Darla sighed. Part of her wished Zachary hadn’t married and still wanted to marry her. If for no other reason than to assuage her guilt. But another part of her hoped he had married, so she wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.
With or without Zachary, she needed to find a way to move past the shameful things she had done as a rebellious teenager. Which was why coming up with a plan to recover her diary was a priority. That fact spurred her steps toward the First Congregational Church.
The white steeple came into view first. Stopping at the diagonal corner, Darla viewed the place where she’d spent Sundays and many other long days for ten years of her childhood. The white trim on the redbrick building looked summer fresh despite the patches of snow on the ledges and the neatly manicured grounds. It all looked smaller than she remembered. Even the front steps she and Peter had raced up and down didn’t appear as high or as wide. It was especially small in comparison to Aunt Cora’s church in Philadelphia, which spread a city block.
A glint of color drew Darla’s gaze to the windows. Her mind’s eye hadn’t diminished the splendor of the stained glass. She watched as the afternoon light favored the southern window with sunbeams that made the white lamb in Jesus’ arms glow.
Darla waited for an ice wagon to pass, then took careful steps across the slushy street. Her heart pounded as she stared at the tall gloss-white double doors and stained-glass lunette above them. If she climbed the steps and revisited the sanctuary, would she hear Father’s voice rise in the heat of a sermon? See Mother’s fingers fumble on the piano keys in a painfully slow rendition of “Just As I Am”? Smell wax as she remembered lighting the Advent candles with her friend Betty? Or would the memories carry her to the basement where she’d tasted Zachary’s lips and seen the disgust in her father’s eyes?
A shiver ran up her spine, and she shook her head. She would save the walk down memory lane for another day. Darla pulled her mantle tighter and tucked the medical bag against her, then walked to the other side of the church. The flower beds Mother had tended lay buried under a fresh blanket of snow, which should bode well for the tulips and irises waiting for spring.
Behind the church building, the parsonage looked much the same, although a paintbrush had recently found its white trim. Snow dappled the rosebushes Mother had planted to line the gravel walkway. Seeing the aspen tree reminded Darla of the time she’d climbed its branches to get away from Peter, only to be startled by a chiding squirrel on the branch above her and tumble to the ground. Mother had given her a second cup of hot cocoa with crème as a consolation. And there was the time Father taught her to play croquet on the lawn. One of her favorite days at the parsonage.
Unfortunately, they weren’t all pleasant memories. That was what had driven her to bury her reproachful diary and the cameo pendant she’d intended to wear at the wedding that didn’t happen. Why hadn’t she thought to hide them beneath the aspens instead of tucking them away under the kitchen floorboards? She couldn’t see it in her youth, but Mother was right—she did possess a flair for melodrama. Nevertheless, she needed to retrieve the diary before someone else did. And she didn’t wish to raise any more eyebrows or awaken the rumor mill in so doing. She’d come back another time when she was sure the new parson and his family were away.
A door creaked open, and Darla looked up. A woman stood on the parsonage porch cradling a sleeping baby. She offered Darla a warm smile. “Good day.”
“And to you.”
The woman stepped off the porch, her gaze fixed on Darla’s hat. “You’re a nurse?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Darla took slow steps up the gravel walkway, then stopped in front of the unadorned China rosebush her father had planted for Mother’s birthday. “I’m Darla Taggart, the former parson’s daughter.”
“Oh, then it’s especially nice to meet you.” A smile lit her blue eyes. “I’m Ida Raines. My husband is Reverend Tucker Raines.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Raines.” Her new acquaintance looked vaguely familiar, but Darla was certain they’d never met. She’d already left Cripple Creek before Father decided to move and had found his replacement.
“Please call me Ida.” She looked back at the parsonage. “I’m already late for tea with family, or I’d invite you in.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“You know”—Ida’s eyebrows arched—“if you’d like to see the house, you’re welcome to go inside. I haven’t tidied yet, but you could let yourself in and have a look.”
