Twice a Bride

by Mona Hodgson

Her first impulse was to giggle but she didn’t. “We don’t bite, you know.”

  “I hadn’t been in a church for … since I was a boy.” He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. “My p-parents were ashamed of m-me … my stuttering. My m-mother took me to one speech therapist and th-then another. They had me p-practice saying the alph-phabet and read with marbles in my mouth. They even tried to s-scare it out of me. When those t-tactics didn’t work, my f-father talked to the p-pastor of the only church in town.”

  “What did they expect him to do?”

  He raked his hand through his hair, then met her gaze. “Rid me of demons.”

  A sadness settled on her heart. “Your parents believed the stuttering was of the—”

  “It was the worst day of my life.”

  “It must have been awful!” Willow didn’t need to tell him Tucker was different. He knew it, or he wouldn’t have visited the First Congregational Church at all. “I would’ve hesitated to attend church too.”

  She continued up the pathway toward the parsonage and knocked on the door. Nothing. She pulled a key out of her reticule and unlocked the door.

  “Perhaps we should return another time,” Trenton said.

  “They won’t mind we’re here. My brother likes you.”

  “I’d like to keep it that way.” His easy grin chased away the sadness.

  “You have nothing to worry about.” She opened the door and stepped inside. “Ida? Tucker?”

  No answer. The chill in the house told her they’d been gone awhile.

  “What I want to show you is in the parlor.”

  When they reached the parlor, she added wood to the stove in the corner. The settee offered the most comfortable and direct view, but they were alone in the room, and it wouldn’t be proper to sit together. Willow walked to the settee anyway. Standing behind it, she looked up at the first painting she’d done in Colorado—a landscape of Pikes Peak rising out of a bank of gray fog, tipped in pure white.

  “Magnificent!” Trenton stood beside her.

  “I painted my life story there.”

  “You painted that?”

  Willow nodded, praying for the right words. Even if he hadn’t darkened the sanctuary, he’d come to the church. Trenton Van Der Veer was seeking God, and she believed God was running toward him.

  “I knew you were a gifted p-portrait painter,” he said, “but this is—”

  “When my husband Sam died and the grief hit me, I felt as if I had slipped into a thick fog bank.”

  His hand rested on the back of the sofa, his tender gaze fixed on her.

  She drew in a deep breath. “I became so despondent that my father didn’t know what else to do but to have me committed.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Y-you were institutionalized?”

  “Yes.” If he thought less of her, she didn’t see it in his blue eyes.

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  Willow held his gaze. “But I also want you to know me better.” She never thought she’d be eager to tell her story.

  His smile gave her all the encouragement she needed, and she explained what she’d learned about melancholia, told him about Tucker visiting her every week even though she couldn’t remember or respond until she started receiving his letters from Cripple Creek.

  “I never would’ve guessed you’d been through all that. You must’ve been so lonely.”

  “Somehow I knew God was there, with me, through it all.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Even when I felt alone, I believed God’s promise to never leave me or forsake me. I trusted that He would always meet my needs, and He has, even when I didn’t recognize His hand.” She glanced at the painting, then back at him. “The Lord’s presence and His grace transcend all circumstances. God was in the fog with me and helped me break through it. Nothing can separate us from the sacrificial love of Jesus the Christ. Not the death of a husband, a father, melancholia—”

  “Stutters and stammers?”

  She shook her head.

  “B-broken engagements?”

  “No. Not a sorely misguided preacher either.” She breathed another prayer for him. “God will use all our brokenness for good, if we’ll allow it. And for those who believe in Jesus and accept His love, there is no condemnation.”

  “That’s what Tucker was saying about the p-passage in Romans that Sunday.”

  She nodded, unable to press words past the tears clogging her throat.

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly, his touch warming her heart. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She glanced at their joined hands, then into his glistening blue eyes.

