The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  Fresh tears spilled down Lucy’s cheeks, and she lowered her head. “I don’t want to feel bad when you do something nice for me.”

  “You don’t have to. Truly. Your mother knows you love her. And I think it would make her happy if you and I could love each other, too.”

  “Angie?” Miserable wet eyes looked into hers. “I really really really am sorry that I broke your cup.”

  “I won’t say that what you did is all right, because it isn’t.” She wiped the tears from Lucy’s eyes with a scrap of green material. “But I can tell you that I think I understand, and I forgive you.”

  Daisy burst through the back door, her hair flying and her eyes wide. “Angie, come quick! Mrs. Molly is crying!”

  Chapter 16

  Angie rushed up the porch steps and burst through the Johnsons’ back door, the girls at her heels. Molly sat hunched over her kitchen table, a wet handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

  Molly Johnson was so sturdy and indestructible that the sight of tears on her face constricted Angie’s chest with dread. “Oh Molly. Has something happened to Cannady?”

  “That crazy fool.” Molly shoved back a wave of short silver hair, then blew her nose. She pointed at the table. “Look.”

  “Oh my heavens! Those can’t be . . .” Angie gasped and her hands flew to her throat. Astonishment widened her eyes. “Molly, are those real diamonds?”

  An array of jewelry glittered across Molly’s oilcloth table covering. A hat pin, earrings, necklace, a brooch, two bracelets, three rings, and two shoe buckles. More diamonds than Angie had ever imagined seeing in one place. The gems drew the light like fire swallowing night, flashing, winking, sparkling.

  Angie fanned her face. “My Lord! If those diamonds are real, you have a king’s ransom sitting on your kitchen table!”

  “They’re real, all right.” Fresh tears welled in Molly’s eyes. She made a face and shook her head. “That damned fool man. Bless his heart.”

  “Where . . . How did . . . ?” Angie sank to a chair, then snatched Daisy’s hand away from the table. “Don’t touch.”

  “If she wants a closer look, let her have it.” Mustering a smile, Molly nodded to Lucy and Daisy. “I was in my teens before I saw a real diamond. And I never owned any until now. Take a good look, girls.”

  Angie pulled her gaze away from the stunning display and stared at Molly. The only thing she understood was that Molly’s tears were the happy sort. “What happened?”

  “Can always said he’d drape me in diamonds when he got rich.” She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. “I thought he was teasing. I mean look at me. Have you ever seen me wear jewelry? Just my jet earrings and my wedding ring.” Which was a plain gold band, like Angie’s. “We don’t go anyplace where I’d wear diamonds. We never have, and I can’t imagine we ever will.”

  Leaning forward, Angie gripped Molly’s wrist. “Molly Johnson! Are you saying Cannady found his jackpot?”

  “He told me last week, but I didn’t believe it. Just didn’t seem real, not after all these years.” She waved a hand. “Well, I knew he was doing something up there after he put a half dozen men on picks and shovels. Some of those booms we’ve been hearing during the last weeks were up at Can’s mine. He and his crew were dynamiting, following a web of gold veins as fast as they could dig drifts. Then he talked to one of the syndicates, and . . .” She waved a hand in front of her face and looked at Angie with amazed eyes. “Can went to Denver to sign the papers and he came home this morning with these.”

  They gaped at the diamonds sparkling on the faded old oilcloth.

  Then Angie leaped from her chair and pulled Molly to her feet. They danced around and around the kitchen until they were both breathless and laughing. After they caught their breath, Angie danced with Lucy and Molly danced with Daisy. At the finish, the girls went outside to weed the garden, and Molly poured coffee into thick crockery mugs. She pinned the diamond brooch to the center of her apron front and insisted that Angie wear the diamond bracelets.

  “My, aren’t we grand.”

  “I can’t even imagine what all this cost,” Angie said, turning her wrist to admire the sparkle of afternoon sunlight flashing on the bracelets’ gems. She figured this was the closest she’d ever get to real diamonds.

  “Can won’t tell me. All he’ll say is that we’re rich and there’s plenty more where this came from.”

