Twice a Bride

by Mona Hodgson

  Vivian sat at the other end of the table and began folding napkins into fans, her pregnant middle bumped up against the table’s edge. Ida was hosting the supper, but why wasn’t Vivian with her father? Nell had done the same thing at yesterday’s supper, disappearing into the kitchen like a Martha set on her task. Willow sighed. If it were her father here, nothing would pull her away from him, even if he had brought a stranger to the family reunion.

  She glanced at Ida, who set the saltcellar and pepper mill on the table. “The table will be a bit crowded tonight.”

  “It does look like we’ll be rubbing elbows a bit, but—”

  “You don’t have to include me in all of your family gatherings. I’m all right. I have a wonderful place to live and an intriguing job.” It was best she didn’t mention she found her boss intriguing too. “I haven’t felt this good in several years.” Four years and two months, to be exact. “You have your father here. Your sisters. Cherise.” And she was more than a little anxious to return to her room and paint.

  Ida pursed her lips as in a pout. “I like having you here.” She rested her hand on Willow’s forearm and met her gaze, her eyes a lighter shade of blue than Mr. Van Der Veer’s. “And like it or not, you’re family too.”

  “I like it. I couldn’t have picked a better sister-in-law.”

  “Or substitute sisters.” Vivian smiled. “And you fit right in.”

  “Who fits right in?” Mr. Sinclair led the others into the dining room with Cherise at his side.

  “Willow.” Ida’s reply sounded abrupt, almost sharp.

  “That’s the beauty of a big family,” Mr. Sinclair said. “There’s always room for one more.”

  Ida’s face paled. Was she thinking about the baby she couldn’t carry or the child her father hoped she’d take in?

  “Mrs. Peterson,” Mr. Sinclair said, greeting her.

  “Please call me Willow.”

  “Willow, then. Ida mentioned you’re working with a photographer here in town.”

  “Yes, but I’m just getting started. Mr. Van Der Veer is new here. From New York.”

  “New York?” Tucker held a chair for Ida and then one for Willow before taking his place at the head of the table. “He told me he was from Maryland.”

  “That may be. In the past seven years, you’ve lived in Stockton, San Francisco, and Cripple Creek. And probably places in between. All the same, at some point, Mr. Van Der Veer worked in New York.” Why were they talking about the photographer? And why was she defending him?

  Tucker stared at her, an eyebrow raised, no doubt wondering the same thing.

  Ignoring the question on her brother’s face, Willow pulled her napkin fan from her plate and spread it on her lap. If he mentioned Mr. Van Der Veer was single, she’d … she didn’t know what she’d do, but he wouldn’t think it pleasant.

  Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat as if Willow and Tucker needed a referee. “Now that I have our family back together, I’d be interested in having a portrait done. You’d recommend this Mr. Van Der Veer?”

  Willow straightened against the back of her chair in an attempt to assure everyone concerned that her interest in her boss was strictly business. “Yes. He does fine work.”

  “Very well. Once we’re more settled”—Mr. Sinclair looked at Cherise, concern etching his brow—“I’ll speak to him about scheduling a sitting for a family portrait.”

  Willow nodded. A Sinclair family sitting would provide her the perfect excuse to watch the photographer at work. She was, after all, practically family. She counted all those at the table, besides herself. A dozen. With that many subjects, Mr. Van Der Veer was bound to need an assistant.

  You don’t think Mr. Sinclair is a good man?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Hattie dropped the dishrag into the sudsy water and angled her head toward Boney. The miner stood at her side with a dishtowel draped over his shoulder. Tonight he wore clean black trousers and a forest-green shirt. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him wear anything besides coveralls since he’d moved here right after George’s death.

  Boney added a freshly dried soup bowl to the cupboard and looked at her, his brow furrowed. “But you did break your rule because of him.”

  Hattie straightened. “My rule?”

  “If you can’t say something kind about a person, say nothing at all.” Boney’s lopsided grin added a Sunday shine to his silver-blue eyes.

