Whispers on the Wind (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 5) (11 page)

She looked at him in shock, feeling as though she was only just now seeing his true colors. He knew very well she didn’t have any customers during the day—or the night. He was playing with her. Making her the fool. And here she’d gone and lent him one of her books!

He reached out to touch her arm, but she stepped back. Dropping his hat on his head, he said, “I’ll consider what you said about the manure. Maybe we can work something out there.” He touched the brim and turned. “Good day, Miss Canterbury.”

In stunned silence, she watched him walk away. He was just as bad as Kendall. Or worse. And to think she’d been worried that she and her aunt had doused his desire to improve his reading. Ha! Turning on her heel, she headed for the stairs. It wasn’t a good day. Not any longer.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

F
rom the front door of the Bright Nugget, Hunter watched as the town poured out to support Miss Hoity-Toity. By the stunned look on her face earlier, he knew that she was annoyed with him. Well, that was just too bad. He was annoyed with her as well. Who ever heard of shoveling manure from the street? He didn’t know where she was from, but
this
was Wyoming! He sucked in a deep breath to chase away his aggravation. Still, he hoped that she’d sell a few books for all the trouble she’d gone through to get people into her store. He had to admit, it was a good idea. The bar was near empty, but that wasn’t unusual for a Tuesday night. Not every night could be Friday or Saturday.

Buckskin Jack, one of the regulars he’d paid to play the piano tonight for an hour or two, pounded away at the keys as if he were churning butter. Hunter supposed the gap-toothed man was trying to give a good show for the half dollar Hunter had promised, but his enthusiasm was wearing a bit thin. Their normal musician, Farley, had taken ill a few days ago with a bad stomach. Hunter was anxious for his return.

“Guess her public reading wasn’t such a dumb idea after all.”

Hunter turned to find Kendall watching the street over his shoulder, a bar glass and towel moving in his hands. “At first I thought the notion kinda harebrained,” Kendall went on. “A scheme of sorts. Now, not so much.”

“Harebrained?” Hunter said dubiously. “Miss Canterbury seems to have a pretty knowledgeable head on her shoulders.”

“I see whatcha mean.”

Four spur-wearing cowboys rode up and stopped in front of the bookstore.

“I can’t figure where she’s gonna put ’em all,” Kendall complained. “Who woulda thought cowboys would enjoy listening to a book being read to them like they was babies. Wouldn’t they rather drink whiskey? And play cards? I don’t get it.”

Hunter turned and gaped at Kendall. Didn’t the man know anything? Miss Canterbury was a darn fine-looking woman. She wore her age well, a saying Thorp was partial to about women on the wagon trains. And she was single, probably the most important reason of all. But, even better, Hunter liked the things she came up with. Too bad
she
wasn’t his partner. Surely, the saloon would be standing room only if she got ahold of the reins.

“You serious, Kendall? They’re not coming to listen to the story, they’re coming to
watch
the show. She’s single, if you’ve forgotten. Nothing better for drawing men than an unmarried woman.”

Kendall shrugged. “You’re right. I guess I’m just trying to make myself feel better about her good fortune and our lack of it.”

“That’s not very neighborly.”

“You need to send for that girl. That Italian singer.”

To their left, Frank Lloyd stepped out of the bank and locked the door, testing the doorknob to be sure it was firm. Wasn’t hard to guess where he was headed. He stopped in the doorway when he reached the saloon.

“Boys,” he said friendly-like. “You coming to the reading?”

“Can’t,” Kendall replied. “Work to do.”

The banker’s brows arched as his gaze swept around the nearly empty room. “Why don’t you close her up for the night? Not often you have a civilized chance such as this.”

Lloyd had to shout because Buckskin Jack, having seen activity at the door, began a jaunty rendition of “Sweet Betsy from Pike,” intending, Hunter was sure, to draw whoever it was they were talking with into the saloon. Hunter’s ears rung so loudly from all the sour notes the half-sober fella hit, he wondered if he shouldn’t cut his losses and pay the man to stop playing, now that he knew just how awful he really was.

“I’m doing inventory later,” Kendall said without missing a beat.

Frank smiled and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

When the banker left, Hunter turned and headed for the back door. “I’m going up to my place and get my book. I’ll be right back.”

They weren’t going to have a rush of drinkers tonight, no way, no how. Philomena didn’t even glance up as he passed the table she used when business was slow. Her head bent over some knitting project and a cup of coffee at her side.

Ducking out of the saloon, Hunter hadn’t gone more than five steps toward the back of the sheriff’s office when he heard a woman’s halfhearted cry for help.

He stopped.

Listened.

