by Mona Hodgson
Spunky and direct. Trenton leaned back in his chair and motioned for her to proceed.
Mrs. Peterson squared her shoulders. Was she this bold with her husband or only with potential employers? “Would you require that I work here in the office?” She glanced at the doors to the darkroom and the studio. “Or would I be able to do the painting elsewhere?”
“Elsewhere is f-fine.”
A slight smile pressed into a dimple on the left side of her face. “What would be the terms of my employment?”
“I would advertise your p-painting services.” He paused to alleviate the spasms in his jaw. “Take … any requests.” Another pause. “And send the w-work orders to you, along with any photographs.”
“And payment?”
“Per job.” He reached into the top drawer and pulled out the folder he’d made for her. “I listed the various painting services and assigned fees. You’d receive seventy percent.” He’d managed to make it through the whole sentence without any stammering.
“Seventy-five percent seems more equitable.” She glanced at the closed door again.
“Seventy-five percent.” He shifted toward the studio door. “Those are my w-work rooms—a d-darkroom and a studio where I do the sittings and take the photographs. Would you like to see them?”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “I’ll wait until your office hours.”
Trenton gulped. “Of course.” Had he lost his mind, asking a woman into private rooms after working hours? Hopefully she wouldn’t include his question when relaying their conversation to her husband. He leaned forward. “Are you still interested in w-working with me?”
“I am.”
“You’re hired, then?”
“Yes.” She stood, and he did likewise. “Thank you. How soon did you want me to begin?”
“Is yesterday too soon?”
She laughed. Mr. Peterson no doubt enjoyed her laugh—if not her directness—immensely.
Rounding the corner onto Golden Avenue, Willow pulled her shawl tight and glanced up at the coral and crimson stripes across the clouds. The sun had disappeared behind the Sangre De Cristos, leaving a nearly full moon visible. Thankfully, this long day would soon come to a close. She took slow steps to the boardinghouse.
She should be excited Mr. Van Der Veer had hired her and that her new job would allow her to work as an artist. She would paint from a photograph or add color to printed portraits. It wasn’t selling her landscapes in a gallery, but she would receive payment for painting. A much better prospect than spouting the features of myriad iceboxes and adding numbers on a sales sheet.
But what about Ida?
Mr. Boney’s mule, Sal, stood tethered to the hitching rail in front of Miss Hattie’s. As Willow approached, Sal bobbed her head and brayed.
“I’ll tell Mr. Boney you’re getting impatient with him. But I wouldn’t expect him anytime soon.”
Talking to a mule? It wasn’t necessarily a symptom of melancholia, but conversing with animals probably didn’t bode well for good mental health. Willow shook her head and stepped onto the porch.
She needed more friends. Like Ida. And right now it was important she be a good friend herself. She couldn’t abandon Ida when her sister-in-law needed her, even if Ida’s siblings would have been better candidates in the showroom. But Kat was a writer with a daughter to care for and a baby on the way. Nell had a toddling son and her benevolent work with the Sisters of Mercy. Vivian was plenty busy designing clothes for Etta’s Fashions and would soon deliver her first child. They all had families to care for.
Willow stepped into the entryway and was welcomed by a robust march coming from the Edison phonograph, which meant her landlady was in the parlor with Mr. Boney. Again.
Perhaps it was time she turned the tables on Miss Hattie and did a little matchmaking herself. Hattie and the old miner had been spending more and more time together. Still sparring like good friends, but wasn’t friendship the best foundation for a lasting relationship?
Thanks to Tucker, Willow and his friend Sam Peterson had started out as sparring partners at the age of twelve. Then quite suddenly, friendship grew and blossomed into a love she still craved. Granted, Miss Hattie and Boney were older, but Willow believed the same could happen for them.
“Willow, is that you?” Miss Hattie’s voice rang out above the staccato beat of the march.
“It is.” Willow shed her shawl.
The phonograph went silent, and Miss Hattie stepped into the entryway. “Dear, you look like you’re all in but your shoestrings. A busy day?”
