The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

Clearly something was definitely and seriously wrong with one of Daisy’s feet. So wrong that Angie was astonished she hadn’t noticed at once. When Daisy stepped on her right foot, her shoulder sank a good two, maybe three inches. She walked with a lurching, rolling gait.

  At the finish of the nightly preparations, Sam followed his daughters into their bedroom and listened to their prayers. Then Angie heard the squeak of bedsprings, shouted laughter and gasps and bogus pleas from the girls begging Sam not to tickle them. After a few minutes, Sam pretended to get angry when they wouldn’t sit still for their goodnight kiss, which finished the routine.

  When he finally emerged, he closed the bedroom door, considered Angie a minute, then raised the lid of the ice box. “Do you drink beer?”

  “Not usually, but tonight . . . yes, please.”

  He opened two dark bottles of ale and beckoned her toward the kitchen door.

  “Should we blow out the lamps?” Immediately the suggestion impressed her as foolish. The girls’ door was closed. The lamplight wouldn’t keep them awake.

  “No. It scares Daisy if she has to get up for some reason and the house is dark.”

  “You burn the lamps all night long?”

  “Lamp oil is one of the few things that’s cheap.” He shrugged. “Before you go to bed, put one of the lamps in the sink and blow out the rest.”

  The ease and understanding that he demonstrated with his daughters was a side of Sam Holland that Angie had never seen or thought to imagine. This morning, when she had stepped off the train, she wouldn’t have conceded Sam a single good quality or one admirable trait. But she reluctantly admitted that he seemed to possess a natural instinct for dealing with children. What a pity that his instincts didn’t extend to women.

  After dropping a shawl around her shoulders, she followed him outside into the darkness and sat on a step below him so they would not accidentally touch. Down the hill and to the left, she saw the glow of gas lamps outlining Bennet Street; heard music from the saloons on Myers Street, an occasional shout that burst from the noise of traffic, and a low hum of people talking at too great a distance to be heard distinctly. The crowd noise had dissipated, so the fight of the decade must have been decided.

  Tilting her head, Angie gazed up at a miracle-work of stars, suppressing a gasp of wonder. In Chicago the lights of the city blotted all but the brightest planets. But here in the mountains, with less space and light between man and heaven, millions of tiny stars winked and sparkled, strewn thick across a field of black satin.

  “Tell me about Daisy,” she said quietly.

  “She was born with a clubfoot.”

  Angie nodded. One of her friend’s babies had been born with two clubbed feet. Now she understood Daisy’s gait. A clubbed foot twisted inward and up, forcing the victim to walk on her ankle and the side of the foot.

  “It’s my understanding that the longer the condition goes untreated, the harder it is to correct,” Angie commented. “Also, I’ve heard that the skin on the ankle can break down since it wasn’t meant to be walked on. Is there some reason why Daisy didn’t have corrective surgery earlier?”

  “The doctor wanted to wait until she was a year old. Wanted to try manipulating and casting the foot first. It was painful for Daisy, and twisting and casting didn’t seem to be working, so Laura discontinued that option. Then, every damned time I’ve saved enough money for the surgery, something has happened and I’ve had to spend it on other things.” He paused. “Daisy’s surgery is what I was talking about when I told you I had an obligation that had to come before the divorce.”

  She would have guessed even if she hadn’t eavesdropped on his conversation with the girls.

  “Daisy’s surgery is my number-one priority. This time nothing is going to get in the way. Absolutely nothing.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw his arm move, raising the beer bottle, then heard him swallow.

  “Is there a qualified doctor in Willow Creek?”

  “The doctor who treated her and agreed to do the surgery is in Colorado Springs. The bastard wants fifteen hundred dollars for the operation.”

  Angie sucked in a breath. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “A king’s ransom.”

  “How close are you to saving that amount?”

  “I’ve got almost six hundred dollars put aside,” he said after a lengthy period of angry silence. “Every time I get my hands on a little extra, there are forty other places demanding payment. The grocer, the iceman, the coal man, my attorney, my tab at the saloon, Molly, the laundry, the stables, and a half dozen other bills in arrears. Last week, all I could add to my savings was twenty dollars.” Frustration shook his voice.

