by Mona Hodgson
“Yes. Please call me Willow.”
The one-room cabin housed a ticking potbellied stove, a couple of worn armchairs, and a braided rug. The little girl from the photograph sat in a wooden highchair beside a rough-hewn table.
“This here’s our girl, Ruby,” Myrna said.
Ruby held a spoonful of what might have been oatmeal above a shallow tin bowl, and Willow guessed her to be less than two years old. She smiled at the child, noting the little girl’s aqua blue eyes and creamy skin tone.
“Please, won’t you sit for a spell?” Myrna pointed to one of the two chairs at the table.
“Thank you.” Willow seated herself, but the woman of the house didn’t sit. Instead her husband slid into the chair across from Willow.
Standing behind him, Myrna glanced at her sparse kitchen area and met Willow’s gaze. “I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”
“No, thank you. I won’t keep you long.” Leaving her reticule on her lap, Willow folded her hands on the table and met Mr. Flinn’s steely gaze. “As I said, Mr. Flinn, I’ll be colorizing the photograph for you. I wanted to meet your family so I could do justice to the hair and eye colors for each of you.”
He huffed. “It figures that dandy would hire a woman to do a man’s job.”
Willow reared her head as if she’d been struck, but she kept her tongue quiet. She’d let Mr. Flinn keep the job of slinging insults. Still standing behind her husband, Myrna worried her bottom lip.
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Somethin’ wrong with you too that you don’t have a problem workin’ for a man that can’t even talk proper?” Mr. Flinn sneered. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how the man spits and sputters his words like a simpleton or somebody that’s afraid of his own shadow.”
Willow had found Mr. Van Der Veer to be quite intelligent and his studio more organized than her armoire. Barks. Spits. Both were words she’d used to categorize Mr. Van Der Veer’s speech, and both were products of his stammering, not anger.
“S-s-s-sit st-st-st-still.” Mr. Flinn snickered. He sounded like a snake, and she’d had enough of his poison.
Willow stood, wishing she’d accepted a glass of water so she could throw it at him. “You would fault a man for stammering? I’d think long and hard on that, Mr. Flinn. Smug self-righteousness is an actual weakness, a very ugly one indeed.” Choking the handle on her reticule, she regarded the trembling woman beside the highchair. “Good day, Myrna.” She let herself out, her hand shaking as she clicked the door shut.
Willow looked over her shoulder at every turn to see if the insufferable Mr. Flinn had followed her. The walk down the hill, fueled by ire and fear, went much more quickly than her ascent. Whether her anger was righteous or not, she was furious. How could that sweet woman live with such a hateful man?
Turning right onto Bennett Avenue, she heard someone calling her name. She jumped, even though it was a woman’s voice and a familiar voice. Her sister-in-law walked toward her.
“I’m on my way to the telegraph office. Saw you round the corner.” Ida gave her a quick hug. “Are you coming from the boardinghouse?”
“I wish that were the case. I wouldn’t mind starting this day anew. The whole week, in fact.”
Ida raised a thin eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scowl on your face. Have you been tangling with a vermin?”
The image made Willow smile. She stepped closer to the building to let people pass on the boardwalk. “Yesterday I tangled with my boss. Today, a client. Most likely a former client now.”
“Doesn’t sound like you to tangle with anyone.”
“Yes, well …” Willow sighed. “Mr. Van Der Veer stutters. He became annoyed yesterday, and I thought he was yelling at me.” She blew out a long breath. “Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I know it was the stammering that made the words jerk out and sound like he was barking at me.”
“Where are you headed now?”
“Carmen’s Confectionary.”
“Nothing like a bite of candy to soothe battle wounds. Think I’ll join you.” Ida hooked Willow’s arm. “It’s been too long since we’ve talked, and I’m in the mood for a story.”
Willow took the first step. “I just wish I knew it was going to end well.”
As they strolled up Bennett, she regaled Ida with tales of Mr. Baxter and her boss’s scolding, then of Mr. Flinn’s prejudice against businesswomen and men with stuttering issues. She was telling her about the Help Wanted sign in the window when they crossed the street in front of the candy shop.