Alone. An enticing opportunity. But it was a workday, and she couldn’t very well sneak around wearing a nurse’s uniform. Besides, she’d rather no one knew she was in the house so as not to draw attention to her activity. “You’re kind to offer. I was in the area and wanted to see the place again, but I’m doing home visits and I have patients to call on.” Darla pointed up at her nurse’s hat. “Another time, perhaps?”
“Of course. You must come by again. Where are you staying? I can telephone you with an invitation.”
“Yes. Please do.” Darla turned to walk to the street with Ida. “I’m lodging at Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse.”
Ida tittered, and the baby squirmed. Without looking away, she patted his bundled chest, quieting him. “That’s where I’m headed as we speak. To have tea with Hattie and my father.”
Ida was one of the Sinclair sisters. Darla shuddered and nearly lost her footing on the slushy ground. “That’s why you look familiar. You’re Kat’s sister.”
“Yes. You know Kat? I guess that makes sense, since she arrived in town a year and a half before I did.”
“Yoo-hoo.” A short, stout woman waved from the center of the street. “Mrs. Raines.”
Darla leaned toward Ida. “I take it Mrs. Wahlberg still likes to keep watch on the neighborhood.”
A grin tipped Ida’s mouth. “Mostly just the parsonage and the church.”
Darla lifted her hand to her mouth as a laugh escaped. “Some things haven’t changed.”
“I’d say not.” They both giggled, and Ida waved at her neighbor. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wahlberg.” The new pastor’s wife seemed quite likable.
Darla waved, too. Perhaps she could save herself a lot of trouble and simply tell Ida about the diary and the pendant and ask for permission to retrieve them.
No. Some things were better left a secret and handled privately. She had no desire to invite unwanted questions. And Ida was Kat’s sister. She couldn’t know what was in the diary.
“We were just leaving,” Ida said. “Did you need—”
“Mercy me, it is you. Darla Taggart!” The woman’s squeal startled the baby, and Ida patted his chest again. “I couldn’t be sure from so far away. I’m gettin’ old, you know. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
“Hello, Mrs. Wahlberg. I arrived in Cripple Creek a couple of weeks ago.”
“To live?”
“Yes. I’m working as a nurse. In fact, I’m on my way to see a patient now.”
“A nurse.” Mrs. Wahlberg looked her over from boots to bonnet. “I’d say you’ve done some growing up while you’ve been gone.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good for you, dear. Hmm.” Mrs. Wahlberg tapped her fleshy chin. “Two weeks, you say. Funny, I haven’t seen you in church.” She glanced at the brick building behind them. “It’s not that big.”
“I haven’t been yet. Between a head cold and patients who need tending, I’ve been busy on Sundays.”
“Oh. You know it’s not good to—” The baby hadn’t quieted so easily this time and let out a wail, startling Mrs. Wahlberg. “Well, we can visit more another time. I won’t keep you.”
Darla stifled a sigh of relief and smiled at Ida.
“That reminds me.” Mrs. Wahlberg raised a gloved finger. “Mrs. Raines, don’t forget we’re expecting you and the reverend at the luncheon Saturday.”
Ida nodded. “It’s one week from this coming Saturday, the day before Easter, am I right?”
“I believe you’re right. The fourteenth day of April.” Mrs. Wahlberg licked her lips. “It appears I’m more than a little anxious for a taste of Hattie’s lemon scones.”
Darla smiled. She didn’t need to share her intentions with Ida after all. Every one of the Sinclair sisters and their families would be occupied elsewhere. Darla said her good-byes and took light steps toward B Street and her next patient.
Saturday, April 14—the day she’d finally reunite with her childhood diary and her grandmother’s heirloom cameo.
Chapter Four
You look like you’re in awful pain.”
Gripping the end of the countertop, Nicolas turned to Jocelyn’s voice, watching her dump a bucket of coal into the stove.
Concern etched her dark eyes. “I’m afraid you might have hurt yourself. The scabs.”
