The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  “Do you believe that people go to heaven when they die?” Lucy stared at her.

  Angie floundered, feeling as if she were out of her depth. Talking about death with an adult was difficult enough. The responsibility of discussing death with children overwhelmed her. “I’m sure people like your mother do,” she said carefully.

  That was a lie. Laura Govenor had lived with another woman’s husband and had borne him two illegitimate children. If Laura could get into heaven, so could Miss Lily. For that matter if Laura Govenor could get into heaven, then Angie had wasted a lot of time and guilt and misery trying to atone for small sins that now seemed minuscule in the grand scheme of things.

  “The Sanders twins told us that people make a horrible rattling sound when they die,” Lucy informed her. “Like this.” She grabbed her throat, rolled her eyes, and made a long drawn out sound. “Aaaaaach! Aaaaach!” And another one for good measure. “Is that true?”

  That did it. Standing abruptly, Angie dusted her hands together. “I wouldn’t know. So. Come into the bedroom, please. I’ve laid out two dresses and I want you to pick which you like best.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to take the dresses to the seamstress and have them remade into Sunday ensembles for you.”

  Immediately, both girls hopped down from the table and skipped toward Angie’s bedroom as if they hadn’t been having a serious discussion about death and dying. Angie blinked. Were all children this mercurial?

  “I like the rose-colored one,” Daisy decided, stroking the bright folds draped over the bed.

  “I want the blue one.” Lucy gazed up at her. “Can we go out and play now?”

  She had imagined an animated discussion of design, trim, and accessories. But already they were moving toward the door, making their escape from her.

  “After school tomorrow we’ll take the dresses to the seamstress and have you both measured.” They didn’t regard the comment as interesting enough to merit further conversation.

  “We’ll be home after the whistle.”

  Angie followed them to the kitchen door and watched them run across several backyards toward a group of children playing behind the Koblers’ house. Raising a hand, she opened her mouth to call them back to wash out their lunch buckets. Instead, she waved when Lucy looked back, and said nothing.

  She simply wasn’t skilled with children. Their interests shocked her. They didn’t like her. She wasn’t sure that she liked them. She’d expected them to thank her for donating two perfectly good dresses to their needs. But gratitude had not entered their minds. Or maybe they disliked her too much to express a word of thanks.

  When Sam came home only an hour after full darkness, she looked at him in surprise and arched an eyebrow.

  “I decided I was coming home to put the girls to bed when Molly watched them,” he said, passing her on the way to the girls’ room. “I’ll go to the saloon for the news afterward.”

  Standing beside the stove, Angie listened to the girls’ squeals of delight, then the giggles and happy shouts of the tickling routine. Finally Sam heard their prayers.

  “God bless Mama and Papa and Gramma and Grandpa,” Daisy said loudly enough that Angie could overhear in the kitchen. “And Angie,” she added in a defensive tone. Angie could picture her sliding Lucy a defiant glance.

  Lucy’s prayer pointedly did not include Angie. Well, one small step at a time. She felt ridiculously pleased that she had made a few inroads with Daisy.

  After Sam closed the bedroom door behind him, he took a bottle of beer from the icebox and gave Angie a questioning glance. After a brief hesitation, she nodded and he opened two bottles.

  As if they had discussed what to do next, Angie lifted her shawl off the hook and they headed out the kitchen door and sat on the steps. The evening was cool and fragrant with the scent of lilacs and wood smoke. A glow radiated above Bennet and Myers Streets and occasionally Angie heard a shout from that direction. Usually the sounds of evening revelry didn’t reach this far. A comfortable quiet prevailed in the neighborhood, disturbed only by the buzz of insects and quiet murmurs from nearby houses.

  “I’m glad you came home,” Angie said when the silence between them began to feel awkward. “I know it means a lot to the girls.” It was nice for her, too, to end the day with adult conversation.

  “I’m not coming to see the girls before bed because you suggested I should,” he said, raising the beer bottle to his lips.

  “Certainly not. Heaven forbid you should accept one of my suggestions.” She rolled her eyes at the dark shape of his tent.