“Well, if you start missing iceboxes, you know where to find me.” Ida’s grin warmed Willow’s heart and felt like a well-timed gift from God.
Trenton pulled the brush through his stallion’s mane and looked up at Jesse. “Why do I always make such a mess of things?”
Jesse tossed a pitchfork full of hay into the stall. “Because you insist on talking to women?”
Trenton chuckled. He could always count on two things from his friend: laughter and truth.
“If we men insist on talking to women, we’re sure to be misunderstood.” Jesse leaned on the pitchfork.
“The reason we’re b-both still single.”
“Speak for yourself, buddy.” Jesse jabbed Trenton’s shoulder. “I’m single by choice.”
Trenton nodded. He’d made the choice to remain single, but that hadn’t been his plan.
“Misunderstanding or not, it seems to me your employee overreacted to your concerns.”
“Agreed.” Trenton set the brush on the shelf. “J-just the same, her work is a cut above, and I chased her off.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad.”
Trenton grimaced. “I told her fleas have more c-common sense than she does.”
“No.”
Trenton nodded. “I asked if her h-husband knew she was sociable with riffraff.”
“What’d she say to that?”
Trenton refrained from squaring his shoulders and jutting out his chin in the retelling. “I can talk with whomever I pl-please, Mr. Van Der Veer. My husband is not here to c-care. He’s d-dead.”
Jesse let out a long, low whistle.
Trenton left the stall. “Life was easier living out of a van … that moved from t-town to town.”
Jesse raked his hand through his hair. “I never said setting down roots would be easy. Only that it was time you did it.”
“Well, it’s not w-working out.” Trenton sank onto a bale of hay. “Mrs. Peterson left the office before I’d p-paid her for the p-portrait.”
“Did you send it to her?”
“Archie took it to her, along with f-four new canvases.”
“A generous gesture. And you apologized for upsetting her?”
Trenton scrubbed his cheek. “Not in so many words.”
“You thought the gift would say it for you.”
“You know me too w-well.” Trenton stared at Jesse’s firing furnace at the back. “Haven’t heard a w-word from her.”
Jesse hooked a thumb in his coveralls. “You’re gonna need the Lord’s help to fix this.”
Trenton’s back tensed.
“You’ve been on your own for a long while, and you don’t think you need anyone, but …” Jesse’s sentence trailed off.
Maybe Trenton did need someone, but it wasn’t God. “If G-God cared about me like you’ve said, things wou-would’ve been different.”
“How do you know things aren’t better than they would be if He didn’t care?”
Good question. Had God stopped him from marrying the wrong woman? Trenton stood and dusted off his backside. “I suppose it isn’t fair to blame G-God for my insensitivity to Mrs. Peterson’s b-benevolence.” She’d obviously lived through a lot more than he’d given her credit for, and those experiences were probably what made her more compassionate than many of the other women he’d met. His trials should have done the same for him. Perhaps, if he had Jesse’s faith, they would have. He slid his hands in his trouser
pockets. “You think it’s improper for me to go to the b-boardinghouse where Mrs. Peterson lives to apolo-gize?”
“It would be if you didn’t take candy with you.”
Trenton drew in a deep breath. “I’ll stop at the c-confectionary first.”
“Good thinkin’.” A wide grin filled Jesse’s face.
“Thanks.”
Waving, Trenton walked outside and headed up Bennett Avenue. He wasn’t sure showing up at the boardinghouse uninvited was his best idea, and taking candy with him seemed forward, but he had to do something to make things right. Even though he hadn’t been wrong in recognizing the danger Mrs. Peterson could put herself in by talking to inebriated old men, he was mistaken to allow his fear to magnify his reaction. If the tears glistening in her green eyes weren’t seared into his memory, he might be able to believe he hadn’t compared her common sense to that of a flea and asked about her husband’s knowledge of her behavior.
