by Mona Hodgson
“My George liked to give me nonverbal apologies.” Hattie giggled. “One time he gave me a brooch. My favorite was when he bought me a fine dress after his blasted dog tore mine from the clothesline.” She paused. “Perhaps Mr. Van Der Veer prefers to act out an apology as well.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Willow wrung her hands. “Carmen had a Help Wanted sign in the window at the candy shop, and I’m tempted to apply.”
Miss Hattie straightened.
“Ida is back to work at the store full time, so selling iceboxes is no longer an option. Working with candy would be better than working for a sourpuss.”
Vivian set three cups on the serving tray, then added a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of cream. The week since her father’s arrival had been a swirl of family activity. Tonight was the first time she’d be able to visit with him without her sisters present. She drew in a deep breath before carrying the tray to the parlor. She couldn’t wait any longer to tell Father about her recent past, but how was she to talk about such things with Cherise at his side? She felt bad for the child, but the girl’s ever-present neediness was making it difficult for Vivian and her sisters to catch Father up on their new lives.
Her midsection suddenly tightened, and she gripped the edge of the counter. Since the first episode at Ida’s nearly two weeks ago, she’d experienced the tightening on five occasions. This was the sixth. Another false start? Vivian made herself take a long, slow breath, counting off the seconds. How many more of these episodes would she experience before her baby was ready to make its appearance?
Was she ready to be a mother? The reality grew by bounds with each contraction.
Father walked into the kitchen without his dinner jacket. He stopped suddenly and stared at her as if she’d grown a second nose. “You’re as white as your mother’s cream sauce.”
Vivian rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. She couldn’t remember ever missing her mother as much as she did in this moment. If Mother were here … Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice quivering.
“Oh dear.” Father wrung his hands. “You’re in pain.”
She was in pain, but the tightening of her abdomen wasn’t to blame. Again, it had eased off rather quickly. She let go of the counter and took slow steps to the table.
“I should get your sisters.” Father glanced toward the door. “Morgan. He’s a doctor. I should telephone him.”
“It’s not the baby.”
“But you had hold of the cupboard as if you’d crumple if you didn’t.” He pulled a chair out from the table and held it for her.
Accepting his helping hand, Vivian eased into the chair. “I’ve had a few practice contractions the past couple of weeks, and I just had another one.”
His eyes widened. “Practice?”
“Yes. Kat said my body is practicing for the process of giving birth.”
Her father paled, his cheeks puckered as if he were sucking on a lemon.
“The tightening didn’t last long. I’m fine now.” Tears rolled down Vivian’s cheeks, betraying her.
“Then why are you crying?” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”
She breathed in the sweet scent of lavender soap as he blotted her tears. This was her chance to tell him. But how? She folded her hands and rested them on the table’s edge, watching him sit in the chair beside hers. “You’ve been in Cripple Creek for a whole week.”
His blue eyes narrowed, further creasing his wrinkled brow. “My arrival … my being here is cause for tears? I thought you’d be happy to have me here.”
She reached for his hand. “I am. I missed you terribly. But—”
“I had no choice, Vivian.”
She knew he’d lost his job in Portland. She knew he needed to take the job in Paris.
“I had to bring Cherise with me. I thought you girls would—”
“Would what? Understand?” She let go of him.
“I thought that when you heard her mother and father were gone, you’d see that Cherise needs me.”
Her bottom lip quivering, Vivian met his sad gaze. He was disappointed in his daughters … in her. “I watched my mother be buried. I wasn’t as young as Cherise is, and maybe I’m the most selfish girl in the world, but I needed my father too.”
His eyes watering, he blew out a sigh. “This is different. You have Carter, and he seems like a real good man.”
She pressed her fingers to the ring on her left hand. “He is a fine man. But Carter wasn’t in Maine. Gregory was.” Father’s breath caught. She glanced at the empty doorway, then faced her father, her heart pounding. “I’m not the innocent girl you left with Aunt Alma.”