  “I had an additional reason for coming home early. To give you this.” He tapped an envelope on her shoulder.

  “What is it?” The envelope felt padded.

  “It’s a hundred dollars. I hit a small strike last week and sold some high-grade ore. I just got the money. I held back ten.”

  She twisted on the step to frown at him, her face lit by the soft lantern light falling from the kitchen. “Why did you hold out ten dollars?”

  “For a celebration down at the Slipper.” His features were in shadow, but she saw the movement of his eyebrows coming together, heard justification deepen his tone. “A man’s entitled to a little celebrating when he hits a jackpot, even a small one.”

  “Sam, we have fifty cents in the surgery jar, and only fifty cents in the divorce jar.”

  “No, we have six hundred and fifty dollars in the surgery jar. I added my savings.”

  “Ten dollars in the divorce jar would be a start.”

  “I just gave you a hundred dollars,” he said sharply. “You can put it in any damned jar you want to.”

  She thought about the money, tilting her head back to gaze at the stars. “There’s the seamstress, and both girls need Sunday shoes and gloves and new hats and purses. Or I could put most of the amount in the surgery jar. Or I could pay down a few of your debts.” She would have loved to put the hundred dollars in the divorce jar, but she wouldn’t.

  “It’s your decision. So. What did you do today?” he asked, as if she had a lot of choice about how she spent her days, as if her routine might be interesting.

  “The usual.” Cooking, scrubbing, cleaning, cooking, a trip to town to buy lamp oil and butter, cooking. “Abby Mueller stopped by to offer me a few columbines and wild lupin to plant in the front yard.”

  “Good.” He dangled the beer bottle between his fingers. “The front yard’s going to weeds.”

  “Look,” she said sharply, twisting on the step to face him again. “There have been a lot of adjustments to make. I can’t do everything at once. I’ll get to the front yard when I can.”

  “Damn it, Angie, I wasn’t criticizing. I know it hasn’t been easy stepping into a family and a life you’re not used to.” He hesitated then added, “And you’re doing a good job.”

  Her angry retort died in a glow of surprise. This was the first compliment he’d offered since her arrival, and it made her speechless. As with Daisy’s blessing, the depth of her gratitude was embarrassing and annoying.

  “Thank you,” she said finally. Then she straightened her shoulders and told him about her conversation with his daughters and Lucy’s death-rattle performance.

  Sam laughed, a deep rumbling sound that made Angie smile to hear it. “That girl should be an actress.”

  Her smile faded to concern. “Do you think it’s natural for young children to be so interested in such matters?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Weren’t you when you were their age?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I don’t remember. But I know they’re thinking about Laura, and I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing.”

  “Maybe they aren’t. Two miners died in a cave-in a few days ago. It’s a safe bet the girls heard about the deaths at school.”

  “I’m certain they were thinking about Laura.”

  “It’s hard to lose a mother at their age,” Sam said after a moment, his
voice soft in the darkness. “When they ask me questions, I try to answer honestly. I don’t paint a halo on their mother; I don’t want them to make a saint out of her. But I don’t want them to forget her either.”

  In Angie’s mind, saint, halo, and Laura were not words that went together. She tasted the cold beer and tried to will the tension out of her shoulders. Being with Sam made everything inside tighten into a state of waiting. Waiting for what she couldn’t have said because she didn’t know. Waiting for the next argument? The next sharp difference of opinion? The next touch? The next kiss?

  Not the next kiss, she told herself firmly. There would be no more kissing. Neither of them wanted that.

  “Is it a good sign that you hit a small jackpot?” she asked at length. “Does that mean you’ll hit a big jackpot?”

  When he shrugged, the scent of earth and soap stirred around him. She became aware of the warmth of his knee near her shoulder, and she edged away. Never in her life had she been so constantly or so acutely aware of a man. Sometimes at the end of the day, she felt exhausted from thinking about Sam Holland. Wondering. Speculating. About things that shouldn’t have been in her mind in the first place.