“I’m all right.” Or he would be, as soon as he made his way back to the cot. He just needed to be flat again. He didn’t know what he’d do if that didn’t calm his jumpy nerves. It might have been having the bandages removed—the cold air hitting his scabs again, having ointment rubbed into his back, having the fresh bandage against his skin—or just having a woman so close, but he’d not been able to lie still since Darla Taggart had left the house that morning.
The young nurse had been coming to the house most every day for nearly three weeks. But she had new patients to see tomorrow and didn’t plan to return until Thursday. He could blame his increased restlessness the past few days on being confined to the cot most of the time, but after hearing his nurse’s laughter today, he couldn’t deny it was more than that. He’d found himself hoping he was more than just a patient to Miss Taggart. A notion he needed to avoid like a stagecoach would steer clear of a bandit’s hideaway. She was caring and compassionate, and so sweet with the girls, but she was only doing her job. He couldn’t afford to let her run away with his heart.
Nicolas set the knife he’d used to peel potatoes on the counter and forced the least-pained smile he could muster to his face. Jaya had stilled the broom. Julia watched him from the table where she rolled bread dough into balls. “Your mama used to say that worry only makes your face wrinkle early.”
“I remember.” Jocelyn grabbed a handful of her apron and used it to close the chute on the stove. “But you’ve been restless ever since Miss Taggart left, and I’m afraid you’ll make things worse.”
She sounded like his nurse. But Jocelyn was only ten and trying to manage the household while watching her father suffer. Nicolas swallowed his sour retort. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stood for so long, but—
“I don’t think your nurse worries.” His youngest ran her hand down her smooth cheek. “She doesn’t have any wrinkles.”
Julia had forgotten she’d been handling dough and left a trail of flour across her face, and Nicolas couldn’t help but chuckle. When he pointed to her doughy hand, all three of the girls started giggling.
His back cramped, and before he could stop himself, he cried out in pain.
The girls quieted, their eyes large as a full moon.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” Tears pooled Julia’s brown eyes as his own blurred his vision. “I didn’t mean to make you hurt.”
“It wasn’t your fault, sweet pea.” He blinked back his tears. “I’ve been out of bed too long. That’s all.” He mentally measured the distance between the countertop and the cot—just twelve feet, which right now seemed an insurmountable expanse. Help me, Lord. Help us all.
Jocelyn wiped her hands on her apron, then reached for the ties. “Miss Darla told me she was staying at Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse. I’ll go get her.”
“No. Don’t bother Miss Taggart. There’s nothing she can do.”
“But—”
“I only need to lie down.”
The broom thudded to the floor, and all three girls rushed to his side.
“Be careful not to touch his back,” Jocelyn said, as she tucked herself against his leg, trying to help support him.
His lips pressed together, Nicolas rested his hand on Jocelyn’s shoulder and took a tentative step toward the cot in the main room. The other two girls walked on his left side, supporting his other hand in four little ones.
No one spoke as they shuffled across the linoleum floor, but four sighs punctuated their arrival at the cot.
“Thank you,” he said. “I can do the rest.”
When the girls stepped away from his makeshift bed, Nicolas lifted one knee and placed it on the cot, then slowly lowered himself to a prone position.
Jaya nudged the pillow under his face. “I’ll get you a cup of mint tea.”
“Yes.” He tried drawing in a deep breath to rid his voice of the strain. “Thank you.” The tea would be cold before he felt up to sitting up to drink it, but if it made Jaya feel better…
The Lord had indeed blessed him. And as much as it distressed him that his young ones had to take care of him, having them at his side gave him hope.
Darla rested her elbow on the chair arm in her bedchamber. Pen in hand, she tapped the writing desk on her lap. In her wildest dreams, she wouldn’t have imagined her first weeks on the job unfolding as they had. And to think she’d been upset with her assignment as a visiting nurse.
It felt particularly rewarding to see a patient in his or her daily environment putting forth effort to recover, to take part in the process. Especially a man like Mr. Zanzucchi, who had suffered a devastating trauma and had three daughters witnessing his struggle and recovery. After nearly three weeks of visiting his home at least every other day, she wasn’t sure she could abide being confined to working in a stark hospital ward.