  Angie hesitated then blurted what leapt to her mind. “I have about a hundred and thirty-two dollars.”

  Instantly she felt a scald of anger directed at her back. “The day I take money from a woman is the day I might as well shoot myself because I’ve ceased to be a man. Whatever money you have, it’s yours and I don’t want it.”

  “I’m not offering it to you,” she said, stiffening. “I’m offering it for Daisy.”

  “I’ll pay for Daisy’s operation.”

  Hurtful words stung her tongue. It would have been easy to point out that Daisy was five and he hadn’t yet managed to save enough for the operation. And she could have mentioned that Daisy was still young, but eventually the bones in her foot would become permanently misshapen and set in a position difficult to correct. But there was enough ill-feeling between them without emphasizing painful facts that he already knew.

  At least not tonight. Not while she saw so clearly that her misfortune had compounded his misfortune. When Sam had resented her for adding another mouth to feed, she hadn’t understood. Now she did.

  “All right,” she said, studying the dark silhouette of the tent he had pitched in the backyard. “We’re agreed that we won’t get the divorce until after Daisy’s operation.”

  “That’s how it has to be.”

  “I’m not arguing.” She hoped she possessed the patience to put up with him during the time they were forced to remain together. He might be good with children, but when it came to communicating with wives, he stank. “I’ll do everything I can to hold down the household expenses and save money.”

  “I hope so.”

  Angie ground her teeth and glared at the stars. Laura—undemanding, uncomplaining, that flawless paragon who was everything Angie was not—must have been a saint. It said a lot for the woman that Sam was still alive.

  Chapter 3

  To give her the benefit of doubt, Sam reminded himself that Angie had no reason to be an early riser. The Bertolis had employed household help to see to breakfast and the morning chores. She hadn’t had children to get off to school or the responsibility of arriving at a job site. Still, he glanced at her closed bedroom door with annoyance. If nothing else, how could she continue to sleep through the girls’ chatter and the noise they made setting the table?

  On the other hand, breakfast was one of the few meals he could cook with confidence that the result would be eatable.

  “How do you want your eggs?” he called over his shoulder.

  Both girls said scrambled.

  “They’re going to be fried.”

  “Every morning we say scrambled, but every morning you give us fried. Why do you ask how we want them?”

  “My dear Lucy,” he said grandly. “Fried eggs are a work of art. The yoke has to be set, but not too hard. Absolutely it cannot be broken. And the whites must be butter-crisped but not scorched. It’s an art. Scrambled eggs, on the other hand, require no talent. It’s just stir together, then pour in the skillet.”

  The girls laughed and pushed each other. “Scrambled eggs are more work. You have to add milk and stir.”

  “That too,” he said, grinning at them.

  In the mornings his daughters looked like proper miniature young ladies. Combed hair neatly tied at their necks. Clean faces and ha
nds. Fresh dresses with the sashes tied prettily. That reminded him. Had he paid the seamstress last week? Her bill had been in his ledger for a long time.

  Angie’s door flew open and she rushed into the room, hastily tying a wrapper around her waist. A long, dark braid swung down her back and her face glowed rosy from sleep.

  Shock rooted Sam’s boots to the floor. A man seldom saw a woman in her nightclothes or wearing her hair down, which made Angie seem as erotic as a French postcard. When he realized what he was thinking, he almost laughed. She wasn’t showing a spare inch of exposed flesh. The high collar of her nightgown circled her neck up to her chin. The wrapper sleeves covered her wrists. All he could see at the bottom were the tips of her house slippers. It wasn’t the actuality of her attire that aroused him, but the idea of it. A woman stood in his kitchen wearing a wrapper tied over her nightgown and with her hair still braided for bed. Such an amazing event was enough to put ideas in any man’s head.

  After calling good morning to the girls, she hurried up next to him at the stove, clearly dismayed to discover him sliding eggs onto the plates.

