by Mona Hodgson
Praise for
The Sinclair Sisters of Cripple Creek Series
“A beautiful tale. Intriguing. Inviting. Inspiring.”
—CINDY WOODSMALL, author of The Hope of Refuge and When the Soul Mends
“It’s always a joy to read a historical novel that isn’t afraid to let its women escape the farm. Cripple Creek’s cast of colorful characters play host to a new romance, as well as pulling back the curtain on a local family tragedy. This sequel does more than simply tell the “next” story; it revisits the characters we’ve already come to love and creates a complementary depth to an entertaining new tale.”
—ALLISON PITTMAN, author of Stealing Home and The Bridegrooms
“Ida believes her future is secure in a man’s world. After all, she has drive and determination. But what happens when she meets a man who makes a withdrawal from her heart? Author Mona Hodgson makes discovering the answer to this question a rich, rewarding adventure.”
—DIANN MILLS, author of A Woman Called Sage and the Texas Legacy Series
“All the ups and downs of a romance with a delightful dose of history, with characters that will sneak into your heart and take up residence. More, more, we want more.”
—LAURAINE SNELLING, author of No Distance Too Far and the Daughters of Blessing Series
TWICE A BRIDE
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
All Scripture quotations or paraphrases are taken from the King James Version.
This is a work of fiction. Apart from well-known people, events, and locales that figure into the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 by Mona Hodgson
Cover design by Kelly Howard
Published in association with the literary agency of Janet Kobobel Grant, Books & Such, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hodgson, Mona Gansberg, 1954–
Twice a bride / Mona Hodgson.—1st ed.
p. cm.—(The Sinclair sisters of Cripple Creek; bk. 4)
eISBN: 978-0-307-73033-6
1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Sisters—Fiction. 3. Cripple Creek (Colo.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.O474T84 2012
813′.6—dc23
2012017189
v3.1
Written for the Lover of my soul—Jesus!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Readers Guide
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Excerpt from Dandelions on the Wind
Hear my cry, O God;
Attend unto my prayer.
From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee,
when my heart is overwhelmed:
Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
PSALM 61:1–2
1898
Jagged edges marked the sculpted granite at Willow’s feet. Love was like that. Smooth in places. Sharp and dangerous in others.
’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Willow stared at the white rose in her hand. She agreed with Alfred Lord Tennyson’s statement. But on this last day of August, churned clods of Colorado dirt formed a blanket over her father’s grave. Was it the loss of her father so soon after their reunion, or was it fear threatening to rob her of air? Both were cunning adversaries.
She glanced at the shiny black carriage where her loved ones awaited her. Aunt Rosemary hadn’t looked at her today, but Willow had seen the apprehension clouding Mother’s eyes. Her brother, Tucker, had stared at her during the graveside service, worry rutting his brow. Even her sister-in-law watched her the way one would watch a pot on the brink of a boil.
If Willow dared to look in a mirror, she’d see the same question lurking in her own features. Could this insatiable sorrow pull her back into a tide she couldn’t withstand any more than Sam could survive the undercurrent in the San Joaquin River?
She bent to the ground. “Father, I’m sorry for the anguish I’ve caused you. I wanted to be strong.” She laid the rose on the grave. “I won’t be a Weeping Willow this time.” Squaring her shoulders, she brushed away the tears spilling onto her cheeks. At what point after Sam’s death had her mourning become abnormal? Would she recognize warning signs if it were to happen again?
“Willow?” Tucker’s voice wafted on the breeze, just above a whisper.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, she looked at her brother and stood. His eyes narrowed as though he expected her to crumple. Tucker had been the only one to visit her at the asylum after Father had her committed, and he’d visited her once a week despite never receiving notable response from her.
Tucker met her gaze. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She brushed a blade of grass from her mourning gown. “I needed some time.”
“I can’t help but worry about you.”
She offered him a slight grin. “I know.”
He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Willow agreed. She’d expected by this time in her life to be a pastor’s wife and herding at least two or three little Peterson tykes.
“I’m not alone.” Was she trying to convince him or herself? “Mother and Aunt Rosemary are at the boardinghouse with me.”
He looked at the rose she’d placed on their father’s grave. “Saturday they’ll return to Colorado Springs.”
“But Miss Hattie is under the same roof, and she’s not going anywhere.” Willow added a lilt to her voice to see if she could cause his brow to
soften. “And I have you.”
