Mona Hodgson

by Too Rich for a Bride

  Mollie huffed a sigh. “I want to believe you. I would if I didn’t stand to lose thousands of dollars buying stock you said was going to pay off big.”

  “It should’ve.”

  “Who is it, dear?” Hattie sauntered into the hallway without her apron. “Miss O’Bryan? You’re just in time for breakfast. Care to join us?”

  “I was just leaving.” Mollie marched to the door then spun around and glared at Ida. “Don’t bother coming in today. I don’t plan on being in a good mood.”

  “Very well.” Ida held the door open for her. “I’ll be in Tuesday, and I’ll bring answers with me.”

  Though just how she expected to find answers to restore Mollie’s faith in her, she didn’t know.

  The moment her employer stomped down the steps, Ida clicked the door shut and leaned against it.

  Hattie joined her against the door, slid her hand over Ida’s, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you really believe you can find answers by Tuesday?”

  “I have to. My job depends upon it.”

  It sounded like the assayer’s office in Colorado Springs was a good place to start her search for answers. First thing Monday morning.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  he day before Christmas, Tucker followed a nurse down the hospital corridor. He’d boarded the train in Cripple Creek that morning before dawn. At the depot in Colorado Springs, he’d taken the horse-drawn trolley to within a few blocks of the Glockner Sanitorium. Walking the last short distance allowed him to stretch his legs and steel himself for the greeting he expected from his father.

  The nurse turned down a hallway that led to a glass door. “Our doctors believe fresh air is the best cure for tuberculosis.”

  He nodded. “My mother’s letters said my father was tolerating the treatment well.” Just thinking about sitting outside for hours at a time in the last week of December caused Tucker to shiver and button his coat.

  She met his gaze. “You’re a good son to see for yourself.”

  And what was he going to see? The scowl that had greeted him at the hospital when he’d first arrived in Cripple Creek, or the resignation he’d witnessed in his father’s bedchamber?

  When they arrived at the door, Tucker reached for the knob and swung it open. He and the nurse stepped out onto a wide terrace on the south side of the three-story hospital.

  Tucker pulled the scarf at his neck tight. Delivering ice in below-freezing temperatures had sped his adjustment to winter in Colorado, but at work he kept moving. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to last standing or sitting in one place, especially since he knew he could also expect a chilly reception from his father.

  “Mr. Raines has a favorite chair.” The nurse shaded her eyes with a fleshy hand. “He’s usually easy to find out here.”

  Men—mostly older—bundled in red wool blankets sat scattered across the portico like terra-cotta flowerpots.

  “That’s him.” The nurse pointed to two men, one of whom was short with silver hair. “Your father is sitting with his friend Mr. Mercer.”

  Both men sat at the front edge of the terrace with their feet propped on the railing. The bigger man resembled Tucker’s father, but he was laughing, not coughing.

  Tucker strained to hear what he and Willow used to refer to as the choo-choo chuckle. Too much time had passed since he’d heard William Raines laugh, and the sound warmed Tucker’s soul, even if his nose was beginning to feel like a chip of ice.

  The nurse cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go back inside for a meeting.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. Family and visitors are an important part of the healing too.” She reached for his hand and shook it. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Tucker Raines.”

  “Merry Christmas, ma’am.”

  The nurse bobbed her head and turned to go back inside.

  Tucker tightened his spine and drew in a fortifying breath.

  Here we go, Lord. Please go before me.

  He was halfway to the railing when his father looked up, straight at him. William Raines didn’t turn away. Nor did Tucker see a scowl in his father’s expression. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought his father was glad to see him.

  “Tucker?” His father turned back toward the silver-haired man beside him. “Frank, I’d like you to meet my son, Tucker Raines.”

  My son.

  Both men stood, his father easily four inches taller than his friend. The shorter man jabbed his hand at Tucker and shook hands with him. “Name is Frank Mercer, and you’re the preacher.”

