The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  His chest tightened and he bit through his cigar, spitting out the piece with a swear word. Sometimes it felt as if the powers that be conspired against him. Three times he’d had the money saved for Daisy’s operation. The first time, a low-down no-good thieving bastard had stolen his nest egg. The second time he’d saved enough, one of his men had fallen off the roof of a project, landed on a pile of bricks, and died. Sam had given his savings to the man’s widow. His last nest egg had gone to pay for a decent funeral for Laura. He’d bought her a silk dress to be buried in, and the best casket Mel Jackson carried, the one with brass fittings and handles. A granite headstone would have cost less, but he bought marble. He didn’t regret his choices; he only wished he could manage Daisy’s surgery, too. And he would, damn his hide.

  “If things don’t work out like we hope,” Marsh Collins said, phrasing the possibility with uncharacteristic delicacy, “we aren’t giving up. Having a wife will help. Looks like a stable home and all that. Plus, everyone in this town will stick up for you.”

  “Unless the Dryfus house burns down,” Sam said. He ground his cigar under his boot heel.

  Marsh nodded. “Unless the Dryfus house burns down. We’ll assume that won’t happen.”

  So far everything was quiet enough that Sam suspected he was paying a fortune in overtime for nothing. Well, better safe than sorry. Tonight was his turn to patrol the site after midnight. It didn’t cost him when he took a turn.

  Clovis Petry came up to them without a by-your-leave for interrupting a legal consultation. “Would the name of your long lost wife happen to be Angelina Bertoli?”

  There was only one reason why the postmaster would know his wife’s name. Before he answered Clovis, he turned to Marsh. “If you’re charging me for this brief basically useless conversation, turn off the clock because we’re finished.”

  Marsh smiled. “I’ll add today’s consultation to your bill.”

  “Why do you want to know my wife’s name?” he asked Clovis.

  “If she’s Angelina Bertoli, then I got a letter for her from Chicago. Came general delivery. I’ve been holding it for three days.”

  “I’ll pick it up tomorrow on my way to the site.”

  “It’s from a man.”

  Marsh Collins laughed. “What’s the letter say, Clovis?”

  “I don’t read people’s mail!” Offended, he stamped away.

  Sam looked across the yard at Angie. She was the best-looking woman in the bunch. A fact he was becoming more and more aware of, to the extent that he’d experienced the warmth and fragrance of her next to him in the pew and he’d spent most of the sermon thinking decidedly unchurchlike thoughts.

  This was becoming a problem. But he couldn’t get it out of his mind that she was a grown woman, a wife, who had never been kissed by a mature man.

  Chapter 7

  Monday dawned bright and clear. The crisp air was dry and cool, a perfect wash-day, according to Molly Johnson. As this was the first time Angie had put up a full wash, she was no expert on the subject.

  But she would be after today. In short order she learned that doing major laundry was a far cry from washing a few delicate items by hand. Laundry was hard, backbreaking work.

  She’d filled all her large pots at the pump, hefted them up on the stove, heated the water to boiling, then lifted down the pots and filled the laundry tubs. One tub for scrubbing, one tub for rinsing, one tub for soaking the whites in bluing. After getting down on her knees and scrubbing clothes on the washboard, she carried heavy wet laundry out to the line, pinned the clean items to the rope, and returned to the kitchen to wash the next batch.

  Stepping back from the line, Angie waved at Molly, who was hanging clothing in her backyard, then she placed her hands against the small of her back and pressed aching muscles. Her whites looked as white as Molly’s, she thought with pleasure, judging Molly’s wash against her own. Of course, she hadn’t tackled Sam’s clothing yet. And hadn’t decided if she would.

  Looking down the valley, she noticed that all across Willow Creek clotheslines sprouted brightly colored clothing that waved in the light breeze like tattered petals.

  There was something satisfying about knowing that all over the district women worked in hot sudsy kitchens, cursing stubborn stains, putting up the weekly family laundry. Tomorrow, the same women would spend the day sprinkling and ironing. And Angie was connected by gender and history to all the women past and present who cooked and cleaned, washed and mended for their men and families.

