The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  The day had been long and eventful, and parts of it ran through his mind over and over. The part that disturbed him most was his claim. Progress was so slow, and he hadn’t discovered the vug that would solve all his problems. Closing his eyes, he raked his fingers through his hair and swore out loud.

  A small sound made him blink, and for a moment he thought he was staring at a vision conjured by wishful thinking.

  Angie stood in the entrance of the tent, her long flowing hair shining like a halo behind her, outlined by the starry night. His breath caught in his throat. Silky curls of reddish brown curved over her breasts, tumbled down the back of her nightgown. Bare toes peeked from her hem.

  “Has something happened?” Jumping to his feet, he faced her across the small space. And saw the midnight softness in her eyes and suddenly knew why she had come. “Angie.” Her name rolled off his tongue, half whisper, half groan.

  Stepping forward, he moved his hands up her arms to frame her face and tilt her mouth up to his. For a long moment he gazed into her eyes, trying to see into her heart and what she might be thinking and feeling. But no man could ever know a woman’s heart, not completely. He would never understand her, and that was part of her fascination.

  Slowly he lowered his head and lightly brushed his lips across hers, testing to make certain that he hadn’t misread her intentions. She tasted of honey and biscuits and tooth powder and the sweetness that was hers alone. Her full breasts warmed his chest. He felt her tugging at the strip of rawhide at his neck, then she pushed her fingers into his loose hair.

  “Angie.”

  The dreamlike state evaporated. She was here, not a wisp of imagination constructed out of his desire. She was solid and real. The faint rose scent of her hair and skin reeled through his senses, and he could feel the arousing shape of her body beneath the white drape of her gown.

  Folding her in his arms, he crushed her against him. And this time when his mouth covered hers, his kiss was demanding, almost punishing in his need for her. Letting his hands drop, he cupped her buttocks and pulled her hard against his arousal, feeling the firm sweet curve of her through thin summer material.

  “Sam . . .”

  “If you didn’t want this, you shouldn’t have come here with your hair down and wearing your nightgown,” he murmured hoarsely, kissing her again and again.

  “It isn’t that,” she whispered, her breath hot and ragged.

  His mind raced. Where? His cot was narrow, uncomfortable, and not sturdy enough to support the weight of two people. The floor of the tent was dirt. They couldn’t go inside. Daisy occasionally awoke and stumbled into the kitchen to reassure herself at the light of the lamp in the sink. And if he and Angie went inside, they might make enough noise to wake both the girls. So where?

  His hands moved over her with feverish desire, stroking, exploring, and he kissed her long and hard and deep, his palms cupping her breasts.

  “Sam,” she gasped, pulling back. “The light.”

  For an instant he didn’t grasp her meaning. He wanted to see her magnificent full body. Then his mind cleared enough to comprehend that the canvas walls cast them in silhouette to any neighbor glancing their way.

  “Wait.” There was only one thing to do. Yanking the bedding off his cot, he spread the blankets over the dirt floor, then blew out the lamp and reached for her, sinking to the ground with Angie in his arms, her breath sweet and hot on his throat.

  Kneeling on the blankets, their bodies pressed tightly together. He kissed her the way he had dreamed of kissing her from the first moment he saw her. But tonight was better than his boyish dreams. He held a woman in his arms, not a girl, with a woman’s full lush body and a woman’s desires. And tonight she knew what to expect.

  Her fingers fumbled at the buttons on his shirt while he kissed her eyelids, her nose, her cheek, the trembling corners of her mouth. He caressed her breasts and felt her stiffen, then lean into his palms with a shudder of pleasure. His shirt parted and her hands, warm and eager, slid across his chest. She made a sound deep in her throat that made him feel wild inside.

  Feverishly they tore at each other’s clothing until they were naked in the darkness, discovering each other by touch and small gasps and murmurs of pleasure.

  When Sam would have risen above her, she surprised him by pressing him flat on the ground. Then she kissed his throat and chest, and her lips burned nips and kisses down his body until he writhed beneath her attention and sweat slicked his brow.

  “Angie. . . ,” he whispered, then sucked in a hitching breath as her hand closed around him.

