A Bride in Store (33 page)

“Me too.” She didn’t quite look him in the eyes. “Would you pray?”

———

Will dropped his biscuit as if it were brimstone, and Eliza bowed her head.

Quiet settled around her, then lingered. Had he fallen asleep?

She peeked up, but his lips wriggled as if he couldn’t decide what to pray. She smiled a little before bowing her head again.

“Lord, help Mrs. Lightfoot find hope in you. Let her not give up on life—but find joy in being loved by you just the way she is, despite her failures and deficiencies. Let me, Jonesey, and Eliza realize that too. Let us not judge ourselves by our successes or failures but according to how you judge us—redeemed and set apart for good works. Let not our weakness of mind and unbelief keep us from following your plan. Help us look to you for guidance, that we may bless others and be blessed ourselves. Amen.”

Eliza stared at her empty plate. He hadn’t thanked God for the food, but what did that matter? She should take prayer as seriously as he—even dinnertime prayers—in which she rarely voiced more than a routine blessing.

Just weeks ago, she’d started praying again and had prided herself for that, but her prayers were nothing more than asking God for what she wanted. And Will’s prayers were so . . . knowledgeable. He probably read his Bible every day too. She’d felt as if she hadn’t the time now that God had given her what she wanted . . . not that she’d read daily before she’d had the store.

Will dragged the green beans closer, and his tongue poked out to lick his lips. He stopped, the spoon hovering in midair. “I’m sorry. Did you intend to pray as well?”

She shook her head before he could set down the serving spoon. What could she add right now that wasn’t blabbering about how she wasn’t good enough for what she had . . . or what she wanted. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Good things, I hope.” His smile grew as soft as the whipped butter.

“Does anyone think poorly of you?” Unlike with Axel, she’d never seen anything but smiles or high regard when others talked about Will.

His face fell. “Plenty, I think.”

“In what way?” Would he honestly lay out his faults before her? Both of her former fiancés had done nothing but build themselves up—and neither turned out as grand as their boasts.

“Well, my inability to get to medical school has caused some to question my intelligence. I’ve also made plenty of mistakes people believe I could’ve avoided.” He glanced up at her for a second. “No one thinks highly of a failure.”

“I thought you just prayed we shouldn’t care about our failures.”

He stopped chewing. “Yes, but—”

“Maybe people are pushing you toward school not because they can’t stand to see a failure, but because they know what a success you’ll be if you do go.” Eliza grabbed the potatoes and dished herself a small mound. “Irena didn’t want to see anyone except you, though two qualified doctors reside in town.”

“Right, two,” he mumbled through his mouthful.

“Yes, two. Yet she chose you. She wanted your talent, your kindness—you.”

For years, she’d fought for men to acknowledge her talent, but what about her kindness? This morning, Mrs. Langston had been excited over Eliza’s proposal to sell her clothing at the Five and Dime, but if she hadn’t been shamed by Will’s perpetual generosity, she’d never have offered. “You’re so good-natured, everyone likes you.”

“They take advantage of me as well.” He cut a piece of meat on his plate. “At some point I need to stop worrying about others or I’ll get nowhere . . . or at least that’s what some say.”

Yesterday she would have enthusiastically agreed, hoping he’d start insisting on payment for his doctoring, but now . . . “We need more people like you, not one less. I like that you think about others ahead of yourself.”

And that was just one thing she liked about him. She let her chin drop onto her palm, not heeding the fact that her elbow rudely perched on the table.

His perfect, slanted smile was another thing, and—

“So, with Mrs. Lightfoot . . .” He grabbed the salt.

Had he missed the warmth in her voice, the look in her eye she couldn’t help?

“I need you to try to raise her spirits.” He kept eating.

She blinked. Maybe it was best he hadn’t noticed her infatuation.

You’re not good enough for him.

And you can’t have both him and the store.

She picked up her fork and pushed her potatoes around. “I’ve tried countless times to get her out of bed.”