His jaw hardened. “I never should have left you.” The sadness in his eyes dried her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“For a time I did blame you and anyone else in my life, including God, but it’s not your fault.” She worried the handkerchief he’d given her. “There’s more. I need you to know who I am, what I’ve done, and what Jesus has done for me.”
Nodding, Father straightened in the chair and gave her his full attention.
A flutter in her womb drew her hands to her swollen abdomen. The new life inside her gave reassurance of the new life God had given her. After breathing a prayer of thanksgiving and asking God to comfort her father, Vivian related her story. Her fall with Gregory. Failing at every job she tried. Working for the madam, Pearl DeVere. Pearl’s sudden death. Being held captive by an outlaw, and her confession and repentance. Then the bonus—God gracing her with Carter’s love.
When she’d finished, Father wiped tears from his face. He captured her hands, his touch tender. “I wish you hadn’t experienced all that pain. But I can see how God used your hardships to draw you deeper.” He helped her out of the chair and enfolded her in a warm embrace.
God was so good. She looked into her father’s loving eyes. “Thank you. I’ve kept you in here long enough.” She pulled him toward the kitchen door. “I’m surprised Cherise hasn’t come looking for you.”
Father chuckled. “I am too. I haven’t had much time to myself since Pierre died, especially after boarding the train to come west.”
“I’m proud of you, Father.”
He stopped. “Proud of me?”
“Yes. We were all taken aback by the surprise of Cherise’s presence in your life, but you are doing right by her.”
He shook his head. “I have no idea what the next step is.”
“You will. God will show you.” She wrapped her arm across his back and rested her head on his shoulder.
“You’re right.” He pressed her hand to his side. “I am a blessed man.”
Cherise’s laughter welcomed them into the parlor and drew their attention to the game table. Her husband sat across from the girl, his thumbs stuck in his ears with fingers splayed.
Carter met her gaze, his brown eyes brimming with love and mischief. “I’m teaching Cherise to play checkers.”
“Trying the fine art of distraction on her, I see,” Vivian said.
“So far, it’s working.” Carter glanced at Father, then back at Vivian.
“We talked.” She smiled. “Thank you for distracting Cherise.”
“My pleasure. This little one is quite the charmer.”
“And so are you, Carter Alwyn.” She patted his cheek.
Susanna raised her spoon from her plate and slid a bite of creamy mashed potatoes and gravy into her mouth. Helen’s sister-in-law was a better cook than Mother. Less judgmental too. Susanna cut the slice of ham on her plate into bite-sized pieces and skewered one with her fork.
Helen’s brother sat at one end of the table, regaling them with a story about the time he found a raccoon in their cellar. Whether truth or fabrication, his stories were always entertaining. And they never failed to spur Helen’s father to at least try to top them. Later, they’d all sit out on the porch with coffee cups and neighbors, who would add their own stories to the banter.<
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Susanna set her fork on her plate and reached for her glass of cold apple cider. She liked Denver, and her friend’s family was pleasant to live with. But this wasn’t Cripple Creek. And she was no closer to her intended destination than she was when she first arrived in Colorado last week. She didn’t have enough funds with her for dillydallying. If she didn’t make her way to Cripple Creek soon, she’d have to look for a job here. She needed to find Trenton before winter and move quickly.
“Miss Woods.”
She set her glass down and looked up at the beak-nosed fellow across the table from her. “Yes, Mr. Johnstone?”
Dressed like a suit model, Mr. Johnstone was an attorney in Denver. He was nice enough, and she should be impressed, but he didn’t seem to have much of a sphere of influence if he represented the likes of Helen’s family and had time to dine with them.
“Have you lived in Denver long?” he asked.
“No, I moved here with Miss Granstadt.”
Helen’s brother cleared his throat and slathered butter onto a thick slice of raisin bread. “Miss Woods lived in Kansas, the same town my family is from.”
“Scandia, correct?” Mr. Johnstone asked.
“Yes.” Susanna hated to admit having come from such an isolated place, but she had proven she had what it took to get out of there.