  Dazed, Angie studied the pieces shining on the table. “I was thinking it couldn’t happen. Not to Sam, not to Cannady. That hitting the jackpot was just a dream. Wishful thinking.”

  “There were times when I thought so, too. Times when I thought all the mines were dug, all the gold had been found.” Molly leaned to pat Angie’s hand. “Don’t give up believing.”

  Angie frowned and sipped her coffee, gazing at the diamond brooch pinned to Molly’s apron. Had she ever believed? Ten years ago she hadn’t believed in Sam enough to go with him on his quest for fortune and success. And he was still searching. But he hadn’t given up. Still, every time she paid the bills, then portioned out what little was left into the jars over the stove, her heart sank further. And believing got harder.

  They drank their coffee in contemplative silence, listening to the buzz of summer insects and the girls chattering outside in the garden. Angie had gotten used to the distant boom of dynamite exploding in the hills and seldom noticed the noise anymore. But she did today. The dynamite represented men’s hopes of wresting the Earth’s treasures out of the ground.

  Suddenly she thought of something upsetting. “Oh Molly! You’ll be moving!”

  The dreamy half smile vanished from Molly’s lips and she frowned. “We won’t go to Colorado Springs like so many do. We already decided that. We’ll move to Denver. Can and me could be as rich as Midas, and we still wouldn’t fit into society.” She shrugged. “But there must be other folks like us in a town the size of Denver. Folks with some money who don’t care about the hoity-toity crowd.” A smile curved her lips and the brooch twinkled and flashed as her bosom rose. “We’ll buy two building lots and save one for you and Sam.”

  Standing abruptly, Angie walked to the stove. Instead of immediately pouring more coffee, she stood looking out the kitchen window at the haze of mill smoke overhanging the valley.

  “If Sam is ever rich enough to buy a lot in Denver,” she said quietly, “he’ll be rich enough to afford a divorce.”

  Sam heard the news from Jim Richards, the contractor chosen by the town to build the new school. Jim rode up to the L&D to make sure Sam wasn’t harboring any hard feelings and to ask him about his vision for the school.

  When they finished discussing design and materials, Jim thumbed back his hat. “Have you heard about Cannady Johnson?”

  The news was hardly out of Jim Richards’s mouth before Sam was saddled up and riding toward town. He found Can at the third saloon he checked, smoking a hand-rolled Cuban cigar and buying drinks for every man in the place.

  He slapped Can on the back. “Damn, Can. You son of a gun.” They grinned at each other. “If you aren’t tired of telling the story, I’d like to hear it.”

  During the next three hours, Sam heard the story a dozen times.

  Can had lacked the money to develop the mine, so he’d gone out on a limb and borrowed a frighteningly large sum to hire eight men to dig enough drifts so that Can could follow and map the veins branching off the main lode. When he knew he could prove the worth of his claim, he’d hired a Denver attorney to pit two syndicates against each other in a bidding war.

  “Worked just like we hoped it would,” Can said, wonder roughening his voice. “It’s hard to believe, but the Brits paid three hundred thousand up front, and I’ll get a two percent royalty on every ounce of gold that comes out of the Johnson Mine.” It was a sweet deal and strongly indicated that Can’s strike was a rich one.

  Sam thought about Can Johnson’s good fortune as he walked home in the darkness. It wasn’t going to be like that for him. Soon h
e would have to accept that no syndicates would enter a bidding war to gain control of the L&D. Even if a miracle occurred and he somehow put his hands on enough development money to hire a crew of miners, there wasn’t enough time left to blast and clear a dozen drifts to map the ore branches. Even if he could prove beyond doubt that he had more trailing veins of rich ore than branches on a tree, he’d still need several weeks for Marsh Collins to contact the syndicates and nail down a buyer. But he didn’t have several weeks.

  The court hadn’t decreed that he had to schedule Daisy’s surgery by the first of October. The court had decreed that Daisy’s surgery had to be performed prior to October first. Therefore, he had to contact the surgeon at least by the middle of September. That was five weeks from tomorrow.

