The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  Like a wife showing up on his doorstep. No wonder he was upset by the idea of supporting her.

  “My best hope is to find gold.”

  “There’s something else I’ve wondered about. . . .” she said, drawing a breath. “About this overtime you’re paying. Do you own a construction company? Do these men work for you?” If he didn’t have to pay the overtime wages, they could put more money into the surgery jar. She waited. “Sam?”

  “I’ll explain, but not right now, okay? Right now I need to go back up to Gold Hill and swing a pick for a few hours.”

  “Now?” She blinked. “It must be nearly ten o’clock.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Don’t start?” Her eyebrows lifted, then came down hard. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t come up with fourteen reasons why I shouldn’t go to the saloon or shouldn’t work on my claims until all hours or why I should be here instead of taking a watch at the Dryfus place.”

  “Taking a watch at the Dryfus place? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She also hadn’t known there were nights that he wasn’t sleeping in his tent. Standing, she clutched her shawl and watched him walk into the light spilling from the kitchen. “If you’re not going to be here at night, you should tell me!”

  “Why? What do you care where I am at night?” He stared up at her, his eyes in shadow.

  On some level Angie understood that he was angry at the Govenors, at fate, at himself. But the anger spilled over onto her. And his anger triggered hers.

  “I don’t care where you are,” she said sharply. “You could spend your nights at the Old Homestead frolicking with Miss Lily and her companions and I wouldn’t care this much.” She snapped her fingers. “But I would like to know when you plan to be gone all night. In case something happens. An emergency.” He owed her that much.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that anger lay very close to arousal. She felt the same heat on her cheeks, the same tightness in her stomach, the same tension drawing taut between them that she had felt when he kissed her. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and she swallowed, feeling a great weakness spread through her knees. Following the direction of his gaze, she realized that she stood silhouetted in the light, her waist and hips in sharp relief. She told herself to move, but she didn’t.

  Knots ran up Sam’s clenched jaw. “You know, sometimes this feels like a real marriage,” he said quietly, speaking through his teeth. “We see each other every day, we argue all the time, and we don’t have sex.”

  Turning, he strode away from her and disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 9

  “May I speak frankly, Mrs. Holland?”

  “Please do,” Angie said coolly. She objected to the frown the cobbler had continued to direct at Daisy’s hem since they entered his shop. While she understood Mr. Kravitz’s professional interest, his thoughtless stare had cast Daisy into an anguished state of self-consciousness. She hid behind Angie’s skirts.

  “For the smallest young lady, patent heels and top-grade kid uppers are a waste of my skill and your money.” Because Daisy would walk on her ankle and scuff the patent and wear through the soft uppers. “A better choice would be a tough, thicker-grade leather.”

  Angie drew herself up as she felt Daisy press against her side, trying to disappear. “We want everyday shoes, Mr. Kravitz, and we also want Sunday shoes.”

  “I understand. But the little miss is going to scratch the patent and—”

  “And I understand that.” She leveled a flat, cold look at a point midway between Mr. Kravitz’s eyes. Her tone, posture, and icy expression all stated the offensive discussion had ended. How dare he suggest that Daisy should make do with everyday boots for Sunday wear?

  “It’s your money,” Kravitz said with a shrug.

  “How gratifying to discover you realize that. Now may we get on with it?”

  After sizing her up with a sharp glance, Kravitz beckoned to Lucy, who stood before the window peering out at the traffic congesting Bennet Street. “If you young ladies will take a seat, we’ll measure your feet.”

  Daisy tugged Angie’s sleeve and gazed up with imploring eyes. “I don’t want new shoes. Please don’t make me.” Tears of humiliation choked her voice.

  The right answer didn’t come instinctively when Angie faced a problem with the girls. Certainly she understood Daisy’s abhorrence and why she shrank from allowing a stranger to examine her twisted foot. Daisy still hadn’t allowed Angie to see. But how was Daisy to get new shoes if the cobbler couldn’t measure her feet?

  “Measure Lucy first,” she instructed Mr. Kravitz, then walked to the big display window facing the street.

