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He followed her.
Beth scowled at him. “What? Not only do you doubt my ability to find you a bride but I can’t even complete my own shopping?”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind a display of tinned goods in the crowded mercantile. “Keep the bride business to yourself.”
Oh, but those cool eyes could look fiery. “How exactly can I do that when I must talk to the various women involved?” she demanded. “Springing it on them as a surprise won’t work. Trust me on that.”
“I meant you don’t need to discuss it in front of every Tom, Dick and Harry,” he gritted out.
Beth fluttered her lashes at him. “But Deputy McCormick, I left Tom, Dickie and Harry at Wallin Landing.”
He blinked, and she held back a giggle. Not for the first time she found herself pleased that the names of her brother’s logging crew made for such interesting commentary. Still, she couldn’t help noticing how Hart glanced around the store, as if expecting a desperado to leap out from behind the salt casks or sprigged muslin.
“I won’t breathe a word to anyone unless absolutely necessary,” Beth promised him. “Now, may I go, Deputy? Or do you intend to charge me? If I stand here much longer, you’d have every right to arrest me for loitering.”
He stepped back and inclined his head. “Just doing my duty to protect the citizenry, ma’am. In case you hadn’t noticed, Seattle can be a rough place. I aim to make sure you head for home safely.”
He didn’t trust her. Her! She’d kept secrets about birthday presents, Christmas presents and wedding presents and never said a word to others. She’d listened to stories about lost horses, lost funding and lost loves and never whispered about it. She was the keeper of all family knowledge. Nora liked to say there was nothing that wasn’t wound onto Beth’s spool.
And Hart thought she’d blab to anyone who came along!
“Suit yourself,” she said, detouring around a pile of furs brought in from the winter trapping season. “But I’ve never met a man who had the stamina to match mine for shopping.”
Head high, she swept up to the counter, where Mr. Weinclef stood waiting.
With a decidedly pinched look on his narrow face.
She thought perhaps it was because of Hart looming behind her, but the clerk immediately disabused her of that notion.
“I’m sorry, Miss Wallin,” he said, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Another customer asked for all the pink crepe.”
Oh! Beth spared Hart a glare. He wisely went to look at rifle cartridges.
Beth turned to the clerk. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t have a yard or two tucked away?”
Weinclef positively squirmed. “I’m very sorry, miss.”
Beth sagged. “It’s all right. I’m sure you did your best. If any more comes in, you’ll send word?”
He bowed. “Of course.”
Beth turned, started for the door, and Hart fell into step beside her.
“You heading home now?”
She sighed. “I suppose I must.”
He held the door open for her. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so discouraged. That pink whatever-it-was mean so much to you?”
How could she explain? She loved fabric—how it looked, how it felt, how it made her feel, the many things she could imagine creating with it. Some of the men of her acquaintance turned positively glassy-eyed when she started talking about fabric and fashion. Of course, there were those who consistently complimented her on her sense of style.
And there was Hart, who never seemed to notice what she was wearing.
“I’m just disappointed,” she told him. “I had plans for that crepe.”
He pulled up. “Wait here.”
Before she could ask why, he strode back into the store. Someone yelped, and something fell with a thud. Beth peered through the open door, but saw nothing amiss.
Hart returned to her side. “The lady who bought the fabric is named Jamison. She’s the new seamstress down on Commercial.”
The day brightened. “New seamstress?”
He started in that direction. “I figured we could ask if she’d be willing to part with it.” He led her to the corner and down the block to turn onto the busy street. As much as she wanted that crepe, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to take her mind off her purpose—finding him a bride. He ought to know she wasn’t deterred so easily.
Even by fabric.
“By the way,” she said, stepping up onto the boardwalk, “some of the candidates on the list I was given are simply unsuitable for your wife. You have too much experience to favor a dewy-eyed debutante, even if Seattle had boasted more than two of them.”
His boots thudded against the rough wood, as if he’d put excessive energy into his walk. “Too much experience or too many years?”
Was he touchy about his age? She wouldn’t have guessed him to be so vain. But then again, he had proven that he wasn’t the man she’d originally thought him.
“Either,” she answered breezily. “And I’ve ruled out the widow with seven children.”
She thought she heard a chuckle. “Kind of you.”
