Her past.
Adjusting her grip on the handle of her green floral satchel, Darla flexed her toes, then forced one laced-up bootie in front of the other to the edge of Bennett Avenue. She only needed to remain in town long enough to take care of unfinished business and to see if she had a future here.
Darla waited for a wagon and its team of mules to pass, then crossed the main road through town and stepped onto the brick walkway in front of a millinery shop. She’d left Cripple Creek in the middle of the rebuilding process that followed two devastating fires in ‘96, and she took a moment to look at how the city had changed. Rows of tidy brick buildings and cobblestone sidewalks showed the city’s beautification efforts. Empty flower baskets hung from electric streetlamps, anticipating the arrival of spring. Pulling her mantle collar up on her neck, Darla hoped her favorite season held new life for her as well.
A minimal amount of time would be required to walk the extra blocks to the First Congregational Church and the parsonage that harbored the secrets of her failings. But she couldn’t do anything about it right now. It was best she start with the boardinghouse and plan to entertain other endeavors when she was refreshed and rested.
At First National Bank, Darla started up Fourth Street and turned left onto Golden Avenue. Brick-lined flower beds full of budding irises framed the walkway in front of Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse, still a bold yellow with white trim. Some things hadn’t changed. As Darla took slow steps toward the expansive porch, she couldn’t help but hope some things had. She hadn’t exactly endeared herself to the woman who had behaved like a mother to the Sinclair sisters. A mother hen, actually. The image her imagination conjured made her giggle.
A tinny but lively orchestral piece poured out of the open window to the left of the door. Darla doubted she’d be heard over the music, but she reached for the brass knocker anyway. The porter would arrive soon with her trunk, and she was in desperate need of a bath and a clean ensemble. After nearly a week on one train and then another, she also craved rest.
Following her third knock, the song faded and the door swung open. Miss Hattie stood on the other side of the threshold. “I hope you haven’t been waiting—” Her blue-gray eyes widened with recognition. “Darla Taggart?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Darla’s words hung in the chilling air.
“What are you doing here, dear?” Miss Hattie tucked a gray curl behind her ear. “I mean to say—”
“I have a reservation for a room.”
“Here?”
“Yes, ma’am. I telephoned.”
“When?”
“Starting tonight.”
A nervous titter escaped Miss Hattie. “I meant, when did you telephone?”
“Oh, of course.” Darla rested her satchel on the porch railing and reached for the clasp. “Two or three weeks ago, I think it was. I wrote it down.” She’d tucked the note into her handbag. “I spoke to a man.”
“You spoke to my husband?”
“You’re married?”
“Yes. It was well after you left town. Thanksgiving Day in ‘98, to be exacting.”
Darla glanced at the golden band on Hattie’s ring finger. She’d left in the fall of ‘96. And now it seemed everyone was married but her.
At the sound of footfalls, Hattie glanced over her shoulder. A rather dapper gentleman wearing a gray, single-breasted coat and trousers appeared in the doorway, tapping his earlobes. “My ears are burning.”
Hattie wagged her finger at him. “That’s because Miss Taggart and I were talking about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” He smiled at Darla. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Miss Taggart, you say?”
Darla nodded in unison with Hattie.
“A Miss Taggart telephoned for a room. Are you that young lady?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“You didn’t write it in the book.” Hattie sounded like an unhappy schoolmarm.
“Oh dear.” He smoothed the blue cravat tucked into his vest. “She called on a morning I was sitting Vivian’s twins. I’m afraid this grampy wasn’t thinking clearly and forgot to record the reservation.” He shifted his attention to Darla. “My deep apologies for the mix-up, miss.”
“Apologies accepted.” Darla rubbed the tension knot forming at the base of her skull. “Do you have a room available?”
Hattie’s gaze darted to her husband. “Uh. Yes. We do.”
Darla’s shoulders sagged. “But you don’t have a room for me.”
The husband’s silvering eyebrows formed an arc above his blue eyes. “If we have a room available, why wouldn’t we have a room for you?”
Darla sighed. “Because of Kat Sinclair and her Dr. Cutshaw, is my way of thinking.”