  Bennet Street baked in the sun beneath a cloud of dust and powdered horse droppings kicked up by a constant stream of wagons, carriages, and riders. Angie could barely read the shop signs on the far side of the street through the traffic and haze.

  Unlike the shops in Chicago, businesses were not grouped by commonality in Willow Creek. A saddler’s storefront and a hotel rose on either side of the cobbler’s shop. The grocer conducted business next to the stables. Assay offices dotted the landscape like widely spaced weeds. Saloons had sprung up willy-nilly, here beside a medical office, there beside the lady’s notions emporium. One tack shop was on Golden Avenue, another lay across town below Myers Street. Angie could identify no rhyme or reason to the town’s layout.

  “Angie?” Daisy whispered at her side.

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “I’ll do anything you say if you don’t make me do this.”

  She sighed and pushed at the fingers of her gloves. “Do you have another pair of shoes at home?”

  Daisy nodded. “Old ones.”

  “All right. Take off your shoe.” Kneeling, she gazed into Daisy’s moist gray eyes. “We’ll leave the shoe with Mr. Kravitz.”

  “Why?”

  “Instead of measuring your foot, we’ll tell him to use your shoe as a pattern. But you’ll have to walk home in your stocking feet.” Smiling, she tucked a strand of ashy gold hair behind Daisy’s ear. “Are you comfortable with that plan?”

  Daisy closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against Angie’s shoulder. “Oh, thank you.”

  Angie took the twisted battered shoe to Mr. Kravitz. “I want the patent and good kid shoes and a set of everyday shoes for both girls. For Daisy, use this shoe as your pattern. Only make the new one a bit larger.”

  Kravitz looked up from noting Lucy’s measurements and frowned. “A bit larger? That won’t do, Mrs. Holland. I need exact measurements. Particularly in her case.”

  “That’s not how we’re going to do it,” she said pleasantly but firmly. “If the new shoes don’t fit correctly, I’ll bring them back and we’ll continue making adjustments until they do fit properly.”

  Kravitz held her gaze for a full minute, then threw up his hands. Angie knew capitulation when she saw it.

  “Now then. What will the charge be for two pairs of good shoes and two pairs of everyday shoes?”

  He studied the odd-shaped, scarred shoe in her hand. “The special-made shoes will be five dollars a pair. This young lady’s shoes will be two dollars and fifty cents a pair.” His stony expression dared her to object.

  “That’s robbery,” she snapped, scowling. “Come along, girls.” At the door she glared back with eyes as hard as black rock. “And when will the shoes be ready?”

  “A week from tomorrow.”

  “That is not acceptable,” she said. “The shoes will be ready the day after tomorrow.”

  “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “For the price I’m paying, you will have them ready when I say they should be ready. And that’s the day after tomorrow!” Her eyes narrowed and flashed, and her earrings swung in indignation. “I’m giving you a day longer than I would like to.” Her stubborn expression added an unspoken addendum: Meet the deadline or there will be hell to pay.

  Chin in the air, she
sailed outside onto the boardwalk and turned toward the notions emporium.

  “This is so embarrassing,” Lucy murmured, her head down. “First you argued with the seamstress, then with Mr. Kravitz, and now Daisy is walking down Bennet in her stocking feet. Is she going barefoot to school tomorrow? I’ll just die.”

  “Daisy has an old pair of shoes that she can wear to school.” She glared at Lucy, out of patience. “I’m sorry it embarrasses you to see someone refuse to be trampled by shop people. I’d think you especially would understand standing up for oneself.”

  Lucy’s head lifted and her mouth formed into a pout. “You still had to pay Mrs. Hooten in advance, and you had to pay Mr. Kravitz’s price.”

  “But Mrs. Hooten agreed to include buttons and trim, and Mr. Kravitz will have your shoes ready the day after tomorrow. I expect and will by heaven receive service for my money. If that embarrasses you, then I hope you marry a wealthy man.” She’d cut her shopping teeth on Chicago merchants, and she’d learned a few universal truths. Timidity and politeness got one exactly nowhere with shopkeepers.

