Spring Creek Bride (12 page)

I
da kept a close eye on Nellie DeVries over the next few days as the young woman came and went from the mercantile.

Nellie had turned out to be a fine helper, and kindhearted, as well. There was nothing questionable in her demeanor or her attire. She wore a simple calico dress and kept her long, dark curls swept up in a fashionable do. Other than her beauty, there was nothing extraordinary about her. During the daytime hours, anyway.

Perhaps Ida had judged too soon—again. After all, she didn’t really know what saloon girls did in the evening. Not really.

“Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?” Nellie asked late one afternoon.

Ida paused a moment, brushing back her damp hair with the sweep of a hand. “Did you wash out the bandages?”

“I did.”

“And you helped Dinah with the laundry?”

“Yes.” Nellie nodded. “I’ve taken everything off the line and folded it. And supper is started, as well.” She glanced up at the clock. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I really need to get going. It’s almost five.”

“Of course. Thank you so much for your help.”

Ida longed to delve into a very different conversation with Nellie. She wanted to know what happened over there at the saloon and whether Nellie could be persuaded to reconsider the source of her livelihood.

Whatever Nellie did at The Golden Spike remained a mystery, at least to Ida. Perhaps ignorance was bliss, at least in cases like these. Surely, if she knew the particulars, Ida would feel compelled to draw Nellie away from such a place. In short, she would want to fix Nellie. Likely the Lord wanted to take that job on Himself.

Nellie said her goodbyes and headed off. As she reached the door, Sophie entered, nearly running her down.

“Pardon me. Are you all right?”

Nellie laughed. “I’m not one of those china dolls in that case over there. I won’t break.” She stepped outside and sprinted across the street in the direction of the saloon.

Sophie shook her head as she entered the store. “It’s such a shame about that girl. I hate to see her working in a place like that. But what can we do?”

“To quote an old friend of mine, ‘This is a matter for prayer.’”

“Indeed,” Sophie concurred. “So how’s our patient? Is Mick better?”

“I’m very concerned about Mick, Sophie.”

“These words can’t be coming from the girl who wanted him to leave town so badly.” Sophie chuckled. “If memory serves me right, you—”

“Sophie, stop.”

“I’m sorry, Ida. I was just teasing.”

“Stop. Please. I feel bad enough already.”

Sophie gave her a stern gaze. “Ida, you can’t do this to yourself. No one bears the blame for what happened except the men who committed the act. And in case you have forgotten, you were
right
to oppose plans for a gambling hall. You’re most often right, and I do hope you will keep that in mind.”

“Thank you,” Ida whispered, attempting a smile. “I can always count on you to cheer me up. You’re the dearest person I know.”

Indeed. If not for her good friends, Ida didn’t know how she would ever forgive herself and begin again.

A man could go crazy lying in bed for days on end. How long could a person lie still? Would he eventually lose his mind?

Lying in bed day after day gave Mick far too much time to think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking could get a man in trouble, especially when those thoughts were all twisted up around the empty hole
in his heart. For whatever reason, he couldn’t shake Reverend Langford’s story. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the man had visited every day since the accident.

And then there were his injuries. The ribs would heal on their own—in time. Doc Klein had done the best job he could to reset Mick’s broken leg, but the prognosis was still unclear. With one leg shattered and the other foot sprained, just getting out of the bed proved problematic. If he could get up out of this bed, he would track down Brewster’s henchmen and…

And what? They’d already managed to burn down his business and beat him half to death. They’d also managed to elude the sheriff, at least thus far. What other evidence did he need to prove their guilt?

Ida slipped away to the back room, taking a seat atop a closed barrel for a moment’s rest after closing up shop. From here, through a tiny window, she could see the burnt piece of land next door and her heart grew heavy. She knew that God had plans for that piece of property, plans that were yet to be evident. Perhaps, after she spent a bit of time in prayer, He would reveal those plans to her.

In the meantime, she had some forgiving to do, and sitting alone gave her the perfect opportunity. Ida poured out her heart to the Almighty, asking Him for the courage to forgive herself not just for treating Mick Bradley in such a manner, but for so quickly judging others, like Nellie.

How long had she been in the business of passing judgment? After a bit of reflection, the truth registered. From the moment the railroad men had laid that first bit of track through her tiny town, she’d become judge and jury. And every step of the way she had used the Bible to spur her on. She’d taken the words of the Great Book and twisted them around to condemn instead of love.

