The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  She frowned. “They have grandparents, don’t they?”

  Stiffening abruptly, he stared. “How do you know about that?”

  “Molly said Laura’s parents live in Colorado Springs.”

  He swore. “Like I said, I’m all the family they have.” Standing, he looked down at her, his gaze suddenly cold. “I didn’t realize Molly Johnson talked so much.”

  “Molly’s become a friend. She’s only trying to help.”

  She stood, too, and suddenly they were only a foot apart. He inhaled the scent of roses on her skin and the starch on her shirtwaist. If he had lowered his eyes, he would have seen the rise and fall of her breasts and the narrowness of her waist.

  Out of nowhere came the memory that he had kissed her three times. Twice on their wedding day. Once before then. Hard, passionate, closed-mouth kisses. The kisses of two inexperienced people scarcely out of childhood.

  “Have you ever kissed anyone besides me?” he asked suddenly.

  Scarlet flooded her cheeks. “Of course not!”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Discovering that he was the only man she had kissed drove home the wasted years. She was a twenty-six-year-old married virgin who’d never really been kissed. No wonder she was angry 90 percent of the time.

  “Angie, I’m sorry.” He’d said it before, but this time he meant it. Life hadn’t treated her fairly. He shook his head. “We were so young, all those years ago. So damned young.”

  The fight went out of her eyes, and she sat down abruptly. “How could we have believed that we were old enough to make a marriage?” A sigh lifted her breast and briefly she closed her eyes. “It’s late, Sam. Let’s not talk about the past. We’ll just get angry.”

  He nodded and fought an urge to wonder what might have happened if she had come west with him all those years ago. Would they have been happy? On a night like tonight, would they have cast eager glances toward the bedroom door? Wasted thoughts. “Good night, Angie.” He’d reached the kitchen door before she called to him.

  “Oh. I should remind you. Be ready to leave at ten-thirty.”

  “Leave for where?”

  “Church.” Looking over her shoulder, she lifted an eyebrow and ran her gaze over his denims and work shirt. “I imagine you’ll want to stop by the bathhouse first.”

  Molly usually took the girls to church. When they went. But he could hardly beg off, not after Angie had all but accused him of neglecting his daughters. Immediately he understood there was no way he could spend Sunday morning up on Gold Hill working his claims. Cursing beneath his breath, he let the kitchen door bang shut behind him. And then turned around and went inside again.

  “My suit and my good shoes are in your closet.” His closet.

  She nodded. “I’ll set them out in the morning.”

  “You’re changing things,” he said after a minute. He wondered if her hair smelled like roses, too. Wondered if the dimples on either side of her mouth deepened when she smiled. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if she ever smiled.

  “I don’t mean to change anything.” He could swear that she was staring at his mouth with an odd expression. “I don’t like the idea of Laura and I’ll never respect her. I want to be clear about that. But when I look at the girls, I ask myself what she would have done, what she would have wanted. I think she would have wanted them to spend time with their father. I think she would have wanted them to go to church.”

  He didn’t argue. Just turned around and went outside.

  Sleeping in a tent was no hardship. Sam had lived in his tent during the years he’d wandered the west, seeking his fortune and his future. The musty canvas odor was familiar, a reminder of a lot of hopes and disappointments.

  But he hadn’t had a house nearby during those years. Hadn’t owned a featherbed. Which his wife was enjoying without him.

  Folding his hands behind his head, he stared up at the tent ceiling. He didn’t like having Angie back in his life, didn’t like the feelings of desire she aroused or the sense of inadequacy that he had believed he’d long ago overcome.

  At odd times, he found himself conducting a silent dialogue with her father in which he explained that he might have prospered if he had settled down instead of seeking his fortune in the mining camps. But with his wife refusing to leave Chicago, he’d seen no reason to settle down. He’d been free to prospect for silver first, and now for gold. With nothing tying him down, he’d dreamed big dreams and he’d had the opportunity to chase them. He’d done well enough that he hadn’t lacked for necessities, but unfortunately he hadn’t prospered.

