6
HENRY DIPPED THE RAZOR back into the washbasin, then finished shaving with a final swipe to his chin. His skin was anything but smooth anymore, as the scrape of the razor attested. So different from the skin of a child, for example. Or a woman.
He pummeled his face with a towel, disgusted by thoughts that refused to go away despite his continual efforts to banish them the moment they arrived. Yes, the do-gooder Tobias had so foolishly lent the bank’s money to undoubtedly possessed soft skin. So did nearly every woman in the world, at least softer than his. So what?
He pretended for a moment not to remember her name, but it was useless. Dessa Caldwell. Was she daft, or just a zealot who clung to some kind of faith—either in God or mankind—to the point of foolhardiness?
Either way, it didn’t matter. If Henry found the slightest reason to think the whole thing a mistake, he would order Tobias to do something he’d expressly forbidden in the past: reverse the entire process and work toward getting the bank’s money back. He might first contact the house’s previous owner and see if it could be handled nicely. If not, Henry would give strict orders to foreclose the minute she was late with a payment. Better to try reselling the property than let it deteriorate in the too-full hands of a woman who would likely be better off elsewhere.
Henry needed to be rid of this business transaction, if only to return his full attention to the bank. Where it belonged.
“The blueberry pie!”
Dessa grabbed the oven door handle, too late remembering how hot to the touch it would be. She pulled back her smarting fingers and waved them in the air to cool, as Mariadela stepped between her and the Monarch oven.
“You’re as nervous as a new bride cooking for the first time.” Mariadela opened the oven door with a towel to protect her own hand, pulling out a perfectly golden pie. She smiled, holding up the triumph in baked goods. “Your guests this afternoon might be bankers, but they’re men first. Judging by my own husband and boys, they’ll eat just about anything.”
Dessa wanted to believe her friend, but recalling the stern look on Mr. Hawkins’s face the day she’d received the happy news about her loan made her wonder if he would be easily pleased. Somehow the thought did nothing to ease her skittishness. She wished she’d had a rested night; being overtired didn’t help her nerves.
“I just want the meal to be a good representation—”
“I know,” the older woman cut in. “A good representation of the Lord’s work.”
Dessa offered Mariadela an apologetic smile. “Have I said that before?”
“Only about twice a day, every day, for the two years I’ve known you.”
The Whites had been among Sophie and Dessa’s first supporters, and Mariadela one of Dessa’s closest friends since losing Sophie. Since then, the Whites had even provided Dessa with a rent-free room above their mercantile—despite the expansion of their store to the second floor. They were likely glad to have the space back for their burgeoning business. That had played no small role in Dessa’s decision to speed along the opening of Pierson House. This was as much a shelter to Dessa as it would be to other women in need.
Mariadela set the pie on the marred wooden table behind them. The table was a donation that could have used a good sanding and a new coat of varnish had Dessa the time. “I didn’t need the reminder of God’s involvement in this place,” Mariadela added, “not since I found out where your loan came from.”
Dessa nodded. “I shouldn’t call it a miracle, but I do. Yet Hawkins National is a bank, after all. That’s part of what they do. Loans to businesses.”
Mariadela’s laugh sounded something between a scoff and genuine amusement. “Not to this kind of business. I’ve known Mr. Hawkins since he was my husband’s biggest competitor, when he opened a store fresh out of college from back East. He may be a banker, but he’s a merchant first, through and through. Fair, maybe. But generous? Compassionate? No. If you shake him hard enough, you’ll hear gold coins rattling in that chest of his, not a heartbeat.”
“Perhaps he’s changed.” Dessa didn’t realize until speaking the words that she wanted them to be true.
“If he has changed, it’s because of that Tobias Ridgeway,” Mariadela said as she began to gather the vegetables they would serve. “The man is a saint, and married to a saint as well.” She looked around the kitchen and smiled. “But for whatever reason Mr. Hawkins extended you the loan, he won’t be disappointed. Look at all you’ve done, and in so short a time! You’ve been in only a week and you’ve increased its value already. It’s a home fit for anyone now.”
Dessa looked at the kitchen, with its imperfect but fully functional table, mismatched chairs that were nonetheless made to last, and a variety of cookware, dishes, and cutlery. Not a single piece would have graced even the servants’ quarters of the home in which Dessa had served in St. Louis, but being able to call it all her own made each and every piece lovely.