The man straightened, his shoulders square. “Because of Kat? I don’t understand.”
It hardly seemed proper for him to use Mrs. Cutshaw’s given name. Terribly familiar, even for the husband of Kat’s former landlady.
Hattie tugged the sleeves straight on her purple floral shirtwaist. “Miss Taggart used to live in Cripple Creek. At the parsonage.”
“Ah, the former parson’s daughter?”
“Yes.” Hattie moistened her lips. “For a time, she and Kat were interested in the same man.”
An understatement where Darla was concerned.
The older woman patted her husband’s woolen-clad arm, then looked up at Darla. “Miss Taggart, I’d like you to meet Mr. Harlan Sinclair.”
Sinclair. Darla’s mouth went dry. In only the time it took a hen to cackle, things had gone from bad to worse. Hattie had married Kat’s father. Pulling her satchel from the railing, Darla heaved a sigh. “I’ll make other arrangements for lodging.”
“That won’t be necessary, dear.” Hattie swatted the air. “That was then, and this is now. We believe in fresh starts, don’t we, Mister?”
“We do.” Mr. Sinclair’s smile didn’t make it to his eyes, but they held more curiosity than anything else.
After a quick nod, Hattie met Darla’s gaze. “Much has changed in the past three or four years.” She arched her eyebrows as if she’d meant her statement as a question.
“Yes, ma’am, it has. I have.”
“Good. Then it’s only water under the bridge, and I say we don’t tarry in it. No need to soak good stockings.” Hattie took a backward step and waved Darla inside.
Darla’s feet didn’t oblige. Apparently, second-guessing her decisions related to Cripple Creek was forever to be her path. She hadn’t come to cause trouble, but she couldn’t promise that her presence wouldn’t be troublesome, especially if she didn’t get to her diary before someone else did. These two seemed none the wiser. Maybe it hadn’t been discovered.
Darla knew why she’d chosen Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse—its proximity to the new hospital, as well as its location up on the Hill and its creature comforts. But could she feel comfortable here knowing Mr. Sinclair, Morgan Cutshaw’s father-in-law, lived under the same roof? Knowing that he knew she’d been a thorn in his daughter’s side, even if he didn’t know any of the embarrassing details? Or at least didn’t know them yet.
“Please, Miss Taggart”—Mr. Sinclair took the satchel from Darla—“do come in.”
It seemed too late to make other plans, so Darla set her concerns aside and followed Hattie inside. Oak wainscoting lined the entryway. Her gaze settled on a painting that featured a peaceful stretch of a river. That was what she needed to find. A place that held peace for her. She doubted Cripple Creek could ever be that place, but if she got what she came back for, maybe—
“I must say, Miss Taggart, as the father of four daughters, I’ve never known a woman to travel so light.” Thinly disguising a grin, Mr. Sinclair tipped his head toward Hattie. “Present company included.” Her landlady tsked at her husband, wagging her finger at him.
Darla smiled. Mr. Sinclair was a likable man and seemed well suited to Hattie. “Trust me, my father wouldn’t count me among any who travel light. I expect the port
er to arrive at any moment with my trunk.”
“In the meantime, I’ll make us some tea.” Hattie stopped at the open doorway into the parlor. “We have lots of catching up to do, dear. I want to hear all about your time in Philadelphia. Oh, and your family… I want to hear about them, too.”
“Missus.” Mr. Sinclair paused, apparently waiting for Hattie’s undivided attention. “Perhaps we could allow Miss Taggart to see her room and give her a few moments to settle in before the interrogation?” He winked at his wife, then smiled at Darla. “I remember that long train ride. I couldn’t wait to get my legs under me and freshen up a bit.”
Darla nodded. “I do appreciate your gracious hospitality, ma’am. But a rest would be nice, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Hattie glanced toward the spiral staircase. “You go on up, and I’ll bring a cup of tea to the room for you.”
“Thank you.” Darla followed Mr. Sinclair and her bag to the second floor, all the while wondering about the odds that anyone else in town might share Hattie’s water-under-the-bridge sentiment. Especially if her penned flights of fancy had been discovered.