“And your family?”
“My parents and two younger brothers remain in Kansas.” She reached for her water glass. “How about you, Mr. Johnstone? Do you have family in Colorado?”
He patted his mouth with his napkin. “Please, call me Walter. I don’t have any family in Denver, but I do have a married sister who lives in Ouray with her family.”
She hadn’t heard of Ouray, but then, Colorado had never been the topic around her house. Until she’d read the article in the Denver Post.
“And my mother and father live in Cripple Creek,” Mr. Johnstone continued.
Susanna could have sworn she heard music. She pressed her back against the chair spindles. “Cripple Creek, you said?”
“Yes. It is south of here, about a day’s train ride.”
“What a small world this is, Walter.” She fixed her gaze on him. “I have a dear friend who lives in Cripple Creek. And you said your folks live there?”
Walter nodded like a mule pulling against his harness. “As a matter of fact, I plan to head that way on the seventh of October.”
Was she dreaming? Not much more than a week away. Susanna leisurely raised her finger to her face. Twirling a soft curl at her temple, she offered Walter one of her most welcoming smiles.
Perhaps she was closer to reuniting with Trenton than she’d given herself credit for.
Hattie startled, her heart pounding, her skin damp. She’d been dreaming, a nightmare.
She felt the bed. There were no babies here.
But there was a little girl upstairs. Cherise.
The child’s cries drifted from the room above Hattie, a sharp knife piercing her heart. Cherise was living a nightmare—motherless, fatherless, and alone in a foreign land.
Hattie sat up and folded her hands in her lap. She’d heard Cherise’s cries most every night the girl had been here. After Cherise finally left Mr. Sinclair’s side and went up to her room for the night, the whimpering would begin within an hour.
Tonight was different. Her room pitch black, Hattie stared toward the window. It was the middle of the night. No doors above her clicked open or shut. The poor child was alone.
Thankful for the electricity in her home, Hattie switched on the table lamp and pulled her dressing gown from the back of a chair. After lighting a candle lantern, she slid her feet into sheepskin slippers and climbed the stairs to the middle room, right off the second-story landing. The child’s cries weren’t as sharp now but still a steady sob.
Breathing a prayer, Hattie opened the door wide enough to hold the lantern in the crack. The little girl lay at the foot of the bed, curled in a ball, her bedcovers in a tangle. “Cherise, dear.”
“Mama.” She rolled over and peered at Hattie, her eyes red and her face wet. “Je veux Maman.”
Hattie’s heart wrenched. She closed the door behind her and hurried to the bed. Of course the child wanted her mama. “It’s Miss Hattie.”
“Je veux Maman.”
“I know you do.” Hattie blew out the candle and set the lantern on the bedside table. “Je suis ici, ma chère. Vous n’êtes pas seul. Shh. Shh. I’m here. You’re not alone.”
Letting her slippers fall to the floor, she reclined on the bed and held her arms out to the child. Soon Cherise clung to her, and their cries for mama and daughter blended, a prayer meant for the heart of God.
Willow pinned a golden-brown hat on her head and glanced at the corner table and the gift Mr. Van Der Veer sent yesterday. He hadn’t said he was sorry for scolding her, but he’d included four new canvases with the payment for her first job.
She pushed the last hatpin through her curls, then walked to the corner and ran her finger across the white canvas. Its newness held such possibilities. Like a new life.
Had her new life as a portrait painter really ended before it had begun? If so, it was because of her pride. Mr. Van Der Veer wasn’t the first person to misunderstand her actions and motives, and he no doubt wouldn’t be the last.
She studied the Flinn photograph. A nice-looking family. The baby girl sat straight with a firm grip on a cloth bird. Willow’s eyes welled and her throat constricted. She and Sam had wanted children. The day she’d burst through their apartment door with news that her art was expected to win a ribbon at the fair, he’d assumed she’d brought him family news. He’d flashed her the brightest smile she’d ever seen. Oh, how she wished now that Sam had been right. That she had his child to love and keep her company.