  Tucker looked at his father, who better resembled the man he’d known as a boy—laughing and looking proud to introduce him as his son.

  “He was until three months ago when he came to Colorado to keep the ice business going.” His father sounded proud too.

  “Your father’s been telling me all about you and your sister.”

  “He has?” Tucker thought his knees would buckle. “You have?”

  “Yes, I have. And I’m glad you came.”

  Tucker was too and he wanted to say so, but the words were stuck in his throat.

  Mr. Mercer pulled an empty rocker over from the corner. After all three of them were seated, his father’s friend looked up at Tucker, a smile in his eyes. “Folks around here call me Pastor Frank.”

  “A pastor?” Tucker directed the squeaky question at the larger of the two men.

  His father nodded. “Frank lives here in Colorado Springs.”

  Quick, soft footsteps on the concrete behind them turned their attention back toward the door. His mother fairly raced toward him, a smile owning her face.

  Tucker stood and embraced her. She wasn’t shaking and his father hadn’t coughed once.

  “Did you notice?” his mother whispered in his ear. “Your father has changed.”

  Nodding, Tucker motioned for her to take his chair.

  His mother sat down. “I’m so glad you came.” She glanced at her husband. “We both are.”

  “We’ve been talking about you.” His father placed his hand on her knee. “About both of our children.”

  The word change didn’t begin to describe what had happened with his father. You could change your clothes. Change hairstyles. Change where you lived. What he saw in his father was a total transformation.

  Thank You, Lord.

  Pastor Frank stood. “I have some more visiting to do, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Tucker met the man’s gaze. His spirit swam in the peace he saw in the blue eyes of his father’s new friend. “Thank you.”

  Pastor Frank nodded. “My pleasure. Hope you can stay long enough for a chat later.”

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas.” His mother reached up and squeezed his hand. “I’m taking your father home to your aunt Rosemary’s for the night. She’d be thrilled to see you. She has an extra bed in the sewing room. Can you spend the night?”

  He hadn’t planned on staying more than an hour or two. Hadn’t expected to want to stay over, let alone be invited to.

  Tucker nodded. “Looks like we’ll have that chat, Pastor Frank.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you when I’ve finished my rounds. Perhaps over supper.” Pastor Frank regarded Tucker’s mother with a slight bow. “Laurel.”

  Before walking away, he exchanged joyful gazes with Will Raines.

  Tucker lowered himself into the chair beside his father. “I received a letter from Willow this week. She wrote it herself.”

  “She’s well enough to write?” His mother scooted her rocker around. Tucker did the same to form a circle.

  “She wrote one to you and Father too.” Tucker reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out the envelope and handed it to his father. “It came yesterday.”

  The changed man ran a finger over the swirled penmanship, then brushed a tear from his face. Tucker couldn’t remember ever seeing his father cry. Not even a hint of it.

  “What did our
Willow say?” His mother stacked her hands over her heart. “Open the envelope, Will.”

  His father pulled out the single piece of stationery and set the envelope on his lap. He cleared his throat, looked from his wife to Tucker, and then began to read.

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  Where do I begin?

  I’ll begin by saying I love you and I miss you.

  Tears streamed down his father’s cheeks in rivulets. “How can she ever forgive me?”

  “You forgave me.” Tucker looked straight into his father’s eyes for the first time in more than two years.

  “Sam’s death wasn’t your fault. And neither was Willow’s inability to cope with it. I was so wrong. I’ve treated my”—he clasped his wife’s hand, keeping his gaze fixed on Tucker—“our children so badly.”

  “I forgive you, Father.” They weren’t just words. He’d had several weeks of hoisting blocks of ice and sitting alone in his father’s house to think and pray.

  “Thank you, son. Sam was right.”

  “Sam?” Tucker glanced at his mother, hoping to see an answer written on her face, but he only saw the adoring look she focused on her husband.