  Tucker and Ida appeared in the parlor doorway, their mouths gaping open. Trenton released her hand and stepped away, allowing for the proper space between them. But right now, it wasn’t her reputation camped on Willow’s mind. It was what she’d seen in Trenton’s eyes and felt in his touch.

  “When the front door was unlocked, we figured it was you in here, Willow. Robbers wouldn’t use a key or leave the door open.” Curiosity laced her brother’s brown eyes.

  Trenton shook Tucker’s hand. “Willow … we came to look at her painting.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Van Der Veer.” A wide smile accented Ida’s high cheekbones. Her sister-in-law was clearly amused by the surprise of finding the two of them together.

  “Thank you. P-please, call me Trenton.”

  Willow glanced at the landscape. “I wanted to tell Trenton my story, and I knew it would be easier looking at the painting.”

  “Ah.” Tucker stoked the stove and glanced at her. “Was I one of the good guys?”

  “Always.” She winked at her brother.

  Ida removed her cape. “If you two haven’t had lunch yet, I hope you’ll join us.”

  Trenton met Willow’s gaze. “I’d like to stay, but I have some business to attend to.”

  Susanna.

  Willow nodded. The sooner he saw her on the train back to Kansas, the better.

  “Another time then,” Tucker said.

  “Yes, I’d like that,” Trenton said. “Thank you.”

  Willow would like that too. This was her best Saturday in four years. Trenton was indeed the man of integrity she believed him to be. He knew her story, and he hadn’t cowered.

  Run to him, Lord.

  Meals with strangers, isolation, and a cold shoulder.

  Susanna must have lost her mind to chase after a man who’d rejected her. She’d been just as desperate the day Helen walked in with the Denver Post as the day Trenton left her in Scandia with no prospects for a better future.

  Trenton Van Der Veer was a bit eccentric with all his flasks and plates and saws, but still charming. A bit embarrassing at times with all the stammering, but a true gentleman with a talent that could take him—and her—into the homes of the upper tens in New York City. His connections with high society could gain her a spot onstage in one of the most prestigious opera houses in the country.

  She hadn’t expected Trenton to welcome her with open arms, but neither had she thought he’d resist her persistent attentions. That he’d leave her … alone.

  Susanna walked to the window. Sighing, she pulled the tattered curtain back and looked outside. Men, women, and children packed the streets, all of them going somewhere with someone or something. Sunlight touched everyone but her. She let the curtain drop.

  He said he’d do some thinking and they’d talk today. He’d had all night to ponder. It was nearly ten o’clock, so where was he? She’d already telephoned his studio but received no answer.

  Trenton had changed.

  No doubt the fault of the widow Willow Peterson, his portrait painter. Trenton had flinched and backed away from Susanna when she touched his cheek, but not before she’d made sure the woman outside the window had gotten an eyeful.

  Would a mere employee or casual observer have scampered off like that? Not likely.
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br />   Still, Susanna was no better off than before she arrived in town. She couldn’t just sit around waiting for the photographer and feeling sorry for herself. If Trenton preferred the more independent businesswoman-artist type, then she knew just how to put herself in the running.

  Cripple Creek had at least one opera house. Her charms may not have worked on Trenton yesterday, but most opera house managers were men, and it wouldn’t hurt to try her luck on one.

  She glanced from the potbellied stove to the tiny table, from the too-soft chair to the single bed. If she stayed here a minute longer, she’d need the undertaker.

  Thirty minutes later, Susanna stepped onto the boardwalk and strolled toward the Butte Opera House. She’d donned her mint-green taffeta dress and obtained a little information from the dowdy Mrs. Michaels, proprietor of the Downtowner Inn. According to her, a Mr. Myron Wilcox managed the Butte Opera House, and Susanna was on her way to meet him.

  Clouds hung over the mountains that rimmed the pretty valley. Mrs. Michaels had told Susanna all about the fires of ’96, and the new brick and sandstone buildings had given the city a fresh face. This was, after all, now “the center of commerce in the new state of Colorado.”