She glanced down at the stationery and the few words she’d managed to pen:
Dear Mother,
Cripple Creek is thriving.
That was as far as she’d gotten, and her ability to concentrate on the letter hadn’t improved a whit. The letter would just have to wait. Her mind seemed set on replaying various scenes in the Zanzucchi home: Mr. Zanzucchi’s lighthearted teasing about a possum being under their floor when he was clearly in much discomfort. Watching the girls tend to chores or school lessons with the same determination she’d seen in their father.
She needed a distraction, something that would capture her imagination. A good book. She’d seen several books on a shelf in the parlor, including Pride and Prejudice. That would surely remove her thoughts from her hesitant and intriguing patient, his sweet and motherless little girls, a diary that was too forthcoming, and the parsonage—and twelve days to wait.
Darla set her writing desk on the chair and stepped out onto the second-floor landing.
She watched as Cherise ascended the stairs, the girl’s footfalls creating a lively cadence on the oak steps. Lace accented the flounced collar and cuffs on her pink two-piece dress. She wore her nearly black hair pulled back from her face and secured with a matching bow. Looking at the girl now, Cherise didn’t seem to have a care in the world. But Darla knew better, and hers was a touching story, which Hattie had shared with her over a cup of coffee after supper one night.
Mr. Sinclair had worked with Cherise’s father on the railroad in Paris. Cherise’s mother was sickly most of her daughter’s life and had succumbed to her illness when Cherise was seven. Cherise’s father had already booked their passage on the boat to America with Mr. Sinclair when a riveted seam on a boiler burst and scalded him. He’d died within the week.
When Cherise caught sight of Darla, she paused on the landing and gave her a polite nod. “Bonne nuit, Miss Taggart.”
“Good night, Cherise. And, please, call me Miss Darla.”
Light from the sconce on the wall accentuated Cherise’s round cherubic face. “Oui. Mademoiselle Darla.”
Darla smiled. “Sleep well.” She watched the girl slip into the room just beyond her own bedchamber. At ten years old, Cherise was the same age as the eldest Zanzucchi girl, Jocelyn. Both had suffered loss and heartache. But for Cherise, God had provide
d a new family through Harlan and Hattie Sinclair. Perhaps he’d give Mr. Zanzucchi and his daughters a fresh start, too.
She sighed. How was it that her mind kept drifting back to Nicolas Zanzucchi and his family? She was his nurse. That was all she was to him. She needed to go downstairs and get that book.
The parlor door stood open, and the warm glow from the fireplace drew Darla inside. Bent over the checkerboard set up between her and her husband, Hattie moved her hand feverishly in an apparent avalanche of jumps.
“Hah!” Her expression triumphant, Hattie looked up. “Darla, dear, you’re just in time to hear me gloat.”
Mr. Sinclair rose from his chair and stood behind it, a smile tipping his mustache. “Trust me, it’s not one of her many charms.” He gestured toward the game board. “Perhaps you’d have better luck.”
“I came in to borrow a book, if you don’t mind.”
Hattie waved bent fingers toward the bookshelves. “I don’t mind at all. But I see no reason why you couldn’t do both. Play a game and borrow a book.”
Playing would afford her a little companionship. She’d been so busy these first three weeks in town, she’d done no socializing, although her time with the Zanzucchi family felt more like companionship than work.
“You don’t play?” Hattie asked.
“I haven’t played for more than three years. My aunt liked to play, but once I sank into my studies, I never found time for games.”
“Well then, that settles it. It’s high time you had a little fun, dear.” Hattie arched a thin eyebrow. “You know what they say, ‘One who neglects pastime amusement forgets how to play altogether.’ ”
Darla didn’t know that anyone else had ever said that, but her landlady was persuasive. And a little recreation wouldn’t do her any harm.
The Heirloom Brides Collection Page 34