Ida didn’t intentionally listen to Eugene Weimer’s dissertation, but his booming voice rang out across the store, leaving her little choice.
“Just came from the barbershop,” he explained in a huff. “A big-city fella in a fancy suit and hat rode in on the afternoon train from Chicago. Really tall fella. Maybe ya seen ’im.”
Ida stopped what she was doing. She knew exactly who Eugene was talking about.
“Chicago?” several of the men echoed. One mumbled “Yankee” under his breath.
Ida hadn’t considered the fact that the man might be from up North. Still, she couldn’t imagine why that would make much of a difference these days.
“What’s he doing here?” one of the fellas asked, his eyes flashing with anger.
“That’s the problem,” Eugene said. “No one seems to know. But be sure he doesn’t look like one of us. Mighty suspicious to me.”
“Traveling salesman?” another man asked.
Ida secretly hoped the man didn’t turn out to be of that particular occupation. Traveling salesmen had poor reputations, at least the ones who’d dared show their faces and their wares around these parts. They were often ushered onboard the next train out of Spring Creek. And Ida was never sad to see them go. They stole business from the mercantile, after all, and their highly touted products usually left much to be desired.
Eugene shook his head and shoved his thumbs into his belt loops. “He was traveling light, from what I could tell, so I doubt he’s selling anything. But my gut tells me he’s got a story to tell, and it ain’t a good one.”
“Likely he has family in the area is all,” Ida said with a shrug, unable to resist joining the conversation. How dare they judge the man without even knowing him! Didn’t they know the Bible spoke against such things?
“Nope,” Eugene said. “Orin weaseled that much out of him. He’s got no people here. And he don’t work for the railroad, neither.”
“Hope he ain’t come to Spring Creek lookin’ fer a wife!” one of the men hollered out. “He’ll have to get in line. And if’n he tries to cut in front of me, I’ll take him down in a minute!”
Ida held her tongue, though it took every ounce of strength to do so. If he had come looking for a wife, he’d jump to the head of the line simply because of his genteel nature and fashionable attire, no doubt about that.
Eugene folded his arms at his chest and shook his head. “I’m guessing he’s here to buy up land, not fetch a wife.”
“I heard someone bought the Salyer farm,” Ida interjected. “Maybe he’s the new owner.” Yes, an explanation like that would make perfect sense, wouldn’t it? Purchasing a local farm wouldn’t make him suspect, by any stretch of the imagination.
“He don’t look like any farmer I ever saw,” Eugene said. “Dressed all uppity-like. And his shoes—never seen a shine like that on any man’s feet. I could almost see myself in ’em.”
“Hmm.” Ida knew the men would find this the most suspicious evidence of all. Every man in Spring Creek wore boots—nothing but.
“What kind of a fella would show up in a place like this, wearing slick, show-offish shoes?” one of the older men grumbled.
Eugene leaned in to the crowd and spoke in a strained voice. “I’m guessin’ he’s here to buy up our local businesses and take over the town. It’s been happening all over the state—not just in Spring Creek. Yankees movin’ in and buyin’ up shops and mills on the sly whilst the locals are lookin’ the other way. I’d wager he’s a sly one, and well trained at that.”
“Well, we ain’t gonna let him get away with it,” one of the fellows hollered out.
“We’ve had enough of that,” another added.
Eugene squared his shoulders and added his final thoughts on the matter. “The whole thing just gripes my gizzard. I’ve had enough of folks sweeping in and taking over.” He began to list all the times such a thing had happened, and Ida sighed. She couldn’t argue the point. Spring Creek had been taken over by out-of-towners, after all.
“What is this man’s name?” she asked when Eugene finished.
“Bradley.” Eugene’s eyes held a gleam of suspicion. “Mick Bradley.”
“Did someone call my name?”
The crowd grew silent and a parting of the waters seemed to take place as Mick made his way through the throng. Ida kept her distance, just in case the men got riled up.
“Someone got something to say to me?” Mick asked as he looked around at the crowd.
No one uttered a word, and the beating of Ida’s heart seemed to drown out everything else for a moment. Even though he might have come to town to create trouble, she still found him an inordinately handsome man. With a fresh, clean-shaven face, no less.
Focus, Ida.
Nothing in the fellow’s air spoke of ill will for the people of Spring Creek. Surely the others were wrong about him. Likely, he would turn out to be the new owner of the Salyer farm, was all. And, if so, she would take over a pecan pie once he got settled in. Just to be neighborly, of course.
Just then he looked her way and they exchanged a glance. She couldn’t help but notice the pleased look in his eye when he saw her. She tried not to react, but the edges of her lips betrayed her. Ida swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure.
When no one responded to Mick’s question, he tipped his hat and went on about his business looking over the items on the shelves. He asked Ida to help him with a toothbrush and tooth powder. A feeling of contentment washed over her. See there. He’s well groomed in every conceivable respect. And he didn’t come in to purchase chewing tobacco, like most of the other men. No, this one is certainly different from the others.
Ida waited on Mick at the register, ignoring the whispers and stares of the others in the room.
When he left the store, another lively conversation erupted. Ida did her best to ignore it, though she was as intrigued by Mick Bradley as they were. But she was hoping for the best, while they were expecting the worst. Would he be good for Spring Creek, or bad? Ida didn’t know, but she was sure of one thing—she would take a dozen Mick Bradleys over those foolish railroad men any day.
As Mick made his way across the street to the hotel, he thought about the reception he’d just received in the mercantile. Just the little bit of conversation he’d overheard while entering the store had been enough to convince him of their distrust. But what had he done to prompt such a reaction? What motivated such a hard and swift judgment on their part?
His suit, maybe? Some of the fellas had seemed to give him a once-over, taking in his clothes. Sure, most of the Spring Creek men were dressed in more casual attire. But a man’s suit shouldn’t make him suspect, should it? A few men had looked at his feet. So what if he opted for shoes over boots? Nothing odd about that, at least where he hailed from. Were Texans always this skittish as far as Northerners were concerned?
Mick tugged at his collar and willed the heat to go away as he entered his room. How in the world would he stand this? Surely in this sort of heat, the pine trees must be whistling for the dogs.
Why had he come to Spring Creek again? From his second-story window at The Harvey House, the town didn’t seem terribly impressive, at least not in comparison to Chicago.
Well, that’s why I’m here. To make it impressive.
He chuckled as he lay down on the bed, remembering the greeting he’d received at the front desk when he’d checked in earlier.
“You ain’t from ’round here, are ya?” the clerk had asked.
“No, sir. I’m from the Windy City.”
“Amarillo?”