  She lifted her head. “Shh. You did this to me.”

  A shudder of deep pleasure rippled down his body, and he stroked her naked back with his fingertips. In the darkness with innocence and anxiety no longer a factor, she shed all inhibitions in the delight of exploration and discovery. Using lips and hands, she found his greatest pleasure and her own power and reveled in both.

  When he finally reared above her and plunged forward, she lifted to receive him and whispered his name. And it was as if they had been together always, attuned to each other’s needs, to each other’s rhythm. He knew the moist inner heat of her, the way her eyes would shine up at him, the way her lips parted and her breath emerged in small gasps. He knew her, and yet he had only begun to discover her.

  One thing he understood without doubt. Afterward as she lay in the crook of his arm, panting to catch her breath, he knew he would never have enough of her.

  Good Lord A’mighty. Sam’s eyes widened in astonishment. He was falling in love with his wife. Correction. It had already happened. He loved her. Damn.

  Closing his arms around her, he buried his nose and mouth in her tangled hair. He wanted to hold her forever, but it wouldn’t happen.

  When he awoke in the morning, lying on the ground next to his cot, Angie was gone. She came into the kitchen as briskly as always, with her hair pinned up, wearing an everyday skirt and a high-collared shirtwaist.

  “Your shaving water is on the back of the stove,” she said, as if nothing momentous had occurred between them.

  Lucy poked her head out of the girls’ bedroom. “Since there’s no school, can we wear our wrappers to the table?”

  Sam started to answer, then realized Lucy had addressed the question to Angie. His eyebrows rose and a smile of pleasure curved his lips.

  “No,” Angie said, an answering smile twitching her mouth. “Get dressed, please. Do either of you need help with your hair?” For summer play, the girls had been wearing braids.

  “I can plait Daisy’s hair, but I have trouble with mine.” A shy, almost apologetic expression stole across Lucy’s face. “Would you help me?”

  In the past, Lucy had been more likely to reject Angie’s help than to request it. Sam studied the long look the two exchanged. Something was happening here, something good.

  “I’d love to do your hair,” Angie said softly, walking toward their room.

  Breakfast was Sam’s favorite meal, even if he had to cook it himself. He liked starting a brand-new day where the dawn shimmered with promise and anything could happen. Most of all, he liked sitting down at the table with his wife and daughters. He’d rather eat bacon and eggs with Angie and his girls than dine with the crowned heads of Europe. He smiled at his daughters and realized the flyaway days had ended. Since Angie’s arrival his girls looked neat and tidy, and their clothing fit.

  Lucy and Daisy stared back at him with puzzled expressions.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You two keep looking at each other funny,” Lucy said. Daisy nodded, swiveling her head between Sam to Angie.

  “Funny? I don’t know what you mean.” But he had a suspicion.

  Lucy gazed at Angie, who kept her gaze demurely downcast. “You both have, I don’t know, soft eyes. Don’t they, Daisy?” Daisy nodded. “And usually you complain about the way Angie eats her eggs, but you haven’t said a word.”

  He stared at the g
odawful mess on Angie’s plate, then she raised dancing eyes, and they both burst into laughter.

  Sam couldn’t have explained what was so wonderfully funny about Angie’s stirred-up eggs and him forgetting to comment. He only knew he had loved ending yesterday with her in his arms, and he loved starting a new day looking at her across the table. He loved knowing she’d be here when he came home tonight, tired, dirty, thirsty, and longing for the softness of a woman’s voice.

  He had loved her ten years ago, and he loved her now.

  Chapter 17

  Everyone on Carr Street contributed to the success of Can and Molly Johnson’s gala celebration and going-away party.

  The neighborhood women baked for three days, vying to outdo one another with their cakes, fruit pies, cobblers, and bread puddings. Wonderful scents wafted from every kitchen as favorite potluck dishes simmered or bubbled or baked.

  Abby Mueller’s husband dug a fire pit in the Mueller backyard, lined the pit with rocks of similar size, and then chased everyone away while he laid a fire by his secret method, settled a pig in the coals to slow roast for two days, and covered the pit with a dome of rocks and dirt. Those who had savored Hugo Mueller’s roast pork in the past wandered by to inspect the dome and lick their lips in anticipation.