“Good, but she needs to
want
to get out of bed.”

“What better way to encourage her to do so than to get her outside to feel the sun and smell the flowers?”

“How long do you sit with her at night and talk?”

Eliza took her time cutting a potato. He’d probably not like her answer. “I figured forcing her to eat and coaxing her out of bed was intruding enough. I am, after all, only a guest.”

“You’re not a guest.”

She raised a brow at him.

“You’re the brightest spot in her life right now. She’d love to dine with you—in her room if she can’t find the strength to come down.”

Eliza stopped chewing. Of course. After all the nice things Irena had done for her, she should have thought to eat with her upstairs without Will’s suggestion. She forced herself to finish chewing so she could swallow the shame lodged in her throat.

“At least
I’m
finding dinner with you quite pleasant.” His plate was already clean.

She sighed. Even though she’d neglected to do what any decent person would have done, he still considered her a worthy dinner companion. “Well, hopefully my apple pie will be even better.” She got up to take his empty dish. “Unless you want a second helping first?”

“No need.” He grabbed his plate before she could. “I can clean up after myself and bring out dessert while you finish.”

She couldn’t sit back down. “Do you always think about others more than yourself?”

“Well, I’m always thinking about you.” He stepped closer. “Since the day you arrived actually.” He straightened, smiling mischievously. “And I thought you told me you were making rhubarb.”

She swallowed hard. “I thought you might want something sweeter.”

He leaned down and gave her a small peck on the crown of her head. “I’ve already tasted the sweetest thing here. Anything else would be sour in comparison.”

“Especially since I used tart apples to make the pie.”

His laughter made her want to bake him bitter desserts for the rest of his life.

He set his dirty plate back on the table and grabbed both of her hands. “You know, I really don’t need pie.” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. He lowered his so slowly she couldn’t help but press forward to meet his lips.

He merely brushed his mouth across hers and then drew back. She forced herself not to frown at such a short kiss.

He cupped her cheek, letting his thumb run along her scar. “But I’ll get us some pie anyway.” He winked, picked up his dirty dish, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Will was very wrong about one thing.

The privilege to have savored the sweetest thing in Kansas belonged to her.

But if they couldn’t figure out a way for him to doctor in Salt Flatts, had she the right to kiss him at all?

Chapter 21

Will’s damp lower eyelids made it difficult to decipher Dr. Forsythe’s penmanship scribbled across Mrs. Lightfoot’s death certificate.

Head affection?

Will swiped away a tear and faced the doctor. “What’s head affection?”

He shrugged. “She had enough exterior maladies—she likely had plenty on the inside as well.” He glanced toward the door Eliza had exited in search of dry handkerchiefs. “Sometimes you don’t know what went wrong, boy, and it doesn’t help to draw things out. Besides, she’s got no family around here. It makes little difference.”

Little difference? How could he think Mrs. Lightfoot’s death made no difference?

“I’ve got other patients.” Dr. Forsythe scratched at his neck. “I suppose you could arrange for the undertaker and the like?”

Although Dr. Forsythe’s indifference annoyed him, Mrs. Lightfoot would be treated with more dignity if he and Eliza saw things through. “Yes.”

“Good.” Dr. Forsythe awkwardly patted Will’s shoulder and left him with the old woman’s body, eerily still under a faded blue sheet.

If he hadn’t been so distracted by Eliza last night, would he
have examined Mrs. Lightfoot more thoroughly and discovered what had taken her life?

Awaiting Eliza’s return, he reviewed every disease he knew of, but nothing fit the symptoms he’d observed better than melancholia, yet that couldn’t have been her only problem—that wouldn’t have stolen her breath nor stopped her heart.

Mrs. Lightfoot had trusted his doctoring and he’d failed.