She’d soon find out. Her new job started tomorrow.
Nearly two hours later, Darla had settled into her room, hung the dresses from her trunk in the wardrobe, and enjoyed a delicious soak in a copper tub. Oh, how pleasant it felt to shed her travel gown and feel clean again! She still looked forward to the long rest that would follow supper, but she wasn’t opposed to a home-cooked meal first. The memory of Hattie’s culinary skills from dishes sampled at church gatherings drove Darla’s steps down the oak stairs and into the dining room.
Mr. Sinclair smiled, standing behind a chair at one end of a long table. “Good evening, Miss Taggart.”
She looked up from the four chinaware place settings. “And to you, Mr. Sinclair. Thank you.”
A door behind him swung open, and a girl Darla guessed to be age nine or ten sauntered in, carrying a meat-laden platter.
“Cherise, dear, this is our new boarder, Miss Darla Taggart.”
Cherise set the platter on a trivet and looked up. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Taggart.” A curtain of straight dark hair framed eyes the color of an onyx gem.
Seeing a child in the home, especially one with a French accent, piqued Darla’s curiosity. There weren’t place settings for her parents, and she seemed quite at home.
Mr. Sinclair stepped around the table and pulled out a chair for Darla. “Our girl is from Paris. We met while I was working there.”
“Father”—Cherise glanced up at Mr. Sinclair—“knew my mama and papa. Before they died.”
Darla pressed her hand to the chiffon ruffle at her neckline. Mr. Sinclair and Hattie had taken the girl in, leaving Darla with no doubt that she had come to a welcoming home. “I’m pleased to meet you, Cherise.”
“And I am pleased to meet you.” Cherise slid into the chair beside Darla. “I’m ten. Not as big as you, but I’m glad to see another girl here.”
Darla offered Cherise a smile and opened her mouth to say something.
“Coming through.” Hattie whooshed into the room with a bread basket that smelled of honey and butter and set it down in front of Darla, effectively interrupting her train of thought as her mouth began to water.
At the sound of Mr. Sinclair’s amen, dishes started to clatter. Hattie handed Darla a dish of glazed carrots. “Dear, I’m anxious to hear your news.”
Darla scooped carrots onto her plate and passed them. “Mother and Father are still living in Syracuse, New York.”
Hattie set a slice of pork roast on her plate and handed her the platter. “Still pastoring?”
“He is.” Darla reached for her water glass. “And Mother still plays the piano and teaches the children.”
“And your brother?”
“Peter is seventeen now. He can tell you all about who the league baseball players are and give you their numbers. And when I last saw him, at Christmas, he was still as ornery as ever.”
Hattie tittered. “And your schooling in Philadelphia? You completed your courses?”
“I did. I’m a trained nurse now.” Darla scooped a bite of mashed potatoes and gravy onto her fork. “Tomorrow I start my new job at the hospital.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. When I completed my courses, I responded to an advertisement for nurses here and sent an application to Dr. Boyd.”
Hattie darted a glance at her husband before replying. “Dr. Boyd obviously sent a favorable response.”
“He did.” A positive reply, in sharp contrast to Mr. and Mrs. Harlan Sinclair’s tentative responses to the news of her employment. Was it because they distrusted her? Or were they concerned with how Kat and her doctor husband would respond to her presence in town and at the hospital?
Or did Hattie know more than she’d let on?
“Have you returned to the parsonage yet?” Hattie asked.
“Not yet. But depending upon my work schedule, I hope to see it in the next few days.”
“You’ll see it Sunday, I expect, if not before.”
Of course she’d be expected to attend services at her father’s former parish. Part of her wanted to, despite the bittersweet memories, but experience told her the parson’s family would be in the sanctuary for the duration of the service. Sunday morning might be the perfect opportunity to retrieve her diary and Gram’s cameo pendant from beneath the kitchen floorboards in the parsonage.
