The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  “Well, we aren’t divorced yet. Until we are, you’re my wife and I won’t stand for you carrying on with another man.”

  “I have every right to my future!” She was sputtering.

  Sam jabbed a finger in her direction. “You tell him, Angie. He is not to write to you again. What you do once we’re divorced is your business. While you’re living in my house, it’s my business. So take care of it. I don’t want to see any more letters from this arrogant back-stabbing son of a bitch!”

  Astonished and speechless, she watched him stomp through the door and outside. Needing to do something, anything, she looked around, then grabbed the salt shaker off the table and threw it at his back. The shaker bounced off the wall beside the door and crashed to the floor. Running outside after him, she hurled a vase at the curl on his neck. The vase sailed past his head and shattered in the road ahead of him.

  He stopped and glared back at her. “You can be as Italian as you want, but I’m not changing my mind. No sneaky bastard is going to court my wife while she’s living in my house, eating my food, and managing my money. You tell him that.”

  “I’m never going to wash your dirty underwear!” she shouted after him. “Never! Do you hear me?”

  He pretended he didn’t. But all the neighbors did.

  When Sam heard Cannady Johnson’s “hello,” he climbed out of the pit he was digging and knocked the dirt off his hat brim before he shook hands.

  “Having any luck?” Can inquired, standing at the edge of the hole. He squinted down inside where Sam had left a lantern burning.

  “I have hopes for this one. I followed a float trail that as near as I can figure ends somewhere on this claim.” He’d believed the same thing before and he’d been wrong. Someday he’d be right, and he believed he was this time.

  Already the sun had sunk beneath the range to the west. Orange and pink lit a fan of billowing clouds. Down below, Sam noticed the electric lamps along Bennet and Myers Streets, and lantern light glowed in the windows of most of the houses and cabins. He imagined mothers calling children inside, and fathers digesting their suppers while reading the newspaper. Or maybe the fathers were having a few drinks in one of the sporting houses and the mothers were figuring out how to slip rat poison into their husband’s morning eggs.

  With a sour expression, Sam leaned against a boulder and wiped sweat from his forehead. He’d been swinging a hammer all day, and now his pick and shovel seemed to weigh about a hundred pounds each.

  “Brought you a sandwich and some pickled eggs from the Slipper.” Can handed him a wax-paper package. “The way I hear it, you ain’t likely to find supper waiting when you get home. Or clean clothes either.” Can’s blue eyes twinkled in the fading light.

  Sam’s stomach told him to accept the packet. He lifted an edge of the bread. “Beef. Thank you.” He took a bite, his gaze fixed on hints of indigo fringing the edges of the pink and orange. “I didn’t do a damned thing. I just walked in the house and she started shouting how she wasn’t going to do my laundry.” He shook his head. “I didn’t appreciate Laura enough.”

  “Reminds me of a time when Molly chased me down Fourteenth Street in Denver. If she’da caught me, she would have beat me half-dead with that broom she was swinging.” He laughed.

  Sam slid him a look. “Did you know why she went after you?”

  “She thought I was seeing some doxy at Matty Silks’s. I didn’t know at the time that was the reason. Found out later.”

  Molly wasn’t a woman to put up with much guff. Sam smiled, seeing the scene in his mind.

  “And no, I wasn’t involved with any whore.”

  “Didn’t think you were.”

  “Thing is, I’d rather have me a woman with spirit. She might embarrass me, delight the gossips, make me mad as a wet hen. But Molly keeps me on my toes, and she ain’t boring. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a lot of dull and boring women in this old world.”

  “Laura wasn’t boring,” Sam said after a minute. She’d been quiet and she didn’t stand up to him much, but she’d had opinions. She wasn’t a shouter or a thrower like Angie, but a lot of hidden strength had resided in that small frame.

  “I didn’t say she was. I am saying you shouldn’t get too het up about your real wife chasing you down Carr Street and refusing to do your wash. If you want some good unasked-for advice, I’d say your wife’s telling you in her own way that you got some home work to do, boy.”

