Twice a Bride

by Mona Hodgson

  Wednesday morning, a week after Mr. Sinclair’s arrival, Willow walked down Golden Avenue toward First Street with a bounce in her step and a cloth sack swinging from her elbow. She held the double-wrapped canvas in front of her. Today she’d deliver Mollie Kathleen Gortner’s portrait, two days ahead of Mr. Van Der Veer’s deadline. She’d actually made her last stroke with the brush on Monday afternoon but let it sit all day yesterday to make sure it was dry enough to wrap. This was her first commissioned painting, and she couldn’t wait to experience her boss’s reaction. Hopefully, he’d be pleased with her work.

  A chilling wind caught Willow’s wool shawl. Golden and crimson leaves fluttered on the breeze like autumn streamers in a ticker-tape parade. Bennett Avenue also proclaimed the change of season. Barrels of bright red apples and mounds of pumpkins framed the grocer’s door. As she passed, she caught a whiff of apple cider and paused for a moment to enjoy the sweet scent. Rich colors and sweet aromas. The best time of year to step into her new life as a portrait artist.

  Rounding the corner at First Street, Willow saw a crumpled man propped against the front of the smoke shop. She slowed her steps and studied him. A slouch hat teetered on his unkempt head. His ample chin rested on his chest, and his legs stretched across the boardwalk like logs dressed in filthy trousers. He didn’t move, and his eyes were closed in a whiskered face. Had he fallen, lost consciousness? Was he dead?

  He was someone’s father. She had to at least check on his condition, even if it meant putting herself in harm’s way.

  Grasping the canvas with both hands, Willow stared at the man’s chest, looking and praying for signs of life. His chest rose. A groan escaped his fleshy lips, and his eyes popped open. He peered at her and brushed the brim of his hat.

  “Hello, ma’am.” The pungent scent of alcohol assaulted her senses.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  He straightened his back against the wall and bent his knees. Squinting at her, he pulled the hat from his head. “My apologies, ma’am. I’m afraid I may have stayed up too early and plumb forgot my manners.” His words were slow and sloppy.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  Chuckling, he scratched his chin through the scraggly beard that covered it. “Not too many folks ’round here call me sir.” He yanked the flannel shirt over his rounded belly, then inched his back up the wall and stood on wobbly legs. “Name’s Baxter.”

  “Mrs. Peterson.”

  Tilting to one side, Mr. Baxter braced himself against a post. “Some say I have me a drinking problem.”

  She glanced at her bag, then at him. “Have you eaten anything today?”

  He cradled his chin between his thumb and fingers. “What day is this?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Had me some jerky for breakfast Tuesday.”

  “That won’t do.” Willow propped the portrait against her leg and pulled the bag from her arm. When Miss Hattie heard about all she planned to do in town today, her landlady suggested she pack a lunch. Willow held the sack out to Mr. Baxter.

  “What’s that, ma’am?”

  “A sandwich, an apple, and pecan sandies.”

  His eyes widened and he licked his lips, then he shook his head. “I couldn’t take your lunch.”

  If he didn’t eat something, the alcohol would eat his insides. She’d heard her daddy say that about the old doctor in Stockton. “Sir, might you know of the Flinn family?”

  “They have a little girl.”

  “Yes, sounds like them.”

  “He works at the mine.” He glanced at the hill behind them. “They live in a cabin up on Pikes Peak Avenue, off Florissant, fourth place on the left.”

  “That is of great help to me. Thank you so much.” She pushed the sack against his hand, and he took her lunch.

  “I’m glad I could help you. You’re a nice lady.” He tucked his hat under his arm, reached into the sack, and pulled out the cookies.

  “Thank you.” She lifted her package off the ground. “Good day to you, Mr. Baxter.”

  “And to you, ma’am.”

  Turning, Willow looked up the street toward the studio. Mr. Van Der Veer stood outside on the boardwalk, looking her way. How long had he been watching her?