  People said Gold Hill had already divulged most of its treasures, but Sam didn’t believe it. And the naysayers claimed the days of huge strikes were over. Sam didn’t believe that either. Only last month Mort Jablonski had sold his claim to one of the syndicates for eighty thousand dollars. It wasn’t a million, but the figure wasn’t to be sneezed at either, especially considering Jablonski’s ore didn’t assay at a high concentration.

  He rolled on his side and closed his eyes. During most of his prospecting years, he’d wanted to find his fortune. Now he needed to find it. Needing made a big difference. There were nights he couldn’t sleep because he heard the summer ticking away.

  And there were nights like tonight when he couldn’t sleep because the scent of roses filled his nostrils and his mind teased him with flashing black eyes and dimpled cheeks and lips just begging for a real kiss.

  The girls came out their room looking neat and tidy but wearing calico dresses and untrimmed straw hats. Both girls wore their scuffed everyday shoes.

  Angie narrowed her eyes, drawing her gloves through her hand. Was this another challenge? Or a rebellion? They had made their reluctance plain; they were not enthusiastic about attending church. And they resisted doing whatever she wanted them to do.

  While she was considering, Sam entered the back door, muttering and tugging at his necktie. For an instant, Angie forgot about Lucy and Daisy and stared at him. Lord A’mighty, he was a handsome man. She’d thought he couldn’t look much better than he did wearing his denims and the flannel shirts that made his shoulders look a yard wide. But seeing him in his Sunday suit reminded her of the man she had married.

  Except he didn’t wear a mustache now, and the maturity in his face made him more interesting. Time had exaggerated the stubbornness firming his jawline, had deepened the intensity of his gaze. He carried himself with confidence, as if he didn’t expect to encounter anything he hadn’t seen before or couldn’t handle. If Angie had met him today, she would have guessed he was a successful businessman, a bit ruthless, a bit calculating. And in need of a haircut.

  When she realized they were staring at each other, she cleared her throat self-consciously and touched a hand to the brim of her hat before she returned her attention to the girls.

  “Please go back and put on your Sunday dresses,” she said pleasantly but firmly.

  “We don’t have Sunday dresses,” Lucy answered, looking more offended than Angie would have believed a seven-year-old could look.

  “I’m sure you won’t mind if I check.” Marching past them, she entered their room, not believing Lucy’s claim for a minute. Jerking open an old armoire, she peered inside, then scanned the room. Angry, she rushed back to the kitchen and planted her fists on her hips. “They do not have Sunday dresses!”

  Sam blinked, then studied his daughters. “They look fine to me.” Lucy and Daisy beamed at him.

  “Aside from the hats, they look like they’re dressed for school! It’s outrageous! Unacceptable.”

  Finally Sam appeared to register that Angie was wearing her navy spring suit and enough petticoats to give the skirt a fashionable drape. She was not wearing one of her everyday dresses. A frown pleated his brow, and he turned to his daughters. “Why didn’t you tell me that you needed Sunday dresses?”

  Angie noticed Lucy wringing her hands, and tears welled in Daisy’s eyes. She rounded on Sam. “This is
not their fault!”

  His eyes narrowed into slits of cold blue. “I’m not implying that anyone is at fault. Merely that I wish I’d known they needed new dresses.”

  “All you had to do was—” Angie stopped the accusation. Her father had never noticed her clothes. That had been her mother’s responsibility. But Lucy and Daisy had no mother. And clearly Sam hadn’t given a minute’s thought to the difference between everyday dresses and Sunday dresses. Part of her blamed him for sending his daughters off to church in their school clothes, but the larger part of her grudgingly understood how it could happen.

  “Well,” she said, tight-lipped. She beckoned the girls into her bedroom. “Let’s see if we can find something to spruce you up a little.”

  “We look fine,” Lucy said, lifting her chin. “Papa said so.”

  “Yes, you do,” Angie responded after a minute. “But for church you want to look extra-special nice.”

  She rummaged in her accessory drawer, hoping to find something suitable for children.