Nodding, Willow laid her shawl and the wrapped portrait of Sam on the entry table beside a vase of daisies. “The man who came to the showroom while you were there ordered fifteen iceboxes. Two different kinds.”
“Oh my.”
“Thankfully, Ida stopped by in time to complete his order form.”
“She didn’t stay?”
“Only long enough to send Mr. Davenport on his merry way.” Willow raised her finger to emphasize an important detail. “After she told him I would telephone him with the delivery date for his iceboxes.”
Hattie sighed, deepening the lines framing her mouth. “That doesn’t sound promising.” Her blue-gray eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell her about—”
“How could I?” Willow carefully removed her hat. “What kind of a sister-in-law … friend would I be if I were to walk out when she needed me?”
“Dear, what kind of a friend would you be if you didn’t tell her the truth?” Miss Hattie brushed Willow’s arm. “You and Ida are like sisters. She would want to know about your opportunity.”
Willow laid the pins in the bowl of her hat and set it on top of her shawl. She glanced out the window at the mule that stood outside, then toward the parlor. “I see that Boney is here again. He can’t find good coffee elsewhere?” She pressed a fingertip to her chin and grinned. “Must be the company.”
“A woman can have a good friend who happens to be a man.” Hattie clucked her tongue, her face turning pink. “I’ll go see about our meal and pour you a cup of tea. Could you let Boney know I’ll return momentarily?”
“Certainly.”
“And no teasing allowed.” Her landlady wagged her finger, then sashayed toward the kitchen.
Willow couldn’t help but smile. Hattie Adams was a woman with a servant’s heart. She deserved to be happy, to have a man who would love her and help her around the house. Boney seemed to fit the bill to the letter. Well, a little crusty around the edges for some, but her landlady didn’t seem bothered by that in the least. Neither did Mr. Boney seem put off by Miss Hattie’s refinement. Perhaps the charming miner just needed a little push.
Willow, her steps lighter, fairly waltzed into the parlor. At the sight of her, Mr. Boney set his coffee mug on the hearth and stood.
“Willow. I thought I recognized your voice.”
Had he heard their conversation?
“Hello, Mr. Boney.” Willow shook his hand and met his gaze. “Did Miss Hattie have another problem with the sink?”
“No ma’am. I think I fixed it to last a good while.”
But he was here in the evening, and no less close-lipped about his visits than Hattie was.
“Miss Hattie went to pour me a cup of tea. She said she’d return to you soon.”
He didn’t so much as blink.
“She’s a good woman, our Miss Hattie,” Willow said.
“Indeed she is, and a mighty fine cook.”
He only visited Hattie because of her cooking and baked goods? Willow seated herself in the Queen Anne chair. She doubted Hattie’s cooking was the only draw for this man. Her stuffed pork chops and carrot cake were delicious, but …
“Hattie tells me you’re selling iceboxes while Ida, uh, recuperates,” Boney said.
“Yes. But I’m afraid I’m not as good at bookwork as she is. I hope she’s not sorry she left me in charge.” And that she returned to work soon, preferably before Mr. Van
Der Veer began sending her painting jobs.
Boney sat back down on the hearth. “I’m sure you’re doing fine.” He picked up his mug and swirled the coffee. “Hattie’s glad to have you back here at the house. The company is good for her.”
Well, at least they agreed on one thing—Miss Hattie needed company. Now if she could only make him understand Miss Hattie needed more than boarders, or even female friends, to keep her company.
Miss Hattie strolled in carrying a tea tray. Boney took it from her and set it on the table in front of Willow.
Hattie smiled. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“You’re most welcome, lovely lady.” Boney held his snowy beard to his chest and bowed.
About to choke on their sap, Willow pressed her hand to her mouth. The display had been for her benefit. These two were having far too much fun teasing her.
Hattie laughed, then met Willow’s gaze. “Boney and I are good friends. We have been for a very long while.” She glanced at the miner. “Perhaps we’ll tell the story sometime.”
