Too Rich for a Bride (10 page)

ucker lifted the pitchfork from a nail in the wall of the hayloft where his father stored sheaves of hay and straw. He breathed in the earthy scents of leather, hay, wet horses, and manure, feeling more at home out here in the barn than he did in his father’s house. How was it that he reached hundreds of strangers for Christ every year in camp meetings but couldn’t so much as nudge his own father?

Or help Willow?

He’d asked why time and again, and God hadn’t been forthcoming with so much as a hint.

Tucker jabbed the pitchfork into the haystack. “Here you go, fellas.” He tossed a meal of hay down into the stalls for Trojan and Titan.

He’d been so certain God had called him to the ministry. He felt most at peace when he was preaching. He glanced down at the ice wagon.

Had God changed His mind?

Tucker descended the ladder from the loft and looked around. The barn was no bigger than necessary to house two ice wagons, five or six horses, and a small tack room where his father kept extra ice hooks, picks, and saws.

Although Tucker didn’t much like his current circumstances, he knew he had to do all he could to save the business and see to his parents’ needs.

And to Willow’s.

His responsibilities meant convincing the banker that the Raines Ice Company was a good investment; that if he had the funds to build the business, he was capable of doing so. He’d stopped by the First National Bank on the way to the depot that morning and set up an appointment for three thirty that afternoon. In the meantime, he’d write his Wednesday letter to Willow and then head to the post office. Two weeks had passed since his meeting with Willow’s attendant, so a report could arrive in today’s mail.

The prospect spurred him into action. He retrieved his five-pound block of ice from the wagon and let the canvas flaps close.

“See you later, fellas.” Tucker shut the barn doors on his way out and walked the twenty-foot path to the square-cut log cabin. His father’s property consisted of the modest dwelling, the barn, and an outhouse on an acre with a creek running through the back of it.

Tucker climbed the two steps up to the back door and stomped his muddy boots on the rag rug just inside the kitchen. He crossed to the small icebox and set the block of ice in the top of it.

Until eleven days ago when he boarded the train in Stockton, he’d been living in a parsonage. He had his own room in the basement, but spent most of his free time with the Hutchinson family of six who lived upstairs. Before that, while attending seminary in San Francisco, he’d shared a rented room with three other students, and he’d spent his first six nights in Cripple Creek sleeping in the hayloft with the horses and a crusty barn owl for company.

Now he had the whole house to himself and didn’t much like it. Too quiet and settled, with a coldness that had nothing to do with the room temperature.

Tucker set the ice tongs by the door and moved into the sitting area. The knotty pine side tables were devoid of any family photos. The day the
fishermen found Willow in the river was the day his father found having children too much of a burden.

Embarrassment. Shame. Grief. Loathing. All were gripping reactions to the sorrow dividing his family. Tucker understood that reality and yet was powerless to change it.

After Tucker added a lump of coal to the parlor stove, he went to the smaller of two bedchambers. He lifted his leather bag onto the bed and unbuckled the straps. He’d removed his clothing and hung it in the wardrobe Monday evening, but he hadn’t touched the few whatnots he’d packed. This was as good a time as any.

Tucker pulled out his writing box and carried it to his mother’s plank table. He opened the lid to the box and lifted the picture frame off the stationery. He studied the watercolor portrait as he did every Wednesday. In it, Willow’s green eyes sparkled like polished emeralds in a full-face smile. His finger traced the image of her, pencil and sketch pad in hand, while his heart remembered happier days when they went to the river together. He and Sam fished while his sister sat on the grassy banks drawing whatever struck her fancy.

That was before his father had her committed to the Stockton State Mental Asylum.

During his most recent visit, just before he left for Colorado, an attendant had led Willow to the front porch. Tucker followed them out. He and his sister sat in white rocking chairs with a stone pot of red geraniums on the table between them. It may as well have been a six-foot tall stone fence.

“Willow, I received a letter from Mother yesterday.” Pausing, he studied her for even the slightest hint of a response. Nothing. Not so much as a
blink. Her doctor had told him to use her name often and to mention the names of the people she loved. They all hoped using Willow’s name frequently might trigger a pleasant memory that could one day bring her back. So far, nothing he or anyone else had tried was working. Water therapy. Music. Work. Art.

Nothing
.

Willow, her hands folded in her lap, had stared out at the lush garden, her rocker still. Tucker watched a gilded butterfly flit from one sunflower to another just beyond them. Before the tragedy, his sister would’ve recited the specifics of its species for him. Now the butterfly fluttered in her line of vision seemingly unrecognized. How could she look out at the world, and not see it? Not respond to any of it?

Tucker set the photo on the table and twisted the cap off the inkwell. Breathing a prayer for guidance, he dipped the quill in the ink and began this week’s one-sided conversation with his beloved older sister.