Pressing her hand to her heart, she prayed aloud. “I will trust You, Lord.” Hearing herself echo her soul’s promise somehow comforted her deep down.
Willow returned the photograph to the table. She’d meet the family to note the coloring of their eyes and hair, then she’d speak to Carmen at the confectionary. Standing at a candy counter wrapping packages of caramels or pastries and counting people’s money didn’t appeal to her in the least. She’d rather sell iceboxes. Her true preference was to capture the likenesses of the good people of Cripple Creek on canvas.
Hattie was probably right about Mr. Van Der Veer—he’d only meant to express his concern for her, even though it wasn’t his place to do so. Some women might view his gruff reprimand as a gallant act. She just wasn’t among them.
Misunderstandings can be misleading too.
But she hadn’t misunderstood Mr. Van Der Veer. He’d made himself quite clear.
Did she want to work as a portrait artist badly enough that she could abide her boss’s apathy toward folks like Mr. Baxter? Could she weather his moodiness?
Willow retrieved her reticule from the bed. Her answer was yes. She liked the work, and most of it could be done right here in her room.
At the bottom of the staircase, Willow poked her head into the parlor, where Hattie sat with her feet propped on an ottoman. A Bible lay open on her lap. “Miss Hattie?”
Her landlady’s smile was warm.
“I’m on my way out now.” Willow stepped inside the cozy parlor. “I’ll see the Flinns, then go talk to Carmen. I intend to continue my work with Mr. Van Der Veer. I thoroughly enjoyed painting Mrs. Gortner’s portrait.”
Hattie smiled. “That’s good news. You are too good at what you do to let a misunderstanding stand in your way. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather drive my buggy up to the Flinns’ place?”
“No, thank you. The walk will do me good. My father was fond of saying, ‘Walking time is thinking time.’ ”
“Indeed, it is, and praying time.” Hattie stroked her Bible. “Chapter twenty-one of Proverbs has me doing both. I’ve been guilty of giving Mr. Sinclair more than one haughty look.”
Willow’s heart winced. She
remembered her own haughty response to Mr. Van Der Veer yesterday. She’d certainly been guilty of a prideful heart.
After a quick wave, Willow stepped out the front door, thankful for her time on the porch with Hattie yesterday. Fudge and confessions. Willow covered a giggle with her hand. She’d obviously mismatched Miss Hattie and Boney. Far more sparks flew between her landlady and Mr. Sinclair.
By the time Willow turned onto Pikes Peak Avenue, her breath puffed and her side ached. She paused at the corner and looked out over the valley. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains stood majestic in the distance. A breathtaking view. Smiling, she slowed her breathing and looked up the road. The fourth house on the left was a fairly new log cabin with a modest porch.
At the front door, Willow tapped the wooden knocker and glanced at the flour sack curtains in the window. No movement. Perhaps she should have sent the Flinns a message that she’d be calling on them.
Suddenly the door whooshed open and a man built tall and skinny like a telephone pole stood before her. Where were the wife and child? Had she misunderstood Mr. Baxter’s directions? She should have given more credence to Mr. Van Der Veer’s concerns. Had she put herself in harm’s way coming up here alone?
Willow pressed her reticule to her side. “Mr. Flinn?”
His face void of emotion, the man nodded.
“I’m Mrs. Peterson, the owner of Portraits by Willow.”
He furrowed his brow. “We don’t want any.” He shook his head and started to close the door.
“I’m the person Mr. Van Der Veer hired to colorize your family photograph.”
The slight woman in the photograph appeared from behind the door. “A woman painter?”
“Yes ma’am.” Willow had thought about having special calling cards made but hadn’t been to see the printer yet. “I apologize for calling without invitation, but—”
Mrs. Flinn stepped forward. “Don’t you worry none about that.” Her smile didn’t reach her pine-bark brown eyes. “I’m Myrna Flinn.” She shook Willow’s hand, then pulled her over the threshold. “Missus Peterson?”