Spring Creek Bride. Janice ThompsonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Mick managed to locate the barbershop in short order and entered to the sound of raucous laughter from the patrons inside. The barber, an elderly fellow with smiling eyes, introduced himself as Orin Lemm, a native of Spring Creek. His assistant, a young fellow named Georg, ushered Mick to a chair and promptly took to lathering up his whiskery chin, a minty smell filling the air.

      “Work for the railroad?” Orin asked as he finished shaving a man in the chair next to Mick’s.

      Mick guarded his answers. “I’m from the Chicago area. Just visiting.” There would be plenty of time to explain his reason for being here later on.

      “Really?” Orin’s face lit up. “I have a cousin who lives in Sha-ka-gee. Maybe you know ’im.” He dove into a monologue about his cousin’s liver condition, scarcely pausing for breath.

      Once Mick was lathered and ready, Orin moved over to take Georg’s place. As the older man worked the razor this way and that, he continued to talk nonstop. His knowledge of Spring Creek was clear, and his pride in the town surely exceeded that of anyone else. In fact, Mick couldn’t remember when he’d ever heard someone brag to such a degree.

      “Spring Creek was just a tiny place when I was a boy,” Orin explained with great zeal. “Mostly farmland.”

      “Oh?” Mick found that hard to believe, considering the current state of the town. How long had it been since the hotels and stores had been built? Likely they’d come about as a result of the influx of railroad workers.

      “Yep. Sugarcane and cotton,” Orin continued. “But when the railroad came through, everything changed overnight. Much of the land was acquired by the railroad. We’re a major switchyard for the Great Northern now. Fourteen lines of track and a roundhouse.”

      “Not everyone’s happy about that,” one of the railroad men interjected. “Folks ’round here’ve made me feel about as welcome as a skunk at a picnic.”

      Several of the others made similar comments, though most agreed they’d grown to love the area, in spite of the heat and the poor reception from the locals. Mick wondered how they’d stopped perspiring long enough to fall in love with the place.

      “I’ve got no complaints,” Orin was quick to throw in. “Having you men in town has really helped my business. Never seen so many whiskers in all my days. And life’s not boring. That’s for sure.”

      His young assistant nodded in agreement. “You won’t hear me complaining.”

      Orin proceeded to fill Mick’s ears with all sorts of town gossip, covering everything from who was bickering with whom to where to buy the best liquor. He thought the whiskey at the new Wunsche Brothers Saloon was the best around.

      And he discussed, in great detail, the shapely legs of the dancing girls at the town’s most notable saloon, The Golden Spike. This certainly got Mick’s attention, though not because of the women who worked there or their legs. Any saloon, notable or otherwise, would soon pale in comparison to his gambling hall. If everything went according to plan, anyway.

      On and on Orin went, discussing the exceptionally warm weather and the cost of a meal at The Harvey House, a place he heartily recommended, especially on the nights when Myrtle Mae was cooking. Whoever she was.

      Orin snipped away, shifting his conversation to the women in the town. “Not many to be had,” he commented, “so I hope you haven’t come with hopes of finding a wife like the rest of these fellers.”

      “The thought never crossed my mind.” Though appealing women back home had drawn his eye, he’d never spent enough time with any one of them to be tempted. Not that he had any negative feelings regarding marriage in general.

      No, Mick had no bias against matrimony. And he had nothing against the women in Texas, either, for that matter. He’d already taken note of at least one lovely female. His thoughts shifted to the beautiful blonde he’d just met. Why hadn’t he asked her name?

      Well, no matter. In a town this size, surely someone would know her. He would have no trouble giving an accurate description, having memorized every detail, from the wild hair swept up off her neck, to the blue eyes, to the determination in her step.

      The barber finished up his work, and Mick stood to leave. His cheeks stung from the brush of the razor strokes and the pungent smell of the lather lingered in the air. He rubbed his palm across his smooth chin and smiled at the older man. “Thanks so much.”

      “My pleasure.”

      Mick dropped a couple of coins into Orin’s hand and turned to leave. Exhaustion washed over him. He needed to locate a quiet room for the days ahead, a place where he could sleep off the train trip and begin to sort things out.

      After a few paces, he found himself in front of The Harvey House. From what he’d been told, it was the nicest place in town. Hopefully, it would turn out to be the quietest, too. He’d check in first, then visit the local mercantile to make a couple of necessary purchases, then get some much-needed sleep.

      Holding back an escaping yawn, Mick climbed the steps to the hotel, wishing a rainstorm would come along to wash away the sticky south Texas heat. He stood atop the steps and turned to look out over the little town. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Mick actually felt the definite stirrings of a storm ahead. Only this one likely had nothing to do with the weather.

      Chapter Four

      Ida tended to the shop throughout the afternoon. Seemed no matter how hard she worked, she could scarcely find space enough for all the goods. Every square inch of the mercantile was stacked high with barrels, boxes and bins, from front to back. It always seemed to be this way when the season changed. The goods in the store shifted to accommodate seasonal needs.

      With time, Ida managed to make sense of it all, but not without a considerable amount of strategy on her part. Boxes of summer goods were emptied, jars and bins were stacked and spring items that hadn’t yet sold were placed on a sale table.

      As she worked, the locals came and went—many making purchases, others just passing the time. Ida swept the wood-planked floor, and then began the arduous task of dusting the upper shelves that housed the store’s finer merchandise, above the pine showcase. She smiled as she studied the handiwork of the showcases, which held higher-priced glassware. They ran the entire length of the store, from back to front. Papa had worked for weeks on the detailing, and it showed.

      After dusting the shelves, Ida opened a showcase and repositioned the china dolls inside. Why in the world Dinah would stock such delicate items in a town like this remained a mystery. Ida had never asked, wondering if perhaps Dinah secretly longed for a daughter, someone who might play with beautiful dolls like these. Regardless, these breakable beauties would likely never sell in a town like Spring Creek.

      Ida turned her attention to a hand-painted porcelain washbowl and pitcher. It reminded her of the one her mother had used each morning. Determined not to grow sad, Ida forced the memory from her mind. Only hard work could head off a somber attitude and with the heat hanging