  The unasked-for advice made him recall kissing Angie, which had been a big mistake. If he’d thought sleeping was hard before, now he had the memory of her body in his arms, the scent of her hair, the soft crush of her breasts, her trembling palms on his face, and the sweet taste of her in his mouth. He didn’t need those thoughts in his mind and didn’t want them.

  “As soon as I hit my jackpot Angie and I will get a divorce.” And then Peter De Groot would step forward, the son of a bitch. “Until then, I guess I can take my laundry to Su Yung’s.”

  Frowning, he glanced at the mouth of the shaft he was digging. Somewhere down there the future waited. He felt it in his gut. But his unreliable gut had told him the same thing at a dozen other pits, and his gut had always been wrong. Giving his head a shake, he reminded himself that he’d sworn to think positively. Every hole was new and every hole could be the one.

  “Heard you got your crew standing watch over Dryfus’s place every night.” Cannady lit one of the cheap cigars that the Gold Slipper sold for two cents. “Anybody seen anything?”

  “I thought I heard something the other night, but it turned out to be only a couple of deer.”

  “I did some checking, Sam. Bill Haversham, Jason Todd, and Jack Hudson worked on the other sites, too. Wasn’t just you.”

  He knew that. “There’s no sense placing anyone else under suspicion.”

  “Thing is, none of those boys have any more reason to start the fires than you do. Unless someone paid them to do it.”

  “I haven’t noticed any of them spending any extra money.”

  “Me either,” Can agreed with a sigh. “Are the union people still talking about suing you?”

  Sam shrugged. “Marsh Collins says they don’t have a case. You can’t punish a man because a crime happens on his watch. I’m hoping the union lawyers see it the same way and the suit doesn’t materialize.” Meanwhile, it was costing him a bloody fortune in attorney’s fees. Every time Collins received a letter about the matter, he and Sam had to confer. Then Collins sent him another bill. “Are you having any luck with your claims?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I’ve got one that’s starting to look interesting. But the vein I’m following could peter out. Who knows?”

  Can’s response was vague and Sam expected no less. Only a fool would broadcast a rich strike before everything was confirmed and his next move solidly protected.

  “So, what’s going on?” he asked after a minute.

  “Easy Effie, up in Poverty Gulch, overdosed on morphine last night. Third whore this month who’s killed herself. Another assay office opened up near the depot—that’s forty-two assay offices now. There’s strike talk up at the Vindicator. The mayor is threatening to ride up to Victor and kick their mayor’s butt because Victor’s mayor said our mayor couldn’t manage a sewing bee, let alone a town.” Can laughed. “That English syndicate is still nosing around, looking for promising sites they can steal for a song. Some damned fool shot himself in the foot while he was chasing another damned fool down Myers Street, claiming the second damned fool stole his money and grabbed his woman. The only other items of interest are that Mrs. Finn scalded her arm in hot grease, and Mrs. Leland finally died of whatever was ailing her.”

  Sam nodded. “You just saved me several hours at the Slipper. Guess I’ll work here until late and then take my watch at the Dryfus place.” Every watch he took saved him the cost of paying someone else overtime. Wadding the wax paper into a ball, he tossed it toward his lunch bucket and tool bel
t. “Thanks for the sandwich and the news.”

  “One thing.” Can peered at him through the darkness. “Are you getting close to what you need for Daisy’s surgery?”

  “Not yet.”

  Standing abruptly, he walked to the pit and descended the ladder. Lifting his pick, he hefted the weight in his hand and stared at the sylvanite he was following. Sylvanite was pay dirt. Occasionally a lucky miner accidentally opened a vug that contained gold as most people pictured it. But the district’s fortunes had been made by extracting gold from sylvanite. The frustrating fact was that sylvanite could contain little gold, some gold, or a rich concentration. It wasn’t enough to locate the sylvanite. A man had to find the rich concentration. After next payday, he’d take in another sample of his ore and have the gold content assayed.