Since he wasn’t a doctor, he couldn’t call Dr. Forsythe’s prognosis into question. And who besides Eliza would encourage him to dig for the real cause? He’d heard enough whispers about Mrs. Lightfoot’s beard being the mark of the devil that her death might actually relieve many townsfolk.

He rubbed his face. He needed schooling or at least more time to read his medical texts, no matter how long and arduous the process.

Eliza’s feet dragging sounded behind him. She shuffled over to the stool where she’d silently cried as Dr. Forsythe examined Mrs. Lightfoot.

More soundless tears cascaded down her face, but she didn’t look in his direction.

Will reached over and took her hand. She clamped on, crushing his fingers.

He’d have to inform the undertaker sooner rather than later, but for now, he held on tight. Nothing he could say or do would make today better, so he would let Eliza mangle his hand as long as she wanted.

Stifling her tears, Eliza reluctantly accepted the shovel the pastor handed her. She held her shawl tight with one hand, but the wind still seeped in. Had a day in May ever been so cold? She stepped forward and got a shovelful of dirt to overturn atop Mrs. Lightfoot’s casket sunk deep in the earth.

Her throat constricted seeing the small pile of soil atop the pine
box. The only people who’d bothered to come say good-bye stood beside her: the preacher, her lawyer, Mr. Raymond, and Will.

Just five.

How could the townspeople shun such a delightful woman? Will’s parents would have attended the ceremony and perhaps some other country folk had they been in town, but only five from Salt Flatts? Even Dr. Forsythe hadn’t stayed to pay his respects. All because of a disfigurement.

Mr. Raymond gently pried the shovel from her hand and propped it against a gravestone.

Will stood behind a nearby marker, looking into Irena’s grave as if he believed he deserved to be buried himself.

If she hadn’t enticed him down for dinner last night, would he have spent more time with Irena and possibly prevented today’s mourning?

Mr. Scottsmore approached her, and Mr. Raymond sidled closer. He’d hovered near her throughout the ceremony, darting quick glances between her and her lawyer for some reason. Feeling like a defenseless rabbit watching a buzzard’s claws circle closer and closer every time Mr. Raymond glanced her way, she turned her attention to Mr. Scottsmore—a pleasant chap who’d assured her the paperwork she signed with Mr. Raymond gave her a fair deal.

“Miss Cantrell, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to stop by my office before you return home.” Her lawyer looked over his shoulder toward his buggy. “I need to pick up Mrs. Langston to attend as well but could meet you there soon.”

Eliza wiped the corner of her eye with a rough handkerchief. “Can’t we talk another day?” Not that she wanted to return to the empty boardinghouse, but discussing business wasn’t on her agenda. She didn’t even plan to open her store.

Mr. Scottsmore sucked air through his teeth. “I know this sounds insensitive, but I’m afraid my schedule demands we discuss the will today.”

The will? She turned toward the gravedigger rushing to fill the hole before it rained. Had Mrs. Lightfoot left something for her? She didn’t deserve anything. She’d only known the woman for a few months and hadn’t done enough for her during her last days.

“It’ll be all right, Eliza.” Mr. Raymond laced his arm through hers and squeezed. “I’ll escort you over.” He turned to the lawyer. “Anyone else needed?”

“No.” Mr. Scottsmore sized up Mr. Raymond with a glance, then shrugged and shifted his gaze to her. “I know this isn’t the best of times, but if anything is going to cheer you, this meeting might. If we can’t visit now, we’ll have to reschedule two weeks out, because I—”

Eliza held up a weary hand. “If it’s better for you, then I’ll be there.” Just yesterday she’d decided to consider others’ needs above her own. Apparently God was testing her resolve already.

She shuffled along with Mr. Raymond toward his buggy, then took his hand as she climbed the wheel while wrestling with her stiff mourning dress.

The second the buggy started rolling, she turned to look for Will. She should have said good-bye.

He was walking behind them, hands in his pockets, staring at his feet. He’d said nothing much since Dr. Forsythe had left the boardinghouse.