Twice a Bride (11 page)

“I haven’t yet met him either, but Mollie Kathleen spoke highly of his work at the last Women for the Betterment of Cripple Creek meeting.” Hattie sipped her lemonade. “Said he’s a childhood friend of Jesse’s, at the livery.”

Vivian dotted the
i’
s in her name and looked up at Ida. “Do you think Father will like Cripple Creek, after nearly two-and-a-half years of living in Paris, France?”

“I hope so.” Ida looked at the sign. “It was, after all, his idea we all come here.”

Upon the recommendation of his railroad buddies, Mr. Sinclair had sent his daughters out west to this mining town to find husbands. Hattie had heard the story, even lived a good portion of it with the girls, and she still had trouble understanding how a father could do such a thing.

She stood and retrieved the pencil box from the buffet. “I’m sure your
father will love Cripple Creek because his girls are all here and you’ll be a family again.” Or at least that was how it should be.

Hattie glanced at the leaning tower of blocks Hope and William had built. Mr. Sinclair was a blessed man to have such delightful offspring, times four, and he’d soon meet his sons-in-law and two grandchildren for the first time.

Vivian laid her pencil on the table. “I was pretty upset with him for not taking me to Paris.”

Nell focused on Vivian’s rounded middle. “And now?”

“I got over it.”

“As soon as she met Deputy Carter Alwyn.” Ida winked.

Vivian turned a lovely shade of red. “I must admit, he is a distraction.”

Ida stood back from the table. Tapping her sharp chin, she studied the sign.

“Good enough, big sis?” Kat tapped her chin too.

Ida swatted Kat on the shoulder. “I sure hope new baby Cutshaw isn’t as ornery as you are.”

“Well, if he takes after his sister, we know he will be.”

“He?”

“My mother-in-law is sure it’s a boy.” Kat patted her abdomen. “She said when she carried Morgan her belly was the same shape—low and round.”

“She could be wrong.” Willow strolled into the dining room, wearing a plain brown frock. “Sam’s sister said her baby like to have climbed into her throat, she carried him so high.”

“A boy?”

Willow nodded.

“That’s how I felt carrying Hope.” Kat turned to Vivian. “Do you think you’ll have a boy or a girl?”

Nell giggled. “As big as you are, you could deliver one of each.”

“Twins?” Her eyes widening, Vivian pressed a hand to each side of her middle.

Kat shrugged, a little too playfully.

Vivian wagged her finger.

“We can’t help ourselves,” Ida said, between giggles. “Teasing you has always been so much fun.”

“For you, maybe.” A grin eased into Vivian’s golden-brown eyes.

Hattie reveled in the patter between the girls. Did the no-nonsense man she’d talked to on the telephone know how blessed he was? If he did, would he have run off to Paris and left his daughters to fend for themselves?

She shook her head as if the action could chase away her poor thoughts of a man she hadn’t yet met. It wasn’t fair to judge Mr. Sinclair. His daughters were all spirited but gracious, God-fearing women. And their father was no doubt a very nice man.

The telephone jangled as if to scold her for thinking such uncomplimentary thoughts. William squealed, Hope clapped, and the tower of blocks tumbled to the floor. More squealing.

Hattie trudged to the kitchen. Shame on her for passing judgment. Mr. Sinclair had lost his wife—the mother of his children—then a few years later lost his job and his home. He had no choice but to roll with the changes.

She lifted the earpiece off its hook on the wall and spoke into the cone. “Happy Wednesday, Myrtle.”

“Thank you. Doctor Morgan Cutshaw is on the line for his wife.” The operator spoke in a rush.

“Is she there?” Morgan’s voice sounded taut, like a violin string wound too tight.

“I’ll get her.” Hattie wanted to ask if everything was all right, but like Mr. Sinclair, the doctor sounded like a man on a mission. Instead, she let the earpiece hang from its wire and took quick steps to the doorway. “Kat, it’s Morgan.”

Kat stood, her eyebrows pinched. Hattie and Ida followed her into the kitchen. Kat picked up the earpiece. “Morgan?”

While Ida added wood to the stove, Hattie pulled a tin of peppermint tea from the shelf.

“A train wreck?”

Ida dropped a piece of firewood on the floor and rushed to her sister’s side. “Father?”

Hattie met Kat’s tense gaze. “Where?”

“Anaconda. In Phantom Canyon.”

Hattie looked at one sister, then at the other. “That’s the Florence Line.”

Ida blew out a breath. “It’s not Father’s train.”

Hattie patted Ida’s arm. Mr. Sinclair had booked passage on the Midland train. But still, the midday train from Florence was always full of people and cargo. There would be injuries, if not worse.

She breathed a prayer and set the tin of tea on the counter. The railroad would be taking a load of folks out to help with the wreckage and to tend to the passengers, and she needed to be on it. Thankfully, she had readied her guests’ rooms. Perhaps Willow would help prepare the family dinner tonight.

“I want to, Morgan, but I’m not sure I should.” Kat ran her hand over her swollen belly. “I didn’t sleep much last night, and I have Hope—”

Ida leaned toward the cone. “I’ll go.”

Hattie pulled off her apron. “Me too.”

It seemed Mr. Sinclair would have only three of his four daughters at the depot to greet him. He’d be minus a landlady as well.

Willow watched from the front porch as Vivian, Kat, Nell, and their little ones strolled the walkway to Kat’s carriage for a sweet reunion with their father.

