Twice a Bride

by Mona Hodgson

  Sunday.

  He tightened the miter clamp on a strip of pine. The day of the week never mattered much to him on the road. He was usually in the photographic van, headed to the next town, content to wander. Until Jesse suggested he put down roots in Cripple Creek. Maybe his current restlessness had nothing to do with wandering or roots and everything to do with what he’d left behind in Kansas—his dream of taking a wife and raising a family. He loosened the clamp and repositioned the board to cut the other end.

  Tucker Raines wasn’t judgmental or pushy. The reverend had seen him through the small window to the foyer, but he hadn’t pointed him out and made a spectacle of inviting him inside.

  He was a restrained and clever man of God. By inviting him to the men’s Bible study first, he’d made attending the church picnic seem harmless. He’d presented it as a job. But Trenton never should have agreed to participate, even if it afforded him the opportunity to see Willow in a social setting and taste her apple pie.

  “Maybe this Sunday you’ll venture all the way into the sanctuary?”

  He wasn’t ready for that, but he was curious.

  Trenton laid the backsaw on the worktable and went to the trunk in his bedroom. Kneeling, he dug through the worn winter clothes to where his Bible lay. The best way to figure out what the reverend was talking about last Sunday was to read that fifth chapter of Romans for himself.

  Monday morning Hattie set her teacup in its saucer and looked across the small kitchen table at Harlan, an activity that had grown comfortable. The unanswered question between them, however, was most uncomfortable. She’d never been an indecisive person and hated that she’d kept Harlan waiting on her answer since Wednesday.

  He’d sent Cherise for her schoolbag, and Willow hadn’t come down for breakfast yet, affording her an opportunity to give her answer. She smiled, praying for the right words and the courage to speak them.

  Harlan set his coffee cup on the table, wrapping his hands around it. His eyes were a deeper blue this morning. “This afternoon I’ll find another place for me and Cherise to live.”

  She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to object to his plans. It made sense that they not be under the same roof, given the personal nature of their relationship.

  “Your silence is your answer,” he continued. “I shouldn’t have expected you to marry me out of your fondness for Cherise.”

  Hattie set her cup in the saucer, its rattle stretching the silence. She should tell Harlan why she couldn’t marry him. That she loved him but refused to settle for a marriage of convenience, even though she loved Cherise and wanted to help him raise her.

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away. “I’m sorry. I wish—”

  Cherise dashed in, wearing her new green dress. “My bag is by porte.”

  “Door.” Hattie offered her the English word. She’d miss these opportunities to help the child learn the language.

  Harlan shifted his attention to his charge. “Very good.” He stood. “We’ll have our breakfast, little one, then see you off to school.”

  Cherise gave Hattie’s neck a squeeze. “I like new dress.”

  “And you look lovely in it, sweet girl.”

  Harlan and Cherise left the room hand in hand.

  At the stove, Hattie contemplated if being loved by a man was overrated. Women throughout history had settled for being cared for, and most had done quite well. Cherise loved her. Couldn’t that be enough to make them a family?

  Midafternoon, Hattie pulled the tray of apple tarts from her oven and set it on a trivet. Cinnamon and apple scented the kitchen, and she breathed in its tantalizing fragrance.

  Autumn had come to Colorado, her favorite time of year. She glanced out the window at the sycamore tree. Its swaying branches waved crimson, golden, and burnt-orange flags. The cooling winds signaled relief from summer’s heat. Hattie sighed. She knew better than to entertain schoolgirl notions at her age, but she’d let herself think Harlan Sinclair could be her autumn, that he’d swept into Cripple Creek, bringing a change of seasons with him.

  Taking part in four weddings in less than two years had obviously softened her heart toward the prospect of a second marriage. But George had done too good a job of cherishing her. She wasn’t ready to be the wife of a man who didn’t love her, no matter how much she loved Harlan, Cherise, and the entire Sinclair family. She couldn’t settle for anything less than love.