It was difficult to discern where the sound had come from over the thunderous piano music trailing him out the back door. Not hearing anything more, he continued until he reached the stairway to his apartment. He stopped again and listened carefully. Fifty feet beyond, far enough out from the Storybook Lodge not to make a stink, soft light glowed from the insides of Tabitha’s outhouse.

The silly building had garnered a laugh from him his first day in town. About twice the size of a regular privy, hers was a tiny replica of the bookstore with all the frippery and finery of the larger building. When no one was looking, he’d taken a fast peek inside. Along with the obvious necessities, there was a miniature pump that flowed into a bucket. A pipe at the bottom of the container disappeared into a round hole that had been drilled through the lower portion of the wall, and the waterline was stretched out to a small kitchen garden, something he was surprised to find in town. If that hadn’t been enough, the place had a latched roof so anyone inclined who wanted fresh air could raise up one side of the roof. Pretty ingenious, he grudgingly admitted. The small building was the fanciest outhouse he’d ever seen, and a darned good idea.

“Help me,” a voice called faintly. “Help me, please.” It was Tabitha, a controlled panic coloring her tone.

Hunter rushed over. “Miss Canterbury? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Oh!” came the unsteady reply.

Several seconds crept by.

Laughter from the folks congregated in the bookstore reached them.

“Mr. Wade, thank heavens you heard me! Be careful out there. There’s a skunk rooting around my back door. I tried several times to escape, but it’s as if he knows I’m frightened, and that I don’t have time to waste. Every time I open the door, he stands his ground and threateningly shakes his tail.”

Her voice wobbled. Was Miss Hoity-Toity about to cry?

“I-I’d hate to get sprayed when I’ve invited all those people to my store.”

“I see your point.” Turning, he examined her back porch. The darkness made seeing much of anything near impossible. “I can’t see much from this distance. You wait here, and I’ll take a gander. Maybe it’s gone.”

“Please don’t shoot it, Mr. Wade!”

He squelched a smile. “No? Why not?”

“It’s not the poor animal’s fault. He must have smelled my trash. After baking this morning, I didn’t make the time to properly take it to the dump this afternoon, as I should have. There were eggshells and greasy papers from butter. I’d hate to see a creature come to a bad end because of my stupidity.”

He looked down at his gun. “No, I won’t kill it, if it’s even still here. I better get moving. It’s almost six o’clock and you have a packed house.”

“Packed?”

“Absolutely packed.”

“Yes, yes, please do. I appreciate your help tremendously.”

There she goes again, using those long words.
“You’d do the same for me.”

Hunter walked the path to her shop with a sharp eye, the faint aroma of the stink kitty apparent on the chilly air. He stopped every few feet to scan the darkness. Most likely the critter was gone; if not, it could have burrowed down into the dirt of her foundation. He didn’t want to get sprayed either. He’d experienced that once when he was a boy, suffering the consequence—and Thorp’s laughter—for weeks.

He took the three steps to her back door, and still didn’t see what she’d been frightened by. Nope, the skunk was gone.

He returned to the outhouse. “All’s clear,” he said, thinking how embarrassed she would be when she actually came out. “The animal has either hightailed it away, or is in hiding, and we won’t find him tonight.”

She didn’t answer.

“Miss Canterbury? You still there?”

“I am, Mr. Wade.” The reply was soft, hesitant. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Would you mind terribly leaving now before I come out? I can’t seem to bear the thought of facing you tonight. Not after such an embarrassing situation.”

“Totally understandable.” Sometimes she sounded just like a little girl. “Good night,” he said, his previous annoyance feeling trite. “Knock ’em dead.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
abitha placed the bookmark between the pages, and gently closed the volume. Books were like people and should be treated with respect, handled carefully, and loved until their timely death.

A thunderous applause erupted. She glanced up, gratitude for this night weighing light in her heart. They’d loved it! At least so far. Thank heavens Mr. Wade had come to her rescue. For all his rude behavior before, his sensitivity to her embarrassing situation made her wonder. Maybe he wasn’t the tough saloon owner he pretended to be. After Mr. Wade had cleared her way, she’d skirted inside while gathering her wits, said her hellos, and began. By then, everyone was seated. Perhaps they believed her delay was a dramatic part of the performance.

“Bravo, bravo,” the crowd cried.

There must be fifty people here.
Tabitha couldn’t believe it.

Aunt Roberta, along with most of her girlfriends, and a sprinkle of the older people of the town, took up the first two rows, as well as the benches. Their husbands and the single men stood around the sides, and lined the back wall entirely. Jessie, and her family, were absent, which surprised Tabitha a little. As did Mrs. Hollyhock’s absence. She hoped her dear old friend wasn’t feeling poorly tonight. She’d promised to come when they were having tea on Saturday. Uncle Frank’s face beamed with pride, bringing her another rush of emotion.

