Free A Tailor-Made Bride by Karen Witemeyer Page B

could manage.
    “I’m sure Delia would enjoy hearing about your plans one of these days.”
    Warren’s head shot up, and a grin split his face. Seeing his response, J.T.’s conscience flared up. Maybe he should cut the kid a break. He was still young. A little more life experience and he might grow out from under that oversized attitude of his. He’d never really had to fend for himself, what with his father’s store always being there for him. And from what J.T. understood, Warren had started taking over more responsibilities—keeping the books, making deliveries, overseeing the inventory. Maybe he should make more of an effort to be tolerant.
    “I’ll be sure to tell her about it, then,” Warren said, swagger restored. “She’d probably enjoy sharing a meal with a man who didn’t smell like manure for a change.”
    Then again, maybe he should just expedite the kid’s real-world education and stuff his tongue down his throat.
    J.T. stared at him without moving so much as a finger, channeling all his affront into his expression. The snorting laugh blowing out of Warren’s nose at his careless jest morphed into a cough and, finally, silence. Even after Warren ducked his head, J.T. did not relent. He wanted to bore his glare into the boy’s skull until it stirred up some common sense.
    Fortunately for Warren, his father concluded his chat with the banker and came to join them. J.T. lifted his gaze. “Afternoon, Hawkins.”
    “Tucker.” He held out his hand to J.T. and shook it with a solid grip. The man’s smile and genuine warmth went a long way to soothe J.T.’s temper. “Sorry for monopolizing Mr. Paxton’s time. I didn’t realize you were waiting.”
    “That’s all right. I haven’t been here long.”
    Warren edged toward the entrance. “Let’s go, Dad. You know how Mother hates to watch the store when she’s trying to get supper on the stove.”
    “You’re right.” Hawkins offered a little wave as he moved past J.T. “Give Cordelia our best.”
    “I will.”
    The two disappeared onto the street, and J.T. barely had time to remind himself why he had come before Elliott Paxton descended upon him.
    “Mr. Tucker!” The banker stretched his arms wide in welcome, his nature so ebullient, J.T. would have cringed had it been anyone else. But that was just Paxton’s way. After five years, he had gotten used to the banker’s fulsome ways. Had the man greeted him with a solemn nod, J.T. would have ordered the clerk to fetch the doctor.
    “Come in, young man. Come in.” Paxton held the door wide until
    J.T. entered the office and took a seat. “What can I do for you today, sir?” he asked as he clicked the door closed.
    “I want to find out if the owner of the property where Louisa James runs her laundry might be talked into selling.”
    The banker sat in the chair behind his desk and rapped his finger against its surface. “I could make some inquiries, I suppose. If I remember correctly, the man in question runs a land company over in Waco. Wouldn’t be hard to send a few wires to the account manager. I can’t say as I’d recommend that building as an investment, though. The place has been in ill repair for years.”
    “I know.” J.T. rubbed his chin. “I’d planned to buy the shop next door, but the owner rejected my offer.”
    “Ah, yes. It’s to be a dress shop, I believe. I spied the new seamstress washing her windows earlier. Lovely woman.”
    “Yes . . . well . . . I had hoped to be able to offer Mrs. James a more suitable location for her laundry business—one with four decent walls and a roof that doesn’t leak. But that opportunity is no longer available. So I figured I could buy the place she’s in, lower her rent, and be a proper landlord. You know, fix the roof, keep the pump in working order—that kind of thing.”
    “I see.” Elliott Paxton tapped a finger to his mouth and contemplated him with an intensity that made J.T.’s throat ache.
    “That’s a