  A knock on the kitchen door alerted her that Boney had arrived for coffee and chatter. A well-timed visit, if her friend was ready for the insurmountable task of cheering her up.

  “Come in.” She filled his coffee mug and met him at the door.

  Boney stepped inside, wearing trousers and a coat with a new felt hat. He sniffed the air like a hound on a hunt. “You must have known I was coming.” She loved her whiskered friend’s boyish grin. “You’ve been baking again.” He lifted the tray off the countertop and took it and his cup to the table.

  Baking usually helped her think, but she’d been doing far too much of both lately. She carried two plates and forks to the table, along with her cup of tea. “You’re all shined up for the second time in less than a month. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to woo me.” She smiled and seated herself.

  Boney’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “I gave up on that a long time ago.”

  Hattie nodded. And for good reason. She didn’t love him in that way.

  He tugged on his neatly trimmed beard and sat down. “I have been seeing someone though.”

  “It’s about time. You aren’t getting any younger.”

  Boney opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn’t.

  “Harlan asked me to marry him.” Hattie hadn’t meant to blurt it out.

  Boney blew out a long whistle. “You win. Your news is bigger than mine.” He pointed a crooked finger at her. “You go first.”

  “Wednesday was a heavenly day. Harlan took Cherise clothes shopping and invited me along. We had such a grand time picking out skirts, frocks, and shirtwaists, even a couple of bonnets.” She sipped her tea. “He bought my lunch at the café and took me and Cherise to the cabin to see Vivian’s twins.”

  “It sounds like a cozy family time to me.”

  “It was.” Dreaminess laced her voice, but she didn’t care. “Then he said he wanted to talk to me privately.” She stirred a little more sugar into her cup. “We went out on the porch swing. That’s where he proposed.”

  Boney let out a low whistle. “And?”

  “I said no.”

  Boney hung his head and peered at her. “You still have that bad habit, do you?”

  She swatted at him as if he were a buzzing fly. “This is different.”

  “I would’ve thought so. You love him, don’t you?”

  “I might.”

  Boney slid an apple tart onto each of their plates and added forks. He looked at her, the lines at his eyes softening. “Remember, I’ve seen love on you before.”

  “I remember.” Boney was there when she fell for George.

  Boney sat back in his chair. “You love the little girl. And if you love Harlan Sinclair, why did you turn him down?”

  “He needs a mother for Cherise. That’s why he asked me.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “That’s not enough for you.”

  “You know me well.” Hattie reached for her teacup. “Now it’s your turn. You said you’re seeing someone. Anyone I know?”

  “Etta Ondersma.”

  “Etta? I sat beside her at church yesterday, and she didn’t mention anything to me about a fuzzy old miner courting her.”

  “Etta knows you and I are close friends. And I wanted to tell you myself. I knew I’d be coming over today.”

  “That’s good.” At least one widow in the district would …

  “Are you jealous?” he asked.

  “Don’t be silly. We’re not children, and this isn’t the school yard.” No matter how they act
ed at times. She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Companions are important, and I’m happy to hear you and Etta are together.”

  Boney raised his hand, his eyes wide. “Whoa. Back up the wagon. I haven’t proposed or any such thing. I saw her at the post office, and we got to talking. Mostly about you. We went to the ice-cream parlor and visited. She invited me to the church picnic Sunday.”

  Hattie knew Boney. He wasn’t superficial. He had been living in dusty coveralls for more than a dozen years and didn’t slick up on a whim. He’d known Etta and her late husband for several years. He and Etta were already friends, which could form a solid foundation for a marriage.

  Hattie wagged her finger in front of him. “One bite of Etta’s sourdough bread rolls at the picnic, and you’ll be in love.”

  “Then you ought to make sure Harlan gets a big dose of your fried chicken.” He laughed, and she joined him.

  A silly thought. But as soon as he left, she’d head to the grocer and buy three of his biggest chickens.