The house itself had proven as sound as the seller claimed. Working plumbing, solid flooring, steady gas for cooking and lighting. The now-dust-free rooms smelled fresh and clean. Nearly every wall in the house had been painted, thanks to supplies donated from Mariadela’s store and a volunteer workforce from the railroad mission school. There was also a good deal of furniture already in place. Upstairs, besides the bedrooms offering beds and clean linens, was a variety of clothing that had been donated from the church Dessa attended with the White family. Down here, the dining room boasted a somewhat nicer table than the one in the kitchen, along with six chairs that matched. Even the parlor wasn’t empty; it was furnished with a side chair and matching settee, each cast in the French Louis XVI style. The oval stitchery on the seats showed wear, and the gilt wood of the scantily padded arms was scratched, but it hardly mattered to Dessa. Not only had all of it come from generous hearts, hearts directed by no less than God Himself, but last night’s visitor had proven the furniture sturdy.
“All we need are the residents,” Dessa said. Her voice lacked the confidence she normally added but at the moment could not summon.
Mariadela patted her hand. “They’ll come. No need to worry. They’re out there; they just need to know they have an alternative.”
“I was so sure they would come immediately—I’ve distributed flyers and applications everywhere, all along Market and Blake between Nineteenth and Twenty-Third Streets. I know I haven’t gotten to know many in the neighborhood yet, but I’ve seen the number of people who do their business around here. Surely there are some women without a roof over their heads at all. How can anyone prefer no roof to this one?”
“It will only take one of them to be brave enough to leave behind what she knows. Then others will follow. You’ll see.”
How Dessa wanted to believe her, but it was difficult to avoid the niggling disappointment that her start hadn’t already been as successful as she’d expected. Yet she was more than tireless in her effort. And God’s timing was always perfect, wasn’t it?
Mariadela was right. They would come. It was just a matter of time.
Henry looked out his carriage window, largely ignoring whatever Tobias was saying. From Henry’s first investigation, he remembered their luncheon destination wasn’t far. How well had Miss Caldwell survived this first week living so near the city’s riffraff? With any luck, she would be eager to give back the bank’s money and have this silly venture ended once and for all.
“Henry?”
He was suddenly aware that Tobias had called his name and was looking at him expectantly. “Yes?”
“We’ve arrived.”
Henry’s gloved hands gripped his walking stick as he moved to the carriage door Tobias held open. Jumping onto the pavement, Henry looked around, starting with the house in front of him.
To his surprise, the trim on the brick structure had been painted a clean beige, unremarkable if not for the darker trim at the windowsills. An outward improvement that might help him resell the place.
Not far away was a restaurant with living quarters above, and on the other side of that a single-story tavern, with a sign in the window advertising a pawnbroker on the premises. Likely it wasn’t just a tavern, though they probably did sell drinks. Pawnbrokers went hand in hand with gambling rooms. Not exactly the worst of the businesses to be found within a few blocks, but definitely not intended to meet the needs of polite society.
“This is where you invested the bank’s money.” Henry’s words were as flat as the roof on a yet-to-be-demolished structure across the street, victim of a fire. A charred sign, which once advertised massages, hung at an odd angle.
“As Miss Caldwell explained,” Tobias began, while Henry took immediate satisfaction in seeing that he looked doubtful too, “she needs to be near the population she wishes to reach.”
“How will staying in this neighborhood free any one of them from what she hopes they will leave behind?”
“A good question, Henry. Let’s ask her, shall we?”
Tobias was already up the half-dozen stairs to the freshly painted threshold.
To Henry’s surprise, it wasn’t Dessa Caldwell who answered. It was Mariadela White, from White’s Mercantile.
“Come in, gentlemen!” she greeted them warmly, far more warmly than Henry would have expected, given their history. He’d never intended to damage White’s business all those years ago by offering his goods at a rate even Henry could barely afford. And it wasn’t generosity, either. It had been good, sound business practice for the plans he’d had in mind.
“Dessa will be down in a moment, but please, come inside. Let me take your hats.”
She did so, setting the items aside on a hook provided next to the door. The room was sparsely furnished—only a settee, a side chair, and a small table holding an oil lamp—but he could see an adjoining dining room that offered a table and more chairs. Nothing yet hung on any of the walls, but like the trim, these walls were recently painted, here a dull but unblemished gray. A carton sat off to the side of the dining room, next to the table. It appeared to be half-full of linens.
“What a pleasant surprise, Mrs. White,” Tobias said as he, like Henry, looked around. “We didn’t expect to see anyone but Miss Caldwell.”
