Twice a Bride

by Mona Hodgson

  Nell pulled her head up straight and squared her shoulders. “Willow prepared the pork roast. Kat baked the potatoes, and I snapped the peas while Vivian entertained your grandchildren.”

  Father met her gaze, his eyes the same blue as hers. “Wonderful. And Ida has quite a story to tell about her activities. Cherise was missing, and I was—”

  “Beside himself.” Ida’s matter-of-fact statement was testimony that she too had been blindsided by his actions.

  His hand on Cherise’s shoulder, Father bent and whispered something to her in French. Was he reassuring the child in her unfamiliar surroundings? Nell’s insides knotted. She’d needed reassuring the day Father put her on the train west to marry a man she’d never met.

  Hattie cleared her throat and glanced toward the dining room. “For certain, that is a delicious fragrance coming from the kitchen.” Could her father’s new landlady sense the storm brewing? Hattie draped her shawl on the coat rack. “Mr. Sinclair, I’ll put the finishing touches on supper while you visit with your daughters. It’ll only take a few moments.”

  “I’ll help you.” Nell caught Vivian’s attention on her way to the door. “You’ll keep watch on William?”

  Vivian nodded, her brown eyes narrowed in a knowing look. Their father’s surprise had to be especially hard for Vivian to swallow. She wasn’t yet sixteen when he left her in Maine to take the job in France.

  Nell followed Hattie and Willow into the dining room. She stopped at the end of the table where she’d abandoned the stack of silverware. Willow continued into the kitchen, but Hattie paused and enveloped Nell’s hand. She looked into Hattie’s blue-gray eyes. Hattie had been like a mother to her the past two years. “This shouldn’t be so hard.”

  “But it is.”

  Nell nodded. “I should be happy he’s here … I am, but it’s nothing like what I thought it would be.”

  “You expected your aunt to accompany him, not a little girl commanding his attention.”

  “Yes.” Blinking back tears, Nell leaned toward her dear friend and whispered, “He hasn’t even held his grandchildren.”

  “He will.” Hattie’s voice held more promise than her weak smile did. “Most men aren’t given to such demonstrations. And your father did just cross the country and survive a train wreck. Give him time.”

  When Hattie disappeared into the kitchen, Nell busied herself placing forks, knives, and spoons beside the plates. Help me, Lord. I don’t feel the least bit patient.

  The table ready, Nell went to the kitchen to help carry out the meal. Hattie held the meat platter. Willow balanced the dish of peas in one hand and a bread basket in the other. Nell followed with a tray of water glasses.

  She’d just cleared the doorway when Father strolled into the dining room, holding her son’s hand. Her breath caught. Cherise followed directly behind him, grasping his coat.

  Perhaps Hattie was right. They needed to get reacquainted, and that would take time.

  In the meantime, her questions probably wouldn’t be addressed tonight, let alone answered.

  Susanna peered out the train window as if she could see into the darkness speeding by her. She probably could if Helen weren’t burning the gas lantern overhead. Her thoughts seemed to roll in rhythm with the clacking wheels as the West Coast Zephyr sped farther away from Kansas and toward her intended destiny. As they’d crossed the flat expanse of the Great Plains, all she could think about was Cripple Creek and what she’d say to win back Trenton Van Der Veer, photographer to the rich and famous. She wondered how long she’d be stuck in Colorado before he married her and whisked her away to New York.

  Helen flipped a page of a fashion magazine. “I can’t believe we’re nearly to Colorado.” She yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth the way the women in New York’s high society would.

  “Yes, tomorrow.” Susanna glanced at their tight quarters. “And if our berth wasn’t so small, I’d be dancing.” By the time she woke in the morning, assuming her excitement allowed her any sleep, she’d be viewing the famous Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Soon after that, she’d step onto Denver soil, the gateway to her new life. She regarded her slouched friend. “Are you sure your brother won’t mind another houseguest?”

  Helen cocked her head and raised a reddish eyebrow. “He won’t mind. It’s not like you’ll be staying very long.”