  And long ago she had run out of a room instead of standing up for herself and what she wanted. She’d had ten endless years to think about that.

  She watched Lucy while they shopped for gloves, bags, stockings, and new handkerchiefs. If Angie approved or suggested a particular item, Lucy immediately rejected that choice. If Angie gravitated toward one display, Lucy headed in the other direction. Worse, they seemed to wage a subtle tug-of-war for Daisy’s attention. Doubtful and confused, Daisy followed after Angie and then responded to Lucy’s call, then she returned to Angie before Lucy pulled her away again. Finally she covered her eyes and burst into tears.

  Lucy shot a gaze down the aisle that said: Now look what you’ve caused.

  “We’re finished here,” Angie announced grimly. She gathered the items she thought they needed, making the choices for them, and carried her selections to the counter. She left Lucy to comfort Daisy, not knowing if that was a wise decision or simply the quickest way to get out of here.

  No one spoke a word until they arrived home.

  Angie placed their parcels on the kitchen table. “I’d hoped this would be a pleasant and enjoyable excursion. I’m sorry it wasn’t.” Worse, she didn’t know why the outing had turned sour. What had she done or said?

  “Put on your old shoes, then we’ll go outside,” Lucy instructed Daisy. While she waited, she watched Angie remove her hat and gloves, then fold her summer cape. “Daddy loved my mama,” she said suddenly.

  Angie glanced at her out-thrust chin and angry mouth, then untied the string on the packages. “I’m sure he did.”

  “I saw them kiss. Lots of times.”

  Her fingers fumbled in the string, then steadied. “That’s nice.”

  “He doesn’t kiss you.” Turning away, she shouted toward the bedroom door. “Are you ready yet?”

  Daisy ran out of the bedroom toward the front door, lurching from side to side in her awkward dipping gait. “Wait a minute,” she called to Lucy.

  She returned with a fistful of columbines which she shyly pushed into Angie’s hands without a word. Then she ran out the back door, shouting at Lucy to hurry up.

  Angie blinked at the columbines she had planted in the front yard only this morning. An odd ache opened inside her chest.

  Every third night, Sam took the midnight-to-morning watch at the Dryfus job. The difficulty was trying to stay awake during the wee quiet hours, particularly as he was beginning to feel the long hours and lack of sleep.

  Smothering a yawn, he raised his lantern to examine the plasterwork on the reverend’s new parlor walls. Rafe had done a superior job. Neither Sam nor his men lived in splendid houses, but they knew how to build one, he thought proudly. And the reverend’s parsonage was quality all the way. It even had baseboards and rose-carved lintels capping the interior doors. Best of all, the finish work was nearly done. They’d start painting and complete the site cleanup early next week.

  Relief made his shoulders slump, followed by a glimmer of optimism. After he handed the key to Reverend Dryfus, he’d call on three maybes and turn them into you’ve-got-the-job. Perhaps his fortunes had turned, and the worst of his troubles lay behind him.

  Cheered, he stepped outside and walked around the house, moving carefully in the inky darkness. At this hour, no lights burned in the windows of nearby residences, and heavy clouds blotted the moon. He saw nothing suspicious near the house, heard no sounds out of the ordinary.

  Reassured, he sat on the ground to eat a sandwich of butter and cheese. He propped his back against the rough bark of a cottonwood tree. Angie and the girls would be asleep, resting sweetly in their beds. Angie’s thick braid would lie on the pillow. Maybe she’d opened the top buttons of her nightgown. . . .

  Sam woke with a start, blinking hard and cursing beneath his breath. Damn it all, he would have fired any man who fell asleep on watch, and now here he’d gone and done it himself. One minute he was listening to the quiet rustle of the leaves overhead and thinking about Angie, and the next thing he knew, he was pulling himself out of a sound sleep.

  Lifting his pocket watch close to his nose, he tried to make out the time, but the darkness was too thick beneath the cottonwood. Cussing softly, he walked toward the window of the parlor where the light was better.

  His eyes snapped open and a yawn died in his throat. Son of a bitch.

