Romancing the Schoolteacher by Mary Davis Page A

clock. “So if I were to invite you to…let’s say…go for a walk with me, you might accept?”
    Her cheeks tinged pink. “Of course. That would be lovely.”
    â€œThen I invite you to take a walk with me on Saturday to the Hotel de Haro’s dining room. Don’t worry about the money. I have a little tucked away. I really want to take you there. Please.”
    She was silent again. And just when he thought she was going to turn him down, she said, “I’d like that.” And the pink of her cheeks deepened.
    * * *
    Bridget closed the door and leaned against it after Lindley and his children left. She couldn’t believe she had said yes. Was she touched in the head?
    The man likely didn’t have the kind of money needed for the hotel restaurant. And even if he did, he should save it for his children. But the thought of spending time with just Lindley made her skin tingle with delight.
    She pictured herself married to him and the four of them a happy family. Such nonsense. She still couldn’t figure the man out. But right now, she didn’t care a fiddle about that.
    For the rest of the week, her insides were all aflutter. On Friday, he told her he didn’t need her to look after Gabe and Dora, that one of his sisters was visiting. She found herself disappointed at that. She would truly miss the children. They had become part of her daily life.
    On Saturday afternoon, she decided to purchase some perfume. She hadn’t worn any since her arrival in Roche Harbor. Hadn’t brought any with her and hadn’t felt the desire for any.
    Until now.
    Maybe a rosewater or lilac. She would have to see what her choices were.
    Oh, she knew she was being silly but didn’t care. Lindley obviously liked her, so a little perfume wouldn’t make him like her more. But she wanted supper to be special.
    She entered the general store run by the mining company. The scents of sweet lavender soap, pungent kerosene and tangy dill pickles assailed her nose. The perfumes were tucked under the counter, and Mr. Miller was attending to a customer already. So she strolled around the store. Candles. Matches. Pots and pans. Books. Bolts of yard goods.
    Glancing up, she gazed through the large plate-glass window. A man in a sharp suit, who resembled Lindley in height and build, stood across the street. She moved closer to the pane of glass but, from this angle, could see more of his back than anything. Under a low flat-top derby hat, his hair was neatly combed down. He spoke with the mine manager and another gentleman. All three men were dressed in fine suits.
    The one who reminded her of Lindley turned, and she could see him better.
    Lindley?
    She gasped and stepped back from the window, bumping into a display. A tray of sewing notions tumbled to the floor. Spools of thread thudded as they bounced and rolled. Thimbles scattered and skittered beneath a shelf.
    Mr. Miller gazed over at her, squinting his eyes.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’ll clean this up.” She squatted and gathered spools, thimbles and packets of needles off the dusty floor and put them all back in the tray. She was hidden below the windowpane but couldn’t stay there.
    Slowly, she rose, staring out the window.
    Lindley and the two men still stood across the street, talking. The third man made her think of a Pinkerton detective she had once met. She gasped again. He wasn’t here for her, was he? She stepped back from the window. She couldn’t let him see her. Any of them.
    What was Lindley doing in a suit and talking to those men?
    Who was he?
    Obviously not a miner. Not in those clothes. Was he a Pinkerton, as well? The thought stabbed her in the chest, and she caught her breath.
    She had known from the start that he didn’t seem like a miner, and now she knew why. He wasn’t. Had he been trying to trick her all along?
    She waited until Lindley and the men left and moved toward the door.
    â€œI