  Susanna spritzed her neck with a rose-scented toilet water. She set the bottle on the tiny dressing table in her room and pressed her wrists into the spray. While camped in stage stops between Denver and Cripple Creek, she’d feared this day would never come.

  She’d underestimated how long and dirty a six-day wagon ride between the two cities would be. Not to mention Mr. Johnstone’s dreariness. He could bore a laughing hyena. And it was just her luck the attorney decided to leave his carriage at home so he could deliver a wagon full of furniture to his parents.

  Despite her fear that she’d die in a scratchy bedroll out in the middle of nowhere, he did finally deliver her to a boardinghouse in Cripple Creek. That was late yesterday morning, nearly thirty hours ago. After two hot baths, she was finally feeling clean and rested enough to make her debut in town.

  Susanna pulled the calendar and fountain pen off her bedside table, noted her arrival, and circled today’s date. Friday, the fourteenth of October—the day she would reunite with Trenton Van Der Veer. She tucked a fresh handkerchief and a floral fan into her reticule, then lifted the purple hat off the bed. She used the pearl hatpins her father had given her last Christmas and pinned the hat in place, allowing for a flirtatious tilt. Adding a touch of rouge to her lips, she took one last glance at herself in the mirror. The purple dress she’d found in Denver was fitted perfectly and offered just the right balance between respectable lady and vixen. She pulled a golden curl down to frame her eyes, then nodded. Her reunion with the prestigious photographer would be fully developed by sundown.

  Descending the staircase at the Downtowner Inn, she practiced what she hoped would be a tantalizing gait. She’d telephoned a boardinghouse called Miss Hattie’s before leaving Denver, but the woman had no rooms available. This dive would have to suffice until she was able to move into a nicer place with Trenton.

  The afternoon air was crisp, but the sun warmed her as she made her way to Bennett Avenue. The proprietor of the inn told her where she could find the Photography Studio, her first stop in town. Unlike Scandia, Cripple Creek’s main street boasted new brick and sandstone buildings with brightly painted factory storefronts. Among other shops, including a confectionary, she’d seen a millinery, a fashion designer’s shop, and at least two opera houses. The quaint little city would do until she was able to convince Trenton to pursue their dream of a studio in New York.

  On First Street, she blew out a long breath and looked up at the wooden sign hanging over the boardwalk ahead of her: Photography Studio. She’d have to talk to Trenton about her ideas for a more creative business name. Something so trite would never do in a fashionable city like New York. But first things first.

  Approaching the window in front of his shop, she fluffed the flouncing at her neckline and moistened her lips. Before she reached the door, a large framed sign propped in the window captured her attention: Portraits by Willow.

  Susanna stared at it. Trenton had no doubt made the frame, but since when had he started offering painted portraits? And who was Willow?

  She’d save the questions for later, after she’d melted his cold heart. She practiced an enticing smile in the reflective glass, then sauntered to the door. Locked. Then she noticed the slate board propped on an easel behind it.

  I’ll return at 4:00 p.m. Trenton’s handwriting—neat and tidy.

  Susanna knocked anyway, just in case he was there, behind one of the two closed doors on the back wall. No response. Just her luck that she’d gotten all gussied up for him, and he wasn’t even here. She sighed, then lifted her chin. She’d just have to return after four o’clock.

  In the meantime, she’d find out who this woman was who apparently worked for Trenton. All she needed was a busybody. She’d seen the post office on Bennett Avenue. Perhaps someone there could point her in the right direction.

  Returning to the main street, Susanna chided herself for not considering the possibility that she might have competition for Trenton’s affections. She hadn’t given the likelihood a single thought. Why would she? The newspapers back home prided themselves on reporting the desperate need for women in the West. Why, she’d even read advertisements asking women to travel to California or Colorado as mail-order brides. A dreadful thought.

  If Denver was an indicator, the reports of an overpopulation of men were accurate. The city where Helen’s brother lived boasted a much higher percentage of men than women, and if the case here in Cripple Creek was any different, she had yet to see evidence of it. At least nine of the ten people she passed on the boardwalk or saw milling about were males.