Willow stirred a spoonful of honey into her teacup. “A story I’d enjoy hearing.”
“Me too.” Boney chuckled. “Right now, however, I best be on my way.” He kissed Hattie’s hand with royal flair. “I doubt it’s proper for a man to call on such a pretty girl this time of night.”
Hattie giggled and fanned herself like a giddy schoolgirl.
Willow shook her head. Perhaps there was no matchmaking to be done here. Those two were already a pair.
Singing the last bars of “The Sidewalks of New York,” Susanna set the stack of extra dressing gowns and petticoats into the trunk at the foot of her bed. She lowered the front of the writing desk and stared at the wooden box at the back. Her grandmother had carved the image of a phoenix on the lid. She was that bird, and she would rise from her ashes in Scandia, Kansas, and make her perch in Colorado. In Cripple Creek, to be precise. Until Trenton was ready to marry her and take her to New York.
She carried the box to the bed and sifted through the stack of photographs inside it, all of them images of her. Just days after Trenton had arrived in town with his photographic van, he’d followed her around with his camera. Pictures of her at the confectionary shop wearing her father’s crisp white candy-maker’s hat. Standing in front of a flowering crab-apple tree. Dressed for dinner, seated on the settee in her parents’ parlor.
If she hadn’t been so shortsighted, she’d already be singing for the upper tens in New York’s high society. Feeling the sting of his rejection again, she returned the photographs to their nest and latched the lid.
She was adding the box to the trunk when her mother stormed into the room and stood over her, boiling like a swollen rain cloud.
“I’ve just spoken to your father.” Lightning flashed in Mother’s brown eyes. “Of all the foolish things you’ve ever done, daughter, this move would top them all.”
Susanna added her silk beret to the trunk.
Mother slammed the lid shut and pinned her with a stormy gaze. “You can’t go.”
Susanna swallowed hard. She had to maintain a sunny disposition so as not to intensify Mother’s storm. “Why not?” She’d managed to keep her voice just above a whisper.
“It’s not prudent for a young woman—a single woman—to travel west without her family.”
Her mother did enjoy rubbing in the fact that Susanna was yet unmarried. “I asked Father about making the trip, and he agreed.”
“That man is clay in your hands, and you know it. You could plead a case for letting you ride a bucking horse in a sticker patch, and your father would relent.” The vein in her mother’s neck pulsed. “Just because you get your way doesn’t make it a good decision.”
“I’m not getting on a bucking horse. I’m boarding a train with a respectable family who will accompany me to Denver.”
“And what will you—a single woman with no significant means—do in Denver?”
“Helen’s brother lives there.”
“And how do you expect that fact to be of help to you?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Granstadt will look after me, and I’ll have Helen to keep me company.” Susanna opened the trunk lid and met her mother’s steely gaze. “I’m sure Denver’s seams are bursting with confectionaries. I’ll have no trouble finding a job as soon as my feet hit the depot platform.”
“A respectable job?” Her mother ran her hand along the ruffle on the bedcover. “I’ve heard stories about the women out there.”
“I’m not one of those women.”
“Perhaps not, but neither are you the most discreet of young women.”
A shiver ran up Susanna’s spine. “What happened with Trenton … Mr. Van Der Veer was a simple misunderstanding.” One she could readily resolve, given the chance.
Her arms crossed, Mother raised an arched eyebrow.
“He got cold feet. It happens.” And all Susanna needed to do was warm them up.
Mother dipped her chin. “So, did Mr. Van Der Veer run on cold feet to New York, or is he in Denver?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’re so set on going there?”
“Why must you be so hurtful, Mother? You know I haven’t heard from Mr. Van Der Veer, and I don’t expect to.” Susanna quivered her lip as though she might cry. “I’m set on going because my best friend is moving to Denver, and I could use a change of scenery.”
And the prestigious photographer was working just behind Pikes Peak. A much shorter trip from Denver.
