“You don’t need to say anything more, Miss Brogan.” He took a small step away from her. He’d been a fool to ask, especially considering how eagerly she’d escaped his presence on Thanksgiving. “I thank you for your time today. I’ll make sure to keep a watch out at your building for anything suspicious.”
She nodded, but no relief swept her face. If anything, her gaze only grew heavier and the lines on her brow deepened. “If such a thing as a good man exists, Sheriff Cummings, then I’m sure ye’re one of them. But me, I’m just not the type to make a good wife. I don’t think I’ll ever be, at least not anymore. Ellie Spritzer though, she’s nice. A hard worker, too. And not too hardto look at with all that bright hair she’s got. Bet she’d love it if ye stopped by the bakery tomorrow and asked her for a walk.”
Ellie Spritzer? He coughed. Did Miss Brogan think any woman would suit? As though he’d drilled a hole for an axel in a toy wagon, and one rod would fill the space just as well as the next?
And here he was being foolish again. He barely knew Aileen Brogan. He shouldn’t be upset if she refused a walk with him.
But still, there was a part of him that ached to wipe that sorrowful look off her face and put a smile there instead. What was so wrong with that?
Everything, since she isn’t interested in me.
But whether interested in his suit or not, she had one thing wrong. He wasn’t a good man—because a good man didn’t watch his father drown without attempting to save him.
Chapter Nineteen
“Yes, this came in last night.” Mrs. Runkle handed a slip of paper across the telegraph office counter.
Jessalyn glanced down at the missive, which was longer than most telegrams. But then, if a person had an unlimited amount of money to spend on wedding finery, a person probably had an unlimited amount of money to spend on telegrams.
New seamstress procured. Sorry unable to do wedding. Will see you once you come to Chicago. Hope you can still do dress for me.
The edge of the telegram crinkled in her grasp. She’d not anticipated Dorothy Hanover would have any trouble finding another seamstress. But the woman was still willing to work with her after she moved to Chicago? Despite the hundred dollars in green satin she’d lost during the fire?
“Would you like to send a reply?”
“Sure.” Jessalyn looked back up at Mrs. Runkle, her gray hair frizzy in the afternoon light. What should her reply to Mrs. Hanover say?
It was a simple answer, really.I’d love the business and I’m still planning to be moved by May.
But moved to where? Chicago? What if she could be happy with Thomas in Deadwood?
“Oh, I nearly forgot. I have a telegraph here for your husband too.” Mrs. Runkle handed her the slip of paper. “Came all the way from South Dakota, that one did.”
“Thank you.” Jessalyn slid it into her pocket.
“He gets them every week, but then, I’m sure you knew that.”
She hadn’t, no, but it wasn’t as though she’d asked Thomas for details about his hotel either.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” The widow raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure it doesn’t pertain to me.”
The widow humphed. “You ask me, a wife should know her husband’s business just as well as he knows hers.”
How lovely. Except she hadn’t asked Mrs. Runkle’s opinion.
“So does this mean you’re not moving to Chicago anymore? You want me to put that in a telegram back to the rich lady?”
“I don’t wish to reply at present, but thank you for your time.” Jessalyn turned and darted out the door before the widow could come up with any more questions. Or worse, invent a story to share with Betty Ranulfson. Was it uncharitable to hope Mrs. Runkle would decide the telegraph office was too much work given her age, and somebody else got hired to replace her? Somebody slightly more discrete?
Jessalyn sighed and headed across 4th Street and into the mercantile.
She needed to pick up some flour if she was going to make another batch of cookies with the girls, and maybe a few ribbons to gift the girls for Christmas. Though ribbons seemed a small thing to give considering the dresses she’d been making for them before the fire.
She settled the flour into her basket, then headed to the aisle with the ribbons. Yellow for Olivia, purple for Claire, and pink for Megan. That would do nicely.
But what was she going to give Thomas? A new razor for shaving in the morning? Perhaps a new hat? She moved toward the shelf filled with haberdashery supplies. She could make a vest to go with one of the pairs of pants she’d made him, but without her sewing machine, she’d have to stitch it entirely by hand.