  “Sam came out to the icehouse the day before he died.” His father paused. “Said he knew why I didn’t understand about your commitment to the Lord, your wanting to be a preacher.”

  “He did?” Tucker blotted the fresh tears in his eyes.

  His father nodded. “Sam said it wasn’t time. Said there is a time for everything—that my understanding would come in time.”

  A time to weep, and a time for choo-choo chuckles.

  His father began to read again, his voice soft with emotion.

  I’m sorry. I know I put you through so much with my illness.

  That’s what the doctors here are calling my acute melancholia—a mental illness.

  But I am improving every day.

  His mother whimpered and sniffled, her hand on her husband’s leg. He continued reading, apparently drawing strength from his wife—and his Lord.

  I will see you soon.

  Tucker’s mother gasped and cupped her face. “Will, she said soon.”

  His father’s eyes glistened again, and he nodded. He trailed his finger down the page as if to find his place.

  Tucker said there is much to sketch in Colorado. Majestic mountains. A creek. Birds.

  I regret I won’t be there in time for Christmas. My doctor says he wants to wait a few more weeks. Then he expects to release me.

  In the meantime, please know I love you and I am counting the minutes until we are together again.

  Tucker met his father’s tender gaze. “Merry Christmas, Father.”

  “Merry Christmas, son.” As the older Mr. Raines stood, his arms open, Tucker knew God had answered prayers he hadn’t had the strength to even hope for, let alone utter.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  da gazed out the parlor window. Her sister’s new two-story house sat on a hilltop with generous views of the winter white town and surrounding mountains. Another eight inches of snow that morning had added weight to the tree limbs and thickened the white blanket on the ground. From where Ida stood at the piano, she had an unobstructed view of Carr Avenue and the walkway that led to her sister’s front door.

  Tucker Raines had accepted Morgan’s invitation to join the family on Christmas Day. So where was he?

  “Hark! The herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the newborn King.’ ”

  Hattie warbled the last sentence while the word King resounded in Judson’s tenor voice.

  Morgan played the final note on his square grand piano and looked up at Ida. “Looking for Mr. Raines, are we?”

  Soprano, alto, and bass snickers echoed off the window. Bracing herself, Ida faced her family, counting Hattie among them. She wasn’t sure her “big sister” stare would work on Morgan, but it was worth a try.

  “Why, you’re redder than the berry pie I brought for our supper, dear,” Hattie said, her brows arched.

  Ida already knew her stare wouldn’t work on her landlady. She swallowed her indignation and focused on Morgan. “He accepted your invitation. And since he’s not here, I’m merely concerned.”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Kat sat beside Morgan on the piano bench, a smirk curling a corner of her mouth.

  Ida shook her head. Relentless teasers, every last one of them. Yes, she’d taught her sisters well.

  “Tucker stopped by the hospital Wednesday evening.” Morgan thumbed through a stack of sheet and pulled a page to the top, no doubt enjoying having her on a hook. “Said he was boarding the train to Colorado Springs the next morning—yesterday—to go see his parents.”

  “That’s good.” She looked down at the song sheet, hoping he’d catch her hint and begin playing the next carol. No such luck.

  “He expected to be back in town last night,” Morgan said, “but he could have decided to stay over.”

  Ida nodded. “I imagine that’s what he did. So we have nothing to be concerned about.”

  A grin spread the freckles dotting Nell’s nose. “We weren’t concerned.”

  Her family was in rare form today, which meant it was best the preaching ice man remain in Colorado Springs for the day.

  So why did the thought of not seeing him on Christmas Day bother her so?

  Tucker felt as if he and his valise were floating up Carr Avenue toward Morgan Cutshaw’s new home instead of slogging through a fresh layer of snow. He’d spent yesterday visiting with his mother and father, first outside and then in a sitting room. After eating supper with Pastor Frank and learning more about his father’s spiritual transformation, Tucker went with his mother and father to his aunt’s house three miles from the hospital. He spent the night in the sewing room and awakened on Christmas morning to the sounds of his family stirring in the kitchen. They shared a hearty breakfast of corned beef and eggs with biscuits before he boarded the train bound for Cripple Creek.