  Susanna shook her head. No longer than it took her to secure a suitable ride from Helen’s brother’s home to Cripple Creek.

  “Girls, it’s time you thought about retiring for the night.” Mrs. Granstadt stood in the doorway. “We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Helen closed the magazine and tucked it into her bag.

  Susanna pressed her lips together to avoid a confrontation. Her own mother was no doubt still pouting. She hadn’t even come to the depot to see Susanna off on her adventure. Her mother led a sad life, and that wouldn’t be Susanna in twenty years. No, if she had her way, she’d be in New York by springtime.

  When Mrs. Granstadt left the doorway, Susanna leaned against her friend. “You’re twenty, Helen. So am I. Neither of us is a girl.”

  She was a young woman who would soon strike out on her own.

  In the meantime, a little beauty sleep would do her some good. She glanced up toward her hidden sleeping cot. Her father had given her enough money to ride in this well-appointed Pullman car with Helen and her parents. She and her friend didn’t have a private bedchamber, but they would at least be able to stretch out for their rest.

  Within moments a round-faced porter stood in front of them. “Young ladies, are you ready for me to make down the beds?” With a white-gloved hand, he gestured toward the folded berth.

  “Yes, we’d appreciate that.”

  Helen stood and moved into the aisle. Susanna followed her, watching the porter release the latches. The bed swung down and latched into place with a reassuring clunk.

  “Is this your first trip to gold country?” the porter asked as he reached across the bed and pulled the linens into place.

  “Yes. Neither of us has been there,” Susanna answered.

  “But my brother lives in Denver,” Helen said.

  And Susanna’s future husband lived in Cripple Creek. Now all she had to do was convince Trenton. This time she wouldn’t mess it up.

  Early Thursday morning Trenton unlocked the studio door and headed straight to the darkroom. When he’d finally returned from Phantom Canyon last evening, he’d developed the negatives and made ten prints. The dried prints hung on a line. His job this morning was to choose the best images, a few for the railroad and a couple for display in the newspaper office. Once he’d delivered those, he’d make a few more prints to display in the studio and have available for sale.

  He freed the photographs from their clips and carried the stack to his desk. Despite the commotion and his several moves for different angles, the photographs were good quality. Now it was a matter of who would want various shots. The railroad president should be happy he’d managed to capture the wreckage from all angles, including a wide shot from above the bridge. The newspaper would most likely be interested in that shot and a couple of the ones he’d taken of the passengers.

  The printed images took him back to the dry wash and the acts of kindness and heroism he’d witnessed. He’d had other plans for his Wednesday afternoon and evening, but his involvement in the canyon yesterday would go a long way in helping him become established in Cripple Creek. The jobs photographing Denver’s politicians had been noticed by a few of the local mine owners, and the article in the Denver Post had gained him recognition with the Women for the Betterment of Cripple Creek. But if the railroads liked his work—

  The bell on the front door jingled, interrupting his thoughts. Probably an anxious newspaper man.

  Still holding the stack of photographs, Trenton stepped into the main office. A man he didn’t recognize stood at the counter.

  “Mr. Van Der Veer?”


  “… Yes. T-Trenton Van Der Veer.” Trenton extended his hand over the counter and the man shook it.

  “Tucker Raines.” He had a warm smile. “So, you’re the photographer.”

  “I am.” Trenton set the stack of pictures on the counter.

  “It’s my pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Raines glanced at the photograph atop the stack—the image of the two passenger cars lying tipped and twisted in the dry wash. “I’m the pastor at the First Congregational Church.”

  Raines. Reverend Raines. “Your wife runs the ice company.”

  “Yes.” Tucker chuckled. “Her reputation seems to precede me.”

  Trenton felt his cheeks warm. Why had he mentioned the man’s wife? “I’ve known J-Jesse at the l-livery since we were school boys in Maryland … He’s mentioned you and your w-wife.”

  “Jesse is a good man and quite the smithy.” The reverend set his flat-brimmed hat down beside the photographs. “This world is even smaller than that. My sister is a businesswoman too, and I hear she’s working for you now.”