  Sam swung tired arms over his head, felt the jolt as the pick bit into solid rock, then he jerked and twisted the handle, bringing down a shower of loose dirt and rock that covered his boots to the ankle. And then again. And again, over and over into the night.

  He had Daisy’s surgery to motivate him. And the divorce he and Angie wanted. Riches. There was plenty to think about as the moon climbed in the sky. So it irritated him that he spent most of the night thinking about Angie.

  And wishing he could pound Peter De Groot into the dirt.

  Chapter 8

  Nibbling on the end of the pen, Angie tapped her fingertips on a half-covered sheet of stationery and stared into space. What to say and how to say it, that was her dilemma. Peter would be disappointed to learn that her divorce could not happen in the foreseeable future. So was she.

  On the other hand, Peter was a patient man. His interest and affection were of long standing, although she hadn’t suspected until a few months ago. Because he was an honorable man, not once in all those years had he behaved in a manner that indicated he viewed her as other than a casual friend. Not until the terrible aftermath of her father’s death, not until she announced that she was selling her home and leaving at once for Willow Creek to speak to Sam about a divorce, had Peter declared himself. Only then did Angie suddenly and thrillingly see him as a suitor and possible husband.

  The idea of Peter as the future she was trying to reach was still new and exciting. One of the many things she had missed was a genuine courtship, but it appeared she would have one. When she thought of Peter, she daydreamed about flowers and lacy boxes of candy and lovely dinners in elegant restaurants. He had promised those things lay ahead for them.

  And she would enjoy a comfortable life as Peter’s wife. Peter’s age and maturity represented an established law practice, success, and financial security.

  Well, she concluded unhappily, a man who had already waited a number of years could wait a while longer. And so could she, since they had to.

  Frowning, she ticked the tip of the pen against her teeth. For reasons she couldn’t pin down, she resisted informing Peter that Sam could not afford a divorce. To reveal Sam’s lack of prosperity felt disloyal. Which was foolish on her part, since she had no reason to exhibit any loyalty toward a man who had abandoned her and who had gone on with his life as if she didn’t exist. But there it was: a niggling sense of obligation to protect Sam’s pride.

  She also preferred not to tell Peter about Lucy and Daisy, partly because she didn’t want Peter to feel distressed about her tending to someone else’s family, and partly because she didn’t want Sam to appear utterly lacking in morals and character—even though Sam’s morals and character were in dire need of improvement. But the more incorrigible Sam seemed, the worse her own judgment appeared for marrying him in the first place.

  And if she mentioned living with Sam, she would have to explain their sleeping arrangements. As her future husband, Peter would want to know who slept where and unquestionably he had a right. But would he believe that Sam slept in a tent in the backyard? That would sound far-fetched to an urbane man like Peter.

  Setting down the pen, Angie rubbed her temples. Truly she was in the midst of an impossible situation. Her new life seemed tantalizingly within grasp, but she couldn’t reach it. Every day when Sam finished breakfast and left the house, she hoped and prayed that today would be the day he hit his jackpot. But her prayers were accompanied by a sinking conviction that a rich strike wouldn’t happen.

  At the back of her mind grew a fear that spring would melt into summer and summer would fade, then the snow would fall, and she would still be here.

  Yesterday several of the neighborhood ladies had gathered at Molly Johnson’s house to do their mending. Tilly Morgan had made a reference to last winter, when the temperature had remained at fifteen below zero for a week. If Angie were here when winter descended, would Sam continue to be willing to sleep outside in sub-zero weather? Or would he demand to come inside? And then what?

  As much as she resisted, these questions circled her back to his kiss. In fact, everything conspired to make her remember his kiss. She went to sleep reliving his kiss and woke up thinking about his kiss. She wished he had never taken her into his arms. She should have shared her first real kiss with Peter. Even worse was a tiny suspicion that she wouldn’t have enjoyed Peter’s kiss as much.

