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hadn’t mentioned their prior meeting, but his eyes were lit with something, laughter? Recognition?
    He chuckled and she blushed as his gaze swept over her thin frame. He shook his head. “I like to know who’s attacking me, male or female, and why.”
    Male or female? Her heart sank. He had recognized her. She had no rational for waving a yard stick so she said, “Perhaps I wasn’t assaulting you. Maybe I wanted your measurements.”
    He smirked. “And how do I measure?”
    “Quite nicely,” Eloise said, appearing from behind the soap display.
    “Miss Carol,” the man dipped his head at Eloise.
    Eloise dropped in a slight curtsey. “Mr. Michaels.” She turned to Mercy. “Is this the something you needed to pick up?”
    “First she tried to knock me down.”
    “Really?” Eloise deepened her dimples. “And was she successful?”
    “Nearly,” Mr. Michaels murmured, his eyes lingering on Mercy’s face.
    Mercy blushed, looked away and caught sight of the tavern. Although she couldn’t see Steele, she couldn’t afford to forget him and the danger he posed. She turned back to Eloise and Mr. Michaels, and laid the yardstick on the counter.
    “Won’t you need that?” Eloise asked.
    “Yes,” Mr. Michaels said. “You wouldn’t want to be unprotected.”
    “I’m capable of protecting myself,” Mercy said, remembering another time when that hadn’t been true. She wrapped her arm around Eloise’s waist. “And of taking a man’s measure. Come, Eloise. Aunt’s waiting for her parcels.”
    Eloise looked over a shoulder at Mr. Michaels as Mercy pulled her out the door. “It’s true, you know; she’s a professional.” Eloise added, “Mercy’s a tailor in her aunt’s shop.”
    His eyebrows rose. “And just how long have you been doing that? Not too long, I guess. A few months, maybe?”
    Mercy squared her chin and looked him in the eye. If he did recognize her, he should just say so. “Long enough to know how someone measures.”
    “Surely a person can’t be measured by mere pounds and inches.” He continued, “There’s honesty and integrity to be considered.”
    “Perhaps I’ll see you at church on Sunday, Mr. Michaels,” Mercy said. “Will you be delivering the sermon?”
    “I didn’t mean to preach. I just meant that one can’t tell who someone really is by simply height. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss -”
    Mercy glared, and Eloise shot them both a surprised look, as if she could tell the conversation had an undercurrent she couldn’t find.
    Mercy held her tongue.
    “Miss Mercy Faye,” Eloise blurted. “Mercy Faye, meet Mr. Trent Michaels.”
    “You work in Bradly’s Dry Goods shop?”
    Mercy nodded.
    “And your aunt, did you say? How does she feel about duplicity?”
    Mercy straightened her back. “She values honesty above all things, as do I.”
    A smile tugged at his lips, and Mercy fought the urge to go back and smack him after all. She took Eloise’s elbow and, with another glance at the Lone Stag Tavern, she said, “Come Eloise, Aunt also values punctuality.”
     
    *****
     
    The following morning when Mercy attended church, she hoped to meet not Mr. Michaels, but Georgina Meyers, a committed member of the Ladies Relief Society and supporter of the Children’s Home.
    She met Miles.
    When he and Eloise walked in the chapel, his eyes lit when he spotted Mercy already in the pew she shared with her aunt. Miles always managed to sit between Mercy and Eloise, which had at first annoyed Eloise, but recently Mercy suspected Eloise had begun to encourage Miles to press his suit. Perhaps Miles had taken his post between them at first to keep his sister from whispering, but lately Miles’ prolonged lingering after Sunday services, and steadfast, earnest looks were beginning to, if not annoy, then set Mercy on edge. Still, she nodded a welcome when Miles folded his lanky form into the pew. Eloise, settling beside her brother, shot her a quick smile.
    It seemed remarkable that