Trenton chased the broom through the house, still swept up in the memories of Friday’s events. In record speed, he’d gone from reviewing applications for a portrait painter to being caught in a tongue-twisting misunderstanding. And the woman was now his employee.
He scooped a pile of dirt into a dustpan and carried it back outside where it belonged. Even if Jesse had been right about Trenton needing a change of scenery and a change of pace, things were happening too swiftly here for his comfort. The fast and furious way of the West wasn’t his way. Driving his wagon of supplies across New York City from one opera house to another and one political campaign office to another would feel like a summer picnic right now.
A small studio, open four or five days a week. Being his own boss. That was all he’d wanted when he rented the shop on First Street. He hadn’t considered employing anyone else.
He marched through the two-bedroom house, collecting the throw rugs as he went. He set the armful of rugs on the edge of the porch. He shook out a striped rag rug, laid it over the porch rail, and reached for another one.
He should send Mrs. Peterson a letter by courier this very day and tell her there had been a mistake. His mistake, thinking he was ready to expand the business after only two months in town. Why couldn’t he be content with the progress he’d made and with business as it was? One or two sittings a day wasn’t bad business, and it had been enough until he talked to the spitfire mine owner, Mollie Kathleen Gortner.
It wasn’t his idea to draw attention to himself in political circles or in newspapers. If he’d still wanted that life, he would’ve gone to New York without Susanna. But it felt good to have his feet on the ground. A place to call home.
He was shaking out the last rug when a man rode up on a sorrel and leaned forward in the saddle. “Mister, you need yourself a woman.”
Some folks would agree, say finding a wife was his next step. Trenton had a stable business and a home. But finding a wife wasn’t a smart choice or a realistic conclusion for him. Not after his stretch in Kansas. Trying to be neighborly, he nodded anyway.
The wiry fellow dismounted. He wrapped the reins around the hitching rail and walked bowlegged into Trenton’s yard. “You the new camera man, are you?”
“Yes, I opened the Photography S-Studio in town. Trenton Van Der Veer.” He glanced at the rug hanging in front of him like a curtain.
“Joseph Weatherly.” Joseph slapped his dusty cap on his leg, an apparent substitute for a handshake. “My place is up on the next
road. Practically neighbors, you and me.” He spit a stream of brown into Trenton’s lawn. “Got me a sister in Manitou Springs. She done lost her husband in a lumber accident.”
“I’m sorry.” Trenton meant it. Sorry for Joseph’s widowed sister, and sorry Joseph was trying to sell her to him like a swayback mare.
“Real good cook, Millie is.” Joseph pressed his hat onto his head. “You can bet she would’ve had them rugs shook out and laid back down yesterday.”
“About done. Thank you.” Trenton waved, then pulled the rugs from the porch and went inside. There was a good chance Joseph wouldn’t be the last neighbor to want to marry him off. Next time he’d shake out the rugs after sundown.
He laid the striped rag rug in the kitchen in front of the sink and carried the others to their respective places of service. When he set the last rug on the pine flooring in front of the bookcase, his writing box caught his eye.
He’d started over here in Cripple Creek but with little chance he’d forget what he’d left behind. Maybe it was time he wrote to her. He probably needed to reconcile his past if he had any hope of a future here. What if he’d simply imagined or misconstrued her words and acted on a misinformed impulse?
He carried the writing box to the kitchen. After spreading a piece of stationery on the table, he dipped the fountain pen into the ink.
Dear Susanna,
He set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. He should have considered what he’d say to her, if he had anything to say, before going to the trouble of starting a letter. He capped the ink and returned the box to the bookcase.
A walk to town seemed a more reasonable exercise.
Saturday morning Willow positioned a floppy hat on her head, pulled her reticule from the wardrobe, and strolled down the stairs. She didn’t know what she would say to Ida, but Miss Hattie was right. Ida would want to know about her artistic opportunity at the Photography Studio, and she’d be excited for her. But was Ida ready to return to work, to let Willow go? Only Ida could answer those questions, and it was time Willow asked them.