Morning Fawn glared at him as he waited for her to pass through, as well. “Don’t you have something else to do? Or do you plan to neglect the poor horses?”
He smirked. “I’m a cavalryman, Miss Logan. My horses eatbefore I eat. But since my top priority is guarding you, I plan to see you safely inside. Then I’ll drive the carriage down to the livery stable and have one of the boys look after the animals.”
“I have no intention of running off.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “And I’m not ‘Miss Logan’ to you.”
Their gazes met. Light flickered across his blue iris, outshining the dull brown patch which shaded half his world.
He moistened his lips. “I trust you about as far as I can throw you. Morning Fawn.” His voice dipped as he spoke her name, sending a tinge of warmth down her neck and into her chest.
She should have left it atMiss Logan. What was she thinking? She hurried into the cool dark of the mercantile and halted. A menagerie of trade goods lay before her. Barrels of brooms and ax handles stood next to a woodstove. Other barrels brimmed with apples, potatoes, and onions. A glass-fronted counter stretched along the right side of the store with a multitude of jars of pickled edibles, everything from eggs to beets. Tin plates and cups, iron pots, and oil lamps filled the shelves alongside hats, shoes, and boxes markedlaceand buttons and more, above rows of drawers.
She’d been to the trading rendezvous with her tribe, but that was in the open at the convergence of hunting and raiding trails in Palo Duro, Tecovas Springs, and other campsites. The Comancheros displayed their goods on blankets and in carts, eager to trade for the buffalo hides and horses acquired by her people. A time of celebration and excitement. The rendezvous five springs ago was the last time she’d seen her sister. A life time ago in a different world. Morning Fawn’s heart drooped.
A man with suspenders and black armbands bustled from behind the counter. “Mrs. LeBeau, so good to see you. You couldn’t have picked a better time. We just received a shipment all the way from Matamoros. The teamsters had to switch routes and come by way of San Antonio to avoid the Yankeeinvaders, but not directly through San Antonio. They didn’t want to risk having the military confiscate the goods.” His waxed mustached wiggled as he spoke. “If the governor listened to General Magruder, there wouldn’t be a sack of flour or cornmeal left for us civilians.”
“We have to make sacrifices for our boys, Mr. Garner.” Aunt Judith loosened her bonnet strings and smiled. “But I’m thankful for your resourceful suppliers.”
As Mr. Garner led her aunt to a display table, Morning Fawn walked over to the counter. Amongst the feast of goods, a jar of white-and-red-striped sticks called to her. A shadow of a memory flickered. She touched the lid.
Reynolds came up alongside her and laid his gloves on the counter. His gaze traveled over her face. “You never been in a store before?”
“It’s been a long while.” Before the Comanche. Scents drifted her way—coffee, wood polish, leather, apples, and sugar.
Reynolds lifted the lid on the jar. “Would you like one?”
She shrugged. “No.”
True to his nature, he didn’t listen. Pulled a stick out, dug in his pocket, and laid a penny on the counter.
He handed her the treasure. “It’s peppermint candy. Smell it.”
Gingerly, she touched the powdered surface.
She didn’t need it. But the whiff of mint tickled her nose. Her father had given her something like this. An image flashed through her mind. Her father bending down, rain dripping off his felt hat and wool coat, crinkles around his eyes but a smile lighting his face. He’d been away. She was so excited to see him.
A shiver ran through her as she took the stick from Reynolds and brought it to the tip of her tongue for a taste. Her dear, sweet papa. He’d loved her. Loved their whole family. He hadn’t deserved to die defending his family on the prairie.
Her hand trembled as she shoved the candy back toward Reynolds. “No, thank you.” She pivoted, almost colliding with a barrel of brooms, and made her way over to the bolts of cloth.
Her aunttsked as she fingered a fold of blue linen. “Three bolts of cloth. If you don’t count the brown wool. Before the war and the blockade, there would have been ten or fifteen different choices.”
The owner shoved his fingers through his well-oiled hair, loosening a lock in the process. “Before the shipment yesterday, madam, all we had was the wool. It’s the Yankees’ fault, I tell you. But let me assure you, the linen is from the finest mill in Manchester, and then, there’s the taffeta?—”
“It’s beautiful.” Morning Fawn stroked the wine-colored material. “But I hardly need a new dress, Aunt Judith. I could make do with hand-me-downs.”
“‘Aunt’? B-but…” The man fumbled over his words. “This is Mr. LeBeau’s captive niece?” He stared at her as if she wore a placard.
Aunt Judith arched her eyebrows. “We’ll take eight yards of the taffeta, Mr. Garner.”
“Why, of course, Mrs. LeBeau.” Mr. Garner snuck a pencil from behind his ear. “Happy to oblige you. Every young lady needs a fine gown.” He picked up the bolt. “The cost will be a little more considering all of the difficulties in getting the ship?—”
“You may put it on our tab.” Aunt Judith lifted her chin. “My husband will settle his account once his cotton reaches San Antonio.”
“Your credit is always good here.” Mr. Garner hustled over to the counter to measure the cloth.
“Aunt, you needn’t go to so much trouble for me.” Morning Fawn clasped her hands against her waist. She had no desire to be indebted to anyone, especially a LeBeau.
“You should have at least one new dress. Then we’ll havethe seamstress refurbish one of mine, change the waistline and sleeves, and bring it up to date in fashion.” Aunt Judith made her way to the display case with its shelves of gloves, hair combs, and more.