  “Here. This lace collar will look very smart with your dress.” To her gratification, Lucy’s eyes widened and she stroked a finger over the lace. “Tie it around your neck.”

  Daisy gazed at her with damp eyes. “Are you fighting with Papa? I don’t like it when you fight.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Angie that the tensions simmering between her and Sam might upset the girls. Guiltily she considered the tears floating in Daisy’s gray eyes.

  “It’s just that I forgot that men don’t know about women’s clothes,” she said, patting Daisy’s small shoulder. Her reassurance was awkward because she was a novice at dealing with children. But every day she learned something new. Today’s lesson was to save any disagreements with Sam for a private moment. “Let me have your hat.”

  After five minutes with a needle and thread, a bright blue ribbon circled Daisy’s hatband, and a spray of tiny pink silk rosebuds adorned the brim. Silently, the girls sat on the bed beside Angie and watched her transform the hat.

  “I can sew, too,” Daisy offered shyly. “But not as good as you.”

  Lucy nodded. “I made a sampler last year.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Angie said, placing the newly trimmed hat on Daisy’s head. “Sewing is a useful skill.”

  The girls stood on the bed and examined themselves in the bureau mirror.

  Lucy touched the lace collar. Which, Angie decided, looked ridiculous on the calico dress. “Miss Lily wears lace collars sometimes.”

  “Well, if the fabulous Miss Lily wears lace collars then we know we’re in fashion.” They didn’t appear to notice the sarcasm in her tone. Angie sighed, something she’d been doing a lot of lately. As a final treat, she dabbed a tiny bit of rose cologne behind the girls’ ears and her own. “I think we’re finally ready.”

  They were ready except for their calico dresses and their scruffy everyday shoes. And the white gloves they were outgrowing. And the little drawstring purses that didn’t match anything else they wore.

  “Your hair looks especially nice,” Angie offered as they scrambled down off the bed. They had brushed out any tangles. Sheets of white gold rippled almost to their calico sashes.

  “Thank you,” Lucy said, sounding surprised.

  Pressing her lips together, Angie led the way into the kitchen where Sam waited impatiently. Did she make so few pleasant or complimentary remarks that Lucy had to thank her? At the moment she felt harassed and overwhelmed. A little pew-time would do her as much good as she hoped it did the girls. Miss Lily, indeed.

  “You’ll need your coats,” Sam said, giving Angie a narrowed glance that said See, I’m doing my duty by my daughters. But even he frowned when he saw that Lucy’s coat was too short at the hem and sleeves. “It snowed last night.”

  “Snow? In April?” Angie’s mouth dropped.

  “Just a light skiff. It’ll melt before noon.”

  Daisy took his hand. “Papa, smell me! Angie let us have real perfume!”

  “Snow?” When Angie opened the front door, she stared at the ground in disbelief. This was a barbaric place. She couldn’t wait to get out of here. In Chicago the weather would be warm and mild. The tulips and daffodils would have come and gone, and the perennials would be up in her garden. Except it wasn’t her garden anymore. The house she’d grown up in belonged to strangers now.

  But no, she couldn’t allow herself to think of that, or homesickness would make her chest ache and bring tears to her eyes.

  Squaring her shoulders, she strode through the thin sugary layer of snow and waited for the others in the road. A bank of clouds floated south, leaving clear, crisp sky behind. To be positive about it, the cold air felt good and bracing on her cheeks.

  Doors opened up and down Carr Street and families emerged, dressed in their Sunday best. The people across the street smiled and studied Angie curiously as did several others along the block. Angie returned the smiles, wondering if everyone was comparing her to Laura. Probably. And they probably knew that Sam slept in the backyard and wondered what that was about.

  She slid a look toward him as he stepped up beside her and gingerly took her arm. This was the first time he had touched her since they entered the pastry shop on the day she arrived. Her impulse was to jerk away because his hand on her arm was vaguely disturbing. By the time they had climbed two streets to the church, all she could think about was the heat of Sam’s fingers burning through her sleeve.