“I’ve been helping her when I can.”
Though Henry said nothing, he recalled she had several children who, almost ten years ago, had been constantly underfoot and into mischief—part of the reason he was sure customers had preferred his quiet establishment just across the street. Likely those same children were valued employees by now.
Before Henry could think of a greeting of his own—one he wasn’t overly eager to extend anyway—the moment was lost in the warm welcome of Dessa Caldwell as she swept into the room from a hallway opposite.
“How happy I am to see both of you! Do you know Mrs. White?”
“Yes, of course,” Henry said, offering her a brief glance. “Though she banks with a competitor.”
Tobias laughed. “Yes, but we won’t give up hope, will we, Henry? It’s always a pleasure to see Mrs. White. Tell me, how are William and the family?”
A few moments of conversation followed, words Henry knew he was bound to forget before too many minutes passed, so he occupied his thoughts elsewhere. He could see the dining room was set for five. Evidently Mrs. White was to stay, which didn’t surprise him, but he wondered who the fifth would be.
“May we show you around, Mr. Hawkins?” Miss Caldwell asked.
Henry turned his full attention on her at last. His memory hadn’t exaggerated her loveliness—if anything she was more so. Her light-brown eyes were merry, her smile comfortable and easy. Her hair, just like the darkly burned gold he’d imagined, looked soft to the touch.
Why had he come? This whole ridiculous loan had been Tobias’s idea. Henry had already counted the money as lost. He should have let Tobias receive this warm welcome on his own.
But then, if he wanted the loan to come to a quick end, he would have to do it himself.
“The furniture has all been donated,” Miss Caldwell said. He noted her voice was somewhat breathless, as if she was nervous. “There are five rooms upstairs. Besides my own, only two are ready, but it won’t be long before we have beds for the rest. Mariadela’s husband is fashioning bed frames already, so we’ll need only mattresses.”
She led them into the kitchen, where, despite Henry’s determination not to enjoy himself, the scent of some kind of soup and bread tickled his nose, along with a fragrantly spiced main course.
A pie sat on the edge of a stove, which momentarily distracted him from the equipment beneath it. Though he was no expert on household goods, he remembered from his own merchant days that a Monarch was among the best stoves on the market. He looked around again, wondering just how old this structure could be. Not as old as he’d assumed?
“Was the stove in the building when you arranged to take ownership?” he asked.
“Why, no, Mr. Hawkins.” She seemed pleased he’d noticed. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Expensive,” he said. “Or was it, too, a donation?”
She looked from him to the stove, as if surprised. He was sure her look held a hint of guilt, convincing him she’d very likely spent some of the bank’s money to purchase it. Had she so little regard for how much it cost? “It was a necessary part of our investment. Offering a good meal, well prepared, is a sure way to draw those in need. Sometimes God uses the stomach as well as the ear to convey His message. Something I hope you’ll learn when we serve lunch.” The last words were uttered with such a confident smile it was all Henry could do not to abandon all his good sense and smile in return. Even though she’d just called a stove an investment.
Back in the dining room, he learned the carton he’d thought yet to be unpacked contained items going with Mrs. White when she left. Linens, as he’d guessed, but to be sold at White’s Mercantile. The first income against her loan. Henry refrained from smirking. It would take a lot more than a few tablecloths to repay the money she owed him.
“You’ve done a fine job getting settled so quickly, Miss Caldwell,” said Tobias. “Now all you need are your guests. How soon will you be welcoming your first client?”
Client. Leave it to Tobias to recall the diplomatic term. Still, Henry was glad he’d asked. He looked at Miss Caldwell for her answer, and for the first time since their arrival she seemed unsure of herself.
“I’d expected some girls initially,” she said.
“I’m not sure anyone believed Dessa’s vision would be a reality so quickly,” Mrs. White said. “They’ll be here just as soon as they know the door is open.”
Miss Caldwell’s brows—fine, long brows that got involved in each of her expressions—now gathered. One brow, he noted, curled slightly toward the bridge of her nose when she frowned, as she was doing now.
“I’m a firm believer in absolute honesty.” She said the words plainly but at the same time did not meet his eye, or even Tobias’s eyes, which were as always far more inviting than the average banker’s. “While I fully expect several clients to join me soon, I admit I’m surprised by this initial reluctance. It’s understandable, of course, to have some hesitation about entirely changing one’s life.”
