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  “Don Martin,” he said. “And you?”

  “I’m Abigail Vanderhooten.”

  Jack followed her through the door. “Hi, Don.”

  “Jack,” the man responded as he came around the counter and gripped her hand. “We’ve been expecting you, Miss Vanderhooten. It’s nice to meet you finally. I’ve been watching the store for your father.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “How is Papa?”

  A frown came over his face. “I’ll let him tell you. He’s upstairs.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go up now and say hello.”

  “Of course,” he said, his face not registering any warmth.

  “I’m leaving, Miss Vanderhooten,” Jack said with a wink. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again, very soon.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, not if she could help it, but then thought better. No sense in making an enemy the first hour she was in town. For all she knew, Jack could be her father’s friend.

  “I’m sure,” she said and bit her lip, not wanting to say the words, but knowing she must. “Thank you for picking me up.”

  He grinned like he knew how much it cost her to say those words. The man was an arrogant, overbearing bore, a typical man.

  “You’re quite welcome. The pleasure was mine,” he said, and she knew he was being sarcastic.

  “Yes, it was,” she said, referring to his improper display on the street.

  Turning away from him, Abigail hurried up the stairs. Time to put meeting that bore of a man who had picked her up at the station behind her and concentrate on seeing her father.

  When she reached the second floor, she heard the sound of someone wheezing, struggling to breathe. That couldn’t be Papa, could it?

  She slowly walked around the corner and saw a frail thin man lying in the bed, struggling with each breath. A woman sat beside his bed, holding his hand.

  The lady jumped up when she saw Abigail. “Praise God, you’re here.”

  Abigail glanced down at the obviously decaying body. “Oh, Papa. Why didn’t you tell me you were so sick?”

  “You’re all grown up,” he wheezed, ignoring her comment.

  Reaching down, she hugged the bones that were all that was left of her papa.

  “Why isn’t he getting any better?” she asked the woman.

  She shook her head. “He has consumption.”

  Abigail’s heart sank. She knew the disease was a death sentence. That it was only a matter of time.

  Her father clasped her hand. “I had to see you again, to know you would be all right. It won’t be long now.”

  “I’m here, Papa.” Tears clogged her throat, making it difficult to speak, but she knew she couldn’t let him see her cry. She just couldn’t break down in front of him. It would only make him feel bad, and she wanted whatever time they had left together to be happy.

  The woman motioned for her to sit beside him, and Abigail took the chair.

  “You look like your mother,” he said. “How was that fancy college?”

  “It was fine, Papa. I’m three years away from getting my business degree. Your daughter is going to be one of the few women graduates.”

  He smiled. “You’re just as headstrong as your mother.”

  “Now, Papa,” she said, “I’m not headstrong. I’m independent.”

  He tried to laugh, but instead, he gurgled. “We need to talk about what you should do when I’m gone.”

  She frowned. “Let’s not talk about you dying. Let’s get you well.”

  “Honey, it’s my time. I’m just happy I got to see you again.”

  “Well, I’m home now. So, we’re going to do everything we can to get you better.”

  He smiled, a sad expression on his face. “I wish it were possible. I really do, but my time has come.”

  Later the next day, Abigail watched the life drain out of her father’s body. She’d barely made it home before he was gone.

  ***

  On the day of the funeral, Abigail struggled to keep her composure. The entire town turned out in honor of Walter Vanderhooten. The local women fussed over Abigail as if they wanted to protect her from the grief that consumed her. Frankly, she wanted everyone to go home and let her mourn in private for her last family member. Numb, she realized she was all alone in the world.

  She remembered her mother’s funeral and realized nothing had changed. The men attended out of respect, while the women arranged for food, comforted her, and helped with the details. Women were the healers, while the men were the shakers and movers. But when it came to emotional matters, the men shut down and let the women handle the caring for the living.

  All she had to do was get through the luncheon, and then she’d be free to rest and spend five minutes alone to contemplate her future, to privately grieve her father.

  “Excuse me, Miss Vanderhooten,” a tall man said, touching her arm. “I wanted to give you my condolences regarding your father. I also wanted to let you know I would very much be interested in purchasing the mercantile from you.”

  Abigail stopped and stared at the man. “Who said I was going to sell the mercantile?”

  Until this moment, the store had been the last thing on her mind. She didn’t know what she was going to do with the business she’d grown up watching her mother and father struggle over—the place where she’d watched her father hand out free food to people he knew were starving or had children at home who were hungry. Or the time the freight drivers had all gone on strike, and her father had driven an empty wagon to Fort Worth to pick up their stock.

  Part of her wasn’t interested in keeping the outdated, dilapidated store, but another part reminded her this was her inheritance, her birthright. Back in Boston, she wanted to continue her education, and there were so many more demonstrations to march in for women’s rights, events that focused on the plight of the American woman. And from what she’d seen in this small hokey town, women needed help here just like they did in Boston.

