“Well, then.” He grabbed hold of the handle and yanked the cart back and forth before giving it a firm push. The wheels gave a reluctant turn and finally pulled free of the gooey sludge with a slurp. But just as it cleared the mudhole, the cart tipped to one side and the chest shot to the ground, splashing mud everywhere.

Miss Lockwood jumped back, but not soon enough to prevent mud from splattering on her skirt. “Oh no!”

Muttering an apology, Grant quickly turned the chest upright, leaving an intriguing assortment of corsets, petticoats, and camisoles scattered on the ground. He never expected to see such a fancy display in a rough-and-tumble town like Two-Time.

While she examined the chest for damage, he quickly swooped up the satin and lace dainties and shook off as much mud as possible. Did women actually need this many corsets?

“I have to say, ma’am,” he began in an effort to make light of the situation, “there are enough underpinnings here to fill an entire Montgomery Ward catalogue.” He couldn’t help but look at her curiously before dumping the garments back into the chest.

Checks blazing, she slammed the lid shut and double-checked the lock.

He offered her his clean handkerchief, which she turned down with a shake of her head. Silence as brittle as glass stretched between them, and Grant couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. They seemed doomed to meet under trying, if not altogether embarrassing circumstances.

Since the lady seemed more concerned about the wooden chest than the corsets…uh…contents, he studied it more closely. It was obviously old but had been well cared for. Intricate engravings of birds, flowers, and a ship graced the top and sides, along with several carefully carved initials.

“No damage done,” she said, her voice thick with relief. The red on her cheeks had faded to a most becoming pink. “My family would kill me if something happened to it.”

“A family heirloom?” he asked.

She nodded. “All the way from Ireland. It’s called a hope chest.”

Grant knew about such things, of course, from his sisters. But never before had he been privy to a hope chest’s contents. It was hard to know what disconcerted him more—manhandling Miss Lockwood’s intimate garments, or the possibility that something of a similar nature filled his sisters’ hope chests. Whatever happened to filling a hope chest with household goods?

Tucking the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, he struggled to lift the chest off the ground. He set it atop the cart and wiggled it back and forth to make sure it was balanced just right. “I’m afraid the contents may be ruined.”

“Th-they’ll wash,” Miss Lockwood stammered, refusing to meet his gaze.

He brushed off his hands and grabbed hold of the cart’s handles. This time, the wheels turned with ease, and he pushed it slowly down the road. She fell in step by his side, and a pleasant whiff of lavender soap wafted toward him. With heightened awareness, he noticed her every move, heard her every intake of breath.