  “I overslept. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”

  “You can be forgiven for shirking your duty on your first day at work,” he said, making it sound like a joke. He couldn’t think straight with her standing beside him in her wrapper. Ten years ago, he had fantasized about seeing her with her hair down, wearing her nightgown. In the fantasy she had slowly raised her nightgown, revealing milky legs and thighs and . . . His hand shook and he almost dropped a plate of eggs on the floor. “Sit down,” he said after clearing his throat. “Lucy, please pour Angie a cup of coffee. And be careful with the pot. It’s hot.”

  Obviously flustered, she watched him add thick strips of bacon to each of the plates. “Maybe I should get dressed,” she said, waving a hand toward the bedroom door. “You know, before I sit down. It won’t take too long.”

  “If that’s what you want to do. But cold fried eggs aren’t the tastiest thing I can think of,” he said, striving to keep his voice light.

  He told himself that he’d be relieved if she put on some clothing. It wasn’t decent for him to be thinking arousing thoughts in front of his girls. On the other hand, a long time had passed since he’d had the pleasure of sitting at a table with a woman whose hair was down. Seeing her this way was a sweet form of torture.

  Angie shot him one of those narrow-eyed argumentative looks that he was starting to recognize and dislike. In this case, he could almost see her weighing her instinct to get dressed against his implication that letting the eggs get cold would be stupid.

  Last night, after he finally crawled into his tent, he’d given some thought to their new arrangement. And he’d made a vow that no matter how bad-tempered, incompetent, and hard to get along with she was, he would not argue or be rude or sarcastic to her in front of his girls. This would be a hard vow to keep, and he knew it. But he was determined not to upset Lucy and Daisy. In fact, the situation with Angie could teach them some good lessons. Such as making the best of a bad situation. Such as not shirking your responsibilities no matter how repugnant they may be. Such as getting along with others.

  Remembering his vow, he amended his previous statement. “I suppose getting dressed is a good idea. I could leave your plate on the stove. The eggs might still be warm when you’re ready.”

  “No, I think you were right before,” she said, deciding. Chewing her lip, she stood beside the table and watched the girls open napkins across their laps. Sam felt a tiny burst of pride that they’d remembered about the napkins. “The thing is, if I’m going to be part of the household, we should eat our meals together.”

  “Then sit down,” he said reasonably, carrying the girls’ plates to the table. “All right. Whose job is it to fetch and pour the milk?”

  “I’ll do it,” Angie volunteered quickly.

  “No, I think it’s Daisy’s job this week.” When he saw Angie’s eyes widen, he added, “Daisy’s very good at pouring milk, aren’t you, Daisy?”

  “I’m good at carrying milk, too.”

  Daisy’s hint of defensiveness suggested she, too, had sensed Angie’s surprise that she was expected to do chores.

  “Daisy manages very well,” Sam said, meeting Angie’s gaze. “She can do everything Lucy can except walk upright.” To his way of thinking, coddling did a child a disservice. Even a child that was disadvantaged. Moreover, he wanted both of his girls to think in terms of what they could do instead of what they couldn’t.

  Bright color stained Angie’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean to imply that—”

  “I know you didn’t. I’m only saying this so you don’t get the wool pulled over your eyes. For weeks this imp had Mrs. Molly believing she couldn’t carry anything, couldn’t climb up to the counter, couldn’t run errands, and a host of other couldn’ts that excused her from a long list of chores.”

  Daisy turned bright red with embarrassment, but she smiled down at her plate.

  “She even told Mrs. Molly that she couldn’t brush her hair,” Lucy said, laughing.

  Sam glanced at the schoolhouse clock above the table. “Are you going to eat those eggs or just look at them? Get a move on. You don’t want to be late.”

  “Did you pack our lunches?” Lucy asked, carefully separating her eggs and bacon before she punctured the yolks with her fork.

  “Yes.”

  Daisy ate her eggs from the edge toward the middle. “Papa, did you give us bacon sandwiches again?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with bacon sandwiches. That’s what I have in my lunch bucket.”

