Twice a Bride

by Mona Hodgson

  A vase of cheery sunflowers sat on a round table beside the rocker. When Mr. Baxter brought them to her at the studio as a thank-you gift for her kindness, Trenton treated him as a valued guest, not unwanted riffraff. He’d even engaged in chitchat with Mr. Baxter, calling both the flowers and her lovely. Her face warmed in remembrance.

  She’d thought of Trenton Van Der Veer only as her employer until they sat on the bench in front of the post office and talked about Mr. Flinn’s prejudice against them. She’d even teased him some about his apology, and he’d bought her a box of pecan fudge. Not at all what she’d considered customary behavior for business associates.

  Setting the brush on the palette, she glanced at the portrait she’d propped in the rocking chair—the likeness of a vibrant twenty-year-old man with a sturdy chin and warm sienna-brown eyes. In some ways, it seemed she’d painted Sam’s image yesterday. But a lifetime had passed. Six years ago, she’d set up her sketch pad and easel at the shore of the San Joaquin River. After they’d enjoyed a picnic lunch, Sam posed for her. She’d presented the portrait to him as a wedding gift.

  She still missed him terribly, and she couldn’t think of anything she wouldn’t give to spend one more day with him, to hear his voice again.

  “Oh, Sam.” Tears stung her eyes. “I never expected death to part us so soon. Why did you have to go and leave me alone?” She leaned away from the drying canvases.

  When she’d finally emerged from the fog of melancholia and been released from the asylum, she was set on reconciling with her family and building a new life. Finding a job. Spending time with her brother and getting to know her new sister-in-law. She’d done all of those things and found pleasure in them. God had even provided her with work that fulfilled her dream of being a painter. She enjoyed Miss Hattie’s company, and her room was comfortable, but a longing for something more niggled at her.

  At one time, she’d wanted—expected—a home of her own. A family of her own.

  “What am I to do?”

  Talking to the painted image of a dead man wasn’t normal. Was it?

  Sam couldn’t help her now. He wasn’t hers to hold. Her new life without him and without her father was hers to live. She needed to decide what she wanted.

  Right now it was easier to say what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to be alone.

  Sam would always hold a special place in her heart, but she refused to let memories and unfulfilled dreams of their life together anchor her to the past.

  Tasting salty tears on her lips, she lifted the portrait and kissed Sam’s canvas mouth. She turned the canvas and set it back in the chair, facing away. “Good-bye, Sam.”

  Breathing a prayer for strength, she dipped the paintbrush in the white paint.

  She was like these canvases. The Lord had applied a thick base coat to her, to prepare her according to His purpose. Only God knew what she’d say hello to, but she surrendered herself for that something more.

  Hattie stood in front of her wardrobe, looking through her clothing choices. None of which seemed suitable this morning. Her navy blue dress was too plain. Her red dress, too flashy. Her white shirtwaist with a skirt seemed too stuffy. She hadn’t spent this much time selecting an outfit since the last time George had taken her out for supper at Maggie’s Third Street Café, nearly eleven years ago.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and reached into the wardrobe. The first outfit she touched she pulled off its hook. Opening one eye, she peeked at her choice. Thankfully, she’d chosen her blue calico dress. Not too bold, but not too sedate either. She smiled, remembering that Vivian told her the print made the blue in her blue-gray eyes shine.

  After Hattie had dressed and laced her brown boots, she pinned on a navy blue hat, then wrapped a matching wool shawl over her shoulders and took one last look at herself. The mirror had decided to be kind to her today. She glanced at the tin of red talcum on her dressing table. The rouge may have helped too.

  Her chance to shop for clothes with an eight-year-old girl came only once in … forty-six years, so far. She smoothed the scalloped collar at her neck one more time.

  “Miss Hattie?” Cherise’s voice wafted to the second floor.

  Oh, dear, she’d kept them waiting. “Venez. Coming.” Hattie plucked her handbag from the round table and rushed to the door, stopping short to take inventory.

  Boots, check.

  Dress, check.

  Hat, check.

  Handbag, check.

  It seemed like a silly exercise, but lately she hadn’t been thinking clearly. And the distractions had taken hold the same day Harlan Sinclair arrived in town.