Beth waved her hand, causing a gentleman in a top hat to veer around them. “Most men would have to ease into the role of father. Even Drew nearly buckled when our family was thrust upon him.”
“He was only eighteen, if I recall the story.”
“Eighteen and unsure,” Beth agreed, glancing up at the placards over each storefront. Ah, there was the shop, sandwiched between the bootmaker’s and the haberdashery. “You are neither.”
She reached for the handle and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled. The scent of roses drifted over her as her foot sank into the carpet. Hart, her commission, her family faded away as she stepped inside and turned in a circle. Her gaze flew from the bolts of bright satin and rich velvet to the soft wool and crisp cambric. And the ribbons—wide and narrow, in every possible color. Spools of thread to match. Lace in white, cream, black and, oh! Pink. Dressmaker forms with half-finished gowns she would be proud to wear when completed. She nearly swooned.
A curtain at the back parted, and a tall woman glided into the room. Her raven hair was piled up behind her head to spill artfully around her shoulders. Her creamy complexion set off liberally lashed eyes of a delicate shade of violet, Beth saw as the woman approached. Every inch of her black gown was tucked and pleated, draped with lace and dotted with bows, the very height of elegance.
“Good afternoon,” she said in a cultured voice. “How may I help you?”
A dozen ideas presented themselves, but Beth set them all aside. Very likely she hadn’t enough money in her pocketbook to afford one of this lady’s creations. “I understand you purchased the last of the pink crepe from Kelloggs’, and I was hoping you’d part with some.”
The woman wandered to the nearest wall, trailed a long-fingered hand along the bolts of wool. “An inferior material to be sure, but it was perfect for a day dress I am constructing for Mrs. Yesler.”
Beth brightened. “I know Mrs. Yesler. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Tell her Beth Wallin asked.”
The proprietress turned and held out a hand. “Mrs. Wallin, Mr. Wallin, a pleasure. I’m Mrs. Evangeline Jamison.”
Too late she remembered Hart. Turning, she found him just behind her, a dark shadow among all the pink and white.
Beth turned to accept the seamstress’s hand. “It’s Miss Wallin, and this is Deputy McCormick.”
Mrs. Jamison fluttered sable lashes as she dropped her gaze. “Deputy, an honor.”
“Ma’am,” Hart said.
He gave no explanation for his presence, didn’t so much as attempt to look at material or notions. A slight frown marred the perfection of Mrs. Jamison’s countenance.
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Beth said, moving the lady’s attention back to her. “Your shop is lovely. You obviously have excellent taste.”
She inclined her head as she pulled back her hand. “As do you. I’m certain I saw that gown in Godey’s.”
Beth touched the striped fabric. “Oh, do you take Godey’s?”
“Of course. One must remain au courant with what other designers are attempting. I’m sure they study my designs depicted there.”
Beth head jerked up. “Your designs were in Godey’s?”
She thought she heard a choked sound. It might have been Hart.
It might have been her.
“Most recently the January issue.” She said it as if the tremendous honor was commonplace. “And I’m working on one now for June.”
“May I...may I see it?” Despite her best efforts, her voice came out breathless.
Mrs. Jamison’s smile was tight. “Now, why would I show my best work to the competition before it was complete?”
Beth blinked. “Competition?”
Mrs. Jamison spread her hands. “Come now, dear. Someone made that fetching gown.”
Beth glanced down at the pink skirts again. “Not me. My sister-in-law Nora sewed it for me.”
“Nora Wallin.” Mrs. Jamison cocked her head, sending curls cascading across her shoulder. “Customers have mentioned her, but I haven’t seen a shop with her name on it.”
“She takes commissions out of Kelloggs’,” Beth explained. “Or she did until you came to town. I very much doubt Nora will be a competitor. Every lady will be flocking to your door. You and Mr. Jamison must be very proud.”
The seamstress lowered her gaze. “Alas, Mr. Jamison has gone to his just reward. It’s only me and my younger brother here in Seattle, but I must say everyone has been so welcoming.” She raised her head and made sure to include Hart in her smile.
Beth glanced between the two of them. An accomplished widow of grace and beauty, a lonely lawman established in his career. What better match could she envision?
And why did everything in her rebel at the very idea?