  Irritated, she crumpled the page of stationery in her fist and glanced at the clock. The girls would be home from school soon. She would answer Peter’s letter tomorrow. In her heart, she knew she would end by revealing everything. But one thing she knew she would not tell him. She would not tell him the things Sam had said. And their correspondence would continue. Sam had said he didn’t want to see another letter from Peter, and he wouldn’t. The day after she had thrown the vase at him, she’d marched down to the post office and arranged to rent her own postal box. Which she saw no reason to mention.

  When the girls came home, she stood tall and tried to look authoritative so they would obey when she instructed them to do their homework. Abby Mueller had informed her yesterday that her son attended the same school and he usually had homework every day. Mrs. Mueller had lifted her eyebrows in surprise that Angie didn’t know this.

  “If you lie to me again,” she said to Lucy, placing two glasses of milk on the table, “I’ll have to punish you. I can’t abide lying.” She had to threaten and she would have to follow through, but the thought of actually meting out punishment terrified her. If necessary, she’d start small by confining them to their room. But first, she’d drop the problem in Sam’s lap.

  “I didn’t lie,” Lucy insisted, her chin coming up. “You asked if we had home assignments.”

  “That’s not the same as homework,” Daisy explained.

  Two pairs of solemn gray eyes challenged her.

  “I think you were both aware that I meant homework.”

  Children were more clever than she had ever imagined. And utterly literal. They identified and exploited loopholes in ordinary speech. She thought about that for a minute. Maybe she did the same thing. Maybe everyone did when they were searching for wiggle room.

  Lucy turned a longing gaze toward the open kitchen door. The scent of lilacs wafted in from outside. “Are you going to sit here and watch us do our homework?” she asked sullenly.

  “Yes.”

  The minutes seemed like days. The following hour stretched out like a week.

  “Now can we go out to play?” Lucy demanded, throwing down her pencil.

  “Let’s talk first.” Angie drew a breath and folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve been here awhile now, and the three of us aren’t making much progress.”

  They regarded her suspiciously.

  “I’d like to be your friend.”

  “We don’t need another friend,” Lucy said. Following her lead, Daisy nodded.

  “I found the snake in my bed last night,” Angie said in a level voice. “If you know who put it there, tell them I’m not afraid of snakes. And tell them I’m not going away.”

  They glanced at each other, then looked down at their tablets.

  “Did you tell Papa about
the snake?” Daisy asked.

  “For the moment, the snake incident will remain between the three of us. And whoever hid the snake in my bed.”

  She had recognized at once that the creature was harmless, a simple garden snake. But finding it had hurt her feelings and discouraged her. No one wanted her here. Not Sam, not his daughters. She didn’t want to be here either, but that was beside the point.

  She drew another deep breath. “I’m not trying to replace your mother, if that’s what you’re thinking. My mother also died, and I know no one can replace her.”

  “Your mama died, too?” Daisy’s eyes widened and she leaned forward, clasping her hands around the milk glass.

  “Yes.”

  Daisy was a sweet little thing, or would have been if she hadn’t tried so hard to emulate Lucy. Lucy might also have been a sweet child, for all Angie knew, but she hid behind a wall of sullenness that bordered on defiance. Sam was the only person who stepped through Lucy’s wall, and Angie doubted Sam realized that Lucy didn’t let anyone close but him.

  “Did you cry and cry?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Even Lucy paid attention. “Do you remember what your mama looked like?”

  Oh dear. The conversation was taking an unexpected turn. “Not as well as I wish I could,” she admitted slowly.

  Daisy’s eyes filled with silvery tears. “I try and try, but I can’t remember what Mama looked like.”

  The small whisper tugged Angie’s heart. Swiftly she did the arithmetic and realized Daisy had been about three and a half when Laura died. Daisy wouldn’t have understood about dying, only that her mama suddenly disappeared.

  “I think God helps us forget things that pain our hearts. And it isn’t important to remember the details of our mothers’ appearance,” she said, speaking off the top of her head. “What’s important is to remember that your mother loved you.”

  Lucy wiped at her milk mustache. “Does it hurt to die?”

  Lordy. How did they get into this? “I think dying is the end of hurting.” Her answer didn’t satisfy anyone.