  And then, when they were seated inside, all she could think about was his shoulder touching hers and the scent of him, a soapy bathhouse scent beneath the spicy fragrance of bay rum and the light tang of his hair tonic. There were few things she admired more than a good-smelling man. But Sam didn’t need bay rum and hair tonic to smell good. He always smelled slightly like soap, a lot like a man.

  Sighing softly, she noticed his hands on his thighs. Strong, square hands with long fingers. Oddly, she had never noticed what artistic hands Sam had. He could have been a brickmason with those hands. Or a poet.

  Leaning close and feeling a bit foolish, she whispered, “Do you play the piano?”

  His dark eyebrows soared and he smiled. “The fiddle.”

  Good heavens. She’d had no idea. Their eyes met and held, and Sam’s smile widened before he looked toward the preacher as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. They knew so little about each other.

  Flustered, Angie edged away and frowned at the girls, who were swinging their feet and craning their necks to see who was coming down the aisle. Hoping to spot Miss Lily, no doubt.

  “Stop fidgeting and pay attention,” Angie admonished them. And she recalled her mother saying the same thing to her.

  She turned her own face forward as the choir took their seats and silently chided herself as well. What kind of woman was she to sit in church and be distracted by artistic hands and warm shoulders and the scent of bay rum and the thought of intense blue eyes? It was disturbing that physical thoughts intruded so frequently on what was nothing more than an unwanted but necessary arrangement between her and Sam.

  After the service Angie joined the women and Sam joined Cannady Johnson, the mayor, his attorney, and a half dozen other men near the big spruce at the edge of the churchyard. The men lit cigars and talked about the prizefight scheduled for later in the summer.

  Sam smoked and listened, watching the women congregate near the church doors. Molly Johnson had taken Angie in hand and introduced her to the group. All the women wore Sunday clothing, Sam noticed with a grimace. So did the children chasing and skipping around the churchyard. Except his. Damn it. Well, Angie would take care of that. He didn’t doubt for a minute.

  Ten years ago he wouldn’t have guessed that she’d mature into the kind of woman who would stand up to a man and demand this or that. And back then he couldn’t have imagined how inadequate her demands would make him feel. Until Angie Bertoli reappeared in his life he had believed he was succeeding with his daughters. Now he felt guilty
that he couldn’t spend more time with them and appalled that they didn’t own Sunday dresses. He was no closer to Daisy’s operation than he had been a year ago. That was his biggest inadequacy.

  Exhaling, he squinted and stared at Angie through a stream of smoke. How many times a day did she remember her father shouting at Sam: You’ll never amount to anything. Did she think of that prediction as often as he did? Did she look at him and thank her stars that she’d spent ten years alone in Chicago instead of wasting her time with him?

  Cannady Johnson rocked back on his heels and studied Sam with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s a mighty fine-looking wife you got yourself, Holland.” The men shifted to study Angie.

  “Eye-talian, isn’t she? I’ve heard that Eye-talian women are—”

  Whatever Peak Jamison had been about to say died when he saw Sam’s cold eyes.

  Cole Krieder stepped into the silence. “My first wife was Italian. Best cook who ever stirred up a tomato sauce, God rest her soul.”

  “Speaking of your new wife, Sam, we should talk.” Marsh Collins, Sam’s attorney, walked away from the men and beckoned Sam to follow. Sam guessed he’d known they would have to discuss Angie sooner or later. A churchyard was as good a place to talk business as the Gold Slipper, he supposed.

  “Is it true that she isn’t a new wife, but a wife you’ve had for several years?”

  He wished someone else would involve themselves in a scandal so the gossips could occupy themselves with problems other than his. “It’s a long story, but yes.”

  Marsh nodded. “It was a good idea to bring her here. Might help. Just in case.”

  “In case I miss the deadline for Daisy’s surgery.” His gaze swung to the children and he concealed a wince. Daisy ran after a half dozen little girls, her lurching gait painful to observe. She bravely insisted that it didn’t hurt to walk or run on her ankle bone, but it was hard to watch and believe her.