LITMIR.BIZ

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      A clean file was taken from his drawer, a clean sheet of lined paper inserted and a name written on the top line. Ellie Mitchum. He looked at it, then added, in parenthesis, Eleanor. Age, eighteen. The next line was filled in neatly. Heart tones normal, skin clear, eyes…eyes, brown, he thought, his pen held over the paper. Hair, dark and waving.

      Abdomen, filling slowly, but surely, with a baby whose mother could find no joy in the news of its conception.

      Tess Dillard cast Ellie a glance, then took a second look, her forehead furrowing into a puzzled frown. “I haven’t seen you in a while, child,” she said softly. “You haven’t been to town lately, have you?”

      Ellie shook her head. “I wouldn’t be here today, but for some things my pa forgot when he came in last week. I usually just give him a list of what we need, but he left it home last time.” And besides, she’d wanted to see the doctor. For all the good that had done her.

      “Well, let me see what we can do for you,” Tess said, reaching for the folded slip of paper Ellie held. Her fingers touched the back of Ellie’s hand and lingered. “Are you feeling well?” she asked kindly.

      Ellie stiffened, looking around for listeners. “Of course, I’m fine, Mrs. Dillard. I just have to hurry along today. I’ve got supper in the oven, and I need to be home before the roast gets overdone. Pa doesn’t like his meat cooked all the way through.”

      Tess reached to the shelf behind her and lifted a metal container to the counter. “I’ve got spices in here,” she said, sorting through the tins it held. “Here we go. Cinnamon, and there’s another of nutmeg. Are you doing a lot of baking these days, Ellie?”

      Ellie nodded. “I make pies for the men. Clyde does their meals, but I fix cookies and such for them. I only cook for Pa and me in the house.”

      “Well, let’s see what else you need.” Tess placed the list on the counter and turned back to her shelves. “I’ve got liniment and a fresh supply of Dr. Wilden’s stomach remedy.” Her sharp eyes honed in on Ellie’s face. “Is that for you? You’re not feeling well?”

      “Pa gets heartburn lately,” Ellie said quickly, feeling the telltale blush rise to color her cheeks as she told the blatant lie. “Don’t forget I need sugar, too, Mrs. Dillard.”

      “Yes, all right,” Tess said, eyeing Ellie with suspicion. She leaned over the counter, her voice low. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m always available, honey. I know you’ve missed havin’ a mama in your life.”

      “I’m fine,” Ellie said, desperate to be on her way. “Just put my total on the book if you will. Pa will pay when he comes to town next.” She gathered up the small pile of bottles and tins Tess had placed before her and held the assortment in both hands.

      “Here, put that in this box,” Tess said, reaching beneath the counter for an empty cardboard container. Adding the sack of sugar, she reached for a peppermint stick and placed it amid Ellie’s purchases. “That’ll settle your stomach, Ellie,” she said quietly, pushing the box across the counter. “Just remember, I’m here if you need me.”

      And that was the second offer she’d had today, Ellie thought, lifting the box and heading for the door. Striding out onto the sidewalk, then stepping down to the road, she ignored the passersby, nodding only when the tall minister of the Methodist church spoke her name.

      “Ellie, we haven’t seen you in Sunday morning service for a long time. Don’t be a stranger now, you hear?” Reverend Fairfax said with a wide smile. He tipped his hat and moved along the road, speaking to another of his parishioners as he made his way toward his own buggy.

      “I doubt you’ll be seeing me at all,” Ellie muttered beneath her breath as she untied the mare from the hitching rail. The box with her purchases settled beneath the seat, she climbed into the buggy and turned the mare toward home. Although seeing the kindly minister would have been a logical move if Tommy had stayed here, instead of moving back East. If he’d told his mother that he wanted to marry Ellie.

      She sighed, envisioning the event. Her with a new dress maybe. Tommy with his hair slicked back and his smile flashing just for her benefit. She frowned, closing her eyes, as his image eluded her, replaced by the tall, kindly man who’d just rocked the very foundations of her world.

      Winston Gray. No problem recalling him, she thought with a flash of humor.

      Now, as to Tommy… Ellie squinted as the buggy headed toward the setting sun. Funny, she could barely remember what he looked like. And he was supposedly the love of her life. Although, hard as she tried, today she couldn’t come up with much more than lukewarm feelings for the man.

      That she’d been a fool to listen to his palaver was a given. He’d played her like a shabby fiddle, plucking at her strings, telling her she was beautiful, just the girl he needed for a wife.

      Beautiful, indeed. As if plain brown hair and eyes that matched were anything to talk about. But she’d listened, bewitched by the running on of his compliments, intrigued by his kisses that promised pleasure. But there’d been no pleasure to be had in his taking of her body, only a painful, embarrassing few minutes of prodding and thumping on her, while Tommy wheezed and groaned against her ear.

      She’d been a fool. That fact recognized, she set about working on a plan to get her future in order. The first thing would be to tell Pa. And to that end, she set her jaw and considered the best way to approach George Mitchum.

      No matter what she’d done, the results would have been the same, Ellie realized. She crawled with effort into her bed, aching in every muscle, bruised from the blows she’d accepted as her due from the man who’d sired her. The man who’d told her in no uncertain terms that she was no longer welcome in his house.

      “You’ve got till tomorrow morning to be gone from here,” he’d shouted as she’d huddled in the corner of the kitchen. “I won’t have a bastard in this house. I always knew you were just like your ma. You’ll no doubt have a simpering girl child, just the way she did. Worthless females, both of you.”

      Supper forgotten on the table, he’d stormed out the back door, leaving Ellie to consider the condition of her body. Her face hurt from two sharp slaps, and unless she was mistaken, her eye was swollen. If the aching in her arms was any indication, there’d be bruises turning blue by morning, where great hammy fists had punched her as she’d sought to protect the child she carried.

      Her backside throbbed from several kicks and her legs bore bloody scuff marks from George’s boots, but there hadn’t been any serious bleeding done, and for that she supposed she should be thankful. She’d thought at first that he would surely kill her, but his look of disgust had not included a gleam of hatred akin to murder in his eye.

      She sighed, curling beneath the quilt. Maybe Tess Dillard would be the person to seek out. Perhaps she could use a hand in the store, at least until Ellie found a better solution to her problem. And that didn’t seem likely, at least not for the next few months.

      The house was quiet when she crawled from her bed, donning the same dress she’d worn yesterday. Her other two dresses, one she wore to do chores, the other her Sunday best, hung in the wardrobe and she gathered them, along with a spare petticoat and her good drawers, folding them all neatly into a small bundle. Two pairs of stockings completed her pile of belongings, and she stuffed the lot into a small valise that had been her mother’s.

      Her chest of drawers held extra bed linens and a shawl. The shawl she took, along with her comb and brush and a small bottle of scent Tommy had presented her with. Lily of the Valley, it said on the gilt label, and she smiled ruefully as she recalled her pleasure in the gift.

      On second thought, she decided, she’d do just as well without any reminders of Tommy, and cast the bottle aside. It was about as worthless to her as the promises he’d made and broken. She surely didn’t need to smell good for his sake anymore.

      Damn Tommy Jamison, anyway. “I hope he rots in hell,” she whispered, and then

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