  Of course, this wasn’t her family, she thought with a tiny pang. The small petticoats and calico dresses fluttering on the line had nothing to do with her. Lucy and Daisy were the fruit of another woman’s womb. If Sam had been able to afford a divorce, Angie wouldn’t have known that Lucy’s drawers needed mending or that Daisy’s blue sash had faded nearly to white. If Sam had been able to afford a divorce, Angie would have been living alone and sending her washing to the nearest Chinese laundry as she always had.

  Turning abruptly from the clothesline, she strode toward the flap of Sam’s tent and flung it open to peer inside.

  His crumpled sleeping bag lay on a cot. There was a low, beautifully built side table holding a lantern and a book about geologic formations. He’d made a clothes tree with enough branches to support several sets of clothing.

  Feeling like a trespasser, Angie glanced over her shoulder then bent and stepped inside to examine his clothing. Everything needed washing. There wasn’t a pair of pants that didn’t look as if he’d crawled around in heavy dirt while wearing them. Which she supposed he had, up at his claims.

  An odd impulse made her lift one of his soft flannel work shirts to her face and press the material to her cheek, then to her nose where she inhaled the exotic male scent of him. Bath soap. Shaving soap. A whiff of perspiration. A hint of cigar smoke. The earthy outdoors scent that was Sam: partly sunshine, partly pine, partly wood shavings and roof tar.

  A wave of dizziness overcame her and she stumbled, almost pulling down the clothes tree. Heat infused her face and her stomach tightened abruptly. She would have sat down but the only place to sit was on his cot. Where he slept.

  Good heavens, what was happening to her? Steadying herself against the clothes tree, she blinked hard. A minute ago she’d been standing in the high mountain sunshine thinking lofty thoughts about the sisterhood of women and being connected to past generations through family tasks. Now she suddenly felt strange and shaky. Sam’s scent lingered in her nostrils and a slow-burning fire had kindled between her thighs.

  Appalled, she backed out of his tent and threw down the flap, shutting out the sight of his clothing and his pillow. Skirts billowing, she spun on her heels and fled to the kitchen. After pouring coffee into her mother’s teacup, she dropped into a chair at the table.

  This was so peculiar. Her fingers shook. Simply touching Sam’s clothing and examining his bed had made her hands shake. She couldn’t believe it.

  That settled her indecision about doing his wash. Grimly she concluded if merely sniffing his shirt and inspecting his cot sent her into a near swoon like some silly yearning spinster, heaven knew what scrubbing his underwear would do to her. She didn’t want to find out.

  “Angie?”

  The unexpected sound of Sam’s voice made her twitch and guiltily thank her stars that he hadn’t appeared five minutes ago to catch her inside his tent.

  Jumping to her feet, she glared at him, instantly furious for no good reason. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, remember? This used to be my house.” After glancing at her pinned-up skirts and wet apron, he walked to the stove, dodging the laundry tubs. “I forgot my lunch bucket this morning.”

  “I am not going to do your laundry!”

  Seething, her eyes snapping with resentment, she suddenly felt very sorry for herself. She hadn’t come here to be Sam’s drudge. Hadn’t asked to feed, wash, and worry about the children he’d had while she was with
ering on the vine in her parents’ house. While she’d remained as chaste as a nun, he’d explored, probably reveled in pleasures that were still a mystery to her. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair.

  Sam paused at the sink and frowned. “Did something happen that I should know about?”

  She planted her fists on her hips and ground her teeth. “How could you! We were married! Damn you, Sam.” The fire that had started between her legs flamed up to her throat. Whirling, she paced to the front door, then back to the table. “You just set up housekeeping as if I didn’t exist! Created a cozy little nest for yourself and someone who wasn’t me. And you had children! I wanted children. Did you ever think of that?”

  He watched her kick the bluing tub, sending a slosh of liquid over the side and onto the floor. She didn’t care. She wanted to kick things, throw things, and scream at the injustice of her life.