  Angie’s voice floated out of the darkness. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  A lifetime had elapsed since he’d seen her in the ice cream parlor. It wasn’t possible that had happened only hours ago.

  He sank down on the bottom step of the kitchen stoop and leaned his back against her legs. She made a little movement as if he’d surprised her, but she didn’t pull her legs away.

  “I guess you know about Can,” she said. He nodded. “You smell like whiskey and smoke.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” He hoped she didn’t, because suddenly he felt too tired to move.

  “No.”

  After a while she told him about Molly’s diamonds and he smiled because buying Molly a fortune in diamonds sounded exactly like something Can would do. Then she told him about Lucy believing that she’d betray her mother if she let herself care for Angie.

  “I’ll speak to her.”

  “Lucy and I talked, and I think she feels better, but it would be reassuring if she also heard from you.”

  He was quiet a minute before saying, “It isn’t going to work out the way I wanted it to, Angie.” He’d dreamed such grand dreams. Had planned such grand plans. “For a time I thought it would.”

  The night was overcast and dark, chillier than the usual cool August nights. The only light came from Daisy’s lamp shining through the kitchen window. The leaves of the lilac bush scattered the dim light and smothered the glow in shadow.

  “I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to manage.” She touched the long curl tied at his neck, surprising and pleasing him. “If we sold everything . . . your horse and tack, my garnet earrings and pin, our wedding rings. And if we sold the house . . . how much money do you think we could put together?”

  “Sell the house?”

  “Just hear me out: I’ve been thinking about this. We could live in your tent, up on the claim. The girls and I could help you dig.”

  His impulse was to laugh, but her tone was too serious. Touched, he shifted on the step and took her hand.

  “It means more than I can express that you’d willingly move into and live in a tent to help Daisy.” He could no more imagine Angie cooking over a campfire or sleeping on the ground than he could imagine the surface of the moon. Sam suspected she couldn’t imagine herself living in a tent either. But she was willing to do it. “It’s not necessary to sell the house. I’ll get the money for Daisy’s operation.”

  “How?”

  It depressed him to discover that Angie’s hands were rough and chapped. Molly Johnson was dripping diamonds and Cannady was buying drinks for a hundred men tonight. While Sam’s wife was sitting here with her chapped hands talking about selling the house and moving his family into a goddamned tent.

  “I have a plan.”

  “Can you tell me about the plan?” she asked softly. “I don’t mean to push, Sam, but I can hardly sleep for worrying. The days are flying past and there’s only a few dollars more in the Daisy jar than we had a month ago.”

  “Not tonight, all right?” His plan would sound so paltry and disappointing after Can’s big news.

  Angie pulled her hand out of his and rubbed the side of her cheek. “There must be something I can do to help. Winnie Govenor sold pies to help Mr. Govenor get enough money to develop his mine. I could do something like that.” She waved an insect away. “I could bottle my tomato sauce and sell it. Or noodles. Noodles take so long to make, I think women would buy them ready-made.”

  Anger, sudden and hot, tightened his chest. “Let’s see. You want to sell everything we own, live in a tent, dig my claim, and sell noodles. And me? I guess I’ll buy a hammock and take naps until my wife has scratched up the money we need, because I can’t. Is that how you see it?”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “I can do this, Angie. I can pay for Daisy’s operation, and I will.”

  She drew a deep breath, audibly striving for patience. “Why are you angry? I just want to help.”

  The anger rushed out of him as quickly as it had come and he dragged a hand down his face. “You help most by doing what you’re doing. By taking care of Lucy and Daisy so I don’t have to worry and I have time to work on the L&D. By being here. By listening.”

  That’s what he’d missed the most during his recent foolishness. These quiet talks at the end of the day. The nearness of her, the scent of her. The occasional accidental touches.

  “Every time I look at the girls, I wonder if we’ll still have them after October first.” When he said nothing, she asked, “Are you going to borrow the money for Daisy’s operation?”