  Hattie stepped onto the landing and looked toward the bottom of the staircase. Harlan stood beside Cherise, his arm draped on the little girl’s shoulder, looking up at Hattie. He smiled, and her knees weakened. A coincidence? Or was it just another of the mysterious effects this man seemed to have on her?

  She rested her hand on the polished pine railing and, as if she were sixteen and he’d come to escort her to a cotillion, she took measured steps toward him.

  As she approached the last few steps, Harlan’s eyes widened and a boyish grin reached his silver temples. He held his hand out to her. A dapper gentleman, Mr. Harlan Sinclair.

  Shifting her weight to better support her weak knees, Hattie smiled and placed her hand in his as she took the last step. Strong but gentle hands. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  Harlan dipped his chin. “My pleasure, my lady.”

  “You are beauty, Miss Hattie,” said Cherise.

  Harlan looked into her eyes. “Truer words can’t be spoken.”

  Heat rushed up her neck, and she stifled the nervous giggle in her throat. “Thank you.”

  Harlan looked at their connected hands and let go.

  Feeling a sudden chill, Hattie turned her attention to Cherise and cupped the girl’s soft cheek. “Thank you, dear. You are beauty too.”

  “I get a pretty dress?”

  “We’ll do our best,” Harlan said. “Won’t we, Miss Hattie?”

  We. Hattie swallowed those same cotillion butterflies gathering in her throat and nodded.

  “Your buggy awaits you.” Harlan opened the front door. While she’d dithered over which dress to wear, Harlan had gone to the livery and brought her horse and buggy to the house. She could get used to this.

  Cherise slipped her hand into Hattie’s, and Hattie practically floated down the porch steps. In the front seat beside Mr. Sinclair, Hattie couldn’t help but think Harlan and George would’ve gotten along well.

  Harlan gave the reins a gentle snap. The mare lunged forward, and they were on their way to town for a day of shopping fun.

  Hattie glanced back at Cherise. The child’s smile melted her heart. She could get used to this too. But she wasn’t a schoolgirl, and Harlan Sinclair clearly had enough women in his life—four daughters, Cherise, and now three granddaughters. Nell had been right about Vivian having twins. Thankfully, Vivian and both her tiny new daughters were faring well.

  Hattie looked up at their grandfather. “Harlan, do twins run in your family?”

  “My mother was a twin, but unlike Veronica and Victoria, her twin was a brother.” He looked at her. “You and your husband never had children?”

  A sweet little face came to her in a memory. “George and I had a daughter, Katie Louise.” Hattie moistened her lips. “She died at eight months old.”

  His laugh lines deepened into a frown. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. I awoke one night and the room was too quiet. I rushed to her cradle, but I was too late. She was already in God’s arms.”

  “No wonder you are so dear to my daughters.” His blue eyes shimmered. Were the tears for her? “You’re an amazing woman, Hattie Adams.” He was still speaking when he returned his attention to the road.

  A rather intimate conversation to have in an open buggy bumping down Fourth Avenue, stopping and starting at each crowded intersection. But Harlan was easy to ta
lk to.

  “Can we see the babies today?” Cherise asked.

  He glanced back at Cherise. “After our lunch, if Miss Hattie has the time.”

  Hattie smiled. “I’d like that.”

  All the time in the world didn’t feel like it would be enough.

  Thirty minutes later, Hattie was happily squeezed into a fitting room with Cherise. The little girl squirmed as Hattie fastened the buttons on the first of five dresses they’d found for her to try on.

  “Miss Hattie?” Cherise looked up, her dark eyes shining. “Je t’aime.”

  Hattie’s fingers stilled and tears clogged her throat. “I love you too, dear.”

  “And Monsieur Sinclair?”

  “He loves you too.” His actions toward the child clearly told her so.

  “You love him?”

  Hattie gulped air and coughed. “He is a very nice man.”

  “You laugh with him.”

  “I do.” Hearing those two words come from her mouth warmed her face.

  “You do love him?”

  “I’m very fond of Mr. Sinclair. Yes.” Why wouldn’t she love him? After all, they were practically family.

  Because of his daughters.