She swallowed back a knot of joy. How she’d longed to see that same look on her father’s face once or twice, or even her mother’s.
If only they could see my success tonight.

“Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, placing the novel on the side of her desk as she stood. “Thank you for coming out for the first of many nights of entertainment at Storybook Lodge. As you can see in the back, Susanna and Hannah are at the refreshment table, ready to assist you.”
And to hand the treats out judiciously so we don’t run out.
“I’ll be available for anyone who might have any questions about this book, or others. Please feel free to browse.” She pointed to the left corner. “And be sure to take a look at our Lending Library. There are twenty-three titles for your reading pleasure. We’ll be resuming at ten minutes past seven, which gives you fifteen minutes to stretch your legs.”

As people stood, talking and making their way to the goodie table, Tabitha returned their smiles, all the while sneaking glances at the plate-glass window.
Mr. Wade is not coming!
Nor should I wish him to. Especially after tonight. It’ll be all too embarrassing the first time we have an encounter.

Nell Axelrose held Maddie’s hand as they got in line for refreshments while Charlie, her husband, spoke with some of the men Tabitha didn’t know, who must be from one of the ranches. Roberta had a firm hold on Markus, and Nate stood quietly at Albert’s side. When Nate glanced her way, she smiled, but the boy quickly dropped his gaze to the floor, his winsome smile nowhere to be seen. She wondered why. Hadn’t he liked the story at all?

Two cowboys along the wall, hats in hands, smiled at her.
More men I don’t know.
I expected to see more women tonight.
The way the one on the left’s eyebrow raised in invitation, she didn’t think he was here to further his literary awareness. Her face pricked with heat, even more than it had been already. She nodded and politely turned away.

“Miss Canterbury, may I have a moment of your time?” Mr. Hutton, the schoolteacher, approached. Brenna, his wife, stood at his side nibbling on a walnut cookie, her eyes bright with the pleasure of the night, Tabitha supposed.

“Yes, of course.”

“You read beautifully. I couldn’t help wondering if you might come to the school every so often and read for the children. You have a way of making the story come to life. I felt as if I were there.”

Such praise coming from the schoolteacher! “I’m sure you can do the same, or better, Mr. Hutton.”

“I think not. Besides, it’s good for the children to see that others besides myself have a love for books and the written word. They already know I do. Your presence will give weight to what I’ve been trying to drill into their heads. Good readers find other aspects of their life easier.”

“I believe that’s true, as well,” she agreed, thinking of her conversation with Mr. Wade about the many places a good story could take him. Surely he’d come around to her way of thinking on the hitching rail, see her concerns, and soften. He was new to Logan Meadows. He’d been so good with Violet, and then again with her tonight. It was only a matter of better communication between them.

“I’d be so appreciative if you’d agree. May I schedule you?”

“I’d be pleased to help in any way that I can. And actually, it sounds like fun. You just give me a day and time and I’ll be there.”

Mr. Hutton glanced at Brenna, a warm smile on his face, and then looked back at her. “Perfect. I’ll look at my schedule, and then let you know.”

“What would you like me to read?”

“Anything age appropriate that you’d like. Surprise me.”

Over Mr. Hutton’s shoulder, Mr. Wade appeared outside the glass of the front door. His gaze started on the far side of the room and tracked slowly around it, causing her a small flutter of warmth.
Is he looking for me?
When his search ended and their eyes met, a jolt of awareness made her inhale. He’d washed, shaved, and his hair was properly combed. The soft buckskin shirt that had grabbed her attention in the mercantile brought a smile to her lips. She was glad he’d come. Embarrassment or not, her heart filled with anticipation. He opened the door and stepped into the shop, made cozy by all the warm bodies. A hush descended for only a moment, and then the chatter picked back up.

Because of her proximity, she had to greet him right away or else look rude. She hoped her face didn’t give her away. “Mr. Wade.” She remembered the outhouse, and how his gentle voice had sent tingles up her back.

His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Miss Canterbury. Did I miss the reading?” He glanced around. “Is it over?”

He means to stay? Listen?
“Not at all. This is intermission.” She glimpsed the goodie table and found Susanna watching them. “If you hurry, there are still a few treats left.”
Maybe he came for another round of cookies.

He glanced at the others still circling the refreshments three deep and then back at her.

Mr. Hutton and Brenna had wandered off and were gazing at a book in the history section.
Oh, to sell a big book like that.