  “Assuming anyone would be foolhardy enough to lend money to an out-of-work contractor, how would I repay the loan? It could take years.” He stared into the darkness. “And it would feel like a cheat. Borrowing the money is not an acceptable solution.”

  “Then tell me what is acceptable. Sam, please, I’m worried sick.”

  Discouragement weighed him down. The simple act of standing sapped his energy. “I don’t want to talk about plans tonight,” he said wearily. “I’d feel like a fool to lay out a plan that I hope and pray will net a few thousand dollars after we’ve just heard Can and Molly’s good news about hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  “Sam, I don’t—”

  “Can’s been digging for his jackpot for years. He’s worked hard; he never stopped believing. He and Molly deserve a wonderful future.”

  “But you wish it had been you,” she added softly.

  “I don’t begrudge Can and Molly their jackpot. I just wish I could find mine, too.” Pushing his hands deep in his pockets, he lowered his head and walked toward the entrance to his tent. “Goodnight, Angie.”

  Scowling toward the beckoning lights of town, he considered going back to the Gold Slipper and drowning his mood in a few mugs of beer. But he wasn’t a man to brood over his troubles in public. Instead, he turned his face toward the lamp that Angie had set in the kitchen sink in case Daisy awoke and needed the reassurance of light in the darkness. After a few minutes, he sighed, then threw back the flap of his tent and walked inside.

  Damned if the tent wasn’t starting to feel like home.

  Slowly, Angie pulled the brush through her hair, studying herself in the mirror. She looked as disheartened as Sam.

  Like him, she didn’t resent Can and Molly’s good fortune. But it was hard not to want some of that good fortune for Sam and herself. Since she had arrived in Willow Creek at least a dozen men had celebrated a sudden rise to wealth. Such rewards could happen. So why didn’t it happen to Sam?

  If she was feeling this low and discouraged, what must he be feeling? Lowering the hairbrush, she tapped it absently against her palm.

  Sam knew the men who had become instant millionaires, and he was always happy for them. There wasn’t an envious bone in his body, Angie knew that. Sam’s low mood after another man’s good news wasn’t based on resentment or rancor; he was just impatient, just wanted his turn to come.

  Her gaze dropped to the top of the bureau and Peter’s most recent letter. Peter was also an impatient man. Angie sighed again and tossed the hairbrush aside.

  Peter was becoming annoyingly insistent. The letter on the bureau cont
ained a well-reasoned argument in favor of her returning to Chicago immediately.

  They no longer wrote of mutual acquaintances or items of common interest. Peter’s letters had assumed an exasperated and imperious air, almost ordering her back to Chicago. This approach triggered Angie’s independence and her Italian temper. Her responses had become short and clipped and repeated her oft-stated position with increasing annoyance.

  A tiny suspicion had begun to form that the future was not as cut-and-dried as she had hoped. She tossed Peter’s letter back on top of the bureau to answer tomorrow. If Peter truly cared for her, why couldn’t he be patient? Or maybe she was being unfair.

  An inner voice reminded her that not that long ago she had felt wild with resentment that she had to wait to begin her life with Peter. Now delaying a life with him for a year or two seemed reasonable, perhaps prudent.

  This circled her mind back to the husband she wished to rid herself of. And an odd thought burned color onto her cheeks. Given the annoying way Peter was behaving, it would serve him right if Sam kissed her again and if she enjoyed it. In fact, she thought, raising her chin, if Sam kissed her again she wouldn’t feel guilty. It had occurred to her that really she should use their peculiar marital circumstances to learn a few things. At her age, her next husband, probably Peter but maybe not, would expect her to be at least somewhat experienced. The more she considered, the more she believed a case could be made that she owed it to her next husband to learn more about kissing . . . and maybe more about some other things as well.

  She was out the back door and standing at the entrance of Sam’s tent before she understood that she had intended all along to go to him.

  Sam needed her tonight.

  He rubbed his eyes, weary but not sleepy. Even a book discussing geologic formations in the mountainous West hadn’t made his eyelids grow heavy. Swearing under his breath, Sam tossed the book on the low table beside his cot.