Frontier Matchmaker Bride

He followed her.

Beth scowled at him. “What? Not only do you doubt my ability to find you a bride but I can’t even complete my own shopping?”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind a display of tinned goods in the crowded mercantile. “Keep the bride business to yourself.”

Oh, but those cool eyes could look fiery. “How exactly can I do that when I must talk to the various women involved?” she demanded. “Springing it on them as a surprise won’t work. Trust me on that.”

“I meant you don’t need to discuss it in front of every Tom, Dick and Harry,” he gritted out.

Beth fluttered her lashes at him. “But Deputy McCormick, I left Tom, Dickie and Harry at Wallin Landing.”

He blinked, and she held back a giggle. Not for the first time she found herself pleased that the names of her brother’s logging crew made for such interesting commentary. Still, she couldn’t help noticing how Hart glanced around the store, as if expecting a desperado to leap out from behind the salt casks or sprigged muslin.

“I won’t breathe a word to anyone unless absolutely necessary,” Beth promised him. “Now, may I go, Deputy? Or do you intend to charge me? If I stand here much longer, you’d have every right to arrest me for loitering.”

He stepped back and inclined his head. “Just doing my duty to protect the citizenry, ma’am. In case you hadn’t noticed, Seattle can be a rough place. I aim to make sure you head for home safely.”

He didn’t trust her. Her! She’d kept secrets about birthday presents, Christmas presents and wedding presents and never said a word to others. She’d listened to stories about lost horses, lost funding and lost loves and never whispered about it. She was the keeper of all family knowledge. Nora liked to say there was nothing that wasn’t wound onto Beth’s spool.

And Hart thought she’d blab to anyone who came along!

“Suit yourself,” she said, detouring around a pile of furs brought in from the winter trapping season. “But I’ve never met a man who had the stamina to match mine for shopping.”

Head high, she swept up to the counter, where Mr. Weinclef stood waiting.

With a decidedly pinched look on his narrow face.

She thought perhaps it was because of Hart looming behind her, but the clerk immediately disabused her of that notion.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wallin,” he said, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Another customer asked for all the pink crepe.”

Oh! Beth spared Hart a glare. He wisely went to look at rifle cartridges.

Beth turned to the clerk. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t have a yard or two tucked away?”

Weinclef positively squirmed. “I’m very sorry, miss.”

Beth sagged. “It’s all right. I’m sure you did your best. If any more comes in, you’ll send word?”

He bowed. “Of course.”

Beth turned, started for the door, and Hart fell into step beside her.

“You heading home now?”

She sighed. “I suppose I must.”

He held the door open for her. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so discouraged. That pink whatever-it-was mean so much to you?”

How could she explain? She loved fabric—how it looked, how it felt, how it made her feel, the many things she could imagine creating with it. Some of the men of her acquaintance turned positively glassy-eyed when she started talking about fabric and fashion. Of course, there were those who consistently complimented her on her sense of style.

And there was Hart, who never seemed to notice what she was wearing.

“I’m just disappointed,” she told him. “I had plans for that crepe.”

He pulled up. “Wait here.”

Before she could ask why, he strode back into the store. Someone yelped, and something fell with a thud. Beth peered through the open door, but saw nothing amiss.

Hart returned to her side. “The lady who bought the fabric is named Jamison. She’s the new seamstress down on Commercial.”

The day brightened. “New seamstress?”

He started in that direction. “I figured we could ask if she’d be willing to part with it.” He led her to the corner and down the block to turn onto the busy street. As much as she wanted that crepe, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to take her mind off her purpose—finding him a bride. He ought to know she wasn’t deterred so easily.

Even by fabric.

“By the way,” she said, stepping up onto the boardwalk, “some of the candidates on the list I was given are simply unsuitable for your wife. You have too much experience to favor a dewy-eyed debutante, even if Seattle had boasted more than two of them.”

His boots thudded against the rough wood, as if he’d put excessive energy into his walk. “Too much experience or too many years?”

Was he touchy about his age? She wouldn’t have guessed him to be so vain. But then again, he had proven that he wasn’t the man she’d originally thought him.

“Either,” she answered breezily. “And I’ve ruled out the widow with seven children.”

She thought she heard a chuckle. “Kind of you.”

Beth waved her hand, causing a gentleman in a top hat to veer around them. “Most men would have to ease into the role of father. Even Drew nearly buckled when our family was thrust upon him.”

“He was only eighteen, if I recall the story.”

“Eighteen and unsure,” Beth agreed, glancing up at the placards over each storefront. Ah, there was the shop, sandwiched between the bootmaker’s and the haberdashery. “You are neither.”

She reached for the handle and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled. The scent of roses drifted over her as her foot sank into the carpet. Hart, her commission, her family faded away as she stepped inside and turned in a circle. Her gaze flew from the bolts of bright satin and rich velvet to the soft wool and crisp cambric. And the ribbons—wide and narrow, in every possible color. Spools of thread to match. Lace in white, cream, black and, oh! Pink. Dressmaker forms with half-finished gowns she would be proud to wear when completed. She nearly swooned.

A curtain at the back parted, and a tall woman glided into the room. Her raven hair was piled up behind her head to spill artfully around her shoulders. Her creamy complexion set off liberally lashed eyes of a delicate shade of violet, Beth saw as the woman approached. Every inch of her black gown was tucked and pleated, draped with lace and dotted with bows, the very height of elegance.

“Good afternoon,” she said in a cultured voice. “How may I help you?”

A dozen ideas presented themselves, but Beth set them all aside. Very likely she hadn’t enough money in her pocketbook to afford one of this lady’s creations. “I understand you purchased the last of the pink crepe from Kelloggs’, and I was hoping you’d part with some.”

The woman wandered to the nearest wall, trailed a long-fingered hand along the bolts of wool. “An inferior material to be sure, but it was perfect for a day dress I am constructing for Mrs. Yesler.”

Beth brightened. “I know Mrs. Yesler. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Tell her Beth Wallin asked.”

The proprietress turned and held out a hand. “Mrs. Wallin, Mr. Wallin, a pleasure. I’m Mrs. Evangeline Jamison.”

Too late she remembered Hart. Turning, she found him just behind her, a dark shadow among all the pink and white.