Winnie Griggs - The Bride Next Door

“He did.” She gave a self-satisfied smile. “Until he lost it to my father in a poker game.”

A poker game? That shouldn’t surprise him as much as it did. “And your father, in turn, gave it to you, I suppose.”

She brushed at her skirt, not quite meeting his gaze. “Let’s just say he owed it to me.”

A cryptic turn of phrase, but he brushed aside his curiosity for now. There were more important matters to get to the bottom of. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are your plans for the place?” If she was going to be his neighbor, he wanted some idea as to what he was going to be in for.

“I’m going to set up my business here.”

Not the answer he’d expected. “What kind of business?”

From the look she gave him, he surmised some of his displeasure had come through in his tone.

“Well,” she replied, eyeing him carefully, “I eventually want to open a restaurant.”

She was just full of surprises. “You know how to cook?”

Her brown eyes narrowed, and her smudged chin tilted up. “You don’t have to say it like that. I happen to be a great cook—everybody says so.”

Just who did everybody include—her father and dog, perhaps? Then he took a very pointed look around him. “A restaurant—in here?”

“Of course I won’t be able to open it right away.” Her voice was less confident now. “I’ll need to earn some money first so I can fix this place up and furnish it proper. And of course I’ll need to buy a good stove.”

She didn’t seem particularly daunted by the task ahead of her. “And how do you intend to do that? Earn the money, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I’m not my father’s daughter for nothing. I’ll figure something out.”

Her father’s daughter—did that mean she planned to try her luck in the poker game over at the livery?

She rotated her neck, and Everett saw signs of fatigue beneath her bravado. For the first time, he wondered about the particulars of her arrival. “If your father didn’t come back to Turnabout with you, how did you get here?”

“I walked, mostly.” Then she grinned proudly. “Made it in three days.”

Her father had allowed her to take a three-day journey alone and on foot? Everett felt incensed on her behalf. Had the peddler given any thought at all to what might have happened? The man should be thoroughly trounced.

A suspicious rumbling from the vicinity of her stomach brought up another question. When had she last eaten?

The faint pinkening of her cheeks was the only acknowledgment she made of the unladylike noise. “Right now, though,” she said quickly, “I’m just going to clean up a spot where I can spread my bedroll and get some sleep while I wait for the sun to come up.”

He looked around at the layers of dust and the lack of useable furnishings. “You plan to sleep on the floor?”

“I don’t see any fancy beds in here. Do you?” Her cheerful tone lacked any hint of self-pity. “Besides, I’ve bedded down on worse.” Her pleased-with-herself grin returned. “And being as it’ll be my very first night in my very own place, I expect I’ll sleep very well.”

She placed her hands on her skirt and levered herself up. “I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep, and I thank you for checking in on me, but you can go on back to your place now. I promise Kip and I won’t be disturbing you anymore tonight.”

Apparently feeling she’d dismissed him, she turned and started picking her way across the room.

Everett contemplated her words while he watched her limp toward a relatively uncluttered spot near the wall that adjoined his place. Her state of affairs wasn’t really any of his concern, and she’d just made it abundantly clear she felt the same. She seemed content with her circumstances, and he had a busy day planned for tomorrow, so he should return to his bed and try to get what sleep he could before sunup.

But for some reason, he stood there a moment longer, watching her. His thoughts turned unaccountably to Abigail, his fifteen-year-old sister. What if she were in this situation? Which was a ridiculous thought, of course. Abigail was safely ensconced in a nice boarding school in Boston and would never find herself in a situation like this.

Still...

* * *

Daisy frowned as she heard her visitor—or was it intruder?—leave. For all his fine airs, he could be mighty rude. He’d all but said he didn’t believe her claim to being a good cook, and it was obvious he didn’t think she’d be able to open her own restaurant. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d seen the way he looked down his nose at her.

Reminded her of Grandmère Longpre—one was always aware when she was displeased. Of course her grandmother would never dream of being impolite. The niceties of civilized society were too important to her.

Ah, well, Mr. Fulton didn’t really know her yet, and she’d just roused him from his sleep. She couldn’t really blame him for being in a bad mood. And she shouldn’t forget that he had helped her out from under that shelving, so she should be grateful and more forgiving. As her father would say, never moon over should bes when your have nows are enough to get you by.

She’d just have to prove to Mr. Fulton and the rest of the townsfolk that she aimed to be a good, neighborly citizen of this community. Starting with making this place clean and inviting. Too bad she didn’t have a broom and mop yet. She’d need to take care of that first thing in the morning. For now, she’d just make do as best she could.

She maneuvered an empty crate next to the space where she planned to place her bedroll, wincing at the bit of noise she made. Hopefully it hadn’t been loud enough to disturb her neighbor. Again.

Once she had the crate in place, she eyed it critically, then nodded in satisfaction. “This’ll make a fine table for now—just right for setting my lamp and Mother’s Bible.”

Kip answered her with a couple thumps of his tail.

She decided her change of clothing and the rest of the meager belongings she’d brought along with her could stay in her pack until she found an appropriate and clean place to store them.

She arched her back, trying to stretch out some of the kinks. Tomorrow she’d give this place a good scrubbing, and maybe pick some wildflowers to add a bit of color. It would take a while to fix it up the way she wanted, but the cleaning and scrubbing part didn’t cost anything except time and effort.

Already, she could picture it the way she would eventually fix it up—with bright curtains on freshly washed windows and a new coat of paint on the walls. She’d have a roomy pantry and sturdy shelves built in here for all her cooking supplies, and a big, shiny, new stove over on that far wall.

She grabbed her bedroll, still thinking about the red-checkered tablecloths and the ruffled curtains she’d purchase. But before she could get the makeshift bed unrolled properly, her neighbor returned, a scowl on his face. What now?

“Mr. Fulton, I’m so sorry if I’m making too much noise again. I promise—”

He shook his head impatiently, interrupting her apology. At the same time she noticed he was carrying a broom and a cloth-wrapped bundle.

He set the broom against the wall, nodding toward it. “I thought you might be able to make use of this,” he said. Then he thrust the parcel her way. “I also brought this for you.”

His tone was short, gruff, as if he wasn’t happy. Was it with her or with himself? His accent had deepened, as well.

And more important—just what in the world had he brought her?

She gingerly unwrapped the parcel and was pleasantly surprised to find an apple, a slab of cheese and a thick slice of bread inside. “Why, thank you. This is so kind of you.”