Mrs. Sanders handed Miles a black serge sun umbrella with a curved wooden handle. “I had something a little fancier in mind, Mr. Rutledge. My sister is coming from San Francisco and is used to nice things.”
He smiled. She was the first customer who’d come in since Ellie had recovered sufficiently to work in the mercantile, and he relished the opportunity to show her that, like Grayson, he could appreciate her ability to meet women’s needs.
Since Mrs. Sanders was hard of hearing, Miles had an excuse to raise his voice. He made sure to speak loudly enough so Ellie could hear him in the back room, where she sat at the desk going over the record of sales he and Sammy had made on her behalf during the two weeks she’d convalesced.
“Mrs. Watkins has a parasol you might like. Let me show you.”
The matronly woman accompanied him to another display case, where he removed a showy contraption that was sure to please, one he and Ellie had discussed that very morning. Good thing he’d listened. “This satin model is trimmed with Spanish lace and has a heavy silk lining. As you can see, it comes in three colors, which Mrs. Watkins informs me are cardinal, myrtle green, and plum. And notice how the silver handle has a floral pattern.”
“Ooh. How lovely. Hortense is sure to be impressed. It must be rather dear, but my sister is worth the added expense.”
He leaned over to whisper the price, which was ten times that of the model he’d first shown her. No doubt she’d prefer Ellie’s frilly version. Women seemed to have a greater appreciation of fine things than he did, although he now used his sterling silver comb with pride. Every time he pulled the engraved case out of his pocket, he marveled at the thought Ellie had put into the gift.
The older woman lifted her hooked nose in the air. “Mrs. Watkins does have good taste, doesn’t she? I’ll take the green one.”
He completed the sale and handed Mrs. Sanders her parcel. She went her way, leaving the shop empty. Since things had been slow during the measles scare, he’d given Sammy time off to help Mr. Abbott bring in his crops. Hopefully his clerk would get up the nerve to ask permission to court Abbott’s daughter while he was there.
Sammy had the right idea. A man needed a woman in his life. The right one could make all the difference. Miles glanced at the curtain behind which Ellie sat. What a fool he’d been to turn her away the day she’d arrived in town. She wasn’t at all like Irene. He’d been so afraid of making another mistake, he’d done just that. Unless his final attempt to convince Ellie to accept his offer succeeded, she’d be packing her things the day after tomorrow and heading to Marysville.
The bell on the door clanged, and a tall man in a ragged linen duster entered. “I see you got ready-made clothing. I want a complete outfit, including one of them there Stetsons and a fancy coat like that one.” He jabbed a finger at the black model on the dressmaker’s dummy.
“Ah, yes. The rifle coat is an excellent piece of workmanship.” After a month with scanty sales, an eager customer was welcome.
Elenora stared at the numbers she’d tallied. Whether she liked it or not, Mr. Steele’s eviction had given her no choice but to accept Mr. Grayson’s offer. There were no other buildings for rent in town, and she couldn’t work beside Miles feeling the way she did. Being so close to him and not being able to tell him would be tortuous. If only he’d say something…But he hadn’t.
Her stomach revolted at the thought of leaving El Dorado. She rose from the desk and walked around the back room of Miles’s shop, admiring the floor-to-ceiling shelves now filled with his replenishment stock, thanks to her efforts to get the items out of the crates. If she had more time, she’d get his paperwork in order, too, but after paying him back, she’d have just enough money to cover her hotel bill and get her and Tildy set up in Marysville. She couldn’t put off her departure any longer.
Tonight’s concert would be her farewell to a place, a people, and a man she’d grown to love. She’d rest on the Sabbath and break the news to Tildy as gently as possible after the service. First thing Monday morning she’d pack her wares and embark on her new adventure—just in time to get Tildy enrolled in a new school term.
Elenora pressed a hand to her stomach. Perhaps by then the queasiness would cease. God had provided for her, and she wasn’t going to let her topsy-turvy emotions rule. Hadn’t Pa always said that following one’s heart was foolhardy and to trust one’s head in matters of import? He might have been wrong about many things, but she could see the logic in that bit of advice.
Now to let Miles know she was ready to run her errand. She’d heard him talking with one man, but that was all. She slipped through the curtain as a lanky man with short blond hair came out of the changing closet wearing a whole new outfit.
Miles saw her and smiled. “If you want to run to the bank now, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get my things and be on my way then.” She nodded a polite greeting at the customer, who leered at her. He focused with one eye. The other was turned to the floor, unmoving.
Cold fingers of dread gripped her. Somehow she managed to keep from visibly trembling.
This horrid man had held up the stagecoach the day she and Tildy had arrived in El Dorado. She was sure of it. He must be Dead-Eye Dan, the outlaw Tildy had read about on the wanted poster. They were in danger, but Miles didn’t know it. She’d have to act quickly.
Elenora forced herself to walk to the back room at a relaxed pace. She didn’t want to alarm Miles prematurely or let the outlaw know she’d realized who he was. Once there she grabbed the back of the desk chair and whispered a prayer. “Please protect us, Lord, and be with me now. I can’t do this without You.”
Her hands shook as she shuffled some papers at the desk. She grabbed her reticule, along with the lavender envelope she used for her deposits, and headed out front. It seemed Dead-Eye had made his final selection. His attention was on Miles.
She went behind the counter, her eyes never leaving the men, and reached under the cash drawer until her hand came to rest on Miles’s revolver. Good. The Colt was right where he’d told her he kept it—loaded and ready. She put her handbag and deposit on the shelf beside it.