Perhaps it was a mistake to live this close to her brother. He had a wife, a church to shepherd, and the Raines Ice Company to oversee. Worrying about her was not a pleasant way for Tucker to live. But if she didn’t settle in Cripple Creek, where would she go? Nothing, and no one, awaited her in Stockton, California, where she’d grown up and married Sam.
Tucker’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not the same as having a spouse to … I’d feel better if you’d agree to move into the parsonage.”
Willow pressed the squared toe of her dull black shoe into the grass. “We’ve already talked about this, and my answer is the same.”
“You can’t blame a brother for trying.”
“I don’t.” She patted his bristled cheek. “I love you for it.”
Tucker offered his arm. “We best get to the house. A supper awaits us.”
A bereavement supper, to be exact, replete with long faces and self-conscious commiseration. She matched Tucker’s pace, determined to remain above the shared sadness.
At the wagon, Willow stepped onto the wrought-iron foot brace and seated herself beside her sister-in-law, Ida.
Concern laced Mother’s green eyes—the source of Willow’s own eye color. “Are you all right, dear?”
Willow nodded, her lips pressed against another swirl of grief. She wasn’t the only one burying a father or a husband today. “What about you, Mother? Are you all right?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
Tucker raised the reins. As the wagon jerked forward, Ida’s tender hand rested on Willow’s palm, and she squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. Tears stung Willow’s eyes. She needed to find her own path, but she didn’t let go.
Uncharacteristically quiet, Tucker guided the horses down Second Street toward the rustic home their parents bought when they left Stockton. How ironic that when Father’s consumption got the best of him, nearly two years ago, he ended up in a sanitorium. An institution, of sorts. Mother had moved in with her sister in Colorado Springs to be close to him. Tucker lived in the cabin until he and Ida married and moved into the parsonage. Now Otis and Naomi Bernard and their four sons called the cabin home.
As they approached the creek-side property, Tucker slowed the horses. Mother let out a fragile moan, and Tucker reached over and patted her arm.
Willow had seen the place once when she first came to Cripple Creek for her brother’s wedding, but she’d never viewed it as her parents’ home. Home was the clapboard two-story house in Stockton where she and Tucker had grown up. The house where she’d planned her wedding.
She wanted to believe everything happened for a reason—that God had a divine plan. Last year she’d found it easy to believe He’d left her here on earth and healed her so she could help her parents through her father’s illness. But now? Father was gone. Mother planned to return to Colorado Springs with Aunt Rosemary. And her brother had a new life with a pregnant wife.
“Here we are,” Tucker said. A few horses and wagons formed a line between the cabin and the barn. Otis, the biggest man Willow had ever seen, stepped off the porch. His oldest son stood at his side. Even at ten years old, Abraham was already a miniature of his father—dark skinned and broad shouldered.
His wife, Naomi, awaited them at the open door. A paisley-print apron added a bright spot to her black broadcloth dress. “Please accept our condolences, Missus Raines.” The petite woman reached for Mother’s hands. “Mr. Raines was good to us. You both were, and I’ll never forget that.” Sincerity shone in her dark eyes.
“Thank you.” Mother glanced at Abraham. “We appreciate all you and your father did to keep the ice deliveries going when Mr. Will took sick.”
Nodding, Abraham twisted a floppy hat in his hands. “Ma’am, Mr. Will did have a big bark, but he never bit me.”
Tucker was the first to laugh, but Willow and Mother soon joined him.
Naomi didn’t laugh. She glared first at Otis, then at her son. “Abraham, you will apologize for your disrespect.”
Abraham’s brow crinkled. The boy obviously didn’t realize that what he’d said was, by some standards, inappropriate. He straightened nonetheless, his arms tucked into his sides in a contrite manner. “I apologize, Missus Raines. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I liked Mr. Will. He always gave me a penny for candy or gave me a Tootsie Roll—my favorite.”
Mother smiled. “He liked you too, Abraham.” She patted the child’s head, then looked at his mother. “Naomi, your son is right. My husband did sound off with quite a bark now and then.”
Willow remembered her father’s bark, and she already missed it.
Naomi opened her mouth to speak, but Mother beat her to it. “No harm done.”
“Thank you.” Naomi stepped away from the open door. “Lots of folks have come to pay their respects.”
They entered the cabin one after the other, Willow stepping into the front room last. Before she reached the food tables, a stout woman stepped in front of her.
