LITMIR.BIZ

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else this morning, Miz Davis?”

      Jane drew in a deep breath. She had inspected every bolt of yard goods Mr. Mercer had in stock—crisp yellow percaline, rose and pale green checked gingham, airy white dimity. Nothing seemed just right. She wanted something unusual, something eye-catching to display in her shop window. Something that would stop the ladies of Dixon Falls in their tracks.

      “Miz Davis?” the mercantile owner reminded.

      She scanned the shelves of fabric once more. “There, on the top. What is that red?”

      Rafe Mercer pushed a ladder into place and clambered up four rungs. Reaching out his long arms, he grasped the bolt and dragged it off the pile, balancing it on his shoulder. “Muslin, ma’am. Ordered it by mistake.”

      He descended the ladder and plunked the fabric down on the polished wood counter before her. “Ten cents a yard.”

      Jane’s head began to buzz the way it always did when she began to envision a new design for a dress or a hat trimming. Yes, she could see it now. And in red, just the thing. The eyes of every woman in town would be glued to her store window display!

      “And the blue, next to it?”

      With a sigh, the thin, graying man propelled his skinny legs up the ladder again. “Cambric,” he called down to her. “Bought extra this year for the big Fourth of July doings at the schoolhouse on Sunday, but the ladies decorating committee didn’t use it all. Sell it to you for…eight cents a yard.”

      “Seven cents,” Jane countered. “And I will offer you one dollar for the bolt of red muslin.” Oh, how Papa would bellow if he knew she was bargaining! But her money was borrowed; she certainly could not afford to squander it.

      Mr. Mercer’s thin face blanched. “Ma’am, that’s near thirty yards of muslin.”

      “Ordered in error, I believe you mentioned.” She swiped her gloved forefinger across the rolled fabric and held it up. “Unless I am mistaken, Mr. Mercer, this has been on your shelf for a good while, long enough to collect dust. Seven cents.”

      “Oh, all right, Miz Davis. A dollar for the bolt. That’ll be, lessee, two dollars and five cents altogether. You need any thread?”

      In her mind’s eye she was already laying out the yardage and marking the gathers. And two bright colors, red and blue, just perfect for the Fourth of July. Every female in Dixon Falls would want one.

      “Miz Davis?”

      Jane jerked to attention. “What? Oh, yes, thread, if you please. Two spools of Brook’s cotton.” She counted out the coins while the mercantile owner wrapped up her parcels.

      “I’ll send the Harrelson boy over with your purchases, ma’am. The flour and tea and such I’ll deliver to your house on my way home this—Ah, good morning, ladies.” He turned his attention to the two new customers sweeping through the doorway. “Mrs. Tanner, Miss Price.”

      Jane shut her reticule and fairly floated over the planked floor, her brain whirling with ideas. She’d done it, made the first purchase for her new business! The feeling was so heady, and so unexpected, she suppressed an urge to laugh out loud.

      Jane Charlotte, just you stop and think what Papa would say.

      For a moment her elation dimmed. Of course Papa would disapprove. How could he not, coming from a long line of gentleman plantation owners? Working with your hands for a living was “common.” Face it, Jane. You yourself are now an employed woman. A shopkeeper.

      And Mama…she dared not think about Mama. She would not think of them, she resolved. She was doing what she had to do, either that or marry, and the only offer she’d had was from Mr. Wilder and it hadn’t been the least bit proper. To succeed she had to care for her widowed mother and earn enough money to keep them fed and clothed until they could return to Montclair. It would take every ounce of concentration and fortitude she could muster, but it would all come straight in the end. She knew it would.

      The two ladies passed her by. “Good morning,” she said automatically. Jane heard one of them give an audible sniff.

      She should have addressed them by name, but she realized suddenly she did not know which one was which. Was Mrs. Tanner the dark-haired woman in gray, or was that Miss Price? The latter had golden ringlets and a merry laugh, but looked too young to be married. In fact, both women looked to be not a day over twenty.

      For just an instant a dart of envy pricked her. By comparison, at twenty-six, she herself would be considered “old.” And probably stiff-necked, as well.

      Behind her, she heard the two young women whisper together, and then a soft giggle. They were talking about her. She could feel it in her bones. Pain swallowed up her envy.

      She had lived here in Dixon Falls ever since she was fifteen years old. Eleven full years, and she still felt like an outsider. Oh, people were polite enough; no one had ever been unkind to her except for schoolboy bullies years ago. But somehow she felt separate from everyone else, as if she didn’t belong.

      She closed the door of the mercantile on the happy laughter of the two women, punctuated by Mr. Mercer’s deeper tenor voice. “Right this way, ladies. Allow me.”

      An empty feeling yawned in the pit of Jane’s stomach. I feel so alone.

      In the next moment, she felt her spine stiffen. Jane Charlotte, you stop that this instant. Don’t you dare go all mooney over your lot in life! Just because Papa is gone and Mama isn’t well doesn’t mean you are any less than you were before, does it?

      Certainly not. She’d had private tutors, had studied history and Latin and Greek grammar, took years and years of piano lessons from Mama. She knew how to serve tea and plan a dinner party—everything a proper young lady should know. She was Ready.

      But ready for what? What was it all for? She’d lived all these years in suffocating isolation. A bell jar. She’d never been allowed to join the other young people at socials because they “weren’t the right sort,” Papa said. She was never allowed to walk into town unless Papa accompanied her. No friends ever came to call. She had been so lonely growing up she hadn’t wanted to grow up!

      But she had. She’d gone right ahead and done it, and before she knew what had happened, she had turned into an old maid.

      Her steps slowed. Was this some kind of punishment for coming to live in a town full of Yankees?

      She unlocked the door to her shop, surveyed the dim interior, and rocked back on the heels of her black buttoned leather shoes. She would need a kerosene lamp, even in the daytime. And a stove of some sort to heat her sadiron. And…

      She gazed at the tiny space, small as a shoe box. At least it was clean. The air still smelled faintly of soap. She would bring the long cheval dressing mirror from the upstairs bedroom and Aunt Carrie’s bust form. What amazing foresight her mother’s older sister had shown when she insisted that the padded dressmaker’s form come west with them. Jane had used it ever since to fashion new garments for herself out of her mother’s old gowns. She used the illustrations in Godey’s Ladies’ Book for inspiration, and the fabrics had lasted through many remakings. She knew the styles had grown outdated over the years, the skirts too full, the tops too ornate, too stiff and formal for a small dusty town in Oregon. She always looked different. Out of place. And the townspeople still called her Queen Jane.

      “But no more,” she vowed. It would be sheer joy to work with something crisp and new from the mercantile! With her first earned dollar, she would send for the latest edition of Godey’s book. “And,” she announced to the silent cherry sewing cabinet, “since I cannot any longer use our dining room table, I will need a cutting board. A nice big one. Propped up on…what?” she muttered to herself. She hadn’t the faintest notion. Barrels? Stacked-up old trunks?

      “Sawhorses! Yes! Now where can I find—”

      “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miz Jane…”

      Jane

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