Henry folded one hand over the other. It would be within his rights to demand if she truly knew the sort of person she seemed intent upon helping. Had she not researched other institutions like the one she was trying to establish? He would be fully within reason to blame Tobias for not having been more diligent about the sort of expectations that should be fulfilled.
Just when he might have begun such a lecture, Miss Caldwell took the smallest step closer to him. Henry wanted to step back but knew he was too close to the table to do so. He had no choice but to look at her, though he wished he didn’t have to.
She was truly beautiful. If she had something to say, she waited an extended moment to study him in the way he wanted to study her in return. They might have been alone for all Henry cared about either Tobias or Mrs. White, particularly when he saw the look of utter gratitude on Miss Caldwell’s face.
He tried pulling his gaze away but failed. He didn’t want her gratitude. He should tell her without hesitation that he’d never been in favor of this loan. If it hadn’t been for the fragments of loyalty Henry still harbored for Tobias, he’d have sacked him for his insubordination. A foolish loan was a foolish loan, no matter how lofty the intentions. Or how lovely the borrower.
“I know Pierson House is off to a humble beginning, Mr. Hawkins.” Her voice was soft, easy to listen to. “But the need is here. Right here. I’m so very grateful for the chance you’ve given me, the confidence you’ve shown me, the generosity you’ve proven in such a tangible way toward the vulnerable women of this city. Thank you.”
She extended one hand, and Henry knew if he touched it he would swallow the words he might have used. He had not the slightest hint of confidence in her, nor a smidgen of generosity.
But something—some idiotic, childish, primitive force inside him—made Henry raise his hand to take hers in his own.
Dessa had never seen eyes quite like Henry Hawkins’s. Gray, like those of a newborn baby whose parents would have to wait for their child to unveil which way the color would go: blue or brown. How was it possible his had stayed so thoroughly gray, not even tending toward hazel?
He’d been reluctant to accept her hand, but now he held it firmly. His touch couldn’t help but broaden her smile. Each day since the loan had been approved, she’d wanted to assure him he’d been right to trust her. Somehow, wanting to prove herself to him had become more important than she’d expected. He was, after all, just a man. And men could prove so troublesome.
He cleared his throat, and she withdrew her hand. She hadn’t realized she’d held it overlong.
“Lunch will be on the table in a moment,” she said softly. “Won’t you—” she glanced at Mr. Ridgeway—“both be seated?”
“I can’t help but notice there is another place set,” Mr. Ridgeway said in his familiar friendly tone. “Are we expecting someone?”
Mariadela was already in the kitchen, so Dessa answered. “We’d hoped William White could join us, but he sent a message that he’ll be here only for dessert. We’ll leave the plate, though, just in case.”
“Ah, dessert,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “I spotted that pie right off.”
With a laugh, Dessa hurried away to help Mariadela bring in the food, everything from a cool gazpacho soup with hearty bread to an herb-crusted chicken she’d been enthusiastic about preparing.
In the kitchen, she wanted nothing more than a moment to ask Mariadela what she thought of Mr. Hawkins’s attitude, but her friend was already laden with a tray, and so there wasn’t time. Had Mariadela even noticed his frown? Did she know if he was always so serious? Dessa grabbed the covered tray of fowl from the oven and followed Mariadela back to the dining room.
If the success of a luncheon could be measured solely by the taste of the food served, then Dessa’s was a resounding triumph. If measured by polite and interesting conversation, some might call it enjoyable.
But if success were measured by the look of Mr. Henry Hawkins, then this luncheon was an uncontestable failure. He spoke only when Dessa asked him direct questions. Would he care for more vegetables in his soup? No. Was the chicken to his liking? Yes. The weather had been fine this summer, except for the afternoon showers. Yes, so it has. It seemed from Mr. Ridgeway’s description that his bank was always as busy as Dessa had witnessed during her own two visits. Yes, it is.
Dessa was determined to ask him a question that would draw more than the briefest of answers. “Mariadela tells me you were once in the mercantile business yourself, Mr. Hawkins.”
“Yes, I was.”
She held back a sigh. “But you found banking more to your liking?”
He sipped the water she’d served with their meal, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin—a napkin she’d sewn. “I opened the mercantile as a forerunner to my bank. To build trust among my customers, most of whom already used my crediting services as a bank. I’d never intended to stay in the mercantile business.”