* * *
Hart had thought his work difficult. He’d grown thirsty or hungry as he chased a culprit across the county for days. He’d been bruised and battered by men fighting to remain at large. Nothing was as painful as waiting for Beth to finish her transactions in the frilly, overly perfumed shop. And he didn’t much like the looks the proprietress was directing his way. For all her sweet smiles and fluttering fingers, he sensed calculation. He could only hope Beth didn’t suggest her as a likely bride.
Finally, she left, fabric folded under one arm. Pink, like much of her wardrobe. The fresh, youthful color suited her. Not that he paid much attention.
“What next?” he asked, pacing her as she started down Commercial.
She cast him a glance. “Tiring already?”
Hart stretched his arms over his head. “I can last as long as you can.”
She shook her head. “Perhaps you can. But I refuse to monopolize Seattle’s only deputy. Think what dire crimes are being committed even as we speak!”
Hart chuckled. “It’s Tuesday. Most of the dire crimes happen over the weekend.”
“Really?”
Those blue eyes were so trusting. She believed anything he said. While he had tried to walk the narrow path since that dark day in Ohio ten years ago, he still found her belief gratifying.
She probably hadn’t noticed that Seattle had too many troublemakers these days. Some of the men coming to work in the coal mines across the lake were harder types than the original pioneers. The steamship route from San Francisco that had started this week added dozens more strangers to the city. Worse, there had been reports of newcomers being enticed from the docks so a gang of ruffians could relieve them of any valuables. Mortified, the immigrants hadn’t been willing to come to the sheriff for help, according to the locals who had found the victims. So far, he hadn’t been able to convince the immigrants to talk, and he hadn’t located the criminals, but he wasn’t about to stop trying.
Seattle had one duly appointed constable, but he mostly served as a watchman, raising the hue and cry when something happened. If criminals were to be stopped, it was up to Hart, Sheriff Wyckoff, and any other man he might deputize. Which meant Beth was right, and he had work to do.
Something of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, for she sighed. “I’m finished for today, Hart. You can see me back to the livery.”
She sounded so defeated he moved closer. “Didn’t you get what you wanted?”
“Oh, yes.” Her grin reappeared, forming a dimple at the side of her mouth. “At least, purchase-wise. But don’t think you can get rid of me so easily. I’ll come back to town and meet with you tomorrow. I’ll have better candidates in mind then.”
Not if he could help it.
As soon as he saw Beth on the road north toward Wallin Landing, driving a wagon with her brother’s famous steel dusts in the traces, Hart went straight to his superior’s home on the outskirts of Seattle to speak to Mrs. Wyckoff.
Ursula Wyckoff was a pillar of the town. A handsome woman in her late forties, she worked on most civic and church committees, donated flowers for every funeral and supported any number of charitable causes. Her stern demeanor reminded Hart of the woman who had run the orphanage where he’d been raised. Still, Mrs. Wyckoff invited him in and offered him a glass of lemonade, which he declined, before sitting across from him in the parlor.
“Is something wrong, Mr. McCormick?” she asked, blue eyes bright.
Had she noticed the way he shifted on the horsehair-covered sofa? The Wyckoffs had one of the finer homes in Seattle, the walls covered with floral paper, the wood floors by thick carpets. The furnishings were dark and heavy, while crystal draped the lamps. He always felt like an interloper.
Now he balanced his hat on his knee. “Not wrong, ma’am, just of concern. I understand you and the other ladies of the Literary Society persuaded Miss Wallin to find me a bride.”
She didn’t look the least embarrassed to be caught in her machinations. “Ah. I had hoped Miss Wallin would be more circumspect.”
Hart raised a brow. “So you wanted her to lie, too?”
She waved a hand, the sleeve of her gown dripping lace. “You make it sound so sordid. We were only trying to help.”
“I don’t need help,” Hart told her. “I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a wife if I wanted one. And I don’t.”
She leaned forward, frown gathering. “And why not?”
Her husband knew the full story of his past, his upbringing in the crowded orphanage, his short time as an outlaw, the deadly consequences of his decision to testify against the gang. Would Wyckoff be strong enough to deny this woman if she asked him about it? Would the story have any chance of remaining hidden if the sheriff or Hart told her?
Would he escape this room without giving her something?
