Twice a Bride (19 page)

Just inside the doorway, she stopped so abruptly that Cherise bumped into her, nearly knocking her off balance. Without taking her gaze from Miss Hattie, Willow righted herself. She wasn’t surprised to see her landlady in the
company of Mr. Boney, but she hadn’t expected to see the widow in the miner’s arms.

Mr. Boney eased away from Miss Hattie and regarded them with a warm smile. “Miss Willow.” He offered her a slight nod, then looked up at Mr. Sinclair, who stood about three inches taller than he did. “You must be Harlan Sinclair.”

Mr. Sinclair didn’t extend his hand, instead giving a tight-lipped nod.

Her face the color of a ripe strawberry, Miss Hattie smoothed her apron. “Yes, I’d like to introduce Mr. Harlan Sinclair.” She turned to the taller man. “This is my friend, Boney Hughes.”

Mr. Sinclair drew in a deep breath.

Willow felt her own cheeks warm in the awkward moment. “I was going to heat a cup of milk for Cherise.”

“Oh, let me.” Miss Hattie pulled a cast-iron pot from the cupboard. “It won’t take me but a moment.”

“Mrs. Adams.” Mr. Sinclair sounded like a cross schoolteacher.

Miss Hattie stilled and gazed at him, her face still red. “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

He cleared his throat. “If this is the sort of behavior we can expect from you, consider this our last night here.”

The wrinkles on Miss Hattie’s forehead deepened. “This sort of behavior?”

“Yes.” Mr. Sinclair lifted his chin and lowered his voice. “Entertaining men.”

Willow gasped.

The pan escaped Miss Hattie’s hand and thudded onto the linoleum. Her landlady burst into a robust laughter that moistened her eyes. Boney joined in, and Willow caught herself midchuckle.

Mr. Sinclair, looking not the least bit amused, spun around and stomped out of the kitchen with Cherise in tow.

Miss Hattie stilled, her eyes wide and her jaw slack. Mr. Sinclair had been the only one to take himself seriously … until now.

Friday morning Hattie stirred the pan of scrambled eggs and looked up at the cupboard that housed the can of pepper. A teaspoon of the spice would be plenty to impact Mr. Sinclair and would be visually undetectable if she also added cheese to his
special
eggs. What did it matter if she gave in to her ornery streak? The man was moving out first thing after breakfast anyway.

The banner no longer hung below the second-story landing this morning. Mr. Sinclair had apparently taken it down in his snit. At least he knew he’d worn out his welcome.

Hattie huffed and gave the eggs a spirited stirring. The memory of last night’s events still swirled about her. All three of her boarders had gone to supper at the parsonage. Boney had stopped by for soup, coffee, and conversation. And by the time she and Boney had finished chatting about her curt male boarder, she’d felt convicted of her unfair impression of the man. Even felt guilty about speaking of him when she hadn’t found anything good to say. She’d actually begun to feel sorry for him. But within moments, he’d stood in her kitchen with nary a greeting and jumped to insulting conclusions.

It was such a ridiculous notion that all she could do was laugh. She hadn’t been able to stop giggling until she saw Mr. Sinclair stomp from the room with poor little Cherise at his heels. Shaking her head, Hattie flipped the hashed potatoes. She’d thought herself a more reasonable choice to parent Cherise than a single man, but even if she had seriously considered broaching the possibility, there was little chance now Mr. Sinclair would consider such a proposal. Not if he thought her improper.

“Mrs. Adams.”

Speak of the
— Hattie scolded herself for thinking such a dreadful thought, and turned to face Mr. Sinclair. “I’ll bring breakfast in shortly. It’s nearly ready.”

He stared at his polished shoes. Was he formulating a lecture on the proper behavior of a lady? Well, she would save herself the singe from his hot air.

She focused on the bump on his head, now a yellowish-green. “Sir, since you’re uncomfortable boarding here, I’ll refund your first week’s rent.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked before removing the skillet of eggs from the stove. She’d failed her precious Sinclair sisters. She’d managed to house each of them with great pleasure, but she’d alienated their father. He hadn’t been here even forty-eight hours of his four weeks, and he was already moving out.

“I’m not.” His baritone voice broke into her thoughts.

“You’re not what?” She scooped the eggs into a serving bowl.

“Uncomfortable.”

Well, she certainly was. “Last night you stood in this very kitchen—”

“And I made an absolute fool of myself.”

Of course he did, but she’d never expected him to know it, let alone admit it. She stopped and looked at him.

“I jumped to conclusions that were unfair.”

Not to mention unflattering.

He looked straight at her as if he’d read her thoughts, his eyes an indigo blue. “I walked in and saw …”

“A soft answer turneth away wrath.”
Hattie set the skillet and spatula in the sink. He’d seen her and a man he’d never met in an embrace. She may have done a little jumping herself.

“I shouldn’t have assumed the worst.”

“A rather abrupt change of heart, wouldn’t you say?” She resisted the impulse to plant her hands on her hips. “How do you know now that your conclusions were unfair?”

“When Mrs. Peterson brought the milk upstairs for Cherise, she mentioned you and Mr. Hughes have been close friends for many years.”

“And if Willow hadn’t told you that?”

“I would have come to my senses.” He smiled, his lips lifting under a neatly trimmed auburn mustache. “Eventually.” His smile deepened. “I hope you’ll accept my apology for my unwarranted behavior.”

“I suppose it was a logical assumption.” She flipped the potatoes again and moved the skillet to the bigger burner plate on the stove. “You don’t know me.” And he did have her influence on Cherise to think about.

“I should’ve trusted my daughters’ reports of you. Each of them regards you highly.” He glanced at the empty doorway. “Fact is, they adore you.”

