Page 18 of If the Boot Fits

Offering a final word of thanks, Asher accepted the lease papers and took his leave. The sun hit his face when he exited the courthouse, the brightness momentarily blinding. He took a moment to reshape the brim he’d mangled during his unproductive meeting with Clyde Milton, then fit the hat back to his head. Nodding to a man in a suit striding purposefully toward the courthouse entrance, Asher stepped away from the doorframe and headed to the street and the hitching post where he’d left his horse.

Bruno lifted his head and snorted, almost as if asking how Asher’s meeting had gone.

“Not well, buddy.” He patted the paint’s black-and-white neck, then tucked Mama Bess’s papers into his saddlebag. “Not well at all.”

Asher gritted his teeth as he slid his foot into the left stirrup and mounted. Men like Eli Dearing shouldn’t be allowed to toy with people’s lives whenever the whim struck. They should honor the spirit of agreements made instead of using the letter of the law to circumvent the original intent. What could he possibly need with that one small plot of land that justified turning out a widow and her two children?

Nudging Bruno into a walk, Asher headed away from the square. He scanned the conveyances surrounding him in the street. A ragged buckboard driven by a man in stained overalls rolled down one side while a man in a tall hat and fancy suit pranced down the other on a high-stepping thoroughbred. Kids without shoes dangled bare feet off the tailgate of a farm wagon parked outside the general store, and a lady in a stylish pink dress and fashionable hat drove her pony cart down a cross street as if she were in some sort of parade.

Why did the Lord allow such disparity among his people? Why did some work all their lives and only scratch out a meager living while others worked with similar diligence and received riches upon riches? Where was the justice in that? Even worse were those who gained wealth through illicit means. Eli Dearing might not be conducting illegal business, but neither was he loving his neighbor. It wasn’t right. Society should hold him accountable, not turn a blind eye to his callous choices. Yet no one wanted to stand against a man with wealth and power, too afraid of the price they might be called to pay. Then again, Asher was no better. He could have stormed the cattle king’s castle and taken the man to task for turning out his stepmother and brothers, but he hadn’t. Not because he was afraid of the repercussions for himself, but because he didn’t want to bring more trouble to Mama Bess’s doorstep.

I’m sorry, Pop. I’ve tried everything I can think of to fix this, even a few things I’m ashamed of, but there’s no putting it right. The house is gone.

Nothing to do now but make the new place as habitable as possible before he left. Which was why he reined Bruno to a halt in front of Patterson’s Hardware. If he was going to weatherproof Mama Bess’s roof, he was going to need some supplies.

A bell rang as he entered the shop. The clerk behind the counter glanced up from the customer he was assisting and smiled.

“Afternoon, sir.”

Asher fingered the recently reshaped brim of his hat. “Afternoon.”

“Farm implements are along the back wall. Ironware to your right. Carpentry tools in the center. Cutlery and kitchenware to the left.”

“Much obliged.” Asher strode toward the center aisle in search of nails. He’d probably have to special order the shingles he’d need, but—

A pile of wiggling pink froth stole every thought from his head as he rounded the corner and stepped into the aisle.

It was a woman—obviously—but what she was doing, he had no earthly idea. Hunkered down in front of a display of chisels, she seemed to be trying to peer beneath the shelving to view something in the adjacent aisle. Asher eased backward, took a couple of steps to his left, and peered down the next walkway. A pair of men stood about even with her position, discussing the merits of whitewash versus paint.

Not exactly the type of conversation to entice an eavesdropper.

Inching back to his right, he found the woman where he’d left her, now holding two gloved hands in front of her, as if measuring the length of something, though the spread of her hands failed to match any of the items housed on the nearby shelf.

Deciding it might be best to pretend he didn’t see her, Asher turned his gaze away and stepped into the aisle. Unfortunately, his elbow clipped a dangling handsaw and sent it flying off its nail and onto the floor. The woman gasped and lurched to her feet, spinning toward Asher as he gave chase to the runaway saw.

Her cheeks flushed pinker than her dress, and her eyes darted to him, then past him as if checking to see if anyone else had witnessed her odd behavior.

Instinct prompted Asher to look over his shoulder to see if anyone was there. But he didn’t. He couldn’t seem to look away from her.

Blue. Her eyes. Summer sky blue. Rimmed with thick lashes. And returning their attention to him.

Feeling his own cheeks heat, Asher held up his hands in apology. “Sorry to startle you. I, uh, accidentally knocked it with my arm.” He took a few steps forward and bent to retrieve the errant saw.

“That’s all right.” She offered a shaky smile and ran a hand down the front of her dress.

Asher straightened, the saw clutched awkwardly in front of him. Say something, you dolt!

“I’ll just, uh, put this back.”

Ugh. Something intelligent, Ash.

He sidled down to the front of the aisle, where the other saws hung, keeping her in his peripheral vision. His mind spun but failed to grip anything worth saying out loud.

“Are you . . . interested in carpentry?”

Her downturned gaze jerked up to meet his, a hint of guilt playing about her face. Had she been staring at his feet? Why would a woman wearing a dress that probably cost more than his saddle be interested in a worn-out pair of boots? Wait . . . had that been what she was looking at while she’d been hunched over? The boots worn by the men on the next aisle over?

“Carpentry?” Tiny lines etched her forehead. “Not particularly. Why?”