  “Finding a pocket of high-grade might mean nothing at all,” he explained. “That’s the frustrating part. Or it could mean I’m close.” After finishing his beer, he set the bottle on the step. “The syndicates are snapping up claims right and left, but they aren’t interested unless the ore is a sure thing with long-term prospects and assays out at five hundred dollars a ton or more.”

  “I don’t know anything about mining,” Angie said with a frown, trying to follow what he was saying. “What do the syndicates have to do with anything?”

  “If I found a jackpot, I’d sell it to a development syndicate.”

  That shocked her. “Wouldn’t you be giving up your riches? Why wouldn’t you keep your mine?”

  “It takes a fortune to develop a working mine. The sylvanite—that’s the ore—isn’t lying around on the surface. You have to go deep. That means shafts with access elevators. That means a crew of hard-rock miners. Then you have to buy lumber to shore up the stopes. And pumps and coal to run them to keep water out of the mine. And expensive equipment. Then you have to pay transport to the mill and pay mill fees to extract the ore. An ordinary man like me can’t afford the development costs.”

  She’d had no idea. “What kind of price would a development syndicate pay?”

  “It depends. Al Jordan got over a hundred thousand for his Nobby Hill claim. But Al was down two hundred feet and had dug several drifts. The ore he brought up was top grade. Clink Williams, on the other hand, sold his claim for six hundred dollars. All he had was a dry pit and a pocket that had the assayer shouting eureka. Highest-grade ore anyone’s seen in a year.”

  “Then why did he sell for only six hundred?”

  “Because no one knows what’s beyond the pocket. The syndicate figures it can afford to lose six hundred dollars if the sylvanite peters out. Clink Williams figures this is six hundred in hand versus nothing if the pocket is an anomaly.” Sam shrugged again. “Clink’s wife wants to go home to Ohio. The six hundred will get them there.”

  Angie thought about what he was saying. It wasn’t what she’d expected. “What are you hoping for, Sam? What do you want from the future?”

  “I want a house in Denver near good schools for my girls,” he said without hesitation. “I want them in a place where schoolchildren don’t discuss what fashions the whores are wearing. And I want our house to be bigger than your father’s house.”

  That surprised her but she supposed it shouldn’t have. The past reverberated for both of them.

  “What about the house Laura’s parents live in? I have an idea from Molly that they live in a mansion. Does your house of the future have to be a mansion?”

  Sam shook his head. “Herb Govenor struck it rich a couple of years ago, back in the days when millionaires were as common as deer ticks. But Laura was already grown and out of the house before the Govenors moved to Colorado Springs and built their mansion.” He looked down into Angie’s upturned face. “Herb Govenor hates me for some damned good reasons, but he’s never held it against me that I’m not rich.”

  Heat burned Angie’s throat. “My father’s dead, Sam. You don’t have to best him. You don’t have to prove anything for his sake.”

  “That’s only part of it. Most of all, I need to succeed for me. I’ve failed two women—I don’t want to fail two little girls.” Lowering his head, he rubbed his forehead. “I want them to live in a house with a real parlor, go to decent schools and then to college if that’s what they want. I want them to have an armoire stuffed with Sunday dresses,” he said, opening his eyes to stare at her. “I want them to grow up a hundred miles from the nearest mine. When the time comes for beaus, I don’t want to see any miners lining up at the door. Living in a mining camp is too hard a life for a woman.”

  “And what about you? Will you marry again?” she asked softly.

  He laughed, a short harsh sound. “I’ve had my fill of in-laws. And you of all people should know that I’m not good husband material. I never do or say the right thing.”

  In fact, she didn’t know what kind of husband he could be since they’d never had a real marriage. From what he’d said, and the hints Molly had dropped, Laura had been happy enough. But Sam as a real husband didn’t bear thinking about.

  She poured the last drops of her beer over the side of the steps. “There’s something that puzzles me. If the Govenors are rich, why haven’t they offered to pay for Daisy’s surgery?”

  Instantly she felt him stiffen and pull his shoulders back. Anger rolled off of him in waves.