“And I, them.”

He swallowed hard. “I haven’t much liked you because of it.”

She felt her mouth drop open. “Because your daughters adore me?”

“Yes ma’am.” He brushed his hand through his silver-tinted auburn hair. “They seem to respond to you the way they would their mother.”

If she were here
. Why hadn’t she realized what was going on? It made perfect sense. He was jealous of her relationship with his daughters, concerned she was trying to replace their mother. That was why he’d been aloof.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He tugged his suit coat straight and met her gaze. “I’m not proud of the fact, but I’ve been a little jealous. I didn’t receive a single letter from any of them that didn’t mention you. Most of their writings sung your praises. I felt terrible about having to leave them and missed them so much. You were here to care for them, and I wasn’t.”

They seemed to have more in common than she could have guessed. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t like you either.”

The slightest grin edged up one side of his mouth. “But you do now?”

“I believe so.” She pressed a finger to her chin. “I was angry with you for shipping your daughters off to the West. Before you returned to the house last night, Boney helped me see that I was being unfair in my judgment of you. I’m sure it was a decision you gave much thought.”

He nodded. “And then I had to come along and stick my foot in my mouth.” His smile reached his eyes. “Please call me Harlan.”

She nodded. “Hattie.” The acrid scent of charring tickled her nose, and she rushed to the stove. “The potatoes!”

Harlan removed the skillet and set it on the trivet on the countertop. Hattie flipped the hashed potatoes. They weren’t charred yet, but quite dark and crispy.

“Just the way I like them,” Harlan said.

“You like your potatoes burned?”

He grinned. “This morning, they’re exactly what I deserve.”

Her ears warmed. Good thing she hadn’t added the extra pepper to the eggs. Blackened potatoes would be punishment enough. She hadn’t burned anything since she and George first wed. Clearly, Mr. Sinclair was a distraction.

“Miss Hattie.” Willow stood in the doorway. “Cherise was alone at the table.” She pointed toward the dining room. “Is everything all right?”

“If you like burned potatoes, it is.” Hattie met Mr. Sinclair’s gaze, and they both laughed. The wide-eyed wonder on Willow’s face tickled her funny bone even further, and she fanned herself.

“We were about to serve breakfast when the potatoes grew impatient.” A wide grin on his face, Harlan picked up the skillet and held it steady while she slid the brittle potato remains into a serving dish.

“Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.” He carried the dish of potatoes out of the kitchen.

Hattie pulled the plate of sausage from the warmer and handed it to Willow. Without answering the question written all over the young woman’s face, Hattie picked up the bowl of eggs and followed Mr. Sinclair to the dining room.

She’d been wrong about him. The way his emotions had been sitting on his shoulders he could have been Atlas holding the earth. And now that he’d found his sense of humor, he was rather charming.

W
ednesday morning, a week after Mr. Sinclair’s arrival, Willow walked down Golden Avenue toward First Street with a bounce in her step and a cloth sack swinging from her elbow. She held the double-wrapped canvas in front of her. Today she’d deliver Mollie Kathleen Gortner’s portrait, two days ahead of Mr. Van Der Veer’s deadline. She’d actually made her last stroke with the brush on Monday afternoon but let it sit all day yesterday to make sure it was dry enough to wrap. This was her first commissioned painting, and she couldn’t wait to experience her boss’s reaction. Hopefully, he’d be pleased with her work.

A chilling wind caught Willow’s wool shawl. Golden and crimson leaves fluttered on the breeze like autumn streamers in a ticker-tape parade. Bennett Avenue also proclaimed the change of season. Barrels of bright red apples and mounds of pumpkins framed the grocer’s door. As she passed, she caught a whiff of apple cider and paused for a moment to enjoy the sweet scent. Rich colors and sweet aromas. The best time of year to step into her new life as a portrait artist.

Rounding the corner at First Street, Willow saw a crumpled man propped against the front of the smoke shop. She slowed her steps and studied him. A slouch hat teetered on his unkempt head. His ample chin rested on his chest, and his legs stretched across the boardwalk like logs dressed in filthy trousers. He didn’t move, and his eyes were closed in a whiskered face. Had he fallen, lost consciousness? Was he dead?

He was someone’s father. She had to at least check on his condition, even if it meant putting herself in harm’s way.

Grasping the canvas with both hands, Willow stared at the man’s chest, looking and praying for signs of life. His chest rose. A groan escaped his fleshy lips, and his eyes popped open. He peered at her and brushed the brim of his hat.

“Hello, ma’am.” The pungent scent of alcohol assaulted her senses.

“Good morning, sir.”

He straightened his back against the wall and bent his knees. Squinting at her, he pulled the hat from his head. “My apologies, ma’am. I’m afraid I may have stayed up too early and plumb forgot my manners.” His words were slow and sloppy.

“Sir, are you all right?”

Chuckling, he scratched his chin through the scraggly beard that covered it. “Not too many folks ’round here call me sir.” He yanked the flannel shirt over his rounded belly, then inched his back up the wall and stood on wobbly legs. “Name’s Baxter.”

“Mrs. Peterson.”

Tilting to one side, Mr. Baxter braced himself against a post. “Some say I have me a drinking problem.”

She glanced at her bag, then at him. “Have you eaten anything today?”

He cradled his chin between his thumb and fingers. “What day is this?”

“Wednesday.”

“Had me some jerky for breakfast Tuesday.”

“That won’t do.” Willow propped the portrait against her leg and pulled the bag from her arm. When Miss Hattie heard about all she planned to do in town today, her landlady suggested she pack a lunch. Willow held the sack out to Mr. Baxter.