Twice a Bride (13 page)

Ida cleared her throat. “Miss Hattie, I’m pleased to introduce you to Mr. Harlan Sinclair. My father.”

Hattie blinked and then blinked again. He didn’t fit the image she had conjured of him. “Your father?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He reached up as if to remove a hat he wasn’t wearing. Hattie noticed the dark knot on his forehead. “We spoke on the telephone.”

She nodded. Actually she’d done most of the speaking. “Hattie Adams.” She seemed to have to force the words out. “Please. Call me Miss Hattie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“This is Miss Cherise Renard.” He rested a hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “Cherise, this is Miss Hattie. We’ll be boarding in her establishment for a while, remember?”

“
Oui
. Yes, Monsieur Sinclair.” The little girl bowed for Hattie but never made eye contact.

Hattie looked to Ida for an explanation or at least a reaction to finding her father here—and with a child in his care. Ida’s blue eyes seemed to hold only questions.

As the stock car clunked to a stop, they all joined the line to board. Fifteen minutes later, Hattie wiped beads of sweat from the back of her neck. The car was even more crowded on the return to Cripple Creek than on the trip down the canyon.

Ida stood nearby with her father and the young girl who had traveled halfway around the world with him. Hattie hadn’t been able to learn much, but Ida did tell her that after she’d pulled Cherise from the train car, Morgan had checked the child and Mr. Sinclair for any injuries. Mr. Sinclair’s knot was a
goose egg of a bruise, enough to cause a whopping headache but nothing more serious. Morgan had stayed behind in order to return with the last group.

While the car inched up out of Phantom Canyon, Hattie braced herself against the side slats. Why hadn’t Mr. Sinclair given his daughters enough information about his visit to help prepare them to meet his guest? Instead, he’d chosen to surprise them, which was not at all considerate. And to make matters worse, Hattie had made suppositions about his guest. His tight-lipped reservation had led her to expect Alma Shindlebower. Hattie blew out a breath of frustration. At nearly fifty years old, she should know better than to form assumptions. Thanks to her, the sisters had been expecting their aunt. But no. A French girl she guessed to be about eight years old now clung to Ida’s father like a bee to a flower.

How did a man with grown children end up with a little girl from a foreign country? Where were her parents? Ida was sure to have at least as many questions about Cherise as Hattie did, but Mr. Sinclair’s focused attention on the child didn’t leave any room for inquiry or explanation. He should have told his daughters about the girl, warned them his affections would be divided.

As his landlady, Hattie wasn’t in a position to pry into his personal affairs. But she was also a friend to his daughters, and Nanny Hattie so wanted to set the man straight in his priorities.

“Grievous words stir up anger.”
Hattie recalled the verse from the book of Proverbs and drew in a deep breath.

“Mrs. Adams.”

Turning to face Mr. Sinclair, Hattie thought about correcting him again, suggesting he call her Miss Hattie. She chose not to. Perhaps it was best they remain on more formal terms. If she considered him an acquaintance rather than a friend, she wouldn’t be quite so tempted to speak her mind.

At least that was what she told herself.

W
illow sat at the easel in her room. The photograph of Mrs. Gortner was propped against the canvas. A round table worked well for displaying her drawing pencils and keeping her erasers handy. She’d already sketched an outline of the dowdy woman sitting behind a library table. She might even have the rough work finished before the Sinclair sisters returned with their father and their aunt. But before she could start painting in any colors or shading, she needed to meet Mrs. Gortner. Mr. Van Der Veer had captured the mine owner’s visage in his sepia photograph, but that didn’t help with skin tone or eye color.

Mr. Van Der Veer hadn’t provided her with a completion date for either of the two projects, an important detail as far as she was concerned. If not for all the excitement, she would have gone to the studio to see him this afternoon.

A hubbub of horse hooves and wagon wheels drew her gaze to the window and the ground below. Kat stopped her carriage at the hitching rail. The same number of people occupied the carriage as when she drove it away from the house. The sisters had gone to meet Mr. Sinclair and Miss Shindlebower at the depot. Where were they? Surely there hadn’t been a problem with the Midland train too.

Willow set her pencil on the table and hurried down the staircase. She opened the front door just as Kat stepped onto the porch with Hope straddling her hip. William slept in Nell’s arms, and Vivian waddled up the steps behind them.

“Where’s your father?” Willow asked.

“That’s what we’d like to know.” Kat brushed past her, and Nell and Vivian followed their sister inside.

Her mind reeling with questions, Willow closed the door behind them. “The train?”

“It came in without him,” Kat said, her brown eyes intense. “The agent here telephoned the depot in Colorado Springs for us.” She lowered Hope to the floor.

The little girl flashed wide blue eyes. “Blocks?”

“Yes. You may bring the blocks in here.” Kat wagged a finger. “Remember, you’re not to touch Nanny Hattie’s pretties.”

Hope bobbed her acorn-brown curls and darted toward the dining room, where Miss Hattie kept the blocks and a few other toys in a bottom drawer of the buffet.

Kat returned her attention to Willow. “We found out that a Mr. Harlan Sinclair had purchased two tickets for today from Colorado Springs to Cripple Creek.”

Nell looked at the snuffling bundle in her arms and walked toward the parlor. “But last night he canceled his passage.” She laid William on one end of the sofa. Still asleep, the chunky tyke curled on his side and rooted into his blanket.

Willow sat on the sofa beside Nell. “Why would he do that?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.” Vivian lowered herself into the rocker near the hearth.

Kat seated herself in the Queen Anne chair. “That, and where they are.”

