The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  She avoided looking at Nicolas. Just being in the same room with the two men made her feel disloyal to Nicolas after the wonderful afternoon they’d enjoyed, let alone making social plans with Zachary. But she did have a past with him that she needed to come to terms with. “I’m not working tomorrow. Supper out would be fine.”

  “Good. It’ll give us a chance to catch up.” He looked at Nicolas, who seemed to lock gazes with him. “Right now, I have some coal to unload.”

  And she had some thinking to do.

  Chapter Seven

  The church foyer was much the same as Darla remembered it, except for the new oak wainscoting and a spindle-back deacon’s bench near the sanctuary doors. Folks mingled and chatted just beyond her. Thus far, she’d managed to blend in.

  Staring up at the familiar painting of the Lord’s Supper above the console table, Darla couldn’t remember if she’d ever attended a church without a family member present. Her father didn’t pastor a church in Philadelphia, but her aunt had always accompanied her. Today she was on her own… with a decade’s worth of memories. She and Peter playing hide-and-seek. Mrs. Wahlberg leading the music with her big sleeves flapping like a bedsheet in the breeze. Hearing her father hit the bass notes in the chorus on “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder.” Having her every move scrutinized.

  Darla glanced past a mother trying to straighten her son’s shirt collar. Seeing the door to the basement brought back the memories of her impulsive teenage years. She’d needed to feel valued, to have someone willing to marry her. Or at least to say he would. How far would she have gone, if her father hadn’t come looking for her? She’d asked God’s forgiveness, but it seemed impossible to forgive herself for her reckless behavior in those months before she left Cripple Creek. And her reunion with Zachary yesterday couldn’t have felt any more awkward if a flock of seagulls had flown into the Zanzucchis’ home through the open door.

  She’d been having the best time. The checkers tournament with the girls. An Italian supper as if she were part of the family. Hearing about Nicolas’s artistry with wood. The promise of French cooking with Jocelyn. But that was before part of her past showed up with a load of coal.

  “You know Zach?” Nicolas’s question had felt accusatory. Even if she was the only one doing the condemning. Maybe if Zachary was willing to marry her, she’d finally feel like she was above reproach.

  “Darla.”

  The voice brought her back to the present, and she turned to face a young woman with high cheekbones and a pronounced chin but about an inch taller than Nell or Ida.

  Her rival from four years ago.

  “Kat.” Kat Sinclair Cutshaw. “Hello.”

  “Morgan told me you were back in town working as a nurse.” The warm smile on her face didn’t hint at any harbored ill will.

  “Yes. I hope you don’t mind.” Darla bit her bottom lip. “Given my awful behavior when Dr. Cutshaw awarded you with his attention, I’m surprised—”

  “That’s old news.” Kat swept her hand in the air as if to brush away the past. “Truly. I think what you’re doing is wonderful.”

  Wonderful? “You do?”

  “Yes. Nell told me she saw you in your nurse’s uniform in the Zanzucchi home. Nicolas and his daughters have been through so much.” Kat’s voice cracked with emotion. “Those girls needed their father home with them. What a blessing that you are here and willing to do home visits.” The doctor’s wife reached for her hand. “You’ve made it possible for that dear family to be together.”

  Her a blessing? Tears stung Darla’s eyes. “Thank you for saying that.”

  Kat looked down at their clasped hands, then met Darla’s gaze. “I doubt you’ll find any of your patients”—her voice low, she glanced around before continuing—“are as charming as Nicolas Zanzucchi and those girls.”

  Darla had found Nicolas to be kind and good-natured but hadn’t thought of him as charming. Julia, yes. Thinking her an angel and calling her pretty on her first visit.

  “Darla.” Kat squeezed her hand. “You deserve to find the right man.”

  Darla couldn’t say what she deserved, but perhaps after supper tonight, she’d know if Zachary Pfeiffer could be that man.

  Nicolas tried shifting a little on the cot. He ached all over. Nothing he’d done the last three hours had offered any relief.

