Chapter 1

 

Idaho City, Idaho Territory, April 1867

 

“Where is that confounded ledger?” Tempest Blakely placed another stack of receipts and papers on the counter above her. If people didn’t know better they might mistake her mercantile as a paper shop, given the mess she’d made this morning. But she was sure she’d placed the ledger under the counter next to her tin of pencils after closing up last night. And yet the book was nowhere to be seen.

The bells on the door tinkled as a customer entered. “I shall be with you in a moment,” Tempest called out.

“I’ll just look around,” a male voice responded.

She blew a puff of air to dislodge one of her springy auburn curls out of her eyes and sat back on her heels, her wide skirts ballooning around her. Why couldn’t she remember something as simple as where she’d placed the ledger? Squeezing her eyes shut, she attempted to retrace her steps from last night. Old Mr. Seymour had been her last customer—she could remember that because she’d finally succeeded in coaxing a smile from the ornery miner. A victory indeed, since he typically grumbled the entire time inside her store about it “not bein’ right for a female to be runnin’ this place like a man.”

Then she’d made supper, though she’d come down before eating it to look through the crate of combs and hairbrushes she’d ordered. They were a bit of an experiment to draw more female customers to her store. She’d needed a hammer to pry open the box and she’d found the tool . . . under the ledger.

Tempest leapt up to find the hammer sitting innocently on top of the ledger at the far end of the counter. “Aha.” She lifted the tool off the account book and brandished it in the air in triumph. She’d remembered after all.

“Do you greet all of your customers as if you mean to bash them over the head?”

Whirling around, she found a rather nice-looking man standing there, watching her, his hazel eyes lit with a hint of amusement. His blond hair stood attractively on end and his shirtsleeves had been rolled back to reveal muscled forearms.

“Only the impatient ones,” she countered in jest.

When his gaze widened in surprise, Tempest blushed. Her scattered brain wasn’t the only thing she had to try to rein in. “My apologies. I was simply looking for . . .” She exchanged the hammer for the ledger and waved it as proof. “For this. How may I help you?”

She moved serenely to where he stood opposite the counter. A look of hesitation crossed his handsome face. “I . . . um . . . could use . . .”

“Are you here to work in the mines?” His clothes suggested otherwise, but he might be newly arrived from the East, eager to make a fortune in gold from the Boise Basin. She’d seen fewer of these men since opening her store last year, but still they came. “My store has everything you need in the way of supplies.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a miner. I’m . . .” Stepping forward, he extended his hand. “My name is Bram Wakeman.”

Tempest leaned forward to shake his hand. “Tempest Blakely.”

“Tempest?” His eyebrows rose along with the corners of his mouth.

She pulled her hand away. “Yes, Tempest,” she said with a frown as she began gathering up the strewn papers and receipts from off the counter. She knew what he would say next; she’d heard it all before. Even at twenty-five years old, she still couldn’t escape the comments regarding her name.

Tempest is your given name? How very unique and original . . . and a bit strange. What prompted your parents to choose that?

“I like it.” The statement came out definitive, without a hint of insincerity.

She let her mouth drop open before she managed a strangled, “You do?”

“Yes. I like the name.” Bram smiled and for a moment Tempest forgot what they’d been discussing. “Or rather, I like the play by that name.”

“The Tempest by Shakespeare,” she said at the same time he did. They both laughed.

“I hadn’t thought of it as a first name per se, but it fits you.”

Her pleasant shock dissipated like smoke in a windstorm. “It fits me?” She drew herself up to full height—all five feet six inches, though it was nowhere near his tall frame. “And how would you know it fits me? You’ve only been in my store for five minutes.”

“Well, you know.” He waved a hand at her as if it were obvious. “The wild hair, the mess on the counter . . .” He had the decency to look embarrassed as he added in a low voice, “Sort of like a tempest?”

She slapped her pile of papers back onto the counter, no longer feeling the need to clear away “her mess.” “Perhaps you’d like to find a different mercantile to shop in, Mr. Wakeman. There’s another about twelve miles from here. Good day.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Blakely.” He splayed his hand on the papers and bent forward. “I’m new in town, as of yesterday actually, and I’ve made a real blunder of my first official introduction. Can you forgive me?”