Ida sighed. What a pickle she found herself in. After all, gambling
was
wrong. And dance-hall girls
should
seek more appropriate work. And those whiskey-drinking railroad men
did
need to give up their brawling ways. And yet…

She took a moment to think about Jesus, to ponder the kind of love He had shown tax collectors and prostitutes. He hadn’t condemned them, had he? No, surely He had loved them into the kingdom, just as Dinah had suggested.

Love them into the kingdom.

Where did one begin after harboring nothing but frustration and animosity?
With prayer. Start with prayer. That is the only place to start.

With renewed strength, Ida climbed the stairs to the rooms above, determined to show the love of God to all she came in contact with.

She gingerly tapped on Mick’s door. As soon as her knuckles rapped against the wood, the trembling began.

“Come in.”

She entered with a cheerful smile and he returned it, his eyes lighting up.

“I’d almost given up on you.” He gave her a woeful look, one she imagined he’d spent some time rehearsing.

“Nonsense. I’m here every day, as you well know.” Ida approached his bedside to check his wounds, doing everything in her power to hide the effect he had on her, but her hands continued to shake. “So, how are you feeling?”

“I’m having a hard time keeping this leg still,” he explained. “It seems to have a mind all its own. To be quite frank, I want to get out of bed and run around the room.”

“No doubt,” Ida said sympathetically.

“I’m not one for lying around,” Mick explained. “I’m itching to be doing something. If you can think of anything…”

“Do you enjoy reading? I have quite a few books downstairs.” Not that the man would be interested in Mrs. Gertsch’s used dime novels, but she felt compelled to offer.

“I suppose I could read a bit. Might help to pass the time. Might even keep me still in this bed without feeling that I’m going crazy.”

“There’s a Bible on the bedside table.” Ida gestured. “Perhaps you could—”

“Maybe. One day.”

“Well, staying in bed is best for now. You must let your body mend itself.” Ida noticed that his gaze never left her as she unwrapped his bandages. This made her even more nervous. “Looks like Dinah did
a fine job of fixing you up this afternoon,” she said in an attempt to make small talk. “Clean as a whistle.”

“Yes. She’s the closest thing to an angel I’ve seen in a while. So is Nellie. You all are.”

“I doubt many would agree with that assessment, at least as far as I’m concerned.” Ida couldn’t help but sigh. “But I do appreciate your kindness. Just remind me to polish my halo before I leave.”

He let out a chuckle then grabbed his midsection. “Oh, don’t make me laugh. These ribs of mine are so tender, I can hardly stand it.”

“Do I need to wrap you a bit tighter then?” She looked into his eyes and found herself captivated by them in much the same way she’d been captivated the first day they’d met on the street below.

When Mick nodded, Ida reached to help him out of his shirt. She then went about the task of tightening the linen strips around his midsection to hold the ribs firmly in place so they could mend properly. As she worked, she began to feel a bit light-headed. Perhaps it could be blamed on the early-evening heat.

Ida did her best to still the fluttering in her heart and turned her attention to aimless chatter. On and on she went, talking about the weather, the lumber-mill workers—anything and everything to avoid the sudden anxiety that gripped her as she worked to ease Mick’s pain. An unusual sensation swept over her, one she did not recognize.

What in the world is wrong with me?
She rambled on nonstop as she worked, pausing only to look up
as a rap on the open door caught her attention. Sophie stood in the doorway.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Her friend gave her a curious look. “Just wanted to let you know that Dinah needs your assistance in the kitchen.”

“I’ll be there momentarily.” Ida finished wrapping Mick’s ribs and helped him back into his shirt. All the while, she felt his gaze on her.

“Is everything all right?” she whispered.

“Mmm-hmm.”

As Ida drew close to him one final time to help with his buttons, she very nearly swooned. She quickly stood and said goodbye, scurrying from the room before trembling overtook her entire body.

S
everal days went by, and Ida settled into a steady routine. After watching the railroad men in action, she had concluded that they weren’t all bad—especially if you factored Johnsey Fischer into the mix. The out-of-towner had become a regular at the mercantile, helping Dinah around the shop, giving up much of his personal time to look after Carter so that she could care for Mick.