  Worst of all, he knew the discomfort was his own doing. He wanted to blame Darla Taggart for his restless and careless behavior last night, but his reaction to her familiarity with Zach was his burden, not hers. And now, listening to his girls chattering over the checkerboard only reminded him of his foolishness.

  He had no business letting his heart feel something more for the nurse. Her reaction to hearing Zach’s name had driven home that fact, as had hearing the two of them make supper plans. She enjoyed his girls’ company, but that didn’t mean she harbored personal feelings for a widowed father confined to his home. Not just to his home. Mostly to his bed. Because of burns and scabs that could crack on a whim and harbor life-threatening infection.

  How could she care for someone so restricted? So dependent on his girls’ tending to the family’s needs and reliant on her for medical care?

  By the time the girls had gone in to bed Saturday night, he’d had all the lying around he could take and set up his whittling tools at the table. Working with his hands again did wonders for his disposition. But after dropping his carving knife on the linoleum and leaning down to pick it up, he’d begun to realize he’d been too active and up too long.

  Jocelyn had made it into the kitchen before him that morning and found the half-carved wood and tools on the table. “I hope you were careful,” was all she’d said about it. He had been extremely careful, with a pillow tucked between him and the chair spindle. Careful… until he forgot and bent over to retrieve the knife from the floor.

  Chilled, Nicolas tugged the blanket up over his back. It couldn’t have been two minutes since he was burning hot and kicked it off. What had he done to himself?

  Darla drew in a deep breath as she stepped onto the curb at the corner of Bennett Avenue and Third Street. Zachary Pfeiffer stood outside the Third Street Café, watching her walk down the slight hill. He’d offered to come to the boardinghouse to fetch her in a buggy, but it seemed a lesser commitment to treat their official reunion more like two old friends meeting for supper.

  A lot had transpired in their separate lives in the past three and a half years. For her, much in the past three and a half weeks alone. Although she was curious, she was no longer ready to assume there was anything more between her and Zachary than their past.

  As she approached the cloth awning, Zachary doffed his bowler, a broad smile showing off the dimple in his left cheek.

  Apparently, wearing the green chiffon gown had been a good choice.

  “You’re just as beautiful as I remembered you.”

  He’d said as much yesterday, within earshot of Nicolas. “Thank you.”

  In sharp contrast to yesterday, when he’d shown up at the Zanzucchis’ wearing coal-smudged cotton overalls, tonight Zachary looked much the same as he did when he worked in his father’s haberdashery. A brown suit, crisp white shirt, and a narrow royal-blue necktie.

  He held the door open for her, his blue eyes dazzling even in the dim light. She’d not been into the café since she’d returned to town but had eaten there a few times with her family on special occasions. The last time being her eighteenth birthday… just days before her father determined she would leave Cripple Creek.

  Darla swallowed her bittersweet memories and followed her dapper escort and a hostess with a long white braid to a corner table. Settling onto the cushioned chair, she wondered if he’d reserved the back table, knowing they had some rather private things to discuss.

  Their hostess clutched two menus to her chest and looked at Darla. “What can I bring you to drink?”

  “We’d both like coffee,” Zachary said, seating himself across the table
from her.

  Darla raised her hand, suddenly feeling like a schoolgirl. “I’d prefer a cup of hot tea, if you don’t mind.”

  The hostess gave Zachary a slanted glance, then focused on Darla. “Of course. Would you prefer peppermint or Darjeeling?”

  “Darjeeling, please.”

  Nodding, the older woman handed them each a menu and walked away, her braid swinging.

  At a loss for words, Darla glanced at the watercolor painting on the wall beside her. What did she say to a man she’d expected to marry but hadn’t seen for several years? Especially to a man presumptuous enough to order coffee without asking her preference.

  When Zachary cleared his throat, she met his gaze. “I didn’t remember that you don’t drink coffee.”

  “I do drink coffee.” Darla straightened the dinner knife in her place setting. “But that’s not what sounded good to me tonight.”

  “Oh.” Pressing his lips together, he raked a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I suppose I’m just so happy to see you that I forgot my manners.”

