that bottle can be found for less money over at O’Reilly’s saloon.” Her deceased husband, Sam, had hidden his drinking behind the pretext of using it for medicinal purposes.
The man shot her a lazy grin, revealing a dimple in his left cheek, giving him a deceptive aura of innocence. Then he had the audacity to tip an imaginary hat. “Pardon me, Florence Nightingale, but without testing my product, you’ve no cause to condemn it.”
Florence Nightingale indeed. No one in the crowd chuckled as the man had undoubtedly intended. They all knew her, knew she lent a hand in her father’s practice. Knew what had happened to her mother.
Mary folded her arms across her chest. “No right? I’ve seen your kind before….” A lump the size of a walnut lodged in her throat, stopping her words. She blinked rapidly to hold back tears.
Though his smile still remained, the stranger’s eyes darkened into murky pools and every trace of mirth vanished. Good. Maybe now he’d take her seriously.
He leaned toward her. “And what kind is that?”
She cleared her throat, determined not to be undone by this rogue. “The kind of man who instead of putting in a hard day’s work, earns his living cheating others. That nonsense in your hand isn’t worth the price of an empty bottle.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your assessment of my remedy—of my kind—is hardly scientific.”
He jumped to the street, and bystanders stepped back, giving him a clear path—a clear path leading directly to her. He stopped inches away from her skirt, his features chiseled as if from stone, his dimple gone. The starkness of that face put a hitch in Mary’s breathing. Her hand lifted to her throat.
“This isn’t a bottle of spirits as you’ve alleged.” He unscrewed the cap and thrust it under her nose. “It’s good medicine.”
She didn’t smell alcohol, only peppermint and honey, but couldn’t make out the origin of another scent.
“Let’s hear what he has to say,” Roscoe Sullivan said.
Roscoe’s rheumatism had been acting up, and he probably had trouble sleeping. The poor man dreaded the onset of winter, and no doubt hoped to find a miracle in that bottle. But miracles came from God, not from a peddler with a jarring accent.
John Lemming, the owner of the livery, waved a hand toward the remedy. “Our baby cries all evening. I’d give a king’s ransom for something to soothe him.”
“If it worked.” Mary exhaled. How could these people be so easily fooled? “Don’t you see, John, he’s in this to fill his pockets and then move on before you folks discover his claims are meaningless. Just like last year’s peddler.”
The stranger smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “Since you’re so sure of yourself, Miss Nightingale, why don’t you pay the price of this bottle and investigate the medicine yourself?”
Lifting her chin, she met his amused gaze. How dare the man poke fun at her? And worse, ask her to pay for the privilege of disproving his claims? “And line your pockets? Never!”
He stepped closer. If he intended to intimidate her, she wouldn’t give ground, though her heart rat-a-tatted in her chest.
“Well, then, stand aside for those folks who are open-minded enough to give it a try.” He pushed past her and lifted the bottle. “For the price of three dollars, who wants a bottle of my remedy?”
“Three dollars. Why, that’s highway robbery!” She grabbed his arm, then watched in horror as the bottle slipped out of his hand and hit the ground, shattering the glass. Her neighbors’ gasps drowned out her own.
The man pivoted on a booted heel. “I believe you owe me three dollars,” he said, his voice low, almost a tease.
The liquid trickled between the bricks. She lifted her gaze to lock with his. “I’ll pay your price—if you’ll move on to another town.”
His mouth thinned into a stubborn line. “I’m not leaving.”
Perhaps she had a legal way to get rid of this menace. She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you have a permit?”
With that lazy grin and irritating dimple, he reached inside his shirt pocket and retrieved a slip of paper, waving it in front of Mary’s face. Her hands fisted. This rogue had thought of everything.
Nearby, Roscoe and John exchanged a glance, and then both men ran a hand over their mouths, trying to bury a smile and failing. Apparently, her neighbors found the exchange entertaining.
Mary dug into her purse and handed over the money. “You’ve made a handsome profit on this bottle alone, so move on to fleece another town and leave us in peace.”
“I like it here.” He tossed her a smile, as arrogant as the man himself. “I’m staying.”
Though he deserved it, she had no call to give this scoundrel a sharp kick to his shin, but oh, how she’d love to give in to the temptation. Mary closed her eyes and said a quick, silent prayer to conduct herself like a God-fearing woman, not a fishwife. “Well, I don’t want you here.”
John Lemming pulled out three dollars. “If it works, it’ll be worth every cent.”
The peddler gestured to the knot of people crowded around them, opening their purses and wallets. “Looks like you’re in the minority, Miss Nightingale.”
He returned to his wagon, and the good citizens of Noblesville started forking over the money, purchasing the worthless stuff the man had undoubtedly concocted out of peppermint and honey. How could they trust him?
Why had her mother befriended such a man? Her stomach knotted and tears stung her eyes. Even five years later, grief caught her unaware, tearing through her like a cyclone. She bit her lip, forcing her gaze on the hawker.
Surely he didn’t mean to stay. If he did, everyone would discover the worthlessness of his remedy. No, he’d depart in the middle of the night, having a good laugh at the town’s gullibility.
Handing out bottles of his so-called remedy, the stranger glanced her way, shooting her another grin. Obviously, he took pleasure in swindling her friends and neighbors right under her nose. Like a petulant child, she wanted to stomp her foot—right on his instep. That ought to wipe the grin off his haughty face.
As if he read her thoughts, he turned to her. “Best remember the exhortation in the Good Book to love thy enemy.”
How dare he mention the Bible while he duped her neighbors? Still, she had let her temper get the best of her. Love thy enemy was a hard pill to swallow.
Then of all things, the man gave her a wink, as bold as brass. A shimmer of attraction whooshed through her. Aghast at her base feelings, Mary turned on her heel and stalked off.
Behind her, the man chuckled.
Cheeks burning, Mary strode down Ninth Street and then turned right on Conner. Permit or no permit, she’d find a way to run that peddler out of Noblesville. He represented the last thing she and this town needed—trouble.
Opening
