The Bride Wore Spurs. Janet Dean

it from the edge of Hannah’s hem to the toe of her shoe, then wrote her findings in a tiny notebook. She did the same for her sleeves. “I have all I need. Let me help you change.”

      Behind the screen, the seamstress eased the garment over Hannah’s head. “I’ll have the dress finished by tomorrow afternoon and drive out to the ranch and deliver it personally.”

      “That’s too much trouble.”

      “Not at all, if you’ll show me the fashions you brought back from Charleston,” Miss Carmichael said with a smile, then rushed toward the waiting customer.

      On the way out of the shop, Hannah passed Miss Carmichael and the shopper, their heads together, their smiles couldn’t cover the speculative look in their eyes.

      As she escaped into the sunshine, Hannah heaved a sigh. She’d survived Miss Carmichael’s reaction, so surely she could survive anyone’s.

      Up ahead, Bertram Bailey swept the entrance of Bailey’s Dry Goods. Thin as the broom in his hand, and not much taller, Mr. Bailey propped the handle against the building. “Good to have you home, Miss Parrish,” he said, then followed her inside.