  Cringing, Hattie fished the cloth from the sink. “That was my mother’s rule.” Her mother’s rule or not, it was a creed she usually abided by. She had yet to say much, if anything, kind about the Sinclair sisters’ father. She met her friend’s expectant gaze. “Mr. Sinclair wears his herringbone suit well.” She couldn’t suppress her smile.

  Boney’s laughter exploded like a rifle shot.

  “All right.” She took to scrubbing the second bowl. “I suppose I haven’t been too charitable where he’s concerned.”

  “You suppose?” He chuckled. “You’ve been gnawin’ on the man like a mama bear. Before you ever met him.”

  “And you blame me?” She dropped the bowl into the rinse tub, causing a splash. “Those poor girls came out here from Maine without their daddy so he could take a job in Paris. He sent Kat west to marry a ruffian.”

  “I doubt—”

  “And poor Vivian.” She plopped two spoons into the tub. “His baby girl. It’s a miracle she survived her entanglement with those outlaws last year. And Mister Sinclair hasn’t the slightest notion what his daughters have been through.”

  “Nor they, him.” Boney lifted a dripping wet bowl from the sink and toweled it off.

  She pulled the plug in the bottom of the sink. Dirty water swirled and gurgled down the drain. Her friend couldn’t be any more matter-of-fact about this. His was the voice of reason, a trait she normally appreciated. Not tonight. She wanted to be mad at her new tenant. Blame him for the pain she’d watched his daughters suffer in their first months in Cripple Creek. Every one of them had needed her father’s careful watch and guidance.

  Boney hung the damp dishtowel on a peg and pulled two cups from the countertop. He was right, though. She hadn’t given much thought to what Harlan Sinclair had suffered the past two years.

  “Kat told me her father lost his job in Portland and, consequently, their house.” Boney motioned to the table. “I don’t imagine his decision was an easy one.”

  Was it a man’s unspoken responsibility to defend another man?

  While she pulled the sugar bowl off the buffet, Boney carried the fresh coffee to the table. “What would you have done differently in Mr. Sinclair’s stead? Kat said her father had a job opportunity in Paris that would pay for his housing and allow him to make enough money to bring back to America with him.”

  “Along with a little girl. Another one he couldn’t take care of.”

  Boney pulled out her chair and met her gaze. “That’s what this is about?”

  Hattie’s bottom lip quivered. “If our daughter had lived, George never would’ve abandoned her.” Tears pricked her eyes and spilled down her face. Before she could raise a hand to wipe them, Boney pulled her into a comforting embrace.

  “No, he wouldn’t have.”

  George wouldn’t have abandoned her either. Not if he’d had a choice. Her shoulders shuddered under the weight of her tears.

  “Shhh. Shhh.” Boney held her and smoothed her hair just as he had that day down at the river, thirty years ago. “It’s going to be all right, Adeline.”

  She believed him. She’d lived a full and blessed life despite her losses. So would the Sinclair sisters. So would little Cherise.

  Why was she so set on blaming Mr. Sinclair? And for what? The sisters were thriving despite their ups and downs. The Lord had His hand on them. She needed to listen to Mr. Sinclair’s side of the story. She shouldn’t judge him. It wasn’t her place. And God didn’t need her help.

  The driver helped Willow from the carriage while Mr. Sincla
ir lifted Cherise to the ground. The only light glowed from the back of the boardinghouse. Apparently, Miss Hattie was still up and in the kitchen, which was where the three of them were headed. Cherise had been having trouble sleeping since she’d arrived in America, and Willow had offered to warm a cup of milk for the child. Mr. Sinclair had started yawning before Ida could serve the peach cobbler and coffee. If not for Cherise’s restlessness on the carriage ride, he no doubt would have fallen asleep.

  Mr. Sinclair opened the front door, and Willow entered. She set her reticule on the entry table and walked to the kitchen.

  Just inside the doorway, she stopped so abruptly that Cherise bumped into her, nearly knocking her off balance. Without taking her gaze from Miss Hattie, Willow righted herself. She wasn’t surprised to see her landlady in the company of Mr. Boney, but she hadn’t expected to see the widow in the miner’s arms.