Nellie had also wriggled her way into Ida’s heart. Still, every afternoon, just before closing up shop for the day, when the young woman excused herself to go to the saloon, Ida felt both troubled and confused. Finally, she could take it no longer. She stopped Nellie at the door.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what is it, exactly, that you
do
at the saloon?”

Nellie turned, and with the most innocent face, responded, “Well, I fetch drinks fer the men, mostly.” She shrugged. “And I dance with ’em, too. Sometimes I have to pinch my nose to kill off their breath,
what with the stench of chewin’ tobacco and hard liquor. But I don’t really mind. I just do what I can to keep ’em happy. That’s what Chuck wants.”

Ida felt a wave of nausea wash over her at the mention of Chuck’s name. She didn’t want to think about him sitting over there at The Golden Spike, going on with life as if nothing had happened. He was responsible for the attack on Mick. Everyone in town knew it. Now, if only the sheriff would find the evidence he needed to arrest the man, all would be well.

“I’m just grateful I don’t have to sing, like some of the girls do,” Nellie continued. “My mama always said my voice could scare away the chickens. I sure don’t want to run off any of the men!”

Ida wondered how she could get Nellie to stop elaborating on her job at the saloon, now that she’d got her started. It didn’t seem possible.

“Oh, but I’d really love to be a real showgirl, like the ones out west,” Nellie proclaimed. “I’ve seen some mighty fine ones, especially the gals in Houston, where I worked last.” She lifted her right leg, pointed her toe and twirled it around, revealing far too much ankle, and began to sing an unfamiliar little ditty, completely off-key.

“None of that in here now,” Ida scolded. She glanced around to make sure no one else had witnessed the girl’s sudden display.

“I’ll behave—leastways ’round you. I know you don’t care for girls like me anyhow. Chuck told me to watch my p’s and q’s while I was here.”

Ida drew in a deep breath, as she tried to figure out a way to explain herself. “It’s never the sinner I choose to dislike—only the sin.” Almost as soon as the words were spoken, Ida wished she could take them back.

Nellie gave her a pensive look. “Are you sayin’ what I do for a livin’ is sinful?”

“Well, I can’t rightly comment on such things,” Ida said. “It’s not my place.”

Nellie’s cheeks flashed pink. “Well, it’s a good thing the menfolk don’t feel that way. Otherwise I’d be poor as a church mouse.” After a brief pause, she added, “I sure wish Mr. Bradley would stay on in Spring Creek and open his new gambling hall.”

Ida was so shocked she couldn’t respond.

“There’s some real money to be made, from what he’s been telling me.” A smile lit up Nellie’s face. “I’ve been trying my best to convince him to make another go of it. He told me all about how they operate up North, and I think it sounds wonderful.”

Ida felt the blood rush to her head. Didn’t Nellie realize the danger to Mick if he decided to rebuild the gambling hall now, after everything that had happened? Why, Brewster’s men wouldn’t rest until he was in his grave.

Nellie leaned in and whispered, “In Chicago, the saloon girls make a commission on all the drinks they sell. The more whiskey they ladle down the men, the more money they make. That sounds like a mighty fine deal to me.”

Anger took hold of Ida, but she did not say a word.

“He told me that he’d hire me on the spot, if he ever changed his mind and decided to open The Lucky Penny,” Nellie added. “I’d go to work for him in a minute, no doubt about it. Though I don’t think Chuck would be very happy.”

Ida was more than a little troubled by these revelations. Surely the man couldn’t be rethinking his original plan. Hadn’t he already laid that idea to rest once and for all?

Nellie took hold of Ida’s arm. “I know you don’t like what I do, Ida. But my mama’s awful sick, and I send nearly every penny I make back to Houston to pay for the doctors and medicine and such. When she’s well enough to travel, I want to bring her here to live. That’s why it’s so important for me to make money. And working in the saloon is the best way for me to do it.”

Ida did her best to calm down, though she’d decided to speak her mind to Mick, should he ever again bring up the idea of The Lucky Penny.

“Well, thank you for helping out, Nellie,” she said with a nod. “We’re very grateful indeed.”

“I’ve enjoyed it so much.” In an uncharacteristic gesture, Nellie threw her arms around Ida’s neck and gave her a tight squeeze. “And I don’t care what Chuck says about you and Dinah. I still feel like we’re sisters!”