“I’m relieved to hear I didn’t miss the whole thing. Business is slow as molasses over in the saloon. I offered to let Kendall attend while I watched the bar, but he said he might get claustrophobic being squished in here with all these people.” He chuckled as he again glanced around. “He insisted that I come, and represent. Show the people of Logan Meadows that the owners of the Bright Nugget are forward thinkers.” His muscular shoulder lifted and he ran a hand down his leather shirt. “I hope you don’t mind. This was the best I could do.”

“Mind?” For some strange reason she felt exceedingly happy.
Be careful. Words have power.
“Not at all. I’m delighted you came. The cadence you’ll hear from me will help you with your own reading.”

His look was skeptical. “Even after I told you about the hitching rail?”

It’s not built yet.
“We’ll discuss that later.”

He chuckled. “I’m not the most popular person in Logan Meadows, these days. I suppose I can understand why. Either people like me or hate me. Seems there’s no in-between.”

“Surely, you’re exaggerating, Mr. Wade. Everyone likes you. And as soon as they get to know your charming self, the situation will even itself out.”

When people began taking their seats, Tabitha glanced at the tiny watch she had pinned to her bodice.

“Oh, it’s almost time to recommence.”

His eyes widened and he shuffled uncomfortably.

“Begin again. I don’t mind your staying. The way I see it, I owe you a great deal. If you hadn’t stumbled across me outside”—she avoided the word
outhouse
—“I might still be trapped. And no one would be the wiser. Thank you again for that.”

Aunt Roberta, dressed to the hilt, navigated the crowd toward them. It touched Tabitha deeply that Roberta thought so highly of her to dress the part. But the frown on her face . . .

“It’s twelve past seven,” her aunt said, her expression none too pleased as she glanced between her and Mr. Wade. Only moments ago, before he’d arrived, Roberta had been singing Tabitha’s praises, and telling her what a wonderful job she’d done. Now she looked as if she’d just stepped in a fresh pile of horse droppings with her best shoes. “Time to resume,” she said curtly. “Some of your guests have a long ride home. Tomorrow is a workday, as well as school. I wouldn’t want to keep them later than necessary.”

“No. I don’t want to do that. Punctuality is important.”

“I’ll just find a place to stand,” Mr. Wade said. He nodded politely and walked away.

Maude, from her seat in the second row, held up a book to show Tabitha she’d found something to buy. Uncle Frank did the same in the back of the room. Tabitha smiled and nodded back, excited that her plan seemed to be working.

Hunter found a small spot in the back and was able to slide one shoulder in to lean against the wall. Most of the people seemed friendly, but a few still sent scowls in his direction.
Kendall’s friends, I’m sure.
He recognized Maude Miller, the clerk from the mercantile—but he didn’t see the younger busybody.

An hour passed in the blink of an eye. He found he enjoyed listening to Tabitha’s voice. He’d decided her brown hair reminded him of roasted hazelnuts. The way it was fashioned, it seemed as if the thick mass might tumble off her head at any moment. He watched, mesmerized, waiting for the event to happen. The soft light from the lantern on her desk made her green eyes appear mysterious and filled with unspoken questions.

Surprised at how many things he liked about Tabitha, he wondered if she’d ever been kissed.
Really kissed.
The image that thought conjured up made him smile. She’d be all shocked and businesslike, but soft and vulnerable, too. Why hadn’t some lucky man snapped her up the minute she arrived in town? She delivered a line, then paused for theatrics, her mouth formed into a perfect little rose.

You can like her, and be friends,
his conscience whispered,
but don’t go getting romantic thoughts. You’ve never been much good at that. You have a knack for messing things up. Logan Meadows is your hometown now. You’ll be living here for a good long time. Having to face a relationship gone bad day after day would be uncomfortable . . .

Winthrop, the livery owner, nodded to him from the other side of the room. Hunter hardly recognized the man in his clean clothes and jacket. So many other men here tonight, too. He’d like to have them in the saloon.

Tabitha leaned forward, her eyes opened wide. Her voice, a good imitation of a male speaking broken English, breathed the story into life right before their eyes. Hunter had come in late, but had put together that a young lad named Pip was in all sorts of trouble.

“Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip,” she read, glancing up from the book from time to time. “And she’s out now, making it a baker’s dozen.”

“Is she?”

“Yes, Pip,” said Joe; “and what’s worse, she got Tickler with her.”

“At this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat round and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler was a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled frame.”

Tabitha read with earnest, and Hunter couldn’t hold back his admiration. The children in the crowd leaned forward in anticipation, almost shivering in fear of the whipping Pip was about to receive, the room so quiet he could have heard a snowflake melt. Adding another point to her list of good qualities, Hunter leaned back and enjoyed the story.