  Trenton turned away from the sight of Mrs. Peterson and trudged into the office. As he closed the door, the bells above his head chimed, and he scowled at them. Was the woman born yesterday? Her letter of application stated she’d lived in Colorado Springs the past year and a half. Before that she’d lived in California. Had she been wearing blinders and not noticed the wild ways of the West?

  What was she thinking, talking to the town drunk as if he were the mayor?

  He lumbered past the desk and into the studio. Lifting the tripod from beside the settee, he carried it back to the piano bench.

  The bell rang again. His only employee had arrived. He needed to keep his concerns to himself. Her naiveté wasn’t his problem.

  “Mr. Van Der Veer?”

  “I-I’m in the st-studio, Mrs. Peterson.”

  She sauntered into the room, holding a flat package on her hands.

  “You finished the portrait?” he asked.

  “Indeed I did.” She set the package on the library table. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had that much fun. Moll … Mrs. Gortner is a delight.”

  Trenton set the tripod on the floor with more force than necessary. “According to your ap-plication, you’re not so new to the W-West that you should be ignorant of its w-ways.”

  He bristled at his own words. He should have sealed his mouth shut the minute he returned to the office. He’d just called Mrs. Peterson ignorant. Unaware. That was the word he should have used. Would have used, if he’d meant to say anything in the first place.

  Her green eyes darkened. “I beg your pardon.”

  Her puckered brow told him he had no choice but to finish what he’d started. He held her gaze. “I am a m-mite surprised that you are unaware of the w-ways of the West, is all.”

  “Ways of the West?” Her elocution was slow, deliberate.

  “Yes. I don’t expect w-women alone should t-talk to complete strangers, especially derelicts like Baxter.”

  She bristled. “It’s not normal for a man to be passed out on the boardwalk.”

  “It is if he’s a bummer.”

  “Really, Mr. Van Der Veer?” Her brow crinkled. “I’d expected you to be more charitable.”

  He didn’t bother to ask why. He knew. Because of his stammering, he should be more understanding of others with uncomely conditions.

  “It’s not a matter of charity, Mrs. Peterson. It’s common sense. And a flea has … more.” The words jerked out in fits.

  Her lips thinned.

  He didn’t care if she was offended. Her safety was in question. “Does your husband know you’re sociable with riffraff?”

  She squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin. “I can talk with whomever I please, Mr. Van Der Veer.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “My husband is not here to care. He’s dead.”

  Trenton felt himself jerk as if he’d received a punch to his midsection.

  Before he could offer her a proper response, she spun around and marched out of the room, mumbling, “So much for Portraits by Willow.”

  He nearly fell over the tripod in pursuit, but the blasted bell rang as she bolted through the front door. All he could do was watch the storm pass by the front window. Following her now would mean making a scene, sure to intensify the cyclone he’d created.

  Instead, he carried the package to the counter and removed the string. As he carefully unwrapped the portrait, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Mrs. Gortner could have been standing there, looking straight at him. Mrs. Peterson—the widow—had captured the crook in the mine owner’s nose and the sparkle in her eyes. And all with flawless color and tone.

  He hadn’t even looked at the portrait before she left. Hadn’t had a chance to tell her how pleased he was with her work
, let alone pay her for it. He needed to make amends.

  At the desk, Trenton unlocked the cashbox. He slid her payment into an envelope and put it into his coat pocket. Now for an apology gift. Flowers weren’t appropriate. Neither was a box of candy.

  Ah. He knew what to get her. He looked at the wall clock: nine thirty. He had half an hour before his next sitting was scheduled to arrive. Ample time for a trip to the mercantile.

  Willow headed in the opposite direction of where the Flinn family lived on Pikes Peak Avenue. After that encounter with her boss, she wasn’t of a mind to meet a new client.

  She couldn’t work for a man with such little regard for humanity. Mr. Van Der Veer couldn’t have surprised her any more if he’d climbed onto the rooftop and belted out a saloon song. Instead, he’d scolded her for talking to someone in need. He’d barked his rebuke like a mad dog. He’d probably never even talked to Mr. Baxter, and yet he’d called the man a derelict. Riffraff. She shuddered, thinking what the photographer might call her if he knew of her residence in the asylum. He had talent for capturing a person’s image, but his vision was distressingly shallow. He couldn’t see past his nose.