Two blocks down, Trenton stopped in front of the confectionary. Four youths walked out, and one held the door for him. After he thanked the young man, Trenton stepped inside and was met by a host of appetizing scents. Caramel. Taffy. Chocolate. He closed the door.
Two young women in fashionable bonnets stood at the counter with their backs to him. One was engaged in a conversation with an older woman behind the candy case. The other young woman studied the trays of delectable indulgences, which was what he wanted to do.
He took a few steps forward, and the woman glanced in his direction. She looked familiar. He would remember if she’d been in for a sitting. And she wasn’t the librarian or a waitress from the café. Where else would he have seen her?
Ah, the train wreck. Yes, she was the woman who had climbed into the tipped car to rescue a little girl.
Smiling at him with a hint of recognition in her eyes, she tapped her companion’s shoulder.
The woman in the stylish brown hat turned, and he wondered how he hadn’t recognized her sooner. It was his employee—at least he hoped she still worked for him. The frown bunching her cheeks didn’t bode well for him.
He removed his hat. “Mrs. Peterson. How are you f-faring?” Stupid question.
Her mouth softened. “If you’re asking if I’m still angry with you, no.” She glanced at her companion, then back at him. “Perhaps a little. But not for all the same reasons.”
Was he supposed to understand that?
The woman from the train wreck cleared her throat.
Mrs. Peterson pulled herself upright. “Mr. Van Der Veer, permit me to present to you my sister-in-law, Mrs. Tucker Raines.” Very properly, she addressed her companion. “Mr. Van Der Veer is a renowned photographer.” She turned to him. “Mrs. Raines manages the Raines Ice Company.”
“Ida Raines.” The reverend’s wife reached out and shook his hand. “I saw you taking photographs in Phantom Canyon, and I’m happy to meet you officially.”
“Yes, and I, you. I saw you l-lifting a little girl out of one of the wr-wrecked cars.”
“As it turned out, my father was on that train and traveling with the child.”
“And they’re both w-well?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He returned his attention to Mrs. Peterson. “I didn’t get a chance to t-tell you I like your b-business name—Portraits by Willow.”
Without any reaction to his compliment, she moistened her lips. “Could we step outside?”
He motioned for her to lead the way to the door, then held it for her.
“Excuse, Missus Peterson?”
Mrs. Peterson turned toward the petite woman behind the counter.
“You sure you don’t want the job here?”
Mrs. Peterson looked at him, a puzzling gleam lighting her eyes. “I’m sure.” Swinging her reticule, she stepped out onto the boardwalk and pointed to the empty bench in front of the post office. When he joined her on the far end of the bench, she shifted to face him. “I don’t want to keep you from your business.”
He glanced toward the confectionary. “I came to buy you candy.”
Her cheeks turned bright pink, a shade complimentary to the pine-cone brown curl dangling at her ear.
“You came for a j-job?” he asked.
“No. There happened to be a Help Wanted sign in the window, and—”
“You have a job.”
She raised her rounded chin. “After yesterday, I wasn’t so sure I wanted it.”
Another helping of her startling but refreshing directness. “I p-planned to bring the candy by the boardinghouse with a proper verbal apology for my p-poor behavior.”
She drew in a deep breath. “You may prefer I buy you candy to accompany my own apology.”
“Your apology?”
“I went to see the Flinn family this morning, and the man was nigh to impossible to—”
“W-worse than I am?”
She smiled, and he wished he’d had his camera set for it. “Worse. He’s a bigoted troublemaker.”
Her severe pronouncement knotted his stomach.
“I may have lost the job of colorizing their photograph. I’m usually not given to fits of rage, but I’m afraid his blathering set me mad.”
Trenton fought the chuckle bubbling in his throat. “Worse than measuring your c-common sense against that of a f-flea?”
“Much worse, actually. Mr. Flinn doesn’t approve of your decision to hire a woman for what he considers a man’s job.”
“Oh.” Trenton met her gaze. “It makes no d-difference what he thinks. You’re the artist I hired, and it’s his p-privilege to have you working on his photograph.” He paused, waiting for a couple to pass. “To avoid any f-further misunderstanding, I’m apologizing for the insensitive handling of my c-concern, not for the concern itself.”