“Which was fortunate for my husband and me,” Mariadela said. When Dessa looked at her friend—having heard a hint of hardness in her tone—she saw immediately that Mariadela regretted her words. Or perhaps only the resentment she’d hinted was behind them. She smiled over the frown her own words had produced on her face. “You were a worthy competitor, Mr. Hawkins.”
He gave a quick bow with his head, as if she’d saluted him.
“I’d say White’s has done quite well,” Mr. Ridgeway said, “converting that second floor from storage to customer merchandise.”
Mariadela’s smile became pleased. “Yes, my husband is very proud of trying to keep up with the city’s growth.”
“Your bank has certainly done that,” Dessa said to Mr. Hawkins. “It’s one of the finest buildings in Denver—ahead of most others of the city, even.”
She’d meant it to be a compliment, but he looked at her with his frown renewed, as if she’d described the bank as too lavish. Could she say nothing right in front of this man? The only subject he’d spoken of with any interest had been the stove. . . . Did he believe she’d made an unwise investment in that silly stove and think it as extravagant as the Roman pillars on his bank?
“Speaking of being ahead of its time,” he said slowly, letting his gaze travel the room, “what of this place? Perhaps your lack of clients is a sign that our time—or society—is not yet ready for what you have in mind.”
Dessa’s pulse quickened, not just from his words but because he’d voiced fears she herself had been trying to avoid. “I’m sure Denver is ready to join the ranks of the best cities in the country, Mr. Hawkins, and not stay stuck with a reputation for wild ways. Buildings like your own and the opera house and countless lovely churches all attest to that.” She knew she was teetering on rambling, but his face remained so stoic that the words kept coming. “Pierson House is a bridge, offering those who might be stranded in the old ways a chance to join the new. There are so many more jobs available now, even for women. New hope, new lives. Restoration.”
“The oldest cities in America—I’d venture to say the world—still offer those wild ways, Miss Caldwell. How is it you think you can change that?”
“If we reach one person at a time, we’ll have done far more than just turning our backs with indifference or pretending there aren’t real lives at risk. There are women out there who want a better life but don’t know how to get it. Some of them are little more than trapped children who can’t find their way.”
“Have you ever considered they might not want another way?”
“Is there a child on this earth who dreams of growing up to be enslaved by another, or by opium or alcohol? Or perhaps thrust aside by an employer after making the mistake of trusting one of the family members with favors he had no right to demand?” She set aside her fork, reminding herself—perhaps too late—that she was indebted to this man. “Pierson House hopes to answer the plight of those less fortunate, from all walks of life.”
“I would think everyone who believes themselves less fortunate would be at your door already.”
From the way he spoke, the way he acted, Dessa finally saw that it was entirely possible—no, it was likely—Mr. Hawkins would have been another banker showing her to the door. How foolish she’d been to think Henry Hawkins an answer to her prayer, when it had been Mr. Ridgeway all along. She suddenly wondered if Mr. Ridgeway might have risked his job to push through this loan without Mr. Hawkins’s approval. How had he managed to do it?
Neither Dessa’s doubts nor Mr. Hawkins’s mattered. What mattered was that Pierson House was a vision God had given to Sophie, the godliest woman Dessa had ever known. Surely God would bless her efforts—if not for Dessa, then certainly for Sophie!
“I think what you’re implying, Mr. Hawkins, is doubt that Pierson House can succeed. Perhaps you and I have a different definition of success, but I believe to the very core of my soul that it can, and will.”
He scanned the dining room, sparing a glance over his shoulder to the bay window that faced the street. When he turned back to her, the look in his eye was openly skeptical. “Right here, near the center of the very spot you hope for them to escape? What makes you think they’ll change their ways if they aren’t required to leave what they know? Why come here at all if they’re not really leaving?”
She bristled at his condescending tone, feeling the last bit of admiration she might have felt for him slip away. “To catch fish, you must go to the water. Pierson House is a freshwater holding pond, a place to make the transition. I have no doubt it’s only a matter of time before God sends us those who will accept His help.”
In the pause that followed, Mr. Hawkins leveled a stare at her that seemed anything but convinced. Just as she contemplated more words to further her side of the argument, the front door opened, a sound drawing everyone’s attention.
Expecting Mariadela’s husband, William, Dessa looked up, and whatever feeble hope that she’d at least given Mr. Hawkins something to think about dissolved. Scrambling to her feet, she rushed to forestall the man from entering—the very man who had come to her in a drunken stupor in the middle of the night.
She stopped him just inside the door. A glance in Mr. Hawkins’s direction, closest to the window, gave her hope he hadn’t yet seen the newcomer from his vantage.
