Winnie Griggs - The Bride Next Door

He moved forward, studying the front of the run-down establishment. The boards that had barred the door were now lying on the sidewalk against the building, and the door itself gaped open.

He peered in, but it was too shadowy to make out anything but irregular shapes. However, he did notice a yellowish light emanating from the back room—the area where the sounds had come from.

Was it a squatter? Or a misguided thief?

Everett hesitated, listening to the scrapes and muffled grunts, torn between his reporter’s instinct to find out the truth of the matter and the niggling voice that told him he’d be wise to arm himself with more than a poker before proceeding.

Besides, what if it was Gus Ferguson, the building’s owner? Gus was a crotchety old hermit who kept to himself, except for the occasional trip to town to get supplies and indulge in a bit of drinking and poker playing. In the nine months Everett had resided in Turnabout, he’d never seen Gus look twice at the place, much less go inside. Why would the man choose this unlikely time to come here? Unless he’d decided to stop in after tonight’s poker game.

Perhaps it would be best if he just quietly slipped away and forgot the whole thing.

Everett winced at the sound of falling crates. The sound of a woman crying out, however, had him through the door as if shot from a pistol. And was that a dog yapping?

He swallowed a yelp as he bumped his knee against the edge of a sagging counter. He kept going, though, albeit with somewhat impaired agility.

Charging into the back room, the first thing he spied was the rubble of storage shelves that had given way, dumping splintered lumber and unidentifiable contents in a dusty heap.

A grumbled humph drew his attention to a woman sitting on the floor, trying to pull her foot free of the mess.

“I’m okay, Kip. But as for this worm-ridden, rickety pile of junk, the only thing it’s good for is kindling.”

Everett recognized the voice before he got a good look at her face—it had a distinctive lilt to it and boasted a slight accent that he couldn’t quite place, but was unmistakable.

Daisy Johnson. What in the world was the peddler’s daughter doing here? She and her father had left town two weeks ago.

Miss Johnson looked up and recognized him at the same time. “Mr. Fulton. What’re you doing in here?”

“Apparently rescuing a damsel in distress.” Still concerned about her predicament, Everett crossed to her in long strides.

The dog seemed to take exception to his approach and assumed a stiff-legged, curled-lip stance in front of Miss Johnson.

“It’s okay, Kip,” she said, giving the dog a reassuring pat. Then she turned a frown on him. “I’m not a damsel. And I’m not in distress. My ankle just got caught under this mess, is all.”

Did she even know what distress meant? “Let me give you a hand with that.” Not bothering to wait for an answer, he heaved up on the piece her foot was trapped beneath, allowing her to free herself, all the while keeping a wary eye on the dog. And the dog returned his look, stare for stare.

Once she’d shifted her leg away from danger, he set the offending shelving back down. Then he knelt beside her, doing his best to ignore the dust and grime that surrounded him. “Allow me,” he said, taking over the job of unlacing her boot.

“There’s really no need,” she protested, trying to push away his hands. “I can do that—”

He gave her his best don’t-argue-with-me stare. “Be still, please. You’re stirring up more dust, and I’d rather not succumb to a fit of sneezing.”

She paused, an abashed look on her face.

Good. He’d gotten through to her for the moment. Time to drive his point home. “It’s important to make certain you’re not badly injured before you try to stand. Or would you prefer I ask Dr. Pratt to take a look at you?”

His words had the opposite effect of what he’d expected. She glared at him. “There’s no need to be so snippy. And no, I do not prefer to have you bother the doc at this late hour over a few bruises.”

Snippy? Didn’t the girl recognize authority when she heard it? Clenching his jaw to contain his irritation, he gently slid the worn, dirty bit of footwear, including her stocking, off her foot. He studied her ankle, unhappy with what he saw. “It’s already starting to swell and darken. It might be wise to have Dr. Pratt take a look at you, after all.”

“Glory be!” She brushed his hands away and smoothed down her skirts. “It’s nothing more than a bad bruise.” She flexed her ankle to prove her point, but he noticed the wince she couldn’t quite hide. “It’ll be fine by morning,” she insisted.

Everett leaned back on his heels. He wasn’t going to force the issue. After all, he wasn’t her keeper—nor did he want to be. “Mind if I ask what you’re doing in here?”

“I was trying to clear the way to the back door so I could open it up and air out the place.”

Was she being deliberately obtuse? “I mean, why are you in here in the first place?”

She tilted her chin up. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m cleaning the place up so Kip and I don’t have to sleep in the middle of this rubbish and dirt.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Daisy Johnson’s lack of ladylike sensibilities went beyond the unrefined rustic “charm” that he’d grown to expect from the women of this backwater that circumstances had forced him to call home for the present. She was outspoken, obviously uneducated and her manner was rough and belligerent.

“It is my business if you wake me up from a sound sleep in the middle of the night,” he countered.

At least she had the grace to blush at that. “Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about the racket reaching over to you.”

He stood and offered a hand to help her up. “Apology accepted. As long as you cease and desist until a more civilized hour.”

“Fair enough.”

He noticed another quickly suppressed wince as she put weight on the injured foot, but she didn’t utter a sound.

“If you won’t see the doctor,” he said, keeping a hand at her elbow, “at least tell me where your father is so I can fetch him to tend to you.” The sooner he could turn her over to someone else and return to the comfort of his bed, the better.

She tugged her arm out of his grasp and hobbled over to a nearby crate to sit down. He grimaced at the little cloud of dust that rose as she settled.

“I reckon he’s halfway to the Louisiana border by now,” she answered, reaching down to scratch her scruffy-looking dog.

Had her father abandoned her? Despite himself, Everett felt a stirring of sympathy. He spied the bedroll next to the lamp. “So you broke in here looking for a place to spend the night.”

She shifted as if to find a more comfortable position for her foot, and he saw a snatch of cobweb caught in her tawny hair. He had an unexpected urge to brush it away, but quickly shook off the impulse.

“I aim to spend more than the night here,” she said with a smile.

Did she intend to claim squatter’s rights? Well, it was her bad luck that the building already had an owner. “Despite the way this place looks,” he said, trying to let her down gently, “it’s not abandoned. And I’m afraid the owner might not look favorably on your plans to take up residence.”

“That’s where you’d be wrong.” There was a decidedly smug look to her smile. “I’m the owner, and I don’t have a problem with it at all.”

Chapter Two

Everett stared at her, feeling his momentary sympathy fade. Had he heard correctly? But there she sat, like a queen on her dusty throne. How could that be? “Last I heard, Gus Ferguson owned this place.” He managed to keep his tone neutral.