  Trenton shifted his weight. A much smaller world than he was used to. “Mrs. Peterson is your sister?”

  “She is.”

  “S-small world indeed.”

  Perhaps too small. His new employee’s brother was a pastor. Childhood memories assaulted him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Reverend Raines, too, would think his stuttering was of the devil. As a boy, he’d assumed all pastors were the same. An opinion not easily changed. But Mr. Raines was probably only here to make sure his sister would be safe working for Trenton. Her husband would most likely call on him next.

  “I didn’t come in to talk about the women in my life—my wife or my sister,” Mr. Raines said with another friendly chuckle. “I wanted to welcome you to town and invite you and your wife to our services at the Congregational Church.” He raised an eyebrow. “That is, if you’re not already attending elsewhere.”

  “Thank you.” Trenton swallowed hard. He’d rather talk about his marital status than his church attendance. Fatigue and tension seemed to make it all the more difficult to coax the words out. That, and the memories. “I’m n-not m-married.”

  And he was content to remain single. Well, he was working on being content.

  The reverend looked back down at the photographs. “These are from the wreck in the canyon yesterday?”

  Trenton nodded.

  “Mind if I have a look?”

  “No. Go right ahead.”

  The reverend examined each photograph, his eyes widening with shock and amazement.

  All the while, Trenton kept watch on the door, wondering when Mrs. Peterson’s husband would show up.

  Thursday morning after breakfast, Father and all the sisters gathered in the parlor. From where Kat sat on the sofa, she had a clear view of the game table in the far corner. But this wasn’t a carefree Sunday afternoon in Maine. Nor had they assembled for a family checkers tournament. This wasn’t the spring of ’96. This was autumn, 1898, and much had changed. Not the least of which was that Father now had a young protégée named Cherise. Thankfully, the young girl was in the kitchen with Miss Hattie, Hope, and William, so she and her sisters should be able to speak freely.

  A teacup in her hand, Ida crossed her feet under the wing-back chair and smiled at Father. “It’s wonderful to have you here.” Her blue eyes seemed to hold the same concern drying Kat’s throat and holding her questions captive. Who was Cherise? Why was she in his company? What did he plan to do with her? How long did he plan to stay in town?

  “Father, why are you traveling with an eight-year-old girl?” Nell sat beside Kat on the sofa, her back straight and her gaze as direct as her question.

  Dressed in a herringbone suit, Father sat across from Nell in the Queen Anne chair. He rubbed the now-purple knot on his head. “I worked with Cherise’s father in Paris. Pierre Renard was one of the engineers on my staff.” He reached for his mug on the side table. “Soon after I arrived in Paris, Pierre’s wife succumbed to an illness that had beset her for years.”

  “And what of Mr. Renard?” Vivian perched in an armchair on the other side of Ida. “Shouldn’t he bring up his own daughter?”

  Father’s shoulders sagged. “He planned to come with me to America, he and Cherise. Then nearly two months ago, a riveted seam on a boiler burst and scalded him.” He glanced at the empty doorway. “Pierre died within the week. We had already booked our passage on the boat.”

  Vivian gasped. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Tears clouded Nell’s eyes. “That poor girl.”

  Kat shivered at a memory from her own childhood. She was close to Cherise’s age when her mother died, and she couldn’t fathom losing her father too. And all within two years. “It must have been so hard for her to leave the land of her birth, the only home she knew.”

  “She cried the first two days on the ship and wouldn’t eat.” Father stared at the braided rug beneath his feet. “While he was bedridden, her father begged me to take care of his daughter. He made me promise I’d bring her to America with me, that I’d make sure she had a family.”

  Ida set her cup on the side table. “No one expressed concern when you took Cherise out of her home country?”

  Father looked at Ida first, then at each of them. Silver tinted the hair at his temples. “I gave Cherise the Sinclair surname and traveled with her as I would a daughter of my own.”

  But he hadn’t traveled with any of his daughters. He’d sent each of them away to sink or swim on their own.