  “No woman should have to wash a man’s underwear unless he’s a real husband! And hankies! Underwear and hankies are not things a woman should have to scrub unless she’s utterly destitute, insane, or crazy in love!”

  “Excuse me, would it be out of line to ask what brought this on?” He watched her with narrowed, wary eyes, the way a man would watch a burning fuse.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Here I am taking care of some other woman’s children!” Heat pulsed in her face, choked her. “Another woman that you loved and held and . . . and while you were doing all that I was embroidering hundreds of stupid pillowcases, remembering three kisses and wondering if I’d go to my grave without ever . . . without ever . . .” She threw a hand past her face. “You know what I mean. Of course you know. Being married to me didn’t stop you from—”

  He crossed between the laundry tubs so swiftly that she had no time to grasp his intention. She wouldn’t have guessed his intent anyway.

  His hands caught her waist and pulled her hard against his body, and the good male scents she’d smelled in his tent enveloped her and reeled through her senses. The heat of his hands and the hard, muscular power of his body stopped the words in her mouth and the breath in her chest.

  A gasp broke from her lips. “What are you—”

  Then his mouth came down hard on hers, hot, demanding, almost angry. This wasn’t the kiss of an inexperienced youth. His tongue forced her lips apart, shocking her, shooting a searing current of electricity down her spine and through her limbs.

  Eyes wide, Angie raised her hands to shove him away, but to her astonishment, her arms circled his neck instead and her knees collapsed. She sagged against him in complete surrender, giving in to the electric tingling that burned away resistance and willpower.

  Heaven help her, she tasted him. Pushed her tongue against his and felt him stiffen against her. Felt his arms tighten and his hands cup her buttocks and mold her into his body. He touched her backside. Nothing like this had ever happened to her. It was shocking, amazing, stupefying. And the heat of his hands on her buttocks made her feel strange and hot and wild inside.

  Her hands slipped to his cheeks and for the first time Angie felt the texture of her husband’s face beneath her palms. His skin was firm, warm, slightly whiskery. And she discovered the exciting, almost salty taste of him. This wasn’t the careful chaste kiss of so many years ago, not the gentle embrace that had made her feel as cherished as porcelain.

  This was a man’s kiss and a man’s need that explored her mouth and pressed her hard against an iron body that set her mind and flesh on fire.

  When Sam finally released her lips, they were both breathing hard, and Angie would have fallen if he hadn’t kept his hands on her waist. Her knees had turned to porridge. Staring into her eyes, he said, “Now you’ve been kissed.”

  But all her jumbled brain could think of was that she was wearing her oldest dress, pinned up so her snarliest stockings showed, and her hair was a flyaway mess. Wasn’t a kiss like she’d just experienced supposed to happen when a woman was at her most seductive and alluring? She didn’t understand anything.

  Sam’s gaze cleared and he dropped his hands as if her waist scorched his palms. Walking to the sink, he leaned on the edge and stared out the window.

  “I apologize. I swore I wouldn’t touch you.” He shoved a hand through his long hair, then dropped his fist to the sink.

  Dazed and trembling, Angie sank into a chair. The Earth had just shifted on its axis. The world could not be the same place. A man had tasted the inside of her mouth and it had been the most exciting thing that ever happened to her. She had never imagined such an act. Would mistakenly have been repelled if she had.

  Lifting a hand, she touched the quivering corners of her lips. They felt swollen and hot. At least her heart had begun to quiet and was no longer slamming against her rib cage.

  Lord save her, she wished he’d do it again.

  “Well.” Sam cleared his throat and tilted his head back. He noticed the jars Angie had placed on the top shelf over the stove. “What’s all that?”

  “Just what the labels say.” Her voice sounded husky and breathless. She cleared her throat too. “I started late on the wash because I went to town and paid a little on all your debts. I portioned out the remainder into the jars.” They were labeled Sam (for saloon, bathhouse, and now laundry money), Angie and girls (for school supplies, clothing, and incidentals), food, household, surgery, divorce.

  “I don’t see a treat jar. Little girls need treats every now and then. An ice cream cone, a pretty ribbon.” He shrugged.

