Mary McBride - The Marriage Knot

“Thank you, Mrs. Staub,” she said. “It’s very kind of you. Perhaps once I’m feeling a bit stronger...”

“Time, my dear,” the woman said, seeming to prefer her own voice and opinions to Hannah’s. “Time heals all. Shall we expect you next Wednesday?”

“Well, I...”

“Splendid!” Hulda Staub gathered up her packages. “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. Mr. Galt just received a lovely bolt of black moire at the emporium. You really must take a look at it.”

“Well, I...”

“Good day, my dear.”

Before Hannah could reply, the mayor’s wife was already bustling away. On her way, Hannah thought, to accost some other unsuspecting citizen. Then she immediately chastised herself for even entertaining such an uncharitable notion. No doubt Mrs. Staub meant well.

But, in the hope of avoiding any other well-meaning, solicitous folk, Hannah surveyed both sides of Main Street. The few people she saw were minding their own business while doing their best to keep to the shady portion of the sidewalk. Then, although she hadn’t planned it, her gaze came to rest on the empty chair in front of the sheriff’s office, and her heart promptly fluttered at the sight.

“Oh, Hannah,” she muttered under her breath. It wasn’t right, that feathery feeling inside her. It hadn’t been right when Ezra was alive. It was worse now that he was barely in his grave. It was downright wrong. Perhaps even sinful. Probably so. She ripped her gaze away from that beguiling chair just in time to see Henry Allen bound off the sidewalk in front of the bank.

“Mrs. Dancer,” he said breathlessly after sprinting across the street, kicking up dust in his wake. “You shouldn’t be out in this infernal heat. Why, you’ll melt away for certain.”

“I hardly think so, Henry. Unless, of course, you believe I’m made of snow or ice.”

His smooth-shaven cheeks flushed. “Oh, no. That would be an insult to one as sweet as you.” He crooked his arm in invitation. “May I escort you to Mrs. Tyndall’s for a lemonade?”

Instead of feeling flattered by his offer, Hannah was irritated. The silly young man. Why didn’t he aim those Cupid’s darts and sunbeams at someone who’d truly appreciate them? Florence Green, for example. But Henry appeared to regard the spinster schoolteacher—if he regarded her at all—as little more than a fixture in the house, a piece of furniture, a hall clock in the shape of a woman or a table draped in feminine attire.

“Thank you, Henry. That’s very kind, but I have an appointment at three o’clock.”

It suddenly occurred to Hannah that between Mrs. Staub’s aggressive attentions and now Henry’s puppyish devotions, she was probably late for her appointment with Abel. Very late.

“Oh, dear. What time is it, Henry?”

He yanked his watch from his vest pocket. “Ten past three,” he said.

“Oh, dear.” Gathering up her black skirt, Hannah started down the sidewalk toward Abel’s office. “If you’ll excuse me, Henry, I’m very, very late.”

“May I see you to your destination?” he called.

Almost sprinting now herself, Hannah just waved her hand in what she hoped was a polite but firm gesture of refusal.

Being late for the reading of Ezra’s will was hardly an auspicious beginning of her new life of independence and responsibility. On the other hand, it struck her as a mere formality. What difference did it make? There was no one else in Ezra’s life except her. His parents were long dead, and since he’d been an only child there were no brothers or sisters to be remembered in his will. No long-lost cousins or uncles or aunts. Nary a niece or nephew. As far as Hannah knew, for the past fourteen years, there had been no one in his life but her.

Abel’s office was located on the second floor above Hub Watson’s saddlery and leather goods. Hannah dragged her heavy black skirts up the outside stairs, all the while dreading being met by deep frown lines on Abel’s brow and a disapproving droop to his mustache. She stood on the landing a moment to catch her breath and to steel herself for a possible reprimand for her tardiness, then she knocked on the door, just below the brass plaque that proclaimed “A. Fairfax, Attorney-at-Law, Journalist, Scribe.”

“Come in, Hannah.” Abel’s voice came through the closed door, and she was relieved that he didn’t sound unreasonably perturbed or even slightly impatient.

She opened the door and stepped into what could only be described as a dim, dusty maze of books and journals. All four walls were lined with bookcases. More bookcases stood in front of the windows, all but blotting out the light of day. Dozens of bookcases. Crammed bookcases. There were books atop the bookcases, and towers of books on the floor. A veritable librarian’s nightmare. What little sunlight that managed somehow to filter through the windows was riddled with motes of dust.

Hannah’s skirt brushed against one literary tower and set it to swaying precariously. She was leery of taking one more step for fear of starting a domino effect that would scuttle Abel’s entire office in mere moments, so she stood still just inside the door, breathing the musty air and letting her eyes become accustomed to the dim interior.

And that was when she noticed, quite suddenly, that, in addition to all the books, there was a shotgun leaning against a bookcase and, on the far side of the office, someone—Delaney!—was leaning against a window frame.

Abel rose from behind his cluttered desk. “That’s all right, Hannah. It’s an office, not a china shop. There’s nothing that’ll break. Here.” He chuckled softly as he swept a newspaper off a chair and gestured for her to be seated.

Hannah hesitated. Her heart was in her throat now, getting in the way of speech. “Shall I... Would you prefer if I waited outside until you’ve finished your business with the sheriff?” she asked.

“No. That won’t be necessary. Sit. Come on. Sit right here.” Abel glanced over his shoulder. “Sheriff, why don’t you take that other chair. Just shove those pamphlets onto the floor.”

Delaney’s spurs made a soft music when he crossed the room. Then, when he took the chair beside hers, she could have sworn the temperature in Abel’s office went up several significant degrees. Out of the corner of her eye, she was intensely aware of Delaney’s long legs, even the ropy veins on the backs of his hands and the tanned cords of muscle below his rolled-up sleeves. Before she realized it, she had reached out to grasp a pamphlet on Abel’s desk and had begun fanning herself with it.

“I’ll make this as quick as I can, Hannah. I know it’s uncomfortable in here,” Abel said.

Uncomfortable, yes. But it wasn’t just the heat, Hannah thought. Why was it she could never breathe properly when Delaney was around? Her chest felt constricted, as if her corset had shrunk a size or two.

“Thank you, Abel.” She glanced to her left, tried to mount a tiny smile, then asked, “I suppose the sheriff is here as a witness?”

“Well, no. Not exactly, Hannah. Ezra’s will was witnessed a month ago by me and Mayor Staub. Not that Herman knows what’s in it. He just signed and certified that Ezra was competent and in his right mind.” Abel’s gaze moved slowly and deliberately from Hannah to Delaney and back. “Which he was, I think you’ll agree, in spite of his pain. Competent, I mean, and in his right mind.”

“Of course he was,” she said with more than a little starchiness. “Ezra was the sanest man I’ve ever known.”

Delaney merely shrugged.

“All right then.” Abel picked up a single folded sheet of paper. “I’ll just read this in Ezra’s own words. It’s pretty simple. No wherefore’s or furthermore’s or other legal mumbo jumbo. Just his final wishes.”