Page 88 of Snowbound Surrender
“If it’s all the same,” the bathhouse owner stopped him with a sigh, “I’d rather not. It’s been a heck of a month here in Mistletoe, and I can’t spare a second to listen to salesmen.”
“It’s…it’s not a long presentation.” At least it wasn’t if Randall did the short version.
The bathhouse owner shook his head. “No can do. I’m up to my elbows in work, what with the measles and all.”
“Measles?” The driver had said something about that.
“Sorry.”
Whether the bathhouse owner meant to be dismissive or not, Randall took the hint. Working hard not to be discouraged, he took up his trunk once more and headed out into the bitterness. The sun was gone entirely. Once more, he searched the town’s main street for any signs of life, any sign of someone who needed a brush. His gaze settled on a newspaper office across the street and down a ways. Figuring he couldn’t do any worse than he had already, he headed over, slipping on snow and ice as he went.
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Randall Sinclair, and I come to you today from the Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes company,” he said, voice dripping with weariness as he stepped into the small office.
The man at work over the printing press glanced up. “Brushes?”
“Yes.” Smiling had never been so hard. “Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes has every kind of brush you would need to keep youroffice neat, tidy and in order.” He stopped at the end of his sentence, at a loss for what else to say.
The newspaper man blinked at him. A sympathetic grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “My friend, you know there’s a measles epidemic raging through town right now, don’t you?”
“I heard something about that, yes.”
“And the weather has been awful.”
Randall glanced over his shoulder out the window. He needed to stay positive, he needed to make the sale. … Or was that his father talking. “It should make for a beautiful Christmas.”
The newspaper man chuckled lightly. “Yes, it should. But it makes for a mighty pitiful market for a traveling salesman in the meantime.” He stepped away from his press and approached Randall. “I’m sorry that I don’t need any brushes. I’m even more sorry that you probably won’t find a single taker in town right now. At least not until the epidemic is over.”
Randall sighed and returned the man’s kindness with as much of his own as he could muster. “Thanks anyhow.” He nodded, then picked up his trunk one more time and headed back out into the cold.
Well, that was it. He was stranded in a frosty town with a measles epidemic, no clue when the next stage would come by, fairly certain the trains wouldn’t stop at all. Not if the ever-increasing clouds were any indication. No one was in the mood to buy brushes. By his father’s standards, he was a complete failure. By his own standards, he was due for a change. He rubbed his gloved hands over his face, warming up his red nose. He needed something else to warm him up, and fast. The only thing he could see that would help with that was the saloon across the way.
“Well, at least I’ll be able to forget my troubles for a while,” he said aloud. And now he was talking to himself.
He picked up his trunk and headed on to the saloon. Something in his life had to change, and soon.
Exasperation.That was the word Miranda Clarke had been searching for this last hour. She was exasperated up to her eyeballs.
“No, Mr. Hoover, I will not pour you another one,” she sighed, nudging the old, rail-thin man off of the bar stool he’d sunk into two hours ago. “You’ve had quite enough already.”
“But you pour that sarsaparilla so pretty-like,” Mr. Hoover croaked and grinned, getting his balance, then shuffling across the saloon’s large, empty room toward the door.
He swayed, and Miranda caught him, murmuring, “That wasn’t sarsaparilla.” She glanced around at the thinning patrons of the saloon, anxious to get on with things. None of them were pleased with her for closing up early, just as she wasn’t particularly pleased with any of them for being there in the first place. At least the disreputable women had stopped patronizing the place since she’d taken over and put her foot down.
At least, all but one. Her gaze settled on the tall, lithe figure of Starla, with her red, satin petticoats and painted face. “Starla, could you help?”
“Sure, honey.” Starla sashayed away from the end of the bar and scooped Mr. Hoover under his arms. “Come on, Frank. Time to head home.”
“You should all head home,” Miranda told the three other men lounging around the saloon, finishing their drinks. She smoothed her hands over her conservative skirt, tucked the fly-away strands of her soft, brown hair back into the severe bun she wore, and pressed her hand to her high-necked bodice. “Please,” she added.
The men hummed and grumbled. The two playing cards at one of the liquor-stained tables stood, leaving their cards and several empty bottles where they were.
“What kind of saloon closes before the afternoon is over?” one commented to the other.
“A piss-poor one, that’s for sure,” the other replied. Miranda tried not to wince at their harsh language.
The two men shrugged into their wool coats and marched grumpily toward the door. Miranda wanted to shake her fist at them or give them sharp kicks in their rears as they left, but in the first place, a lady would never do such a thing, and in the second, they were right.
She sighed, shoulders sagging, and turned to walk back to the bar. Old Teddy Potts, the last man standing, slipped hazily off his bar stool, leaving a shining quarter on the counter.