  Mr. Boney eased away from Miss Hattie and regarded them with a warm smile. “Miss Willow.” He offered her a slight nod, then looked up at Mr. Sinclair, who stood about three inches taller than he did. “You must be Harlan Sinclair.”

  Mr. Sinclair didn’t extend his hand, instead giving a tight-lipped nod.

  Her face the color of a ripe strawberry, Miss Hattie smoothed her apron. “Yes, I’d like to introduce Mr. Harlan Sinclair.” She turned to the taller man. “This is my friend, Boney Hughes.”

  Mr. Sinclair drew in a deep breath.

  Willow felt her own cheeks warm in the awkward moment. “I was going to heat a cup of milk for Cherise.”

  “Oh, let me.” Miss Hattie pulled a cast-iron pot from the cupboard. “It won’t take me but a moment.”

  “Mrs. Adams.” Mr. Sinclair sounded like a cross schoolteacher.

  Miss Hattie stilled and gazed at him, her face still red. “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He cleared his throat. “If this is the sort of behavior we can expect from you, consider this our last night here.”

  The wrinkles on Miss Hattie’s forehead deepened. “This sort of behavior?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Sinclair lifted his chin and lowered his voice. “Entertaining men.”

  Willow gasped.

  The pan escaped Miss Hattie’s hand and thudded onto the linoleum. Her landlady burst into a robust laughter that moistened her eyes. Boney joined in, and Willow caught herself midchuckle.

  Mr. Sinclair, looking not the least bit amused, spun around and stomped out of the kitchen with Cherise in tow.

  Miss Hattie stilled, her eyes wide and her jaw slack. Mr. Sinclair had been the only one to take himself seriously … until now.

  Friday morning Hattie stirred the pan of scrambled eggs and looked up at the cupboard that housed the can of pepper. A teaspoon of the spice would be plenty to impact Mr. Sinclair and would be visually undetectable if she also added cheese to his special eggs. What did it matter if she gave in to her ornery streak? The man was moving out first thing after breakfast anyway.

  The banner no longer hung below the second-story landing this morning. Mr. Sinclair had apparently taken it down in his snit. At least he knew he’d worn out his welcome.

  Hattie huffed and gave the eggs a spirited stirring. The memory of last night’s events still swirled about her. All three of her boarders had gone to supper at the parsonage. Boney had stopped by for soup, coffee, and conversation. And by the time she and Boney had finished chatting about her curt male boarder, she’d felt convicted of her unfair impression of the man. Even felt guilty about speaking of him when she hadn’t found anything good to say. She’d actually begun to feel sorry for him. But within moments, he’d stood in her kitchen with nary a greeting and jumped to insulting conclusions.

  It was such a ridiculous notion that all she could do was laugh. She hadn’t been able to stop giggling until she saw Mr. Sinclair stomp from the room with poor little Cherise at his heels. Shaking her head, Hattie flipped the hashed potatoes. She’d thought herself a more reasonable choice to parent Cherise than a single man, but even if she had seriously considered broaching the possibility, there was little chance now Mr. Sinclair would consider such a proposal. Not if he thought her improper.

  “Mrs. Adams.”

  Speak of the— Hattie scolded herself for thinking such a dreadful thought, and turned to face Mr. Sinclair. “I’ll bring breakfast in shortly. It’s nearly ready.”

  He stared at his polished shoes. Was he formulating a lecture on the proper behavior of a lady? Well, she would save herself the singe from his hot air.

  She focused on the bump on his head, now a yellowish-green. “Sir, since you’re uncomfortable boarding here, I’ll refund your first week’s rent.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked before removing the skillet of eggs from the stove. She’d failed her precious Sinclair sisters. She’d managed to house each of them with great pleasure, but she’d alienated their father. He hadn’t been here even forty-eight hours of his four weeks, and he was already moving out.

  “I’m not.” His baritone voice broke into her thoughts.

  “You’re not what?” She scooped the eggs into a serving bowl.

  “Uncomfortable.”

  Well, she certainly was. “Last night you stood in this very kitchen—”

  “And I made an absolute fool of myself.”

  Of course he did, but she’d never expected him to know it, let alone admit it. She stopped and looked at him.