“I’m Mrs. Henry.”
“Your husband drives one of the ice wagons.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Henry narrowed her hazel eyes, looking at Willow but not meeting her gaze. “According to everything I’ve read in Scripture, if your father is in heaven, he’s in a far better place.”
If? Willow coughed as if she’d just swallowed something sour. She covered her mouth, more in an attempt to stifle her retort than as an act of propriety. Mrs. Henry had good intentions, didn’t she? Offering the woman the benefit of her doubt, Willow nodded, then glanced across the crowded room. Hattie Adams stood with Ida at the dessert table, and Willow suddenly had a hankering for something sweet—their company.
Her sister-in-law brushed a tear from her cheek. Tucker had found a good wife. Ida had a big heart and was mourning the loss of a man she barely knew. Hattie pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket.
Willow regarded the stout woman still planted in front of her. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Henry tugged the white collar on her black shirtwaist. “Just remember, it’s always darkest before the morning.”
And just before one woke up. Biting her lip, Willow started across the room. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t smile. She didn’t want to be stopped by any more misguided well-wishers. She was a woman on a mission.
Flight. Straight into the sanctuary of Ida’s and Miss Hattie’s company.
Ida looked Willow’s way and extended an arm to her. Willow took Ida’s hand and glanced at the dessert table. She’d recognize her landlady’s three-layer carrot cake anywhere.
“I remembered.” Miss Hattie’s smile highlighted the laugh lines that framed her blue-gray eyes.
Hummingbirds and eagles were more closely related than Mrs. Henry and Miss Hattie.
Willow squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Ida sniffled. “I was thinking about the baby.”
And the grandfather he or she would never meet. Willow nodded. The grandmother too. Ida’s mother had died more than a dozen years ago. The Sinclair sisters had expected their father to arrive in Cripple Creek this past spring, but so far they’d seen no sign of him.
Ida dabbed her face with a handkerchief. “I was about to grab a piece of carrot cake and take it out to the bench. Join me?”
Willow caught sight of a pinched-face woman in a black shirtwaist with a white collar. “I suppose that depends on whether or not we’re faster than Mrs. Henry and her trite expressions.”
That evening, Willow pressed a butterfly seal to the envelope on her dressing table. She’d written a letter to her friend at the Stockton State Asylum. Maria Lopez had taken good care of her even when she was in a stupor and wasn’t aware of the older woman’s tender care. When Willow had awoken and become aware, Maria brought her homemade tamales every Sunday.
Willow had buried her father today and still missed Sam something awful. But she was a blessed woman. God had put peop
le like Maria and others at the asylum in her path. She still had a brother, her mother, and an aunt who loved her. And now she had Ida.
Miss Hattie’s laughter winged its way to the second story. Mother and Aunt Rosemary were downstairs with her landlady.
Tucker was right about her being alone soon. Mother and Aunt Rosemary would board the train for Colorado Springs in three days. Tucker and Ida were busy with each other and their pursuits.
Willow had wasted two years of her life in the asylum. Two years she could’ve spent apprenticing with an established painter.
She returned her writing box to the bedside table. There had to be something she could do to support herself and her artistic ambitions. It’d be even better if she found purpose in it. Her landlady thrived on coming alongside others—especially young women experiencing a big change, as each of the Sinclair sisters had. Following Miss Hattie’s example, Willow decided to search until she found purpose.
But right now, her quilt-covered bed looked more inviting than the blank canvas propped in the corner. Yawning, she left her bedchamber and strolled down the staircase to the parlor to say good night.
Aunt Rosemary sat on the sofa beside Miss Hattie, chattering between sips of tea. Her mother looked up from where she sat on a Queen Anne chair and motioned for Willow to join them.
“Come in, dear. I was hoping you’d come down before you retired.” Mother nibbled a lemon bar and then glanced at the plate of nuts and red grapes. “I couldn’t eat at the house. Not right after … with all those people.”
Willow seated herself in a rocker on the other side of the table that held her mother’s teacup. “I couldn’t either.” But sitting by the creek between the two willow trees Tucker had planted, she’d managed a generous slice of carrot cake just fine.
“I was beginning to think you’d gone to bed.” Mother pulled the napkin from her lap and wiped her mouth. “What were you doing up there for so long?”
“I wrote a letter to Maria, my favorite attendant at the asylum.”