Chapter 2 #2
She studied him for a moment and sighed. She shouldn’t go telling all her problems to a total stranger. They were her burdens to bear. But something about Randall invited confidence. “I’m not certain a saloon owner would fit in polite society.”
Randall seemed to chew over that statement for a minute.
A bubbling from behind Miranda told her the water was boiling.
She turned to wrap a cloth around the handle of the copper pot, pouring the water over the tea leaves in the tin coffee pot.
It certainly wasn’t how she ever would have envisioned herself entertaining polite company.
For the thousandth time in the last few weeks, she tried not to feel bitter about the odd hand life—or rather her Uncle Buford—had dealt her.
Instead she found a spare tray, put the coffee pot, two tin mugs, a small jar of sugar, and a pitcher of milk she hoped was still fresh onto it, then carried it over to the table.
Randall was still lost in thought, but his expression brightened as Miranda said, “All we have to do now is wait for the tea to brew.”
“That sounds fine to me.”
She returned his smile, helping herself to one of the seats at the table. “I’m sorry your efforts to sell brushes in Mistletoe haven’t gone well so far. Maybe in a few days.”
“Is that how long it takes for an epidemic to be over?”
“I’m not sure.”
She paused, scrambling for some way to sound intelligent and personable as they waited for the tea to brew. Easy conversation had never been her strong suit. That was more Vicky’s talent. Which probably explained why Vicky had waltzed off with the prize, leaving Miranda cold and alone.
“Why don’t you do your brush presentation for me?” she suggested in a hurry. Somehow thoughts of the debacle of Micah didn’t seem right while sitting with Randall.
“Do you mean it?” He sat taller.
Miranda smiled, his flash of excitement contagious. “Absolutely.”
“You’re on.” Randall nodded and leapt up from the table. He fetched his trunk, lifting it in both hands, and carrying it closer to the table. “I just need some place to set up.”
“Why, the stage, of course.” Miranda gestured to the small dais at the front of the saloon. “I can’t wait to see what you can do.”
The last time Randall had looked forward to doing his brush presentation for someone was… Actually, he had never looked forward to doing it.
“The stage is perfect.” He switched directions, carrying his trunk to the front of the saloon. “I’ll need a couple of chairs, though.”
“Let me help.” Miranda jumped up and dodged between the tables to reach the front of the room. She lifted one chair onto the stage as he lifted the other. Together, they positioned them as Randall directed, close enough that he could rest his trunk on them and open the lid.
“Now just you sit back, Miranda, and prepare to be bowled over by the selection and quality of Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes.” He repeated the words that had been drilled into him during training sessions, even though he knew he sounded like a fourth-rate actor in a bad play.
Miranda hopped off the stage and scurried to take a seat at one of the tables near the front.
There was something about the woman that was a breath of fresh air in an endless string of towns and faces and audiences.
She seemed so out of place in the saloon.
Her dress was a smidgen too high-brow, not to mention conservative, and her soft, brown hair was tucked into a simple bun.
She was pretty, though, but not in the sort of way women in saloons were usually pretty.
To top it all off, Randall could sense a certain, nameless energy pulsing right under her surface.
He would have called it frustration, yearning, even, if she didn’t have such a delightful smile.
“Are you ready?” he said once he had the trunk in position on the chairs and all of the straps and closures undone.
“I’m ready,” she answered, clasping her hands together and resting them in her lap. Her hazel eyes sparkled with expectation.
Randall straightened and cleared his throat. “Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes,” he announced, then grabbed the lid of his trunk and pulled it open with a flourish.
Instead of the variety of brushes that were carefully strapped into place in the display contained within the trunk, a burst of his wadded, dirty laundry spilled out.
Randall’s heart stopped, and his face burned.
He’d undone too many clasps, opening the hidden compartment in the trunk that secured his clothes.
Everything from shirts to trousers to long underwear spilled to the floor on the stage in front of him.
Miranda’s eyes went wide, her mouth forming a round O. A second later, she clapped her hands to her mouth, eyes dancing with laughter. Her shoulders shook.
Randall had a hard time not laughing himself.