  “It’s all right. You can enjoy your coffee, and I’ll enjoy my tea.”

  Nodding, he reached across the table and captured her hand. “I’m glad you came back to me. I’ve missed you.”

  Came back to him? Darla looked at their joined hands. He’d apparently also decided she’d be comfortable with physical contact simply because she’d once allowed it. But that was then, and this was now. Wriggling her hand from his, she pressed her back to the cushion of her chair. “I returned for many reasons. Cripple Creek was my childhood home.”

  “Yes. And now you have your own job here.” Leaning forward, he rested his jacket-clad forearms on the table. “But you can’t deny I was worth coming back for. We shared something special.”

  “Pardon me, folks.” They both looked up at the hostess, who set a steaming cup of coffee in front of Zachary and a cup of steeping tea on the table for Darla.

  Darla forced a smile to her face. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you ready to place your order for supper, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’d like tonight’s special.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I’ll have the same.” He took Darla’s menu and handed them both to the waitress.

  After she’d sauntered away, Darla wrapped her hands around the teacup, watching the steam rise. She glanced at the nearby tables, satisfied that the other couples were suitably engaged in their own conversations. “I’m not sure I can say that what we had was special. We shared a kiss, Zachary.”

  His eyebrows arched. “More than once. And if I’m remembering that day in the basement correctly, it wasn’t just a peck on the cheek.”

  An accusatory flush rushed up her neck and into her hairline. She remembered his touch on her bared skin. “It was more than a kiss, and that was a mistake.”

  “It didn’t feel like a mistake to me, although I’ll agree the timing could’ve been better.” Zachary sat back, his posture softening. “I’m not trying to embarrass you. And I’m sorry if this all seems too forward.” He glanced at the nearby tables, then back at her. “All I’m trying to say is that you mean something to me. It wasn’t just a moment of passion. I wanted to marry you.”

  “That’s what you said.” As he was unbuttoning her shirtwaist. She wanted more from a relationship than just passion—lust, her father had called it. Was Zachary capable of a deeper kind of love?

  Before she could form a reply, a flurry of activity near the door shifted her attention to a girl huffing out words to the waitress. A lit kerosene lantern hung at her side. When the girl rushed toward her, Darla recognized the white medical bag swinging at her side.

  “Jocelyn!” What was she doing out this time of night? Darla’s insides clenched. “Your father?”

  The girl nodded feverishly, struggling to get her breath. “He’s real sick.”

  Darla snatched her reticule from the seat beside her and jumped up from her chair.

  “He’s burning up with fever,” Jocelyn said, her eyes glistening. “I went to the boardinghouse, but you weren’t there.”

  Darla gave Zachary a backward glance. “I’m sorry, but I must go.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply before cradling Jocelyn’s hand and dashing toward the door, a frantic prayer rising inside her.

  Chapter Eight

  Darla’s breath came in fits and starts as she and Jocelyn sprinted, her in heeled shoes, across Bennett Avenue, up the hill, then down to Galena. Darla had taken her medical bag from Jocelyn, but neither of them had spoken since leaving the café. Even if she could manage the breath to speak, there was nothing to say. If Nicolas had a fever, he had an infection. It wasn’t good, and she didn’t wish to give those words life.

  Nicolas’s oldest daughter made it onto the stoop first and flung the door open. Darla followed her inside, squinting in the lantern light. The cot was empty.

  “Papa’s in his bed.” Jocelyn pointed to the open door on the left. “I’ll close the front door and turn on more light.”

  Darla rushed into the bedchamber, willing her breath to even out. She set her bag atop the bureau beside the bed and unlatched it. Nicolas lay motionless on his stomach, the bandages on his back exposed.

  A bulb hanging in the center of the room flicked on, revealing streaks on the cloth binding his bandages and a deep coloring on his face. He hadn’t responded in the least to the light, but his back rose and fell in slow respirations.

  Thank You, God.

  “Nicolas. It’s Darla.”

  Nothing.

