Regina Scott - Frontier Matchmaker Bride

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.