  Susanna glanced across the street at the post office. She’d cross at the next corner. She just knew she had nothing to worry about. Willow of Portraits by Willow was probably an ugly, old spinster with heaps of time on her hands for painting. Although her business name didn’t sound particularly spinsterish. If not a spinster, then Willow was most likely a hag who had come west to snag a husband. Either way, Susanna needn’t worry. Trenton was a man of culture and principles. He wouldn’t become romantically entangled with a defective or married woman.

  Susanna was across the street and approaching the post office when a boy not much past puberty stepped out the door, carrying an armload of packages.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she called.

  He glanced behind him, then back at her, a shock of dark hair spilling over one eye.

  “I was speaking to you, young man.”

  Nervous laughter shook his gangly shoulders. “You’re new in town.”

  “I am, but I have friends here.”

  “My father’s the only sir in our family. I’m Archie.”

  “Looks to me like you’re doing the work of a sir, Archie.”

  He glanced at the packages. “Yes, well, among other things around here, I’m a courier.”

  “A very important job.” She pressed a fingertip to her chin, tilting her head slightly. “Speaking of which, Archie, I understand you do a fine job delivering packages for my friend Trenton Van Der Veer, the photographer over on First Street.”

  “Yes ma’am. Gotten real busy since Mr. Van Der Veer hired Missus Peterson and they started sending packages back and forth.”

  Mrs. Unless he’d hired someone else as well. “Willow Peterson?”

  “Yes. Portraits by Willow—has a nice ring to it, don’t it?”

  “It does.” Just as she’d suspected, his portrait painter was married. “They must keep you awfully busy running back and forth to her place.”

  “Nah. Miss Hattie’s isn’t all that far.” He glanced up the hill behind her.

  Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse. The very one she’d called first for a room.

  Why would a married woman take up residence at a boardinghouse?

  Trenton signed the note and slid it into the package with the four photographs. Three people had commissioned portraits and one more wanted color added to the print. Hopefully, this person would be more agreeable with Willow than Mr.
Flinn had been. If not, he’d cancel the job himself. The money was of far lesser value than her smile.

  How anyone could be so rude to such a kindhearted woman was beyond his understanding. The image of Willow sitting at the counter in the ice-cream parlor sprang to mind. She’d looked so innocent and childlike sipping her creamy root beer. He’d like nothing more than to sit at one of those red tables with her.

  Another foolish dream. He hadn’t given himself to daydreaming until Willow balked at his scolding and blurted out her marital status. Her ability to enjoy life in the wake of adversity drew him to her. That and her intelligence. And the dimples.

  He’d hoped Willow would have finished the Johnstones’ portrait early and brought it in this afternoon. He’d rather hand the new photographs to her personally than send them by courier. She may have come by when he was out for his late lunch. He wound the string around the clasp on the envelope and looked at the wall clock: half past four. Probably too late to expect Willow to come by, but she’d no doubt appreciate knowing she had more work for next week. He’d take the package to her at Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse.

  Trenton cleaned off his desktop and gulped the last of his lukewarm coffee. When the bell jingled on the door, he nearly choked on the sharp liquid.

  Staring in disbelief, he stood. “Su-Susanna?”

  She walked toward him, waggling from head to foot like a worm in rich soil.

  “Why are y-you here?” he asked.

  She took slow steps toward the end of the counter. “We had unfinished business when you had to rush off.”

  Talk about a skewed perspective. “How d-did you f-find me?”

  “Were you trying to hide?”

  He walked to the potbellied stove at the far wall and lifted the lid. Good. The fire was out. “I wa-wasn’t trying to hide from anyone. C-Colorado wasn’t one of the s-states on your list.”

  “Nor was it on yours.” She rounded the end of the counter and rested her long, slender fingers on its edge. “You’re a man of many surprises, Trenton.”