  And in her shock and ire, she’d blurted out the truth. She was a widow. Alone, with no one to care what she did or didn’t do.

  Turning onto Bennett Avenue, she stepped onto the boardwalk and looked across the street. The wooden sign for Carmen’s Confectionary swung in the breeze. A sweet wouldn’t improve the situation with her employer, but a piece of candy might minimize the bitter taste of anger souring her tongue.

  Willow crossed the street behind an older woman and her five children. After dodging a wagon full of grimy miners, she made her way past an assay office and a barbershop. In front of the confectionary, she paused to admire two delectable trays of indulgences displayed in the window. One held an assortment of frosted pastries. The other, an array of delicious-looking chocolates. She licked her lips and reached for the door handle.

  “Welcome.” The rounded chin of the woman clerk barely cleared the counter.

  “Thank you.” Willow breathed deeply, savoring the rich aroma. Her gaze settled on the glass display case. Cakes, pies, turnovers, and a colorful assortment of candies. Caramels, rock candy pops, taffy, lemon drops, root beer barrels, peppermint sticks, licorice bits, and more. Which one should she choose?

  “You here about the sign, señorita?”

  Willow had to concentrate to discern the question through the woman’s Spanish accent. She scanned the wall behind the counter. Posters hawked the latest in factory-made candies and syrups from the East.

  “The Help Wanted sign in the window,” the clerk said.

  Turning back toward the door, Willow saw the back of a chalk slate propped in the bottom corner of the window.

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “No matter.” The woman’s hand darted into the air above a tray of fudge. “I’m Carmen.”

  “Willow Peterson.” She shook Carmen’s leathered hand, admiring her brown almond-shaped eyes, barely peeping over her ample cheeks.

  “I’m looking for a young woman such as yourself to work the counter. Are you looking for a job?”

  Willow had a job. If she still wanted it. “I might be.”

  An hour later, after a stop at the library, Willow stepped onto Miss Hattie’s porch. The swing at the far end looked especially inviting. She pulled the pink cardboard box from Carmen’s Confectionary out of the fabric sack that had held her lunch before she gave it to Mr. Baxter. She’d enjoy a piece of fudge before going inside.

  She’d taken her first bite when the front door creaked open and Hattie poked her head out.

  “I thought I heard someone out here.” Hattie stepped outside, her gaze settling on the piece of candy in Willow’s hand. “Mind if I join you?”

  “On the swing? Or eating candy?”

  “Both?”

  Willow pulled a second piece of fudge out of the bag, handed it to Hattie, then glanced at the empty space beside her.

  After seating herself, Hattie slowly raised the candy to her mouth and nibbled it. “Mmm.” Her blue-gray eyes widened. “Carmen’s?”

  Willow nodded and bit off another sliver of fudge, letting it dissolve on her tongue. “I can’t say the candy is better than the root beer soda at Collins Pharmacy, but it’s a very satisfying match.”

  Hattie rested her hand on the arm of the swing and looked at Willow. “With all you had planned for your day, I didn’t expect you until late this afternoon.” Brushing a gray curl back from her face, her landlady glanced at the bag on Willow’s lap. “Did you already eat your lunch?”

  Willow sighed, remembering her boss’s bark. “I gave my lunch away.”

  Hattie’s eyebrows arched.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Mr. Sinclair and Cherise are making the rounds of the sisters’ houses today, starting with Kat’s. They’ll have supper with Vivian and Carter. So I’m a woman with nothing but time.” Hattie popped the last bite of fudge into her mouth.

  Where to begin? Willow set the box of fudge on the side table and rested her back against the swing’s wooden slats. “I was nearly to the studio when I came across an unconscious old man slouched against the smoke-shop wall.”

  “Baxter?”

  Willow nodded.

  “And you stopped.” A slight smile edged up Hattie’s face.

  “I did.” Willow straightened. “If he was sleeping on the boardwalk, he obviously needed help. I wasn’t sure he was even breathing.”