  “I’ve allowed for incidentals.”

  He rattled the surgery and divorce jars, then looked inside. “Fifty cents in each jar?”

  “You were behind on most of your debts, so there wasn’t much left over.” Her mind stuck on his previous comment. When had he become the kind of man who believed that little girls needed treats? When he said such things, the breath ran out of her body. On the one hand, Sam worked too much to spend the time with his daughters that Angie believed he should. But he was a natural-born father.

  He replaced the jars above the stove. “Winter is a lean time for builders. Jobs should pick up now.”

  Surprisingly, he made a good wage. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to keep much as he’d held out a large chunk to pay his men overtime, and he was behind on so many debts.

  “I couldn’t locate Marsh Collins, whoever he is. I wanted to pay something on that debt because it’s the largest. The grocer told me I might find Mr. Collins in the Gold Slipper, but of course I wouldn’t go into a saloon. Who is Marsh Collins?”

  He nodded but it wasn’t until later that Angie realized he didn’t explain Marsh Collins. “Is there enough money to buy the girls new clothes?”

  She had to ask him to repeat the question because her thoughts had swerved and stuck on the way his flannel shirt pulled across his wide shoulders. Her throat burned with the memory of his solid muscular chest against her breasts, and she hastily averted her gaze from the tightness of his denims around his buttocks and thighs.

  “New clothes. Yes. I’ve been thinking about that.” She wished her voice didn’t sound so embarrassingly breathy and strange. “We can save money by cutting down a couple of my dresses for the girls.” She had enough clothing that she’d left much of it unpacked. “Then we’d only have the cost of a seamstress. And shoes. And a few incidentals.”

  Turning from the sink, he frowned. “You don’t need to sacrifice your things. Buy new material.”

  “I don’t mind. The dresses are just—”

  “Your father dressed my wife for ten years, I don’t want my daughters dressed by him, too. Buy new material.”

  Silently, she watched him grab his lunch bucket and stride toward the door. “Buying new is a waste of money we could use in a dozen other places,” she said, keeping her back to him. “It’s penny-wise and pound-foolish.”

  “I don’t want them to have castoffs.”

  Had she known how stubborn and prideful he was? She didn’t think so. Realizing he was about to lea
ve, she stood and faced him, and her chin came up.

  “I am still not going to wash your clothes.”

  If he thought kissing her and getting her all riled up would make her welcome the drudgery of a real wife, he was wrong. In fact, instead of softening her, his kiss had demonstrated what she’d been missing all these years and the loss made her furious.

  He stood with his hand on the doorknob. “I almost forgot. Who is Peter De Groot?”

  Angie’s mouth dropped. This was a morning for shocks. “How on earth could you possibly know Peter’s name?” She couldn’t have been more startled if he’d begun speaking in tongues.

  Reaching inside his shirt, Sam withdrew a letter, which he placed on the small table beside the door. “I’m guessing he must be your father’s attorney. Is that correct?”

  Color heated her cheeks. “No,” she admitted slowly. “Mr. De Groot is a friend. A good friend.”

  “I see.” Sam stared at her across the tiny parlor section, across the cooling laundry tubs. “Just how good a friend is he?”

  Uncomfortable, she brushed a strand of loose hair off her forehead. “We . . . Mr. De Groot and I intend to, well, marry perhaps. After you and I obtain our divorce.”

  Sam’s eyebrows soared and his stare intensified. “Are you saying right to my face that some son of a bitch is courting my wife?”

  She blinked. “Well, I suppose you could say that.” Sudden fury boiled up inside. “How dare you object?” She threw out her hands, indicating the house, the curtains, the rugs, the furnishings. “You lived here with another woman! You didn’t just court someone, you moved her in with you and had children!”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “It sure isn’t!”

  “I wasn’t courting a woman who’s living with her legally wedded husband! You tell that bastard not to contact you again.”

  Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. “I certainly will not!” This was unbelievable. “Once you and I are divorced, I hope to marry Mr. De Groot!”