Those green-brown eyes regarded her with what appeared to be earnestness. And she didn’t wish to drive away a paying customer. Business-wise things were going decently, but there was always the niggling fear that running her own store wouldn’t work out in the end. Then she’d be forced to return home and throw her lot back in with one of her brothers and their large families. She’d be the pitied spinster aunt once again, spending her days overseeing someone else’s children. Tempest shuddered. She liked her nieces and nephews and a part of her still held out hope for having children of her own. And yet she adored her freedom and her store and the life she’d made for herself right here.

“Very well.” She offered him half a smile. “You’re forgiven.”

He dipped his head in a stoic nod, though she detected more relief in his demeanor than he was letting on. “I believe I’ve decided on what to buy. Do you happen to stock nails?”

She allowed herself to smile fully. “Of course. Which size do you need?” She swept through the opening in the counter to show him where she kept the nails inside a handful of wooden boxes. The various sizes tended to get mixed in with each other, but her customers had never complained about having to pick through several containers to find what they needed.

As he searched for the correct nails, they talked amiably about life in Idaho City, the surrounding mountains, and the spring weather. By the time Bram was finished, Tempest had nearly forgotten his remarks about her hair and the scattered papers. It had been years since she’d spoken with a handsome young man who was more interested in talking to her than he was about her family’s money.

And she greatly hoped to see more of him. Perhaps even tonight, at the party the Stanburys were hosting. She debated asking him to join them as she rang up his purchase. Would Bram think her forward, or see an invitation as her simply being neighborly?

“Seeing as you’re new in town,” she said, making a decision, “you might enjoy the musical party my friends Lydia and Calvin Stanbury are throwing this evening. Calvin is the postmaster. It’ll be a small affair, but you’ll have the opportunity to meet a few more of the townsfolk and enjoy a private performance from a visiting opera singer.”

“Are you sure your friend won’t mind one more?”

Tempest brushed another unruly curl from her eyes. “Not at all. You’d be more than welcome.”

“Then I accept,” he said, shooting another warm smile her way. “Thank you.”

Pleasure at the thought of seeing him again, and soon, wound through her as she shared the details of the party and then watched Bram exit the store. Her day, and now the upcoming evening, had taken a definitive turn for the better.

 

• • •

 

Bram charged into the street, heedless of the traffic, his bag of unneeded nails gripped inside his hand. He hadn’t expected his competition to be a woman. And certainly not one as passionate and pretty as Tempest Blakely. When she’d leapt up from behind the counter, brandishing that hammer like some fierce Roman goddess, he quite forgot his purpose in entering the store in the first place.

“Watch out,” a voice barked.

He reared back at the last minute to avoid colliding face-first with a horse and wagon. Shaking himself to alertness, he nodded apology to the driver and moved at a more sedate pace to the building across the way from the mercantile. Tempest’s mercantile. But in a matter of days it wouldn’t be the only one serving the people of Idaho City.

Pausing on the sidewalk, Bram locked his hands behind his back and gazed at his wooden building, a sight he felt certain he would never tire of. The sound of hammering rang from inside, where several craftsmen were installing more shelving.

“Do you know what’s goin’ on with the old saloon?” A scraggly-bearded man who appeared to be in his fifties came to a stop beside Bram.

“It’s being renovated,” he answered with satisfaction.

The older man’s gray eyes lit up. “Renovatin’, huh? You gonna put a new saloon in?”

Bram chuckled until he realized the man was serious. “No, it’s going to be a mercantile.”

“But we already got one.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Tempest’s store. “Even if it is run by a woman. A body can’t never have too many saloons though.”

A prick of conscience irritated Bram’s excitement at the mention of Tempest and her store. He liked her and was more than pleased to accept her invitation to her friend’s party. And yet, he had no intention of changing his plans or making his business anything less than a success. His mercantile would be the greatest in the Boise Basin—it had to be. More than his livelihood and entire life’s savings were at stake. His self-respect was too. No one admired a man who’d served as a soldier in the war but hadn’t seen a single battle. But a prosperous merchant would command respect wherever he went.

“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend.” Bram hoisted the bag of nails and slapped them into his other palm, shooting the old man a grim smile. “But the old mercantile is about to meet her match.”