  She passed Glauber’s Clothing, a millinery, even a fashion design store. She could live here and sing at the Butte until Trenton, or some other influential man, was ready to take her to the stages of New York.

  Susanna continued to the opera house. These days, and especially in the West, plenty of women were making their own way. And she would be one of them. Was that what Willow Peterson was doing, or was she banking on Trenton’s help and affections too?

  The Butte Opera House wasn’t as big as she’d hoped. It was little more than a storefront wedged in the middle of the block, but it was at least elegant, with gilded filigree and lettering on the glass door and side window. Susanna stepped into a small vestibule. Posters of past performances lined the walls. A rounded woman with a broom looked up from a side hallway.

  “Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Myron Wilcox?” Susanna asked.

  “He’s in his office.” The cleaning woman pointed to a closed door behind her.

  “Thank you.” Susanna tugged her skirt straight and took slow strides to the door. She moistened her lips before knocking.

  “Come in.” It seemed ironic that the manager of an opera house would sound like he’d been chewing on gravel.

  A man with a hook nose sat behind a desk cluttered with papers and a stained porcelain coffee cup. He peered at her over wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “Mr. Wilcox?”

  “That’s me.” He studied her from the laced high-top shoes on her feet to the feather on her hat.

  “I’m a singer, Mr. Wilcox.”

  His laugh stung her ears. “They all are, honey.”

  Squaring her shoulders, Susanna ran her finger along her jaw. “I’d like to audition for you.”

  He stood. His belly hung over his belt. “That’s not how this works, missy.”

  “Susanna. Miss Susanna Woods.” Her indignation was fast becoming fury.

  “We bring in top-billed singers. I don’t pull ’em in off the street.” Another coarse laugh. “Where you from?”

  “Kansas, but—”

  “But nothing. You don’t belong here.” He stepped around the desk and looked her over again. “Leastwise, not as a singer. You might try the other opera house if you’re okay with showin’ your knickers in a vaudeville act.”

  Trenton reluctantly walked away from the parsonage. If he hadn’t promised Susanna he’d think about what had happened between them in Kansas and what she’d said yesterday in the studio, a crowbar couldn’t have pried him away from Willow Peterson and her family today. But he’d given Susanna his word, and it was already nearly noon. If he had any hope of seeing her onto a train today, he needed to get to it.

  Pulling his coat tight, he turned left onto Bennett Avenue. He’d go to the depot first to see about the schedule. Saturdays seemed to draw even more people into town. Men, women, and children riding in wagons, pulling carts, and walking dogs. But the streets were no more crowded than his mind was with thoughts and images.

  The image of Pikes Peak shrouded in clouds mingled with the image of Willow standing with him behind the sofa, her hand in his. The compassion he’d seen in her eyes. He hadn’t told anyone about that pastor’s attempt at exorcism. Not Susanna. Not even Jesse.

  The Midland Terminal Railroad depot buzzed with activity. After he’d managed to obtain the train schedule for the day, Trenton walked to the Downtowner Inn, asking God for guidance.

  Him … praying. That was definitely something new. And the thanks was due to Reverend Tucker Raines and his sister. Trenton had been right about Willow. She was a woman of confounding faith. “God was in the fog with me and helped me break through it.” Her statements still echoed in his mind, challenging his heart. “Nothing can separate us from the sacrificial love of Jesus the Christ.”

  In sharp contrast to Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse, the Downtowner Inn sat in the middle of a busy city block. No front porch. No flowers. No lace curtains in the windows. If this was all Susanna could afford, perhaps she’d be anxious to accept his offer.

  Trenton opened the door, jangling a bell overhead. When he stepped into a cramped entryway, a stick-thin woman appeared from a side doorway and wiped her hands on a soiled apron.

  She looked him over and grinned, revealing gaps in her teeth. “You lookin’ for a nice room and got yourself lost, did you?”

  “No m-ma’am. I’m Trenton Van Der Veer. I’m here to see—”

  “That’s the new photographer’s name.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re him?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “You here to see Susanna Woods, are you?”