The outlaw, now fully dressed in the new finery, strapped on his pistol belt. Her heart sank. It was worse than she’d thought. Dead-Eye carried not one but two guns. He shoved the first into his holster and slipped the second into the waistband of the new trousers.
The men came to the counter. Miles folded the wanted man’s old garments and carried on a casual conversation. Not until the bell on the door rang and Pearl Dupree entered the shop did Dead-Eye make his first move. He looked directly at Elenora, patted the gun on the side away from Miles, and spoke in a low growl. “If you love this man of yours, you’d best get rid of that lady and lock the door.”
“He’s not—” She’d come so close to correcting his mistake but caught herself in time. Her ploy would seem even more believable if the outlaw thought she and Miles were married.
“Go nice and slow-like. You say anything out of line, and your feller will be ready for the undertaker.”
Elenora heard Miles’s sharp intake of breath, but she dared not look at him. He’d obviously attempted something, because the outlaw muttered another menacing threat. Her mind raced. She could use her friend to deliver a message—if she were careful how she worded it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Dupree. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to close the shop today. Mr. Rutledge is feeling poorly. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Would you be so kind as to tell Mr. Henderson we won’t be able to make it to our fiddling practice? I’d appreciate it. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to lock up and see to my husband.”
Pearl’s eyes widened for an instant, and she glanced at Miles. “Yes of course. I do hope you’ll be feeling better soon, Mr. Rutledge. Take good care of him, Mrs. Rutledge.”
Pearl ambled in the direction of Sheriff Henderson’s office looking unhurried and serene, and Elenora breathed a sigh of relief.
She locked the door, turned, and gulped. The outlaw had pulled his gun and had it trained on Miles.
“Now missy, your man here was kind enough to let it slip that you was on your way to the bank. I don’t reckon you’ll be needin’ to make that trip today. I’ll take care of it for you. Be a good girl, and hand over the money.”
She went behind the counter, got the deposit, and held it out to Dead-Eye with a trembling hand. She looked directly at Miles for the first time and witnessed his horror as his eyes came to rest on her lavender envelope.
“No, Ellie!” He received an elbow in his side for his outburst.
Dead-Eye raised his gun to Miles’s temple. “Leave her be, or your pretty wife will find out how much damage one of these can do. That ain’t something you want her to see, now is it?”
“I’m sorry, M–miles.”
Dead-Eye snatched the envelope out of her hand. He tried to slip it in the inside breast pocket of the trail coat with his free hand while maintaining eye contact, but he was forced to look down to locate its whereabouts in the new garment.
In that brief instant Miles inclined his head ever so slightly in the direction of his revolver. She gave him the barest hint of a nod in return.
“Well now, that’s a right nice turn of things. I come in for some new togs and to clean out your till, and I get a bonus for my work.” The outlaw patted the bulging pocket. “Now, Ellie girl, open that there drawer and give me everything in it, or your man’s buzzard bait.”
She pulled out the currency and slapped it on the counter in front of him. With hands now shaking violently, she scooped up the coins. They slipped through her fingers and rolled across the floor. “Oh no! I’m sorry.”
“Dumb fool woman! Don’t stand there gawkin’. Get down and pick ’em up, every last one. And be quick about it. I got places to go.”
Dead-Eye’s finger was on the trigger. Her vision swam, and the blood pounded in her ears, but she mustn’t lose her head now. She scrambled around on her hands and knees. When she’d gathered a handful of coins, she dropped them on the counter. They clattered on the varnished wood surface.
She hadn’t fired Miles’s Colt in months, but he’d been right about the range during a holdup. No way would she miss at this distance, even with a trembling trigger finger.
The next few seconds seemed like hours. She tossed a few more coins on the counter.
While Dead-Eye scraped them into his hand, she grabbed Miles’s gun, pulled back the hammer, stood, and pointed the revolver at the outlaw. In the same instant Miles smashed his clasped hands down on Dead-Eye’s arm.
The outlaw’s gun went off.
Glass shattered
His revolver hit the floor.
Miles kicked the weapon out of the way.
The outlaw went for his other gun, but Miles grabbed Dead-Eye’s hands, pinned them behind his back, and shoved him forward. “Move it, mister! We’ll deal with you out back.”
Elenora kept the revolver aimed at the outlaw as she walked along beside the two men.
Dead-Eye let out with a raucous laugh. “Ain’t this a sight. A girlie with a gun. You even know how to use that thing?”
“I killed the last intruder that came in my shop,” she said without hesitation, her voice firm. “Unless you want to suffer the same fate, you’d better do what my husband says.”
“And don’t even think of trying anything,” Miles snarled. “If you value your life, you’ll go nice and easy. She’s a crack shot.” He shoved Dead-Eye forward.
When she was past the counter, Elenora got in position behind the outlaw. She had the gun trained on him, her finger poised and ready to slip before the trigger and squeeze it if need be.
They made it out the back door and onto South Street without any trouble, but without warning Dead-Eye rammed his heel into Miles’s shin.
Miles groaned and dropped to his knees.
The outlaw tore the gun from Elenora’s hands.
Two shots rang out.
Dead-Eye fell on top of Miles.
Elenora screamed and rushed to Miles. With strength born of necessity, she dragged the outlaw off him and beheld a sight that caused her deeper agony than anything she’d ever seen.
Miles, the man she loved, lay motionless in the dusty street, the front of his white apron drenched with blood.
She threw herself on top of him. “No! Dear Lord, no! Not Miles. Please, not Miles.”