She turned on her heels and headed for the door, looking back just long enough to wave goodbye. Ida tried to make sense of the conversation they’d just
had. Good all mixed up with bad. Nellie saw her as a sister and that made Ida happy. And yet, for all her sisterly qualities, Ida couldn’t think of a way to counsel Nellie without the risk of bringing more offense. Perhaps in time the Lord would show her how to approach her new friend with truth. Tempered by love.

Still, all that business about how they did things up North. Ooo! Ida could wring Mick Bradley’s neck for bringing up such things in Nellie’s company. Did he not realize the temptation his stories presented?

Ida climbed the stairs to check on Mick and give him a telegram that had arrived nearly an hour before. And she hoped against hope that she’d be able to resist that urge to give him a piece of her mind, as well.

A knock at the door interrupted Mick’s thoughts. Ida popped her head inside.

“I’ve got something for you.” She stepped into the room. “I very nearly forgot to bring it up. It was delivered more than an hour ago.”

“More of Myrtle Mae’s pot roast, I hope?” He licked his lips in anticipation.

“No, but an admirable guess.”

“Your ham and beans, then? Or maybe that amazing Wiener schnitzel you’re so famous for?”

“Not even close.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a piece of paper.

As he read the words
Western Union,
Mick’s heart sank. A telegram. Ida handed it to him and he could
see it was from Chicago. He opened it, stunned at what he read. Somehow they knew about the fire, the threats, his injuries—everything. But how? Brewster. Brewster had figured out who’d fronted him the money for the gambling hall and contacted them. Mick would bet money on it.

After a few moments of silence, Ida gave him a concerned look. “Is everything all right?” she asked. “You’re as pale as a ghost.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He folded the paper and stuck it under his pillow. His investors were ending their original agreement and demanding repayment by the end of September. How could he possibly pay them back in such a short time if he couldn’t even walk?

“Mick,” Ida said, hesitating slightly. “I need to ask you about something. Something that Nellie told me. She made it sound like you’re still hoping to open the gambling hall and I—”

Mick held up his hand. “Ida, please. I’d rather not have this conversation. I know exactly how you feel about my plans. But right now, I’ve got to figure out how I’m going to pay back my investors before they come to Spring Creek looking for me.”

“Is that what your telegram was about?”

He nodded, his head aching.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t think the solution is to rebuild the hall. What do you think Brewster’s men will do to you next time? They might not leave you alive!” Ida’s beautiful cheeks flushed with color.

Mick stared at her for a moment. Slowly, a smile spread across his face.

“What on earth are you grinning about, Mick Bradley?”

“Ida Mueller, I do believe you’re worried about me.”

Ida opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She quickly turned on her heel and left the room before he could say anything else.

“Good evening,” he called after her, chuckling.

His laugher was short-lived as the reality of his situation sank in. Even if he started rebuilding the gambling hall now—today—he’d be hard-pressed to raise the necessary funds by summer’s end to cover his debt. And Ida was right—once the building started to go back up, Brewster and his men would likely come after him again.

What in the world could he do lying here in bed?

Anger kicked in and Mick fumed over the mess this venture to Texas had become.

Over the next hour or so, Mick watched the sunset through the window. The sky changed from yellow into shimmering shades of orange, and then a fiery, angry red. It seemed to mirror the rage that now filled his heart every time he thought about Chuck Brewster.

Even from the second floor, there was no mistaking the noises coming from The Golden Spike. Strange, when you could hear something but not see it firsthand. He envisioned the dance-hall girls lifting their skirts and exposing slender ankles, drawing the gazes of the men.

All for one purpose, of course. Money. Money spent on drinks, so the fellas could work up the courage to speak to the girls between dances. And money spent on the girls themselves. If Chuck Brewster ran the usual kind of saloon, anyway.

Every now and again, Mick heard the sound of laughter and jealousy gripped his heart. He tried to force it away, but it would not budge. As much as he hated to admit it, Mick envied Brewster tonight. Why should a man like that—ruthless, hardhearted, dangerous—get his piece of the pie and everyone else’s, as well?

Mick closed his eyes and images of his gambling hall took over.

He envisioned Nellie at the center of the room, serving drinks.

Heard the laughter of the patrons.

Saw the money changing hands as the railroad men handed over their wages for a bottle of this or a glass of that.

Mick could see it all so clearly. And the more he saw, the more he longed to try—one last time—to make it happen.