“I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place, sir,” Dessa said quietly—calmly—taking one of his arms to turn him back to the door.
“Naw, I remember precisely. And I never forget me debts. Here ya go, missy. For last night.”
To her horror he extended a bill in his hand, one she immediately pushed away. With her free hand she grabbed the edge of the door he’d left open, hoping not only to hide him from the others but to get him to leave before anyone nearby noticed something so terribly amiss.
“You owe me nothing, sir,” she whispered. “Please go.”
“But you showed me a kindness, and I wanted to repay—”
“Is there something wrong?”
To her horror, the words spoken just behind her came from Mr. Hawkins. She closed her eyes in a moment of desperate prayer for guidance, then did the only thing she could—turned around to face the very curious and obviously disapproving banker.
“No, nothing is wrong,” she said lightly. “I was just saying this gentleman is confused about where he is.”
The man laughed, removing his hat—crumpled with wear—and placing it in the same hand as the dollar bill. He then extended his free hand to Mr. Hawkins, who made no move to accept the friendly gesture.
The man pulled back his rejected hand, wiping it along the side of his stained and dirty jacket. “I don’t blame ya, sir, for not takin’ me hand. Your kind and mine don’t mix very often, now do we?” He winked at Dessa. “He’s a fine-lookin’ one for sure, missy. You can tell he’ll pay ya and pay ya well.”
“He’s not—”
“Just what happened here last night?” Mr. Hawkins pressed.
Both Mr. Ridgeway and Mariadela now stood nearby, Mariadela looking as mortified as Dessa felt, and Mr. Ridgeway considerably more curious than condemning.
“I can explain that, sir.” The caller once again held out the dollar bill, which Dessa still refused to accept. He faced Mr. Hawkins, taking in what looked to be a deep, fortifying breath. “’Tis a fact, me boy, that I was a victim of me own undoing. Ah, but it was a strong drink that got me last night. Like a torch going down me throat and straight to me empty belly. When I needed a spot to curl up and sleep, I found me way right here to this very room, because rumor has it to be a refuge of a kind. And this wee slip of a girl helped me to a bed, so I wouldn’t be left in the gutter.”
“On the back porch,” Dessa said, her words barely making it beyond her embarrassment. “To a pile of rags.”
“Still, ’twas a soft pile, and I was out of the night wind, off the pavement so to speak. I came to offer me thanks, and me money. Though . . . if it isn’t too much trouble, might ya make change for me? I have but this single bill, and don’t ya know I can get a bed down the street for half this. So would two bits be a fair price for a porch, do ya suppose now? A porch not even used ’til I got here, so late as it was?”
“Keep your bill, Mr. . . .” Dessa stopped, not knowing what to call him but having no wish to find out. She grabbed the door once again, hoping he would take his leave. But he was looking beyond them to the dining room, where remnants of lunch only needed clearing away.
“Now that looks as if ’twere a fine meal. Fine indeed.”
Dessa released another breath. She knew what she ought to do—knew, too, that Mr. Hawkins’s disapproval would only increase. Yet she would not ignore the prompting to do right, no matter how deep the banker’s frown.
She went to the table, grabbed two slices of bread and a hefty slice of chicken, then returned to the man at her door.
Handing the sandwich to him, she said, “I must ask you to go now, sir. But let me make it clear since you’re of sobriety. This is a home for women only. Please don’t come here again.”
Accepting the sandwich with a grin wide enough to reveal crooked and graying teeth, he placed his hat back upon his head, pocketed his dollar, and with a zealous bite, he gave her another wink before going out the door.
“Feeding him will only bring him back,” Mr. Hawkins said.
“I simply forgot to lock the door last night,” Dessa told him, her spine so rigid it ached. “It won’t happen again.”
With a mix of relief and disappointment, she watched Mr. Hawkins step past her to the hook beside the door. Placing the hat on his head, he faced her, so close she could see for the first time that there was a mix of light- and dark-gray flecks in his eyes. If his hair ever turned gray, it would likely match.
“Banks have a way of foreclosing on loans that are not repaid on a regular and timely basis. If he was an example of the clientele you’re attracting—” he held out a palm in the direction of the modest box of linens nearby—“and if that is the source of your repayment fund, Miss Caldwell, then I suggest you prepare yourself for foreclosure.”
Then he walked through the front door, calling Mr. Ridgeway’s name over his shoulder.