  On the way back, he wrote a letter to Willow, explaining the depths of his reasons for leaving California. He even told his sister the reasons he might like to stay in this particular mining town in Colorado.

  It had been three days since he’d seen Miss Ida Sinclair. What was it she said her father liked to say? Something about missing someone you loved was like a burr in your union suit—a real motivator.

  Motivated, he practically raced up the shoveled walkway to the front door of the Cutshaw home.

  There, he’d admitted it—he loved Ida Sinclair.

  Morgan opened the door. “Merry Christmas, and welcome to our home.” He motioned Tucker inside.

  “It’s good to be here.” Tucker looked down at his valise.

  “We can put that here by the coat tree.” Morgan took the bag and set it on the floor while Tucker shed his coat and hat. “How are your folks?”

  “Very well. Thank you.” Tucker followed his host down a wide entry hallway toward the sound of chatter and laughter. “I apologize for being late. I decided to stay over.”

  “I hoped you might.”

  They stepped into a well-appointed and well-peopled dining room. Thankfully, Colin Wagner wasn’t present.

  “Look who’s here, everyone.” Morgan glanced toward Ida, who sat between her two sisters. Tucker watched her turn pink from her pretty neck to her hairline and got the distinct impression they’d been talking about him and teasing her. Willow would have been doing the same thing—and might be, soon.

  Morgan returned to his half-empty plate at the head of the table. Judson sat at the opposite end, and when Tucker met his gaze, Judson lifted the red napkin on the plate to his right and held it up in invitation.

  Following a round of Christmas greetings, Tucker sat between Judson and Hattie and laid the napkin across his lap. Several hours had passed since breakfast. Seeing this fine meal and the company surrounding it, he realized his intense hunger. A platter of thick-sliced beef led a parade of foods that included whipped pota
toes, gravy, cooked carrots, and what he recognized as Hattie’s honey-wheat rolls.

  “Oh, and you must try Ida’s canned-pea salad.” Hattie took a fluted bowl from Morgan and passed it to Tucker.

  Cold peas with onion wouldn’t normally appeal to him, but if Ida made the salad, he’d try it. He spooned a large helping onto his plate, hoping he liked it. “This all looks delicious.” After offering a silent prayer of thanks, he took a generous bite of pea salad. Like her, Ida Sinclair’s salad was a pleasant surprise.

  While he ate and visited with what felt like his second family, he knew he wanted what Morgan enjoyed with Kat and Judson with Nell, and what George had experienced with Hattie in their marriage—the companionship of a woman he loved and who loved him. Although Ida had given him little encouragement in that direction, something inside him believed the oldest Sinclair sister could be the one. Swallowing a bite of spiced carrots, he looked across the table at her as if he expected to see the answer written on her face.

  The blue eyes staring back at him didn’t look away until he dropped his fork and it clanged against his plate.

  Tucker managed to avoid further mishaps the remainder of the meal. By the time he’d had his fill of berry pie with cream and enjoyed a full-bodied coffee, he felt satisfied on many levels.

  Morgan tapped the rim of his cup with a spoon. “It’s probably time we retire to the parlor for our family gift exchange.”

  On his way to the parlor, Tucker pulled the sack of gifts he’d brought from his valise. The parlor glowed with homey warmth. Handmade ornaments and strung popcorn added color to the tree, reminding Tucker of his evening at Poverty Gulch. The memories of the migrant families and descendants of freed slaves joining in a community Christmas celebration wasn’t all that different from these festivities. Family and friends gathered in Jesus’ name to commemorate His perfect gift to all people. However, the polished tin star on top of the tree and the wrapped gifts on a side table reminded him he was counted among the more fortunate, at least financially.