  Trenton pulled another print out of the tray and hung it on the line. His Wednesday had started earlier than usual. And far more abruptly. He’d been deep into a delightful dream when his neighbor’s dog began barking relentlessly. He’d later discovered the dog had good reason but not good sense. The canine had lost a predawn stare-down with a short-tempered polecat, and the unfortunate mutt was outside being forced into a tub of suds.

  When Trenton’s attempt to return to sleep failed, he’d decided a brisk walk to Mount Pisgah and back might provide much-needed time for contemplation. He’d returned to town and opened the office at eight o’clock.

  Now, as he slid the last print out of the fixer, he recalled the dream. Again. Willow Peterson walked toward him wearing a frilly pink dress and beaming a smile that rivaled the brightest ray of sunshine. Mollie Kathleen Gortner walked beside her, carrying a garden spade. Tucker Raines stood with Trenton, holding an open Bible.

  Trenton returned the fixer to its jug and stowed it under the printing table. Pausing, he shook his head. It was only a dream. A crazy dream inspired by a delusional mine owner who liked to talk about marital status and seeds that need tending. He wiped the table and tidied the shelf of chemicals above it. He and Willow may have planted seeds of friendship, but he couldn’t expect anything more. He wasn’t marriage material—a blithering fool and a heathen to boot. He picked the trimmings from the day’s prints from the floor.

  The bell sounded on the outside door.

  “W-welcome. Be r-right—”

  “Morning, Trenton. It’s only me.” It was the voice of the man who had stood beside him in the dream with an open Bible.

  Had Tucker seen him through the window in the sanctuary door? Maybe the little old man who’d seen Trenton sitting in the foyer told him. Or was he here for a different reason? Mrs. Peterson?

  “Be r-right there, R-Reverend.” He pulled the chain on the light in the darkroom and stepped out into the office.

  Reverend Raines stood at the counter. “Tucker. Please call me Tucker.”

  “Is your sister all right?”

  “She’s fine, as far as I know. I haven’t seen her since Sunday, but she seemed fine at church. She even won a game of checkers at our Sunday lunch.” Tucker removed his felt preacher’s hat. “Never mind that it was an eight-year-old girl she beat.” Chuckling, he met Trenton’s gaze as he feigned seriousness. “You can’t tell her I said that.”

  Trenton raised his hand as if to take a vow. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Ironic word choice. And here he was talking to the brother of the subject of his recent dreams. “We men have to stick together.” He glanced at the wood stove in the corner. “You want a c-cup of coffee?”

  “Sounds good. Feels like an early snow is on its way.”

  “C-coffee’s boiled.” Trenton pointed to the extra chair in front of the desk. “I didn’t have electricity on the road in the photographic v-van.”

  Tucker seated himself and set his hat on the desk. “Sounds like we’ve both drunk a lot of campfire coffee. I was an itinerant preacher before coming to Cripple Creek.”

  This preacher wasn’t anything like the fraudulent Reverend Olum. For one thing, Tucker hadn’t looked down on Trenton or accused him of living a sinful life that caused his affliction. He was down to earth. He’d even told a funny story about himself in his sermon last Sunday. Trenton pulled two mugs from the bottom drawer and filled them with hot coffee.

  “Thanks.” Tucker took a full mug from him. “Have you always had a stammer?”

  “S-since I was a boy, sch-school age, I guess.”

  Tucker blew across the top of his coffee. “And photography, how long you been interested in that?”

  “Almost as long. My mother was d-dragging me to see another sp-speech therapist when we had to w-wait for a photographic van to roll by.” Trenton paused. “I s-stared at the poster on the side until she pulled me away. The next day I saw the m-man taking photographs in front of the courthouse. I talked to him while my mother was in the dry-goods store.” He took another deep breath. It felt good to get the whole story out. “What about you? Born with a Bible in your hand, were you?”

  Tucker chuckled and gulped coffee. “Nope. Mine wasn’t a churchgoing family. Until my father’s last couple years of life, he figured he was good enough to get to heaven, if there was one. He wouldn’t admit to needing any help. Probably assumed he could talk his way in when the time came.”

