Adams' Hardware

Journal Entry – October 14, 1871

I stopped into the hardware store this morning under the pretense of needing a new latch for the back door. Truth was, I only wanted a closer look at Baxter Adams.

The bell above the door gave a nervous little ring as I entered, and there he was — sleeves rolled up, sawdust clinging to his forearms, eyes that tried to be steady but told another story. The Adams family has the kind of goodness that begs to be tested. Baxter most of all.

He greeted me with a stammer and that Kansas politeness so thick you could hang your coat on it. I smiled, slow and deliberate — a pause long enough for him to feel it. The poor boy nearly dropped his pencil trying to note the price of a hinge. His throat worked against a swallow like a man unaccustomed to thirst.

I leaned across the counter to inspect a lock, close enough for him to smell the rose oil I’d brushed through my hair. “You keep a tidy shop,” I said, and his ears flushed crimson. Men like Baxter mistake gentleness for innocence. They never notice the intent beneath the lace.

He asked if I was settling in well. I told him Cherryvale was growing on me — though some roots, I said, take deeper than others. He nodded, unsure what I meant. He doesn’t see the way his sister watches, the way her curiosity already frays the edges of her composure.

Abigail is the one I want. But her brother? He’ll open the door for me without knowing he’s handed over the key.