  “I jumped to conclusions that were unfair.”

  Not to mention unflattering.

  He looked straight at her as if he’d read her thoughts, his eyes an indigo blue. “I walked in and saw …”

  “A soft answer turneth away wrath.” Hattie set the skillet and spatula in the sink. He’d seen her and a man he’d never met in an embrace. She may have done a little jumping herself.

  “I shouldn’t have assumed the worst.”

  “A rather abrupt change of heart, wouldn’t you say?” She resisted the impulse to plant her hands on her hips. “How do you know now that your conclusions were unfair?”

  “When Mrs. Peterson brought the milk upstairs for Cherise, she mentioned you and Mr. Hughes have been close friends for many years.”

  “And if Willow hadn’t told you that?”

  “I would have come to my senses.” He smiled, his lips lifting under a neatly trimmed auburn mustache. “Eventually.” His smile deepened. “I hope you’ll accept my apology for my unwarranted behavior.”

  “I suppose it was a logical assumption.” She flipped the potatoes again and moved the skillet to the bigger burner plate on the stove. “You don’t know me.” And he did have her influence on Cherise to think about.

  “I should’ve trusted my daughters’ reports of you. Each of them regards you highly.” He glanced at the empty doorway. “Fact is, they adore you.”

  “And I, them.”

  He swallowed hard. “I haven’t much liked you because of it.”

  She felt her mouth drop open. “Because your daughters adore me?”

  “Yes ma’am.” He brushed his hand through his silver-tinted auburn hair. “They seem to respond to you the way they would their mother.”

  If she were here. Why hadn’t she realized what was going on? It made perfect sense. He was jealous of her relationship with his daughters, concerned she was trying to replace their mother. That was why he’d been aloof.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He tugged his suit coat straight and met her gaze. “I’m not proud of the fact, but I’ve been a little jealous. I didn’t receive a single letter from any of them that didn’t mention you. Most of their writings sung your praises. I felt terrible about having to leave them and missed them so much. You were here to care for them, and I wasn’t.”

  They seemed to have more in common than she could have guessed. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t like you either.”

  The slightest grin edged up one side of his mouth. “But you do now?”

  “I believe so.” She pressed a finger to her chin. “I was angry
with you for shipping your daughters off to the West. Before you returned to the house last night, Boney helped me see that I was being unfair in my judgment of you. I’m sure it was a decision you gave much thought.”

  He nodded. “And then I had to come along and stick my foot in my mouth.” His smile reached his eyes. “Please call me Harlan.”

  She nodded. “Hattie.” The acrid scent of charring tickled her nose, and she rushed to the stove. “The potatoes!”

  Harlan removed the skillet and set it on the trivet on the countertop. Hattie flipped the hashed potatoes. They weren’t charred yet, but quite dark and crispy.

  “Just the way I like them,” Harlan said.

  “You like your potatoes burned?”

  He grinned. “This morning, they’re exactly what I deserve.”

  Her ears warmed. Good thing she hadn’t added the extra pepper to the eggs. Blackened potatoes would be punishment enough. She hadn’t burned anything since she and George first wed. Clearly, Mr. Sinclair was a distraction.

  “Miss Hattie.” Willow stood in the doorway. “Cherise was alone at the table.” She pointed toward the dining room. “Is everything all right?”

  “If you like burned potatoes, it is.” Hattie met Mr. Sinclair’s gaze, and they both laughed. The wide-eyed wonder on Willow’s face tickled her funny bone even further, and she fanned herself.

  “We were about to serve breakfast when the potatoes grew impatient.” A wide grin on his face, Harlan picked up the skillet and held it steady while she slid the brittle potato remains into a serving dish.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I could do.” He carried the dish of potatoes out of the kitchen.

  Hattie pulled the plate of sausage from the warmer and handed it to Willow. Without answering the question written all over the young woman’s face, Hattie picked up the bowl of eggs and followed Mr. Sinclair to the dining room.

  She’d been wrong about him. The way his emotions had been sitting on his shoulders he could have been Atlas holding the earth. And now that he’d found his sense of humor, he was rather charming.