  “We all assumed you would be returning to Boston,” the man said, looking perplexed.

  “I am.”

  “Then I thought you would want to sell the store,” the gentleman said.

  Releasing a deep sigh, she stared at the man in a western suit and bolero tie. “I’m in no hurry to make any decision until I feel certain I’ve chosen the correct path. .”

  The man nodded. “Returning after so many years of being separated from your father only to have him die must have given you a terrible case of the vapors. Please, miss, just remember I’m interested before you sell it to anyone else.”

  Abigail felt the hair on the back of her neck rise like a rabid dog. “I don’t suffer from the vapors. I’m quite in control of my emotions regarding my father’s business. I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

  “Thank you,” he said and walked away shaking his head.

  The audacity of the man to try to buy her business before her father was even cold in the grave. Did the man have no shame? Couldn’t the living at least wait until the dead were buried before they acted on their greed?

  “Miss Vanderhooten,” a tall gentleman said, taking her by the elbow and leading her into a corner where she pulled her arm away from him. He smiled. “I’m Tom Slate. Could I call upon you one day this week and take you to dinner?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ll be in mourning for my father. I’m not accepting callers for a while.”

  He frowned. “Oh, yes. Well, when you’re ready, I live here in the area, and I’m searching for a wife. I’d be more than obliged if you were to consider me as a candidate for your hand in marriage.”

  Of all the rude attempts by a man to garner her favors, this one scraped the icing off the cake and licked the knife. How dare this man approach her at her father’s funeral?

  “This is highly inappropriate. My father’s not even been in the ground for a day, and you’re wanting me to consider marriage?” she said, her voice rising in irritation. “No, sir.
I’m not interested in wedding any man I don’t have affections for.”

  The man looked chagrined. “Sorry, miss. There are just so few available women that when one comes along, a man has to do his best to beat out the other men. I wasn’t going to let the grass grow before I requested your hand. And I would do whatever you require to garner your affections.”

  “Well, you could at least honor the memory of my father and wait until after the luncheon.”

  “Yes, miss,” the man said and slinked away.

  It was then that she felt a prickle along the back of her neck. She turned and saw Jack Turner standing in the corner watching her. A smile graced his face, and she had to resist the urge to swipe that smirk off his handsome features.

  Oh my, today she’d buried her father, her last remaining parent, and so far she’d received one proposal and one offer to purchase the mercantile. And now this fool.

  He strode over to her, his strong cheekbones and nose graced the well-defined bone structure of his face. His hazel eyes twinkled with a shining light, like he had a secret. “Miss Vanderhooten, my deepest sympathies with regards to your father.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling like there was a but in there.

  “I hear you just received your first proposal.”

  “Of all the audacity of that man.”

  Jack threw back his head and laughed. “Please don’t judge the men in our small town too harshly. There’s a shortage of women, and when a young, beautiful, available lady like you comes to town, they don’t remain single for long. And your father’s business makes a woman like you doubly enticing.”

  There was something about this man that attracted and repelled her at the same time. One second she wanted to kiss him, and the next, she wanted to kick him in the shin. At her father’s luncheon, she would try to act like the lady he expected of her.

  She smiled. “Well, maybe the men in this town need to realize that pouncing on a woman before she’s had time to adjust to the death of her father is a good way to find themselves blacklisted from the lady’s favors.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “But morals and values are a lot more relaxed out in the West than they are in Boston.”

  She stared at him. His sandy blond hair had streaks of gold that shone brightly. A wicked gleam sparkled from his eyes as they danced with merriment, like he could see she really wanted to kick him in the shin.

  “When do you plan on returning to Boston?” he asked.

  “I’ve not decided. I just arrived, and well, there are my father’s affairs to consider, and even though I lived in Boston for many years, this is my home.”

  Right now, she just wanted to get through today. Today, she’d lost the last person on this earth who cared about her. She was alone, and that weight felt like an anchor around her heart.

  She stared around the room. “So tell me, how many single men are living in this town that are young and vibrant and ready to marry?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, probably close to thirty on any given day. I’m sure you’ll receive more than one marriage proposal in the next few days.”

  “I’m not interested,” she said. “You can tell your buddies I have no wish to marry anytime soon. How many businesses are in the town of New Hope?”

  “Oh, about ten and when you close down your father’s store, we’ll be down to nine.”

  She smoothed her skirt. Close the store? At this moment, all options were open. She didn’t know what she intended to do, other than get this day behind her. “Who said I was planning on closing the store? How else am I going to earn a living?”

  He hawed around for a moment. “Well, you do know the town of New Hope has an ordinance that states women can’t own businesses?”

  Abigail felt the air in her lungs tighten and freeze. She tilted her head and gazed at Mr. Turner. “What?” she said, shock coursing through her veins like a fine wine. “I mean why would the town care I’m now owner of my father’s mercantile?”

  She knew women were often at a disadvantage when they owned a business, but she’d never thought a law would keep her from her birthright.