NINE

da stood in front of the full-length mirror in her upstairs room at Hattie’s Boardinghouse. In a slow twirl, she checked for any unruly threads or twisted seams in her clothing. She’d chosen a blue serge skirt and embroidered jacket for this afternoon’s meeting with Mollie O’Bryan. Vivian had suggested the dress while helping her pack for the move out West. Her youngest sister insisted the outfit would reflect business savvy without masking her femininity. If only Vivian possessed as much common sense as she did fashion sense. Ida hoped Aunt Alma was keeping a close watch on her.

Satisfied with her overall appearance, Ida returned to the wardrobe for the finishing touches. She pulled the mushroom-style hat with yellow silk roses off the top of the cabinet and carried it to the dressing table.

She sank onto the cushioned bench and reached for the jam jar where she kept her hatpins. She could scarcely look at her pins the past two days without thinking of the ice man—Tucker Raines. She let herself enjoy the memory of their first meeting as a smile tugged at her mouth.

He delivered ice to the boardinghouse wearing a preacher’s hat. His father was sick and sour. His mother looked and sounded frail. One minute, he came across as lighthearted with a clock-stopping grin. The next, dark storm clouds rolled in from out of the blue. Like Monday afternoon at Miss
Hattie’s. Then there was the memory of yesterday afternoon and him escorting her muddy self back to the boardinghouse.

Ida wove a pin through the back of her hat. Why was she spending so much time thinking about him? The ice man was a curiosity, that was all. Certainly not someone she’d have business with, so she’d have to live without knowing the rest of his story. She had her own story to live anyway—a tale of inspiring success.

Once she’d fastened the hat to her head, she glanced at the stack of notebooks on her bedside table. She’d spent the better part of the morning reviewing her class notes. Proper correspondence formats. Bookkeeping methods. Telephone etiquette.

Confident she’d done all she could to prepare for her interview, Ida left the books where they sat and descended the narrow staircase. Halfway down, she found herself swaying to the tune of the sentimental ballad coming from the parlor. One of the three two-minute cylinders Miss Hattie had for her Edison Home Phonograph. Already, Ida had heard all three songs multiple times. When she achieved a modicum of success working with Mollie O’Bryan, she’d spend fifty cents and buy the woman a fourth cylinder.

Miss Hattie waltzed out of the parlor wearing a cropped tent dress. She met Ida at the bottom of the stairs, her warm smile creating soft folds at her ears. “You look nice, dear. And quite professional.”

“Thank you.” Ida tugged at the embroidered cuffs of her jacket.

“Since you are ready for your interview more than an hour early, might you have a few minutes to spare before you leave the house?”

Ida couldn’t afford to be late, but she had plenty of time, and this was her home until she’d achieved enough success to have her own built. “Yes, I’d like that. Let’s sit for a few minutes.”

The landlady captured her hand and pulled her toward the parlor.
“You’ve been so busy since you arrived in town that we’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves for a visit.”

Hattie sat on one end of the sofa. Ida chose the wingback chair across from her and set her reticule on the sofa table between them.

“You met your brothers-in-law Monday night. What did you think of them?” Miss Hattie asked.

“I found them both quite likeable. Morgan still has a lot of the Boston way about him, while Judson is much less reserved but just as charming.”

“Did your sisters tell you I helped things along with both couples?”

“They did.” Ida didn’t need or want that kind of help. “Judson seemed very attentive to Nell. And Morgan and Kat appear to have a spark that suits them. I’d say my sisters have done very well for themselves.”

“You will too, dear.”

Clearly, the woman required a more direct approach. “I don’t want what my sisters have, Miss Hattie.”

“You want success in business.”

“Yes, I do. That’s why I’m here.” She met the woman’s attentive gaze. “Not to seek out a husband.”

“Who says you won’t have both?” Miss Hattie cocked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow above a thinly disguised grin. “You and the young Mr. Raines seemed to have a bit of a spark yourselves Monday afternoon.”

“I’d hardly call dropping a hatpin in his boot a spark.” She was only curious about him. Concerned about him was even more precise. She and her sisters were all alarmed by his abrupt flight from the parlor.

Her landlady had an endearing and motherly way about her, and since Ida’s own mother had passed many years ago, Hattie’s warmth felt good. Especially now, as she started her new life in Colorado. The matchmaking, however, she couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate.

“Ida, dear, you’ve only been here a couple of days, but I can already see you are bright and well studied, conscientious and professional. I’m sure Miss O’Bryan will see those qualities too.”

“I wish I knew more about the stock market and the mining business. I’ve heard she’s become quite involved in them.”

“That she has.” Miss Hattie looked down and fiddled with a button on her skirt.

Ida subdued a sigh and met her landlady’s gaze. “You don’t approve of Miss O’Bryan’s business dealings?”

“I don’t really know the woman past hello.”

“But you have reservations?”

“She sat at my table at the Women for the Betterment of Cripple Creek luncheon last month. I gathered Mollie may have her ducks lined up too tightly.”