaints. Better than the elixir Dr. Forsythe gives me. Might I bother you for more?”

  “I’ll have to make some, but yes.”

  She put a stout hand to her ample bosom. “Thank you.” After sighing, she took a good long look at him and then peered down her nose at Miss Cantrell. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.” She turned back to him, eyebrows furrowed. “Are you two together?”

  He took another step back and tipped his head toward the woman in question. “Miss Cantrell just arrived on the train, and since the first Kansans she met robbed her of her purse, Carl and Kathleen are taking her to lunch.”

  He really shouldn’t join them. If he did, the glint in Mrs. Graves’ eye did not bode well for him and Miss Cantrell in the rumor mills.

  Mrs. Graves’ eyebrows rose. “Oh, I heard about the robbery.” She snatched Eliza’s hand and petted her knuckles as if she were a frightened puppy backed into a corner. “I’m sure that was just dreadful. Did they accost you? Is that what happened to your face?”

  The growl of his stomach protested the inevitable minutes about to be lost trying to escape the town’s worst gossip. Why did he have to mention the train robbery?

  Miss Cantrell took a step away from the older woman. “I’m afraid we’ve yet to meet, Mrs. . . .”

  His face warmed again. How rude of him not to introduce them formally, but Mrs. Graves wasn’t exactly well-mannered. Being a fancy easterner, Miss Cantrell probably found them both boorish.

  “I’m Mrs. Graves, and there was a time I was this close”—she held out two stubby fingers pinched together—“to being this man’s mother-in-law.”

  Of course the busybody would bring up his failed engagement to her daughter, Nancy, with a complete stranger. He rubbed the back of his suddenly hot neck. Things were going from bad to worse.

  Carl backed out of the mercantile’s door with a child attached to each hand. “Kathleen will be just another minute.”

  “I don’t have much time before the ladies meet.” Mrs. Graves patted him on the arm as if he were naught but a youth. “So I’ll come by your place tomorrow for my medicine.”

  “Looking forward to it.” Will retained his fake smile as she scurried to cross the road toward the millinery, where several ladies were quilting behind the huge glass windows—no doubt changing topics of gossip as fast as pedestrians passed in and out of view.

  The scuttlebutt would surely revolve around him and Miss Cantrell for the next fifteen minutes or so.

  Hopefully he could leave the tincture for Nancy’s mother with Axel and lie low when she came to retrieve the medicine.

  “So you’re treating Mrs. Graves? That’s mighty considerate of you.” Carl eyed him, both of his children pressed against his legs.

  “I just can’t keep from—” He cut off his own excuse with a shake of his head. Of course, he could tell the woman no, but not when Dr. Forsythe’s harsh purgatives, blistering, and other heroic treatments had done nothing for her. If Forsythe would bother to listen to him, the man could’ve learned of the herbal concoction one of the women in town recommended for Mrs. Graves’ female complaints.

  But should he be prescribing contrary to a medical-degreed doctor? He hadn’t read even a quarter of the medical volume he’d purchased from a battlefield surgeon. Still, Nancy’s mother’s health had improved with his tincture
.

  Will glanced toward Miss Cantrell, who seemed exceptionally interested in their conversation. He looked back to Carl. “Well, it’s just awfully hard to refuse Mrs. Graves anything.”

  Carl snorted. “You can’t refuse anybody anything.”

  Since Will had delivered Gretchen, Kathleen had refused anyone’s counsel but his, and how could he withhold something to ease Junior’s cough or clear up Carl’s hay fever? “Would you like me to start refusing your wife’s requests for medical advice?” Will gave little Gretchen a big smile, which she returned.

  “Don’t you dare. Kathleen won’t even look at Dr. Forsythe after his treatment of Junior’s whooping cough.”

  “So you don’t charge the Hampdens either?” Eliza’s gaze bored into him.

  “If you were to refuse someone services, it should be Mrs. Graves.” Carl let go of Junior’s hand and scooped Gretchen up into his arms. “The woman encouraged Nancy to leave you, so she shouldn’t be able to wring free services out of you.”

  And there it was—the topic he was hoping to avoid. Will gritted his teeth. “Must we speak of this now?”

  “Why not?”

  “My past is not exactly a topic I want to discuss in front of Miss Cantrell.”

  “She’ll find out sooner or later.” Carl shrugged. “Nancy Graves jilted Will because he can’t make up his mind whether or not to become a doctor.”

  Will wrapped his hands around the top of the hitching post, strangling the wood. “And Carl stole my neighbor’s mail-order bride.”

  Carl’s cheeks pinked. “All right, I won’t share anymore.”

  The air rushed out of his lungs. “I’m sorry, Carl. I shouldn’t have said that.” Definitely not in front of the children. Thankfully, Junior looked as if he were daydreaming, and Gretchen was certainly young enough not to understand.

  “Though it’s not like Miss Cantrell won’t hear about that either.” Carl glared at him before turning to Eliza. “I didn’t know Kathleen was promised when I fell in love with her, and Everett Cline got himself a pretty wife not too long afterwards. Everybody’s happy.”

  Miss Cantrell smoothed her hands along her plain bodice. “I feel like I need to air something uncomfortable about myself to set things to rights.”