  “Father, I’m sorry for her loss and yours, but some would consider the action you took outside propriety,” Nell said.

  Father set his cup on the table a little too abruptly. “And what of leaving an innocent little girl on the steps of an orphanage?”

  “Of course, you couldn’t do that.” Nell’s posture softened. “I have many questions. That’s all.”

  “We all do.” Kat felt the baby in her womb wiggle, and she rested against the sofa. “Why didn’t you tell us about your friend, about Cherise? You rented two rooms. When we heard that, we assumed Aunt Alma was accompanying you.”

  He took a drink of coffee, then met Kat’s gaze. “I know you girls are fond of Mrs. Adams, but I think she talks too much.”

  “And you hold everything to your vest.” Vivian shifted on the sofa, her jaw tight. “You hardly told us anything about your new life in Paris.”

  Nell tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “You could’ve sent us a telegraph from New York.”

  Ida tugged the hem on her shirtwaist. “We should be grateful Father’s here, that he and Cherise weren’t seriously injured in the train wreck. Or worse.”

  Father rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “It’s all right, Ida. I am indeed a man of few words, and you and your sisters have a lot to be curious about.”

  “It’s not just curiosity, Father.” Vivian’s sigh blew the curls on her forehead. “You left home and sent us here without you.” She straightened as if doing so would bolster her courage to continue. “You’re finally here. Of course, we’re all grateful you and Cherise are unharmed. But nothing’s the same, not with us and not with you. I’m sure you have questions about our new lives.”

  Kat wished she could reach Vivian’s hand and squeeze it. She understood her baby sister’s frustration. After a two-year absence from them, they’d all expected Father to be more attentive. Instead, he was distracted by a stranger.

  “What is a … an older man to do with a child?” Nell asked.

  His jaw tight, Father stood and walked to the hearth. “I expected my daughters to be charitable and do the right thing.” He looked at Ida. “I’m hoping one of my daughters will take her in.”

  Kat heard what he wasn’t saying. The frown on Ida’s face said she too had heard his expectation. Did he really expect Ida to take Cherise? Was that the duty of the oldest? Or was it assumed because she was childless?

  Hattie stifled a yawn as she poured orange juice into a s
mall glass. She hadn’t slept but a couple of hours last night. Cherise had fallen asleep on the sofa in the parlor, and Mr. Sinclair had carried the girl up to the room directly above Hattie’s bedchamber. Cherise had cried out to him, and she’d heard him trying to reassure his charge.

  Hattie’s mind wouldn’t let her rest, her thoughts teetering between the poor girl and the man who had, for whatever reason, assumed responsibility for her. She glanced at the child seated at her kitchen table. Long, straight hair framed the eight-year-old’s round face. A face shadowed by sadness. The girl had reluctantly released Mr. Sinclair to let him go to the parlor without her this morning. Except for the short time Cherise had spent in her room before breakfast, she hadn’t let the man out of her sight.

  Hope’s giggle drew Hattie’s attention to the two wooden highchairs. William pulled his hair up like wings. Thankfully, those two were content for now, entertaining each other.

  Hattie set the glass on the table in front of Cherise. The little girl hadn’t eaten much at breakfast but did agree to a second glass of juice.

  Cherise gazed up at her. “Merci, Madame.”

  “Je vous en prie, ma chère … you’re welcome, dear.” Camille would be amused to know Hattie was using the French she’d taught her on the trail. Hattie didn’t know this child’s story, except that she’d traveled across the world with a man who wasn’t her father. And without her mother. “I’m Miss Hattie.” She pointed to herself.

  Cherise took a sip of juice, then looked up at her. “Miss Hattie?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You have mother?”

  “I did.” Hattie glanced out the window. “But she died.” Something she had in common with far too many folks.

  Cherise gripped her glass with both hands as if it might escape her. “Mine too. And Papa.” Her bottom lip quivered.

  Her heart aching, Hattie patted the girl’s head. “You poor dear.” However did a man Mr. Sinclair’s age expect to care for this child? He’d raised a family and had daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren to get to know.