  In three seconds flat he was through the front door and into the parlor. Smoke drifted near the ceiling, curled down to sting his eyes. Rags and paper and scrap lumber blazed in a pile in the center of the room.

  Tearing off his denim jacket, Sam beat at the flames, scattering burning pieces across the bare parlor floor. Thank God the planks hadn’t yet been oiled. After ten long minutes, he had stamped or smothered all the flames. Coughing, he opened the windows and leaned his head outside to gulp deep breaths of cool night air while the smoke streamed past him.

  The fire hadn’t been burning long. He couldn’t have missed the arsonist by more than a few minutes. His fist came down hard on the windowsill. If he’d been awake. If he’d caught the perpetrator. Then the worry and anxiety would have ended. No more wondering if anyone else would hire him. No more fear that he wouldn’t be able to feed his family. The girls would get a school far from the Old Homestead. The night watches would end and he’d have more money for Angie’s jars.

  But he’d been asleep, dreaming about a kiss that wouldn’t be repeated. Damn, damn.

  Furious and disgusted, he swept up the ash and debris and got down on his knees in the lamplight to examine the floor for damage. Then he climbed a ladder and inspected the smoke stains darkening the ceiling before he opened his watch beside the lantern.

  If he worked like a demon, he could paint out the smoke stains before first light. He couldn’t repair the floor before his crew arrived, but he could remove the charred planks and make sure no evidence remained. No one needed to know the Dryfus place would have burned if he hadn’t awakened when he did.

  Grimly, he assembled paint, brushes, and a cloth to catch any splatters. He positioned the lantern, then climbed up his ladder. Beginning tomorrow, he’d assign two men to the night watches.

  But now he had an answer. He’d made discreet inquiries and not a single soul in the district held a grudge against Reverend Dryfus. In fact, one of the town councilmen had insisted, “The reverend is as universally liked and respected as you are, Sam.”

  Well, someone out there did not like or respect Sam Holland. And Sam suspected he knew who it had to be. He couldn’t think of anyone else or any other reason. The question now was what to do about it.

  Angie had the laundry down to a routine. First she put a large pot of ham and beans on the back of the stove, enough for two suppers, which would carry her through wash-day and ironing day. Then she began washing, rinsing, bluing, starching, and hanging clothes in the sun to dry. If not for the guilt, wash-day would have gone smoo
thly.

  Standing in the sunlight near the clothesline, wiping her hands in her apron, she narrowed her eyes on the flap of Sam’s tent. All right, she could admit that he was doing everything he could to help Daisy. He worked ten hours on the Dryfus site, then several more hours at his claim, and every third night he stood watch from midnight until morning. Why, she didn’t yet know, but he did it. Circles of fatigue had appeared beneath his eyes and lately he’d seemed distracted. It didn’t seem right that she was adding to his problems by refusing to do his laundry. Plus, sending out his laundry cost money they could put into Daisy’s jar.

  Muttering, she entered his tent, sighed, then collected his work clothes and, yes, his damned underwear, socks, and hankies. Deliberately she made her mind go blank while she washed his intimate items and then hung them out so the neighbors could see that she’d changed her mind. They would also see a mistake that would cause them laughter and Sam grief. Sighing again, she returned to the kitchen to scrub his work clothing.

  She saved his denim jacket for last because the front was covered with black spots and would require heavy scrubbing on the washboard. But when she got to it, she discovered the spots were holes. Taking the jacket to the window, she examined the holes in stronger light. Charred at the edges. Large scorched areas. Most of the holes were too large and ragged to be mended.

  Frowning, she tried to imagine what circumstances could account for the ruin of Sam’s jacket. A fire, obviously. But the ladies talked town gossip in the churchyard after services, and no one had mentioned a fire. Sam hadn’t said anything either.

  After thinking a minute, she untied her apron, tidied her hair, then donned her hat, gloves, and everyday cape. She had planned to run a few errands if she finished the laundry before the girls got home from school. If she hurried through paying the creditors and didn’t linger to visit, she could pay the weekly bills, post her letter to Peter, pick up the girl’s new shoes, and still have twenty minutes to stop by the Dryfus site.