Hattie was dead.
The words rolled in his mind as he considered them. Hattie was dead. Some days those words still didn’t seem real.
But the ensuing scandal was real enough. He could only hope that it would be a while longer before talk reached Leadville and he would have enough time to—
A crash and a screech from the back of the store made him set his pen down. Mitch took a deep breath, then casually turned in the direction of the noise.
As seemed to constantly be the case, before he could even get to the other side of the counter, one of his children, this time it was Clara, ran toward him. Mrs. Abernathy, their nanny, followed behind.
“You get back here!”
Clara darted behind him and clung to the back of his shirt. “I won’t!”
Even the glowering look on Mrs. Abernathy’s face would not be enough to convince Clara. Experience had taught him that while all of his children were stubborn, when this particular daughter refused to do something, walking to China would be easier than getting her to change her mind.
“What seems to be the problem?” Mitch asked, offering Mrs. Abernathy a smile.
“Everything is the problem.” Mrs. Abernathy’s face had turned an unmistakable shade of red. He’d seen it on a number of nannies, all shortly before they’d quit.
Mitch pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Could he find a way to convince her to stay?
The young lady he’d been admiring came into view, covered in flour.
No. Even before Mrs. Abernathy opened her mouth to utter the fateful words, Mitch knew nothing would keep her. He supposed he should make the effort, but with this being the second nanny in the space of a month, he’d need all of his energy to convince another woman to come work for him.
“I see,” he said instead.
“Those children are out of control.” Mrs. Abernathy gave him a sharp look as the flour-coated woman approached.
“I know,” he said quietly. He could feel Clara relax behind him. She, too, knew that their nanny was a few words from giving notice. For Clara, as well as the other children, this would be another victory.
The flour-coated woman smiled at him. “You must be the father of the little darling who welcomed me to the store.”
Iris rushed over. “Polly, I am so sorry. You see—”
Polly held up a hand. “It’s not your fault, Mrs. Taylor. But I think there’s a young lady who owes me an apology.”
She looked at Mitch firmly, but not unkindly. Not like the many people who’d been terrorized by his children. He’d liked to have said that such occurrences were rare, but in truth, they’d left Denver not just to escape the scandal of his wife’s death. He also needed respite from talk of the antics of the Taylor Terrors, as his children had been dubbed by society.
Most people, when they saw his children coming, ran the other way. Perhaps people running away was a small exaggeration, but not by much.
Polly squatted down in front of him. “Come on out now, young lady. I realize that you’re new in town, but in Leadville, we don’t go throwing flour at strangers. That might be what you did where you used to live, but here, that’s not our custom.”
She spoke gently, sweetly. Without the rage of so many of the others who’d insisted that Mitch do something about his out-of-control children. Even her eyes. A bright blue that matched her dress, they looked almost...nice.
Clara didn’t budge.
Polly rose and looked him in the eye, then stuck out a hand, which he shook. “Polly MacDonald. I can see why your daughter might be a bit shy, but she does owe me an apology.”
Then her blue eyes twinkled as she pointed to a figure peering around a barrel. “Although we could say that our little mishap with the flour was my own fault, since I was so inconsiderate as to be paying too much attention to the dried fruit and not realizing I was stepping into a battle between these two.”
Rory. Mitch sighed again. Of course it was Rory and Clara. The two of them hadn’t stopped bickering since Rory had the misfortune of being born seven minutes after his sister. A fact she wielded like a weapon in establishing superiority to her younger brother.
“You see! They are positively out of control,” Mrs. Abernathy said with the kind of self-righteousness Mitch had resigned himself to hearing from everyone who met his children. “I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, I really am. But your children are too wild for the likes of me. I never thought I’d say that about any child, but there is clearly something wrong with them. They belong in an institution.”
Had he not heard it dozens of times before, he might have been insulted. Instead, he smiled politely and nodded. “Thank you for your service, Mrs. Abernathy.”
“I beg your pardon!”
Mitch turned toward Polly, the woman his children had just doused in flour. The kindness had melted from her face, replaced with a level of fury he’d expected from the flour incident.
“There is nothing wrong with those children. I cannot fathom why you would make such a horrible suggestion as to put them in an institution. I hope Mr. Taylor docks whatever wages you have coming to you. Whatever is wrong with these children, it’s not a deficiency in them, but in the kind of care they are receiving. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Then Polly squatted down again. “Please come talk to me, little one,” she said in a much gentler tone. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Abernathy stomped away. Mitch wasn’t sure if he was glad to see her go or not. He’d have liked to have thought there was truth in Polly’s words, that had he had a better nanny, his children wouldn’t behave so terribly.
But he had been through an awful lot of nannies.
Clara came forward. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I was trying to get Rory back.”
“Rory,” Mitch said, indicating his son should join them. “I believe you also owe Miss MacDonald an apology.”
Which is when it occurred to him. Clara had actually apologized. Never in all of his life had he heard his children apologize. At least not without threats of bodily harm, missing supper and the like.
Mitch looked over at the young lady. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”
She gave him the kind of dazzling smile that would have struck him in the heart were it not firmly encased in stone. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to be swayed by a pretty face.
“Indeed it is.”
“I’m Mitch Taylor. I apologize for not introducing myself sooner. I was caught up in the situation.”
He placed his hand on Clara’s shoulder. “This is my daughter Clara, who is ten, and that’s her twin, Rory.” Then he looked around. “Where are the others?”
Dutifully, his other children stepped out from behind the shelves. “This is Louisa, my eldest, who is twelve, and there’s Thomas, who is seven.” Mitch looked around. “Where is Isabella?”
The children all looked at each other like they’d assumed the other had been in charge of the child.
“I’m sorry,” he told Polly. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”
She smiled at him. “Let me help. How old of a child am I looking for?”
“Right.” Mitch tried to smile back, but he found he lacked the energy. “Isabella is three, and she has dark curls and is wearing