“Fair enough.”
“One more thing.” He worried the brim of his hat. “I’m f-finding it hard to believe a man’s disapproval of a woman working in business, as outdated as it is, would be enough to make you that m-mad.”
She blanched, then stood and met his gaze. “He knows nothing about God’s intentions for women or God’s view of difficulties, such as stuttering.”
Standing, Trenton set his hat squarely on his head. Mr. Flinn had ridiculed his speech, and Willow Peterson had gotten mad enough to stand up to him in his own home. This was no ordinary woman. Concerned she may be able to read his thoughts, he looked away.
“We best return to the candy store before my sister-in-law comes looking for us,” Mrs. Peterson said.
He nodded and motioned for her to take the lead.
Instead she kept her gaze on him steady. “Less common sense than a flea? Really?”
He felt his ears burn. “Are you ever going to f-forget that?”
“I could be persuaded.” She glanced toward the candy shop. “I like the pecan fudge.”
And he liked her.
He should have known she was a widow. Boardinghouses were for single women. And a married woman didn’t take herself out for ice cream.
At least now he knew his attraction wasn’t being directed toward a married woman.
An autumn rain tapped a steady rhythm on the fringed roof over Hattie’s head. She’d taken Harlan Sinclair up on his offer to drive them to church this morning. Willow kept Cherise company in the backseat.
Hattie couldn’t take her mind off the little girl whose story had captured her heart. She hadn’t heard Cherise’s cries the last couple of nights, but the child had to be unbearably lonely. At eight years old, she should be in school, spending time with children her age. And the poor girl had only brought two changes of day clothes with her. Today, she wore a blue pleated wool skirt and white button shirt with a band collar.
Hattie stole a quick glance at the man seated beside her. Silver streaked his neatly trimmed hair and auburn mustache. Since their talk in the kitchen Friday morning when she burned the potatoes, things had been different between them. The strain had disappeared, and they’d enjoyed sev
eral conversations during meals and laughed over tea or coffee in the parlor. He’d begun to share some of his experiences working in Paris and getting to know Pierre Renard. She told him stories from her ten years of running a boardinghouse.
Perhaps she’d earned the right to mention her concern about Cherise’s education. But she’d wait until this evening after the child was tucked in for the night. In the meantime, she’d talk to Vivian about making something new for Cherise to wear. Hopefully to school, where she’d learn more English.
When the white steeple came into view, Harlan slowed the two horses to an even gait. Despite the rain, folks milled about outside under umbrellas. Hattie pulled two umbrellas off the seat. She’d found the small one for Cherise. One of the many things people tended to leave at the boardinghouse when they departed.
She glanced back at the round-faced Cherise. “Êtes vous allée à l’église en France?” Her French was a little rusty, but hopefully the girl understood she was asking about her church attendance in France.
“Oui. With Papa and Monsieur Sinclair.”
“Our church services … umm … réunions de l’église are a little different here, no?”
“Oui. More fun.”
Hattie smiled and nodded. Tucker was definitely less formal in the structure of the services. She’d heard Morgan refer to it as Holy Spirit–inspired spontaneity. As she turned back around, she met Harlan’s gaze.
His smile revealed perfectly even teeth. “How is it that you know French?”
“Camille, my best friend on the trail, was French.”
“The Oregon Trail?”
“Yes. My family traveled in a wagon from Missouri to California.”
He looked at the road ahead, then back at her. “Another story you can tell me over coffee.”
Willow watched as Mr. Sinclair jumped down and rushed around the surrey. He held his hand out to Miss Hattie and helped her to the ground.
It seemed her landlady had at least two good prospects for a husband, even if she wasn’t in the market for one. Hattie obviously enjoyed an ease and a history with Mr. Boney Hughes since their youth. But Mr. Sinclair had a flair for genteel manners and a definite family connection. A family Hattie already loved as her own.