  Jocelyn whimpered beside her. “I heard Papa groaning and came in to check on him. He was mumbling. His face… it was so red. I knew he had fever, so I pulled the blanket off him. All else I knew to do was to go get you.”

  “You did the right thing.” Darla patted the girl’s sagging shoulder. “And don’t you worry. There’s a great deal we can do.” Even as she heard her words, she knew she’d said it to reassure herself as much as Jocelyn.

  “I can help.” Jocelyn’s shoulders squared.

  “Good.” Darla looked around for a washstand. “I’ll need hot water and soap to wash my hands.”

  “There’s water on the stove. I’ll put some in the basin for you.”

  She followed Jocelyn to the kitchen. “I’ll need lots of clean cloth or towels. All of them wet. Some real hot. Some cold. I need the hot ones first.”

  “And an apron.”

  “Yes.” She was so rattled seeing Nicolas like that, she’d forgotten she was wearing an evening dress. “Thank you.”

  Her hands clean, Darla took a gingham apron from Jocelyn and tied it over her gown before returning to Nicolas’s side.

  “Nicolas, it’s Darla. You’re sick, and I need to remove your bandages.”

  When he offered no help, she tipped him to one side to push the wrapping through beneath him, then tilted him the other way. Like her grandmother was fond of saying, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” While she unwrapped the cloth that bound his bandages, heat radiated from his back.

  “When I’m done, I’ll take a look. But I suspect cracks in the scabbing is the culprit here.” When the wrapping cloth lay in a heap on the floor, she carefully peeled the bandages from his back and added them to the pile. Yellow puss oozed from a crack just to the right of his spine. “Yes. We’re dealing with infection. But don’t you worry, Jocelyn and I are going to beat it. And you’re going to help us.”

  Jocelyn took slow steps toward her, balancing a roasting pan full of steaming hot dish towels. “Papa’s awake?”

  “Not yet.”

  The girl set the pan atop the bureau beside the medical bag. “But he can hear you?”

  “I’d like to think so.” Darla pulled the first steaming towel from the roaster and laid it the length of the split in the scabs, earning a squirm from her patient. Likely involuntary movement but heartening all the same.

  “I’ve been
praying.” Jocelyn’s admission came out on a quiver.

  “I have, too.” Darla added another sweltering compress. “And we won’t stop.”

  “The towels will help?”

  “Yes.” As long as she was hoping for the best, she’d start with the hot towels. “We’ll use them to soften the scab and draw the infection out of his body. The cold ones we’ll lay on his face and legs to fight the fever.”

  In the three hours that followed, Jocelyn proved to be a capable aide. They’d repeated the procedure with the hot compresses and cold towels time and again. When the fever broke and Darla laid clean bandages across Nicolas’s back, Jocelyn refused to go to her bed but laid out a pallet on the floor and fell fast asleep.

  Darla pulled a rocker from the main room and sank into it with a patchwork quilt. Pulling the quilt to her shoulders, she rested her head against the chair. All that was left to do was to continue to pray. And wait.

  Nicolas blinked. The sun entered his bedchamber through a narrow opening between the curtains. At the corner of his bureau, just three feet from his bed, a woman slept in his rocker. Was he dreaming?

  He blinked again. Her head resting on a balled-up corner of his mama’s quilt, Darla Taggart was sleep-breathing, wearing an evening gown and Maria’s gingham apron. His mind fuzzy, he struggled to remember what had happened.

  He’d managed to get himself to bed, but the pain… Jocelyn came in and said he was sick. That was the last thing he’d heard until the other voice called his name. “There’s a great deal we can do.”

  No, he hadn’t been dreaming. He remembered compresses on his back and explanations whispered in his ear. A prayer prayed over him. He reached up and removed a lukewarm cloth from his cheek. Darla had been there taking care of him, bringing him back to life.

  Jocelyn popped up from a pallet and knelt between him and the chair, her eyes ringed with redness. “You’re awake.” Joy floated on her whisper.

  “Yes. And I feel better.” He patted her face, then pointed to the rocker.