  “I hope we get something better when you start packing our lunches,” Lucy said, giving Angie a stare.

  “What would you like?”

  “Fried chicken. The Saunders twins always get fried chicken in their buckets, and it smells so good.”

  “I’d like cake,” Daisy said. “Lemon cake with frosting this thick.” She held her thumb and index fingers an inch apart.

  “You want Sunday dinner in your lunch buckets,” Sam observed, shaking his head. “Well, I don’t think you’re going to get it.”

  Angie lowered her fork. “Lunch buckets . . . Sunday dinner . . .” Her gaze swung to the stove and cupboards, then settled on Sam with an overwhelmed expression.

  “You do cook, don’t you?” He’d simply assumed she would take over the cooking. But when it came to his unwanted wife, he hadn’t yet guessed correctly.

  “I can,” she said, dragging out the words. “It’s just that I’ve never had to cook every day, three times a day.”

  And she probably hadn’t done more than hand laundry and hadn’t cleaned a house on a daily basis. She’d probably never filled a coal shuttle or shopped for weekly provisions or established a budget.

  Because Sam had vowed to get along with her, and because she sat at his table in her wrapper with her braid hanging down, looking soft and rosy, he decided he could bend a little.

  “I’ve been cooking breakfast long enough that it’s a habit,” he said, checking to make sure the girls were listening to an example of compromise. “I’ll continue doing breakfast. Then you’ll only be responsible for the lunch boxes and supper.”

  He had every reason to expect an effusive eruption of gratitude since he’d just offered a huge concession. Men didn’t cook for women. If word leaked out, he’d be a laughingstock. He was willing to make things easier for her only because he knew it had to be difficult, getting thrown into real life after living in pampered ease.

  That was the difference between brick masons like her father and carpenters like him. At some point in historical times, brick masons had convinced themselves and the world at large that they were fricking artists, while the rest of the tradesmen were mere laborers. And, as artists, bricklayers naturally deserved higher pay than mere laborers. They were entitled to support their families in comfort and ease while carpenters, for instance, struggled to make ends meet and had to make do witho
ut hired cooks, cleaning ladies, and privately owned covered carriages. Brick masons raised daughters who embroidered, while carpenters raised daughters who mended. That said it all.

  And one particular brick mason had raised a daughter who did not say Thank you when a man replaced his tool belt with an apron. She didn’t even seem to recognize the magnitude of his sacrifice.

  He stared, suddenly angry that she was who she was. He’d been a fool to reach above himself and pursue a mason’s daughter. In his world women carried their own weight without complaint. In her world women had time for music and painting lessons and slept past sunrise and maybe learned to be grateful to those who performed the tasks they wouldn’t dream of doing.

  “Why are you staring at me?” Angie asked.

  “No reason.” He inspected her plate. “What’s the purpose of serving you a perfectly cooked egg with an unbroken yolk when the first thing you do is cut up the eggs?” A mess of white and yellow mixed together on her plate.

  “I beg your pardon? You object to the way I eat my eggs?”

  She gave him that narrowed look again, the one he didn’t like. “A lot of skill and effort goes into cooking the perfect egg. Those were perfect eggs.”

  “At some point,” she said in a steely, level voice, “a person must nick the yolk, and then the yellow and white mix together. So what does it matter if I chose to mix everything immediately by cutting the eggs at once?”

  “Well, just look at your plate. That’s disgusting.” He made a stirring motion with his finger. “It’s all mixed together.”

  Leaning forward, she examined his plate. He’d eaten the yolks first while they were nice and hot, sopping up the yellow with his bread. Now he was ready to eat the whites.

  “Oh oh. You missed a tiny speck of yellow.” She pointed at his eggs. “Right there. Quick, wipe it away with your bread. Heaven knows what might happen if you eat a dot of yolk with the whites. Wouldn’t want to mix the two, now would you?”

  If the girls hadn’t giggled, he would have put down his fork and stormed out of the house. Their giggles reminded him that he was straying from his vow of cordiality. But Lord A’mighty. She had more annoying characteristics than any woman he’d ever met.