“Perhaps they decided to stay in Colorado Springs another night?” Willow watched Hope stroll into the room dragging the cloth sack of blocks.

Nell stiffened. “What if one of them fell ill?”

Poor Nell always thought the worst. “Perhaps they simply needed more time on that end to … I don’t know, shop or rest?” Willow said. “He didn’t reschedule their passage?”

“He hadn’t yet.” Kat directed her daughter to play with the blocks on the opposite side of the room from where William napped.

“I’ll bring you some tea.” Willow stood. Although sipping tea was a dawdling activity, it somehow seemed to help pass time more quickly. “The kettle should still be hot.”

Vivian nodded. “Thank you.” She seemed short of breath. Not quite panting, but winded. Had she experienced another contraction?

At the window, Willow saw the courier step onto the walkway. Another portrait job so soon? “Archie’s here. I’ll see to him, then bring in the tea.”

She met the postmaster’s son at the door.

“This one’s not for you, Missus Peterson.” He waved a folded, single sheet of paper. “It’s a telegram for Missus Raines. I heard she was here at Miss Hattie’s.”

Nell joined Willow at the door. “She has gone to assist with the train derailment. I’ll sign for her.”

“Sure thing, Missus Archer.” He handed Nell the telegram.

“It’s from Father.” Her eyes wide, she spun toward the parlor.

Willow looked back at the young man. If he was waiting for a tip … “Her father missed his train today, and she is anxious to receive word.”

“That’s all right.” He shrugged and gave his cap a tug. “I hope it’s good news.”

“Thank you.” She closed the door.

“Oh no!” Nell’s exclamation spilled out of the parlor. “They booked passage on the Florence and Cripple Creek!”

The train that wrecked. Willow hurried into the room. Kat and Vivian read over Nell’s shoulder.

“You’re sure?” Willow joined them near the silent phonograph.

Nell waved the telegram. “He sent this from Colorado Springs early this morning. Said he was too anxious to wait for the late morning train, that he’d be arriving two hours earlier, on the Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad.”

Kat stood over her daughter, staring at the block house Hope was building, her brow creased. “What do we do?”

Willow’s stomach knotted. How quickly life could change. If it were her father in question, the carriage out front would already be on the move. But it wasn’t her father. Nor was it her place to tell her friends what they should do. They knew their father. She didn’t. “I’m sure they’re a little shaken, but fine.”
Please let it be so, Lord
. “Ida’s there,” she said. “And so is Morgan.”

“She’s right.” Nell returned to the sofa and sat beside her sleeping son. “If Father and Aunt Alma were involved, Ida and Morgan will take good care of them.” She smoothed her son’s mussed hair. “This is where Ida and Hattie will expect us to be. We should wait here. We could start supper for Hattie.”

“She planned to fix a pork roast.” Willow glanced toward the kitchen. “If we work fast, we could have it all ready for them when they arrive.”

Twenty minutes later, Willow chopped a clove of garlic and stuffed the pieces into the roast. Kat cut several potatoes in half while Nell snapped peas. Vivian had auntie duty. She sat at the kitchen table, amused by her niece and nephew, who perched in wooden highchairs and nibbled on toasted bread heels.

Willow and Nell were setting the table when a commotion out front caused them both to stop midstep and look at each other.

“That has to be them.” Nell set the rest of the silverware on the end of the table and rushed out of the room.

Willow followed Nell into the foyer just as Miss Hattie swung the front door open and rushed inside with Ida on her heels. The landlady wore a stern look Willow didn’t understand until Ida’s gaze directed her to the man and child that followed them. The young girl clinging to his side looked seven or eight years old. Definitely not Aunt Alma. Ida’s father had apparently brought a child with him instead of the aunt they’d expected.

“Father!” Nell cried.

“Nellie Jean.” Fatigue edged Mr. Sinclair’s voice.

Nell fell against him, and Willow’s heart wrenched. What she wouldn’t give to have more time with her own father.

“I’ve missed you so.” Tears clogging her throat, Nell stepped back from him. “When we learned you were on the train that wrecked—”

Kat and Vivian spilled out of the parlor, each with a child at her side.

“Father.” Kat hugged her father’s neck.

Vivian was next to hug and kiss her father. “I’m so glad you’re here. Are you—”

She must have caught sight of the young girl. The child hid behind him, her chin tucked to her chest and her face eclipsed by his unbuttoned suit jacket.

Ida stepped forward. “This is Cherise Renard. She traveled with Father from France.”

“She did?” Kat’s brow furrowed.

Mr. Sinclair looked at Willow. He had a bump on his head, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. “I’m Harlan Sinclair. You must be Ida’s sister-in-law. She said you were a resident here.”

“Yes. Willow Peterson.” She offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Vivian looked down at the girl, then at the door. “Where is Aunt Alma?”

Mr. Sinclair glanced at Miss Hattie. “I never said I planned to bring your aunt.”

“Neither did you say you were bringing a child.” Miss Hattie’s comment sounded like a schoolmarm’s scolding.

Willow glanced up at the colorful banner still hanging from the second-story landing. So much for the warm welcome. She’d been around Miss Hattie enough to know she was in a bad humor. Hopefully it was because she’d had a long day, witnessed the wreckage, and was tired. Not because she had already made up her mind to dislike Mr. Sinclair.

Although Willow suspected it was the latter.

Their little hands clasped above them, William and Hope formed a bridge near the wall. The cousins seemed content to play, oblivious to their grandfather’s presence. Nell picked a bit of lint from her calico sleeve, then glanced at the second-floor landing and the
Welcome
sign she and her sisters prepared for their grand reunion with Father. So much for expectations. Father should have arrived hours ago.