  Tilly Morgan’s husband took up a collection for the kegs of beer that the men set up next to the bandstand Sam built. Days before the event Tilly started squeezing lemons, and her oldest girl went door to door soliciting sugar to make tubs of lemonade for the ladies and children.

  Sam and Henry Church knocked together long tables to hold the food and built a dozen benches so folks could sit and rest their feet a spell during the dancing. They assembled sawhorses to barricade both ends of the block.

  When the ladies weren’t cooking or doing housework or inspecting the men’s handiwork, they ran in and out of one another’s houses borrowing a smidgeon of baking powder or returning a cup of flour, comparing notes and checking last-minute details.

  “The hardest part was keeping our guests of honor from contributing like everyone else,” Angie said, smiling at Sam as she tied his necktie. “I think Molly made Can a batch of molasses cookies just because she had to cook something or explode.”

  Standing this close, she felt Sam’s warmth and the solid power of muscle and strength. She sensed the magnetic pull of his body and remembered the salty taste of his skin. For an instant she felt dizzy. Her fingers stumbled and she fought an impulse to step forward into his arms.

  Sam gazed down with twinkling eyes as if he’d guessed what she was thinking. “It’s been a week since you came to my tent,” he murmured in a throaty voice. “I miss you.”

  “Hush. We agreed to be circumspect,” she said, giving his tie a sharp tug.

  “I miss kissing you and caressing you and licking that spot between your—”

  “Sam Holland, you stop right now!” Then her eyes softened above fiery cheeks. “Soon.”

  Over and over again she promised herself that making love to him was a learning experience, nothing more. And how fortunate she was to have Sam as her teacher. He seemed to know a great deal about the subject.

  “You’re blushing,” he said, grinning down at her. “Whatever might you be thinking, Mrs. Holland?”

  “Nothing I can say aloud when the girls will be running in the front door any minute.”

  As if a mention became a summons, Lucy and Daisy ran inside, eyes bright with excitement. “We put our pies at the end of the table like you said. The table was one cloth short so we borrowed a table cloth from Dilly Crane’s mother.”

  Daisy spun in a lurching circle, her golden hair flying like silk. “Are you really going to play the fiddle, Papa?”

  “That I am. Will you fetch the case, please? But we have several fiddlers, so I won’t be playing all evening. You ladies save me a dance.”

  Daisy’s excited smile altered to distress. “I don’t like to dance.”

  “Well, you’re going to tonight,” Sam promised. “You can dance at the party or you can dance here in our kitchen after the party. But I’m going to dance with the three prettiest ladies and that includes you, Miss Daisy Holland.”

  A smile of adoration lit her face and she laughed. “I’d rather dance after the party.”

  “Well then, I think we’re ready. Shall we go see what good things there are to eat? I believe I’ll start with Angie’s famous beef noodle stew.”

  “Me, too,” Lucy said loyally. Since the day she and Angie had talked, she’d developed a new attitude toward a lot of things.

  “And me, too,” Daisy said.

  They stood smiling at her, her handsome husband and his beautiful daughters. And Angie’s throat tightened at the thought of how amazingly different her life had become in so short a time.

  There was no leisure in which to read a novel or compose long, amusing or informative letters home. A list of chores demanded every available minute; most of the time she felt she’d never catch up. And something always ached, either her knees from scrubbing the floor, or her back from bending over the sink and over her sewing, or her arms from carrying heavy baskets of wet clothing outside to the line.

  She couldn’t recall what she used to worry about, but now most of her concerns dealt with the children. Where were they? What were they doing? Were their good dresses ready for Sunday school? Had they cleaned their plates, done their chores? How old should they be before they stopped playing kickball? And how did they manage to create that tender ache in the chest at the end of the day when they knelt in their nightgowns, their faces scrubbed, their hair shining in the lamplight, and bowed their heads over small hands tented in prayer?