Fighting a pang of grief, Willow walked back into the empty house and closed the door. The phonograph was silent, and so were the pots and pans in the kitchen. Miss Hattie had gone with Ida to offer aid at the site of the train
wreck. No other boarders lived here until Mr. Sinclair and his sister-in-law’s arrival later this afternoon.

She was alone.

Leaning against the door, Willow looked up at the colorful banner hanging from the second-floor landing—“Welcome!” While the Sinclair sisters were saying a long-awaited hello to their father, she was still struggling to say good-bye to her own.

She needed something to do. Something new to say hello to. And painting portraits was the best prescription for what ailed her. Her work with Mr. Van Der Veer would help occupy her time, as well as her mind, while adding roots to her new life here.

Her meeting with him late Friday afternoon seemed to go well. Recalling her sudden exit and innocent return to the studio made her smile. The way the man’s jaw dropped, it was a wonder he didn’t bruise his chin on the flooring. She’d seen the amusement in his eyes too. His wife was no doubt the compliant sort, and he wasn’t accustomed to having a woman take charge. Normally she wouldn’t be so brash, but they’d gotten off to a confusing start. And it worked out all right. After all, he did hire her.

But she hadn’t heard from him since. A polite greeting on his way out of the ice-cream parlor didn’t count.

She turned away from the banner and walked to the kitchen. That and the parlor were her favorite rooms in the house—cozy spots for keeping company. Homey and comfortable. Mr. Boney had recently repainted Hattie’s kitchen a pale yellow with barn-red molding around the ceiling and the doors. It was a cheery room.

Willow set her reticule on the kitchen table and headed for the chromed stove. She’d never lived in a place with such a modern cook stove. She and Sam had taken their meals at the dining hall at seminary. The asylum may have had a nice stove, but she never saw it. And Aunt Rosemary’s was functional enough, like the one at the parsonage, but certainly not pretty.

Willow lifted the handle from its hook on the end of the stove and opened a front lid. She could see a faint glow, so she gave it a gentle blow to wake up the fire. She lowered the lid and picked up the kettle, carrying it to the faucet above the sink.

The flowing water seemed a fitting metaphor for her thoughts. She wanted purpose in her life and she needed a livelihood, but what if she wasn’t ready for a job? After all, she’d married Sam soon after finishing school and had never held a real job. She’d only sold a few of her portraits and landscapes to family and friends.

Willow pulled a floral mug from the shelf and tossed in a spoonful of tea leaves, continuing her deliberations. She’d buried her father, and her mother had returned to Colorado Springs, but she wasn’t truly alone. She was indeed among friends. She had Miss Hattie and the Sinclair sisters. She was sure to form friendships in her church family. Who knew? She and her employer’s wife might also become friends.

Speaking of her employer, if she didn’t hear from him this afternoon, she’d return to the Photography Studio tomorrow and inquire about his contacts and his advertising. Perhaps she’d even create an advertisement of her own that they could post around town.

In the meantime, she’d enjoy a cup of tea and a slice of Miss Hattie’s vanilla pound cake with berry sauce. Too bad she didn’t have anyone to enjoy the refreshment with her, but she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself and be a weeping Willow. Sam wouldn’t want that for her. Neither would her father. She’d enjoy the spread she’d set out and pursue contentment.

She was savoring her last forkful of cake when the doorbell rang.

Archie, the same young man who had picked up her application package, stood on the porch with a large manila envelope. “Missus Peterson, another delivery from Mr. Van Der Veer, the photographer.”

Her very first assignment, no doubt. “Yes, thank you. Come in.” She hurried to the kitchen and returned with his tip.

When Archie had closed the door behind him, Willow grasped the string on the envelope and slid out a neatly written note atop two photographs.

20 September, 1898

Dear Mrs. Peterson
,

Enclosed you will find your first assignments as the portrait painter for The Photography Studio
.

Mrs. Gortner, owner of the Mollie Kathleen Mine, would like a 14 × 20-inch portrait on canvas. I have enclosed the printed photograph
.

Mr. Flinn, from the office of Eugene Flinn, Assayer, wants his family photograph colorized
.

Please let me know if you have any questions
.

Cordially
,

Mr. Trenton Van Der Veer

The job was real. Mr. Van Der Veer had truly hired her, and she was now officially a commissioned portrait painter.

If only she were so confident.

I
da stood between Hattie and Morgan. They were three of about thirty people, mostly men, who had crammed into the stock car, including two of the Sisters of Mercy, distinguishable in their black habits. A switch engine groaned as it tugged the car up out of the valley toward Phantom Canyon. Most of the men were miners, but a man with a box camera and a tripod tucked under his arm leaned against the slats in an opposite corner. Likely Willow’s new boss, Trenton Van Der Veer.

Willow
would
see Father before Ida did. She sighed.

Hattie patted Ida’s arm. “Your father will understand your not being at the depot, dear. He’ll be proud of you serving others.”

Father
would
understand. He’d do the same if the situation were reversed—forsake his own plans to help others. But disappointment still goaded her. She and her sisters had waited a long time for Father’s visit, and she’d so been looking forward to meeting his train, to welcoming him and Aunt Alma upon their arrival. To telling him about the baby she carried.

She pressed her hand to her stomach. The baby she’d lost.

As the short train rounded the next curve, Ida caught sight of the wreck. Her gasp was one in a chorus of them. The engine, all the cars, and the caboose lay on their sides, wheels up, on the ballast below the rails. Fifty or so people dotted the embankment like worker ants. Many seemed to be assisting the injured while others milled about.