Courting Trouble Read Free Page B

the beans are not even ground yet.’’ She waved to the man outside, whose bushy gray brows rose in reply. ‘‘You go ahead and let him in,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll do the coffee.’’ She scurried to the bins, scooped out some beans and poured them into the mill.
    Mr. Crook had not so much as budged.
    She shooed him with her hand. ‘‘Go on.’’
    Vandervoort jiggled the door. Mr. Crook glanced at him, then her, then moved to unbolt the latch.
    ‘‘Wall, what’s all the holdup about?’’ Vandervoort asked, pushing his way into the store. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ he said, touching his hat.
    ‘‘Howdy, Mr. Vandervoort,’’ she said. ‘‘We’re off to a slow start this morning, but I’ll have a fine pot brewing in no time.’’
    ‘‘What’re ya doin’ here, woman?’’ he asked.
    ‘‘I’m just temporarily helping out Mr. Crook. Seeing as he hardly has any time whatsoever to spend with his precious little baby girl and all.’’
    Vandervoort harrumphed, then headed to his usual chair in the back.
    Mr. Crook approached her. ‘‘Really, Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I must ask you to stop this foolishness. I do not need any assistance.’’
    Refusing to concede defeat, she girded herself with bravado, grabbed the grinder’s handle and began to rotate the wheel. Little by little, coffee granules dropped into the hopper. ‘‘Well, it looks to me, sir, like you do need some help. Misters Richie, Jenkins, and Owen will be here any moment, and you haven’t even started up the stove yet.’’
    ‘‘That’s because you threw off my entire morning.’’
    ‘‘Pishposh. I did no such thing.’’
    ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer, release that coffee mill at once.’’
    She hesitantly let go and stepped back. ‘‘Well, all right, then.’’
    ‘‘Thank you.’’ He took a deep breath.
    ‘‘You’re welcome. I didn’t know grinding up the beans was so important to you. But don’t worry. I’m a quick study. I’ll know your peculiarities in no time.’’
    Without giving him a chance to respond, she bounced over to the stove and began to lay out the wood.
    ‘‘Need any help with that, Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’
    ‘‘No, no, Mr. Vandervoort.’’ She paused and looked up at him. ‘‘There is something you can do for me, though.’’
    ‘‘Why, sure, ma’am. What is it?’’
    ‘‘You can do a better job of aiming your tobacco. That spittoon has a nice large mouth on it. Missing it smacks of sheer laziness, and I don’t relish the thought of mopping up all that nastiness day in and day out.’’
    He straightened. ‘‘Why, yes, ma’am. I’ll do right better. Just see if I don’t.’’
    She reached over and gave his arm a squeeze. ‘‘You are such a dear. Thank you.’’
    Hamilton Crook stared at the woman reprimanding his customer. She’d rolled up the sleeves of her olive-colored shirtwaist and wrapped a white apron around her grosgrain skirt. He knew his clothing, and hers were fine pieces. The shirtwaist sported the newest puff sleeves and choker collar while her skirt held tone-on-tone scrolling designs.
    Her pinchback straw hat, however, was another matter entirely. With a wavy-edged top from which tulle poufs protruded, white flowers, fern and willow leaves surrounded vertically wired ribbon loops. Most impractical for store clerking.
    He shook his head, peeking into the grinder to see how many beans were left. Why in the blue blazes was the spinster daughter of the district judge doing charity work in his store? What was wrong with working in an orphanage? Or sharing a meal with old Mrs. Yar-brough? Or helping out with the church bazaar?
    He looked around. To compensate for the name this town had slapped on his store, he made sure he not only kept it in tip-top shape with all the goods organized and grouped, but he also kept it clean and well stocked. Had there been complaints? Or was this do-gooder just a frustrated busybody who had singled