With a quick glance over his shoulder, the man shook his head. "I smoke Carolina Blue," he said a little louder than necessary. "It's a lot smoother than that old cheap Red Leaf."
Cleav couldn't stop himself from taking a hasty look toward Esme, then wished he hadn't. She was grinning ear to ear and looked positively ready to swagger.
As he helped Rog load the supplies on his wagon, Cleav reassured himself that, lust or no lust, he was proposing marriage to Sophrona Tewksbury this very afternoon!
The store was empty when Cleav went back inside. Well, not empty, he corrected himself. Esme was there, but she'd become such a fixture even he'd begun to think that she belonged.
She was humming to herself as she rearranged the canned goods on the shelves. A few days ago, she'd suggested that, since the cans with the bright-colored paintings were quicker to catch the eye than the plain tins with black lettering, putting the brightly painted ones in front would draw attention to the shelf and cause customers to make more purchases. Cleav tried, without success, to explain to her that people only bought the things that they needed. That people were too smart to be lured into buying something that wasn't necessary just because it came to their attention.
She hadn't been convinced, so he'd allowed her to change the shelving presentation however she liked, thinking she would learn for herself. To his amazement, he'd sold more canned goods in the last two weeks than in the whole month prior. And with spring blossoming out everywhere, the need for canned goods should have dropped completely.
Cleav shook his head in disbelieving approval. The woman certainly did have a head for business. Maybe after all of this was over, when he was blissfully wed to Miss Sophrona and Esme safely married to one of the hill boys, he could hire her to work for him. That would leave him more time for his trout. And a little cash money coming in regularly wouldn't hurt her family, either.
Satisfied with his solution to all his problems, Cleav almost felt like humming to himself. He resisted it, however, and returned to contemplating the drummer's catalog.
The cool quiet of the store, disturbed only by the pleasant sound of a lively tune on Esme's lips, lulled Cleav into a temporary contentment.
When the humming stopped, Cleav looked up.
As usual, with no thought to her surroundings or the proprieties, Esme Crabb had paused to jerk up her skirts and adjust her sagging stockings.
At the sight of those well-remembered, oft-dreamt-of limbs, Cleav's pulse began to pound. Heat suffused him, and the air within the confines of the store was suddenly not enough to catch his breath. This was not going to happen again, he swore to himself, not ever. He was done with her merciless teasing.
"Don't!" His shout was so unexpected, Esme actually jumped.
She stared at him, questioning and a little frightened.
"Have you no shame at all?" he asked furiously. "You flaunt yourself before me like a hussy."
"I am not flaunting myself," Esme defended herself, her cheeks blazing.
"Then what are you doing?" His voice was angry and dripping with sarcasm.
"I'm straightening my stockings," she explained haughtily and with a good deal more justification than she felt.
"I know you are straightening your stockings," Cleav told her. "I've watched you do it a half dozen times."
"Well, you should keep your eyes to yourself."
"If I did, you'd be very disappointed."
"Oh!" Esme felt the sting of the words as if they were a slap.
"I've seen more than I care to of those pitiful stockings of yours, and I'd like to request, if you think you can manage it, that you keep your legs decently covered in my presence."
Even knowing she was in the wrong, Esme's chin was high. She would not allow herself to be cowed by Cleav's boorish behavior. "I suppose you would have me just let my stockings sag to the floor until they trip me and I fall flat on my face!"
"Other women don't seem to suffer with that problem," he countered.
"Because other women have garters to hold their stockings up! Garters are not something that arrive in a charity box, and I'll have you know that I've certainly never had the selfish desire to spend good money buying such frivolities."
Cleav opened his mouth but couldn't think of a reply. He searched his brain momentarily for a snappy comeback and then stormed across the room. Jerking open the second drawer down in the fabric and notions section, he grabbed the first thing that came to his attention.
Striding directly to Esme, he slapped what he had retrieved into her hand. "Here! Take them," he said.
Esme gazed at her hands in wonderment. Brand-new, never-been-worn, store-bought garters. They were pristine white, but sported tiny bows of baby's-blush pink.
"Just consider them a gift from me," Cleav said cynically. "And wear them for me every day.”