“Um, right.” He reached into the trunk, pulling out the wide-head broom and handle attachment that rested on top of several other brushes.
“This is a demonstration,” he explained, screwing the handle together to assemble the broom.
“Yes, a demonstration of the sweeping power of Mendel’s top-of-the-line broom. ”
With the broom assembled, he turned to sweep up his clothes, pushing them under the trunk between the two chairs. It did nothing to hide the random bundle of garments, some of them unmentionable.
“And when you’re done with that,” he continued, setting the broom inside and reaching into the trunk for a hand broom and dust pan, “you can tidy up the mess and get rid of it.”
He bent over to brush a spare sock into the dust pan. There was no place to put it—it would have taken him several minutes to sort out the clothing compartment of the trunk—so he shrugged and tossed the sock over his shoulder.
Miranda laughed outright, then slapped her hand over her mouth again. “Oh, dear.”
“Never you mind that.” He went back to his salesman routine, overly-confident, stilted voice and all. “Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes has the right tool for whatever domestic job you have. We’ve got cleaning brushes, as you’ve seen, personal grooming brushes…”
He reached into the trunk to take out a fancy, women’s hairbrush with one hand and a man’s shaving brush with the other.
His grip on the shaving brush wasn’t quite what it should be, and as soon as he pulled his arm up, the bristly thing went flying.
It hit a bottle that had been left on a nearby table, breaking it.
“Oh!” Miranda jumped at the crash.
Randall’s mouth dropped open. It was that or burst into laughter himself. “Hold on.” He dropped the hairbrush back into the trunk and rummaged around. “I’m sure I’ve got something to clean that up.”
“Won’t the hand brush and dust pan do?” Miranda stood and hopped onto the stage, coming to stand beside him and peer into the trunk.
Randall discreetly removed some underwear that hadn’t escaped in the initial explosion. He cleared his throat. “Believe it or not, Mendel’s has a special brush designed for cleaning up glass. Ah! Here it is. Complete with a hand guard.”
He took out a brush that looked very much like a standard hand brush, but with a curving bit of wood attached to the handle, like the hilt of a sword. Miranda rested a hand on one hip and sent him a teasing, scolding look that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“You broke that bottle on purpose to show me this brush, didn’t you?”
Randall couldn’t hold his laughter in any longer. “I swear to you, I didn’t. But isn’t it handy that they make something like this?”
He stepped over to the table with the broken bottle and began to sweep it up with the special brush. When he realized he hadn’t brought the dust pan with him, Miranda fetched it and carried it to the table. She handed it over with mock solemnity.
“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Her eyes teased and flirted in direct contrast to the modesty of her demeanor. The contrast did things to Randall’s heart that he hardly dared to think of.
“I’ll confess, I’m not,” he answered her with a sigh, sweeping up the glass.
“Then why pursue a profession that doesn’t suit you?” she asked, then added in a mumble, “Not that I’m one to talk.”
Randall studied her with a curiosity that burrowed deep into his soul.
He liked Miranda Clarke, new though their association was.
She was the kind of woman he would want to spend much more time with, if his ventures didn’t demand he move on.
There was something about her that made him feel like he could share anything with her.
“I can assure you, it wasn’t my idea.” He took a step back, dust pan in hand. “Is there a place where I can dump this?”
“Over here.” Miranda started away from the table, an arm outstretched toward the bar. “I have a special bin for broken glass.”
“Thanks.” He followed her, dumping the glass into a bin full of shards.
“Our tea is probably ready now, if you’d like to take a break from presenting to explain why you’re doing it in the first place.” The mischievous glint was back in her eyes.
“I’d love to.”
They retired to the table, where Miranda poured two tin mugs of tea for them.
She added just enough cream and sugar without him having to ask.
If that wasn’t a sign of a good woman, he didn’t know what was.
He took a sip, settling back in his chair, counting himself uncommonly lucky to have met Miss Miranda Clarke.
“It’s my father’s fault,” he explained without having to be reminded. “He thinks I should be somebody.”
“Be a brush salesman?” The arch of her eyebrow was so feminine and delicate that Randall found himself wanting to kiss it.