  Sounded familiar. Trenton resisted the impulse to loosen his collar.

  “My brothers-in-law and I gather on Wednesday mornings for Bible study and prayer,” Tucker said. “We meet at Morgan Cutshaw’s house on Carr Avenue. I just came from there. You’re welcome to join us next week, if you like.”

  Trenton slid his finger along the inside of his collar. It was so much easier to avoid such discussions and expectations when he was on the road, moving from town to town. “I’ll think about it.”

  Tucker nodded, and his lazy smile said he knew a dismissal when he heard one. He pushed himself up in the chair and set his coffee mug on the desk. “I almost forgot what I came here for. We’re having a church picnic a week from Sunday, on the sixteenth. I thought it’d be nice to have a group photo taken.”

  “Folks m-might object to me w-working on Sunday.”

  Nodding, Tucker plucked his hat from the desk. “Then I guess you’ll have to come take photographs for the sheer fun of it.” He stood. “We’d pay you a sitting fee. And folks who want to pay for prints can stop by the studio during the week.”

  Trenton sighed. “Fair enough.”

  “But you’ll want to make sure you allow plenty of time to sample my wife’s potato salad and Miss Hattie’s fried chicken. Not to mention my sister’s apple pie.”

  Willow Peterson. The perfect reason for him to attend.

  “I’ll be there, and I can have prints ready by Monday afternoon.”

  “I’m happy to hear it.” Tucker brushed the brim of his hat. “Good day then.” He was almost to the door when he turned. “It was good to see you in church this past Sunday.” A grin crept across his face. “Maybe this Sunday you’ll venture all the way into the sanctuary?”

  Trenton smiled. “I’ll think about that too.”

  Yep. He liked Reverend Raines. It was his feelings for the man’s sister that troubled him.

  Nell wrapped another diaper around Victoria. The fifth since she’d arrived at the cabin this morning. Thankfully only one of the twins was having issues with Vivian’s milk today. Content to sleep away the hours, Veronica made sweet sleep noises in the cradle while Vivian gathered their dinner dishes. Her sister had already washed a load of diapers and hung them on the line.

  Now, her hands full of soup bowls, Vivian turned toward the sink and tripped on th
e base of the cradle.

  “Ouch!”

  Nell instinctively bent over the cradle to protect Victoria, but somehow Vivian managed to keep hold of the dishes and steady herself. She straightened.

  “How ever did you manage not to drop those?” Nell asked.

  “Practice. Good to know I learned something of value during my days as a hostess.” The sarcasm added a shimmer to Vivian’s brown eyes. When she finished pinning the diaper, Nell pulled Victoria’s dress down and lifted her from the bed. The crunch of wagon wheels on the rocky road out front drew Nell and Vivian to the open window. Father sat tall beside Miss Hattie, at the reins in her surrey. Cherise sat behind them, next to a mound of packages. Today was the grand shopping day for school clothes.

  Without looking away from the window, Vivian stroked the top of Victoria’s hairless head. “They’re all smiling. I’d say the shopping excursion was a success.”

  “Perhaps in more ways than one?”

  Vivian dipped her chin and nodded, a grin framing her thin lips.

  The three of them looked every bit a family, despite the extreme age spread between Cherise and the adults. Now that Nell had observed her father with the child and gotten to know her better, it wasn’t surprising that he wanted to provide a home and a family for her.

  “They do make a rather sweet family, don’t they?” Vivian arched a thin eyebrow.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Nell walked to the door. “I doubt he’d be able to turn Cherise over to any of us now.”

  “I think it’s Father’s turn for a second chance, and I’m praying he’ll see the light and take a wife.”

  “Miss Hattie? Do you think—”

  Vivian opened the door and stepped out onto the small stoop. “You watch the two of them together for a few minutes,” she whispered, “then tell me what you think.”

  Hattie cradled baby Victoria in the crook of her arm and breathed in her sweetness—a blend of talc and mother’s milk. This day bubbled with bliss. Shopping with Cherise and Harlan, then lunch at the Third Street Café. Harlan had told them about the report he’d submitted to the railroad after the train wreck and about the letter they’d sent, offering him a job in the Cripple Creek District. He planned to remain.