  “I am.”

  “She left this morning after breakfast.”

  Until he heard his deep sigh, Trenton hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. Dare he entertain the relief easing the tension in his shoulders? Had Susanna really given up and left town on her own?

  “No doubt she’ll be back before dinner,” the woman continued.

  His shoulders tightened. “Miss Woods didn’t l-leave town?”

  The proprietor shook her head in short wobbles. “Didn’t take her bags with her, if she did. Besides, she’s paid up for another week.”

  If Susanna was still in town, he obviously hadn’t gotten through to her. “Did Miss Woods mention where she was going?”

  “Not a word about it.”

  Well, there was nothing he could do for Susanna if he couldn’t find her. And he refused to hunt her down. He didn’t want to take any chance at encouraging her childish notion that the two of them could become a couple again. He’d much rather purchase a box of pecan fudge for a certain portrait painter.

  Hattie pulled another of her shirtwaists from the line and dropped the clothespins in her apron pocket. She added the shirtwaist to the basket on the ground, also adding to the list of reasons she missed having Mr. Sinclair and Cherise around the boardinghouse. She liked having men’s shirts and little girls’ dresses hanging on her line. She added more pins to the apron and a dressing gown to the basket.

  Having Harlan and Cherise in the house had stirred something inside her. They’d felt like family. Now Kat was preparing Harlan and Cherise’s meals and laundering their clothes, and she already had more than her share to do. A doctor’s wife. A mother with a little one and another baby on the way. A monthly column to write for Harper’s Bazar. And now she was an experienced midwife. Kat didn’t have any time to spare.

  Hattie pinched the last pin and released her navy-blue walking skirt. She was considering paying Kat a visit this afternoon to offer her help when a stylish young woman stepped around the corner of the house. Hattie added the folded skirt to the stack of clothes in the basket and smiled at her guest. “Good day.”

  “Mrs. Peterson?” As the young woman drew closer, her brow crinkled and a
slow smile lit her blue eyes. A beaded reticule hung from one arm. “You’re Willow Peterson?”

  “No, dear.” Hattie felt a peculiar satisfaction in upsetting the young woman’s expectations. “Willow is much younger than I am.”

  “Oh.” The young woman’s mouth lingered in the shape of an O.

  “Willow is one of my boarders. I’m Hattie Adams, the owner.” Hattie untied her apron and dropped it into the basket, then picked up the bundle and, balancing it on a hip, walked toward her guest. “You are?”

  “Yes, of course, pardon my poor manners, ma’am.” Her guest straightened and tugged at the scalloped hem of her paisley jacket. “I’m Miss Susanna Woods.”

  “Miss Woods.” The niggle in Hattie’s stomach kept her from saying it was a pleasure to meet her. It may have just been the two extra pieces of sausage she’d eaten at the breakfast table, but something didn’t feel quite right.

  Miss Woods’s eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head. “Mrs. Peterson didn’t mention me?”

  “No.” Hattie shifted the basket to her other hip. “But we’ve both been busy chasing our tails to get where we’re going.”

  Miss Woods quirked a thin eyebrow. “Might you know when you expect her?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. Fact is I’ve lost track of time.”

  “Last I checked, it was half past eleven.”

  “My, oh my, but time is flying.” Hattie tucked a pesky strand of hair into the bun at the back of her head. “I would’ve thought they’d have returned by now.”

  Miss Woods moistened her lips. “They?”

  “Yes. Willow and her employer left here well over an hour ago.”

  Her visitor’s shoulders drooped. Did this have more to do with Mr. Van Der Veer than Willow?

  “Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea while you wait?” Hattie asked.

  Miss Woods pressed her reticule to her midsection. “No. Thank you.”

  That settled it. A young woman who refused tea with her was clearly up to no good. “May I give Willow a message? Does she know where to find you?”

  “No thank you.” Miss Woods drew in a deep breath. “I’d rather surprise her. Good day, Mrs. Adams.”