  Jack Turner nodded his head, his eyes widening. “The men who started the town thought women were to be seen and not heard. Their religion believed that a woman was to follow behind a man and focus on her husband and children.”

  Abigail laughed. “And just when was this town founded? Right after the pilgrims landed? It can’t be that old.”

  “Our charter is dated 1836,” he said softly. “The original settlers had to fight the Indians for our little piece of land. They wanted our town to follow the laws of their religion.”

  She shook her head. “Hang fire it’s 1883. Don’t you think that’s archaic, even for a small frontier town?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just the mayor. I make certain the rules are followed.”

  Jack was the mayor. She’d made those comments regarding the saloon, and he was the mayor.

  “Did you take care of that noise problem?” she asked.

  “I also own the saloon, and yes, the piano is no longer being played quite so loudly, Miss Vanderhooten.”

  Oh my goodness, the man not only was the mayor, but he owned the saloon, the one whose piano you could hear half a mile from town. “Thank you.”

  The man was impossible, but what about the town’s ordinance that no woman could own a business. Why did she feel like she should challenge this prejudiced law?

  Abigail could feel her mind flying with this knowledge. Hadn’t her sorority sisters and she just talked in jail about changing the world? Building their own town? Maybe New Hope needed Abigail and her sisterhood of friends. Maybe the men in this town needed to know women were just as capable at business as they were.

  And maybe, just maybe, Abigail was the person who could stand them on end and make them pay attention.

  “Why did you want to know the number of single men?” Jack asked, gazing at her like he could see the wheels of her mind turning and churning away.

  She shrugged and smiled. “Let’s just say I like law-abiding men just like every other woman, but I don’t necessarily need to live in a town with such an archaic law. That just might have to change.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Chapter Two

  Three weeks later, Abigail ran a rag along the bare wood of the shelves, while Don sat behind the counter, reading the newspaper. Little by little, she was tackling the store, changing its appearance by rearranging and cleaning years of dust and neglect, while Don caught up on the news.

  The bell over the door tinkled as a customer walked in.

  Don looked up from his newspaper. “Good morning, Mrs. Smith. What can I do to help you?”

  “I brought in a list of supplies I need. Could you please fill it and put it on my account?”

  “Sure,” he said, laying down his newspaper with a frown, not at all pleased to have been interrupted. Wasn’t this his job? Wasn’t Abigail paying him a salary to clean, stock, and deal with customers, and yet, he acted put out every time a client walked in the door and his reading was interrupted.

  They’d already had one discussion about him purchasing the store from her. She feared if she sold the business her father and mother had created, Don would ruin their years of labor. So far, Abigail had been unable to relinquish her last remaining tie to her family. Quickly, she was coming to the realization she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to let the business go.

  Her roots, her family ties, and her legacy were here in this store. And right now, it just didn’t feel right to sell her birthright. If she’d been a man, no one would be questioning her right to own this store, but because she was female they wanted her to sell.

  Well, too bad.

  The bell tinkled again, as the door opened. In walked her best friend, Bella, looking like the heat had all but melted her. Abigail ran to the front of the store, her heart pounding, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

  “Abigail,” her f
riend said weakly.

  “Bella,” she said, reaching out and throwing her arms around her. “My oh my, how I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too. I had to come see you,” she said, gripping Abigail’s hands tightly. “Is it always this warm here?”

  Abigail laughed. “In the summer, yes.” She gazed at her friend, her fellow demonstrator, her sorority sister and was overwhelmed with happiness. Since the day her father had died, she’d felt so alone. Such gut-wrenching aloneness that should have sent her packing for Boston, but instead, she seemed to be clinging to the past.

  “How’s your father?”

  Abigail felt the sorrow reach out and grip her heart with a spasm that made her whole chest ache. “He died three weeks ago. My letter must not have reached Boston yet.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

  Abigail nodded, unable to speak, knowing if she said anything, she would break down and cry.

  “Well now, I’m even happier I came to visit. It was the right decision.”

  Nodding, Abigail hugged her tightly. “I’m so glad to see you. It was so kind of you to come. Follow me upstairs, and we’ll get you settled in.”

  “Thank you,” Bella said.

  “Don, I’ll be back down soon. Please take care of the store.”

  “Will do,” he said in a sarcastic tone, picking up his paper once again after obviously watching the two women.

  “He doesn’t like me telling him what to do,” Abigail whispered to Bella.

  The two women giggled as they ascended the stairs at the back of the store.

  In the living room, they settled into two facing armchairs. “Since my father died, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about all of you and the National Women’s Suffrage Association. How’s it going?”

  Besides her friends, being part of the women’s movement in Boston was all she really missed. The winters were deplorable there, but attending college was fascinating and challenging and part of her longed to return.

  “Everyone sends you their love. After you left, we all disobeyed the police captain and marched through town several more times. Last I knew, no one had been arrested, though the police continue to threaten us. We all miss you something terrible.”