  “Not too many people would bother.”

  “Including my employer.”

  “Mr. Van Der Veer isn’t the charitable type?”

  “Mr. Baxter was nice and respectful. He told me where I could find the Flinn family, and I gave him my lunch. When I walked into the office, Mr. Van Der Veer didn’t even look at the portrait I gave him. He’d seen me with Mr. Baxter and was too busy expressing his reproach.”

  “Your employer scolded you?”

  Willow couldn’t push the image from her mind: his jaw was rigid and his ears a bright red. “Practically spat the words at me.”

  Hattie blew out a breath, lifting the wispy gray hairs at her forehead.

  “I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry when he asked if my husband knew I was sociable with riffraff that I admitted my husband wasn’t here to care because he was dead.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t give him a chance to say any more. I said, ‘So much for Portraits by Willow’ and marched right out the front door.”

  Hattie tittered and covered her mouth with knotted fingers. “I’d like to have been there to see the look on his face.”

  Now that Willow thought about it, she would have liked to see his face too.

  “You should’ve seen Mr. Sinclair’s jaw drop this morning when I told him I didn’t like him,” Hattie said.

  “You didn’t.”

  Hattie’s eyes sparkled. “I did.” She sighed. “But it’s all right. I found out he didn’t like me either.”

  “So, that’s why the potatoes burned. You two were busy telling each other of your dislike.”

  “Yes. We were finally talking about our misconceptions, and, well, I got distracted.” Hattie’s face suddenly pinked, and she moistened her lips. “So much for Portraits by Willow? Did you quit?”

  “No. But I’m of a mind to. I’ll add the coloring to the Flinn photograph, but how can I work for a man who won’t trust my judgment?” Willow worried the strap on her sack. “He said a flea has more common sense.”

  Hattie laughed. “He didn’t.”

  “He did, and all without even paying me for painting Mrs. Gortner’s portrait.”

  “It sounds like a terrible misunderstanding. I’ve had my share of those.” A grin bunched the wrinkles at Hattie’s mouth. “Just this morning as a matter of fact.”

  “It was a misunderstanding, all right. Mr. Van Der Veer thought he co
uld boss me around, and he was wrong.” Willow hadn’t expected to paint portraits for the photographer forever, but only one?

  Hattie laid her hand on Willow’s. “Any chance Mr. Van Der Veer’s impassioned reaction could’ve been rooted in concern for your safety?”

  But she wasn’t his charge. He’d hired her to do a job, and she’d done it. “Meddling. Plain and simple.”

  “It’s not customary for women to even walk on the same side of the street when a town drunk is present.”

  Looking up, Willow met her friend’s tender gaze. “I suppose I may have been a tad foolhardy. But after what I’ve been through, I see people differently. I know looks can be deceiving.”

  Hattie nodded. “Yes, and misunderstandings can be misleading.”

  Archie strolled up the street and turned onto Hattie’s walkway. The courier carried a package, one much thicker than the canvas she’d delivered to Mr. Van Der Veer. Willow stood. If it were an envelope, she could hope her barking boss had finally looked at her work and sent her payment. An apology was probably too much to expect.

  “Hello, ladies.” Archie doffed his cap. “I have another delivery for you, Missus Peterson.”

  Willow dug into her bag, pulled out a few coins, and exchanged them for the package. “Thank you, Archie.”

  “You’re a popular lady. Leastwise you are with the photographer.”

  “I work for him.” She didn’t bother to correct the present tense in her statement. Right now she only wanted to see what Mr. Van Der Veer had to say for himself.

  Archie strolled down the porch steps toward the road, and Willow slid the string from around the package. Inside the butcher paper sat an envelope on top of four blank canvases. She opened the envelope, flipped through a stack of dollar bills, and looked at Hattie. “Payment for Mrs. Gortner’s portrait.”

  “It looks like a generous amount.”

  Sighing, Willow nodded and glanced at the empty envelope on her lap. “Yes, but no note of apology.”

  Hattie looked at the stack of canvases. “Those are new. Were you expecting them?”

  Willow shook her head.