Christine Johnson - Legacy of Love

No such luck. Within seconds, the girl had ferreted her out.

“There you are.” Without so much as a greeting, Sally flounced toward her, the hem of her scandalously short skirt barely peeking out below the bottom of her fur-trimmed coat. “How could you leave Mother without help on the day of her Christmas party? She was beside herself. Absolutely hysterical. I thought we’d have to call in Dr. Stevens.”

Anna’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “I, uh—”

“Is that any way to treat a friend? I thought we were friends, Anna. Haven’t I always helped you?”

Not always. True, she’d looked up to Sally when she was younger, and Sally had taken her under her wing, but not like a friend. More like a foot soldier.

“I, uh, thought you were still at the university. Your mother said Michigan didn’t let out for the semester until the end of the week.” It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it worked.

Sally lifted her nose even higher. “I finished my coursework early, and my new guy drove me here.”

The familiar way Sally mentioned her beau made Anna’s skin crawl. She acted as if he was some swell from the big city. Maybe he was, but driving all the way from Ann Arbor alone with a man?

“He’s perfect,” Sally continued, her stained lips bright against the fox fur, “much too good for the girls around here.”

Anna didn’t bother to point out that Sally came from here. Instead, she glanced toward the newspapers.

That reminded Sally of her purpose. “You have to come back to work.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“But then who will clean up after the party?”

Anna stared at the candy jars. “I don’t know.”

“What is wrong with you? It can’t be the wages. Mother pays better than anyone else in town.”

“I’m not a servant,” Anna said through clenched teeth.

Sally snorted. “You’re a maid. Maids are servants.”

“I clean houses.”

“Just like your mother.” Sally lifted her nose. “We would have hired her, if we could. She’s more reliable. You should be grateful we gave you the job.”

Anna struggled to choke back her indignation. “I’ll get another job. Someplace where I don’t have to wear a humiliating uniform.”

“Is that what all this is about?” Sally flicked her hand dismissively. “I’d think you’d be proud to wear it. Mother bought them directly from Ashton’s. They cost a fortune and are in the latest fashion, something you wouldn’t know a thing about.”

No one could misconstrue Sally’s meaning as her smug gaze raked downward from Anna’s threadbare coat to her sagging wool stockings.

Anna blinked back tears of angry humiliation. The Bible said to turn the other cheek. It didn’t mention how tough that could be.

Out of nowhere came the warm masculine voice of the distinguished stranger. “If the uniform is that fashionable, perhaps you should wear it.”

Anna’s jaw dropped. She could have hugged the man for lobbing that volley at Sally. He’d come to her rescue in as spectacular a fashion as Mr. Rochester had lifted Jane out of the driving rain and onto his horse.

“The nerve,” Sally said under her breath, before pasting a smile on her lips. Cocking her head until the ostrich feather on her stylish turban swept downward, she fixed every ounce of feminine wile on Anna’s hero. “How witty you are, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met.” She extended a hand.

He ignored it. “At least you’re correct about that.” He nodded curtly. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

Without another word, he strode out of the store and straight into Anna’s heart.

* * *

Despite the blustery December weather, Brandon Landers felt hot. He couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman in the store. Her friend had called her Anna. Intelligent, lively and unspoiled, her enthusiasm reawakened hope—and a much more frightening emotion. No woman had generated such feelings since before the war.

Anna clearly hadn’t two dimes to rub together, but she had the nerve to walk away from a degrading job. He had to admire a woman who put ideals ahead of money. Add to that her interest in antiquities, a rare quality for someone her age, and he could soon find himself attracted to her. That was precisely the trouble. She couldn’t be much more than twenty. Pretty young women paid no attention to wounded war veterans chasing the other side of thirty.

At least for a few minutes she’d helped him forget the painful task ahead. He must evict the tenants from the property his father had sold shortly before his death. Worse, they didn’t know the house and business had been sold. Apparently Father had overlooked that little detail.

He fingered the envelope in his pocket, and tension rippled through him. He hated delivering bad news and would never force a family to move on such short notice if there had been any other solution. MacKenzie, Father’s attorney and new owner of the property, insisted they vacate the house by the end of the month or Brandon must return the purchase price. Since Father had already spent that money, and Brandon couldn’t acquire such a sum, MacKenzie had offered to take the family’s Pearlman house as payment.

Brandon’s gut clenched. That house was all that Father had left him. He must evict the tenants from their home or lose his own.

A gust of wind struck, and he tucked the envelope deep into his pocket. That loathsome task could wait until the man of the house arrived home from work. Until then, he’d look over the storefront where he planned to open his bookstore.

He hurried along the boardwalk, shoulders hunched against the wind. The leaden sky hadn’t yielded snow yet, but it threatened. The cold weather had frozen the puddles and forced him to spend more for coal than he’d anticipated. At this rate, he’d run through his meager savings before spring. He needed to get the bookstore up and turning a profit soon, but the storefront required work. A lot of work.

To turn the old harness shop into a viable bookstore, he needed to replace the front window, install bookshelves and build a sales counter—none of which he could manage himself. That meant hiring a carpenter or handyman.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the dim interior. It smelled like a tannery. Dust, dirt and debris filled every corner and crevice. He poked his cane into the wall, and the plaster crumbled onto the plank floor.

“I need help,” he muttered.

“I might be able to assist you with that,” answered a painfully cheerful voice.

Brandon turned to see a man of middling height with unruly hair standing in the open doorway. Informally dressed in a mackinaw coat, he looked every bit the workman Brandon needed.

“You’re looking for work?”

The man laughed and shook his head. “I already have a job as pastor at the church across the street, but I know pretty much everyone in town and can put out the word for whatever you need.”

The man sure didn’t look like a clergyman. “Aren’t you dressed a little informally for a minister?”

The pastor laughed again and extended a hand. “Call me Gabe.”

Brandon stared at the outstretched hand. Ever since the war, he couldn’t set foot in a church. Too much had happened—things he didn’t want to remember, things no one could forgive. But he also couldn’t deny basic civility.

“Brandon Landers.” He completed the handshake. “I’m settling my father’s estate.”

“My condolences. We heard he’d passed away unexpectedly. Will you be staying in Pearlman?”

“At the family home.” This conversation was already taking too long. Soon the man would invite him to church, and he’d have to make up an excuse. He eyed the dark street with its glimmering streetlamps and checked his watch. Five o’clock. Best get his unpleasant task done before it got too late. “I need to leave.”