  Her eyes lifted to Sam’s tanned face and she frowned at her conflicted emotions. No one in Willow Creek thought of her as “the Bertolis’ poor abandoned daughter.” When she attended church or a grand opening or a farewell party or a backyard gathering of neighbors, she had an escort, a husband of her own. A man who opened doors for her, who saw her safely across a street, who went home with her at the end of the evening. A man whose tie she had tied, whose shirt she had washed and ironed. A man she fed and cursed and cheered, argued with and longed for.

  Tonight she would sit with neighborhood friends and talk about ordinary things while scanning the crowd, looking for a tall, dark-haired man and keeping an eye peeled for two bright heads among the children. The Carr Street ladies wouldn’t discuss elevating topics or current events. They would talk about quick recipes for wash day and how to bring down a fever and what brand of bluing worked best and where to buy the cheapest cuts of meat.

  “Angie, are you crying? Your eyes are wet.” Lucy came to her with a worried expression and clasped her hand. Daisy followed, peering up anxiously.

  “What are you thinking about?” Sam asked curiously.

  “I’m thinking there’s no place I’d rather be tonight than right here. With the three of you.” Turning her head, she scanned the kitchen-parlor area with the canvas ceiling, thickly painted walls, and pieces of mismatched furniture.

  One man’s shack was another man’s castle. She had no idea where the phrase came from or why it suddenly popped into her mind. But she lived in a castle. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight,” she whispered, blinking hard.

  “You feel bad because Mrs. Molly and Mr. Johnson are leaving, and we don’t want them to,” Lucy said promptly. She tugged Angie toward the front door.

  “We don’t like people to leave,” Daisy added, taking Angie’s other hand.

  “We used to want people to leave,” Lucy said, giving Angie a meaningful look, “but we don’t anymore.”

  “That’s right. We don’t want you to leave,” Daisy said.

  And there it was, a problem in the making, one Angie had not considered. Already she knew it would hurt like a knife in her chest to say good-bye to Lucy and Daisy, but it hadn’t occurred that her departure might hurt them, too.

  Feeling Sam’s stare, she li
fted her head. They hadn’t talked about divorce in weeks. Did he still want her to leave? Maybe he felt as confused as she did.

  Sam picked up his fiddle case and opened the front door. And the moment passed. He cleared his throat. “Looks like we’re among the last to join the party.”

  Lucy and Daisy pulled her forward and out the door. The sun hadn’t yet dipped below the peaks, but the western sky blossomed in rusty pinks and oranges and golds. Torches had been lined up along both sides of the block, awaiting twilight and the touch of a match. Already people crowded the long food tables, and a group of men talked and laughed around the beer kegs. Boys who had thrown off their jackets darted through front yards and over fences playing tag. Older girls chased along behind the boys while small girls ignored them.

  “You have to see Mrs. Molly,” Lucy said, excitement returning to her bright eyes.

  “We made her a surprise.”

  Since Molly couldn’t be kept away, Abby Mueller had positioned her at the table beside Hugo Mueller’s splendid roast pig. Molly served slices of steaming pork as fast as Hugo could carve.

  A calico apron protected Molly’s best Sunday dress and she wore all her new diamonds. Diamonds flashed at her ears, throat, wrists, fingers. One sparkling brooch was pinned to her apron front and another had been attached to a tiara made out of colored ribbons twisted around wire shaped to resemble a crown.

  “We made the crown,” Daisy explained, clapping her hands in delight.

  “Mrs. Molly hung the diamonds on it!”

  Molly grinned and blew Lucy and Daisy a kiss across the table. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? Can forgot to buy me a tiara. I would have been plum embarrassed to show my face tonight if it hadn’t been for your girls.” Lucy and Daisy smiled proudly and looked around to see who else had heard Molly’s praise. Molly leaned across the table to Angie. “You and Sam come by the house after the party, will you? Me and Can have something we want to talk to you about.”

  Angie carried a plate of food toward a group of women talking about setting up a quilting bee. She listened for a while before joining a group who discussed the new school and where the new teacher might live. Then Mrs. Dryfus spotted her and asked if she had made a decision about singing in the choir.