  “They told Laura they’d pay to fix Daisy’s leg if Laura would leave me,” he said bitterly. “I don’t blame them for not wanting their daughter to live with a married man. But I blame them for using Daisy and their fortune to manipulate their daughter. I blame them for being unwilling to help their granddaughter unless certain conditions are met.”

  Angie stared, peering through the darkness, trying to see his expression. “That’s not fair,” she agreed. And Laura must have loved him very much to choose him over fixing Daisy’s foot. Or maybe that was an unjust thought. More likely Laura had believed that Sam would find the funds, and she could have both the man she loved and the operation for her daughter. “But Laura’s gone. Why aren’t the Govenors stepping forward now?”

  “The new demand is that I give them custody of my girls and then they’ll fix Daisy’s foot.” Standing, he stepped past her and halted in the yard beside the clothesline. He tilted his head to glare at the stars. “There isn’t a single day that I don’t feel guilty. Daisy could have her operation next week. All I have to do is pack them up and deliver them to the Govenors in Colorado Springs.”

  “Oh, Sam.”

  “I can’t do that. I won’t give them up until I have to.”

  She watched him pace, losing his silhouette against the blackness of the tent, picking him up again when he emerged near the lilac bush. “What does that mean? Until you have to?”

  “Remember you asked about Marsh Collins? Marsh is my attorney. After Laura died, Herb and Winnie demanded custody of the girls. They were estranged from Laura, hadn’t been in contact with her for over a year, hadn’t come when she was dying, hardly knew the girls. Yet here they came after Laura’s death, demanding her daughters.”

  “Go on,” Angie urged when he stopped speaking.

  “I wouldn’t agree so the Govenors filed suit. Marsh Collins isn’t a big-city attorney—hell, he isn’t even the best attorney in Willow Creek. But he was willing to let me pay as I could. And just when it looked like I was going to lose the girls, Marsh came up with a plan both sides could agree to.”

  Angie clutched the shawl to her throat and strained to see him through the darkness. “Which was?”

  “The whole outcome depends on Daisy’s operation. The Govenors argued tha
t I wasn’t fit because I couldn’t provide for her surgery and they could. Marsh argued that winter was almost upon us, the worst time for someone in the building trades, but once spring came I’d be able to save money for Daisy’s expenses. So the Govenors finally agreed to give me a year. They figure they’ll get the girls anyway. And I figure I’ll be able to fix Daisy’s foot before October first.”

  Angie sucked in a breath. “This coming October first?” Immediately she decided to pay for the girl’s new Sunday clothing, then put the rest of the hundred dollars into the surgery jar.

  “One way or another, Daisy will get her surgery. That’s the only good thing in this mess, the most important thing.”

  “Is it, Sam?” Leaning forward on the step, she struggled to see through the deepening darkness. “Yes, it’s important that Daisy has her foot straightened. But it’s also important that the girls remain with their father. If the Govenors could let that little girl . . . if they could tie her health and happiness to Laura leaving you . . . if they can withhold the operation she so desperately needs . . .” Anger shook her. “Then they cannot be allowed to raise your girls! It’s all control and manipulation with them.”

  She sensed surprise in his silence. “That’s what I think, too,” he said finally. “They’d twist my girls in knots of guilt just like they did Laura. Maybe they didn’t mean to. Maybe that’s what they think all parents do. But Laura believed she couldn’t please them, couldn’t do anything right. Usually because she wanted something they didn’t approve of. After a while she quit trying to make them happy, but she never quit feeling guilty about it. I don’t want my girls to feel guilty about living their lives in whatever way makes them happy.”

  October. A hard weight descended on her shoulders. “Sam, can you earn enough from your wages between now and October to pay for the operation?”

  “It’s possible,” he said, his voice a harsh sound floating out of the night. “Just barely. If we eat beans for a few months, if my creditors would suspend payment demands, if I didn’t have to pay overtime . . . Hell, Angie, I don’t know. Every time I get ahead something happens to set me back.” Frustration shook his voice.