Chapter Two
After her best night of sleep in weeks, Darla tucked her folded nurse’s cap into her handbag, then pulled her woolen mantle over her white, ankle-length uniform. She carefully set the hood atop her upswept hair, slid her hands into white leather gloves, and opened the front door.
She stepped onto the porch and down the front steps under gray skies. Mr. Sinclair had shoveled snow from the walkway, but a layer still blanketed the flower bed and the street in front of her. Fortunately the overnight snowfall had abated, and she didn’t have far to walk.
Taking careful steps west on Golden Avenue, Darla allowed herself to daydream about making a difference in the surgery and recovery wards at the hospital. A mine whistle blew, nearly causing her to lose her footing. She’d been gone from the Cripple Creek Mining District for three and a half years. Long enough to forget the city’s morning call to its mine workers.
At the corner, Darla turned left onto Third Street and gazed up at the new three-story brick building that sat atop the hill. The Sisters of Mercy Hospital was conveniently close to the boardinghouse, which was especially handy in stormy weather.
Inside, a stoic woman seated behind a library table directed Darla to the second floor, where she waited across the desk from an empty chair in Dr. Boyd’s office. He apparently favored clutter. Books sat two-deep on sagging shelves. Framed photographs lined the top of his desk, and a marble bust of a woman hid the top of a file cabinet.
There was a good chance Dr. Cutshaw would see her as clutter. A nuisance from his past. But she would convince Dr. Boyd to assign her to a job that wouldn’t require her to cross paths with the doctor from Boston any more than was absolutely necessary. She was here for something else. Maybe even for someone else.
“Miss Taggart.”
The accent was unmistakable. So much for avoiding him.
Darla stood to face Dr. Cutshaw. “I was supposed to meet with Dr.—”
“Dr. Boyd broke his leg two days ago and is at home, recuperating.”
That could explain the look Hattie and her husband had shared when she’d told them Dr. Boyd had hired her. They likely knew about the accident and that Dr. Cutshaw would be working in his stead.
He walked toward the chair on the other side of the cluttered desk but didn’t sit down.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Darla said, “but Dr. Boyd offered me a job. And I made a very long journey by train from Philadelphia with the promise of—”
Dr. Cutshaw raised his hand, stopping th
e flow of her words. “I know about the job offer, Miss Taggart, and I have the work assignment for you.”
“Oh.” Darla thought to seat herself but decided against it. If she had her way, she’d be out of there and in her assigned ward within moments.
Clearing his throat, Dr. Cutshaw pressed his fingertips to the edge of the desk. “First things first, if you don’t mind, Miss Taggart.”
What could be more important than telling her about the ward where she’d be spending her days? Or nights.
“You need to know that I’m married. To Kat Sinclair, now Mrs. Morgan Cutshaw.”
There was her answer—no, she wouldn’t be able to live down her past. With or without the diary’s content exposed. But she did have a job, and she wished to keep it.
“Yes. You and Kat Sinclair married before I left town.”
“And now we have two children.”
“Congratulations.” Darla swallowed a sigh. She was twenty-one years of age and never married. But that could change if Zachary had waited for her like he said he would.
“Thank you.” He lifted a folder from the top of a pile on the desk. “But I wasn’t soliciting your congratulations.”
She met his pointed gaze. “You have no need for concern, Dr. Cutshaw.” She wanted it to be true for both their sakes. That was why she had to get the diary back. Soon.
“Very well, then, let’s talk about your assignment.” He opened the folder.
“Yes.” She removed her gloves. “I told Dr. Boyd I did my specialty training in the operating room. But I’m also good with recovering patients. I’m not very good with children.”
“We have several patients who have been discharged from hospital care but still need some looking after. I have assigned you to home-care visits.”
She stiffened, and a glove slipped from her hands. “Home visits?”
“Yes. I have three patients who require a visit from you today.”
“I won’t be working at the hospital?”
“Occasionally, perhaps.” Dr. Cutshaw handed her a stack of papers. “When there’s no call for home visits. And, of course, you’ll come in for your assignments and to turn in your reports. You’ll work with Dr. Boyd’s clerk, Mrs. Kingston.”
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