Twice a Bride (20 page)

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“A sandwich, an apple, and pecan sandies.”

His eyes widened and he licked his lips, then he shook his head. “I couldn’t take your lunch.”

If he didn’t eat something, the alcohol would eat his insides. She’d heard her daddy say that about the old doctor in Stockton. “Sir, might you know of the Flinn family?”

“They have a little girl.”

“Yes, sounds like them.”

“He works at the mine.” He glanced at the hill behind them. “They live in a cabin up on Pikes Peak Avenue, off Florissant, fourth place on the left.”

“That is of great help to me. Thank you so much.” She pushed the sack against his hand, and he took her lunch.

“I’m glad I could help you. You’re a nice lady.” He tucked his hat under his arm, reached into the sack, and pulled out the cookies.

“Thank you.” She lifted her package off the ground. “Good day to you, Mr. Baxter.”

“And to you, ma’am.”

Turning, Willow looked up the street toward the studio. Mr. Van Der Veer stood outside on the boardwalk, looking her way. How long had he been watching her?

Trenton turned away from the sight of Mrs. Peterson and trudged into the office. As he closed the door, the bells above his head chimed, and he scowled at them. Was the woman born yesterday? Her letter of application stated she’d lived in Colorado Springs the past year and a half. Before that she’d lived in California. Had she been wearing blinders and not noticed the wild ways of the West?

What was she thinking, talking to the town drunk as if he were the mayor?

He lumbered past the desk and into the studio. Lifting the tripod from beside the settee, he carried it back to the piano bench.

The bell rang again. His only employee had arrived. He needed to keep his concerns to himself. Her naiveté wasn’t his problem.

“Mr. Van Der Veer?”

“I-I’m in the st-studio, Mrs. Peterson.”

She sauntered into the room, holding a flat package on her hands.

“You finished the portrait?” he asked.

“Indeed I did.” She set the package on the library table. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had that much fun. Moll … Mrs. Gortner is a delight.”

Trenton set the tripod on the floor with more force than necessary. “According to your ap-plication, you’re not so new to the W-West that you should be ignorant of its w-ways.”

He bristled at his own words. He should have sealed his mouth shut the minute he returned to the office. He’d just called Mrs. Peterson ignorant.
Unaware
. That was the word he should have used. Would have used, if he’d meant to say anything in the first place.

Her green eyes darkened. “I beg your pardon.”

Her puckered brow told him he had no choice but to finish what he’d started. He held her gaze. “I am a m-mite surprised that you are
unaware
of the w-ways of the West, is all.”

“Ways of the West?” Her elocution was slow, deliberate.

“Yes. I don’t expect w-women alone should t-talk to complete strangers, especially derelicts like Baxter.”

She bristled. “It’s not normal for a man to be passed out on the boardwalk.”

“It is if he’s a bummer.”

“Really, Mr. Van Der Veer?” Her brow crinkled. “I’d expected you to be more charitable.”

He didn’t bother to ask why. He knew. Because of his stammering, he should be more understanding of others with uncomely conditions.

“It’s not a matter of charity, Mrs. Peterson. It’s common sense. And a flea has … more.” The words jerked out in fits.

Her lips thinned.

He didn’t care if she was offended. Her safety was in question. “Does your husband know you’re sociable with riffraff?”

She squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin. “I can talk with whomever I please, Mr. Van Der Veer.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “My husband is not here to care. He’s dead.”

Trenton felt himself jerk as if he’d received a punch to his midsection.

Before he could offer her a proper response, she spun around and marched out of the room, mumbling, “So much for Portraits by Willow.”

He nearly fell over the tripod in pursuit, but the blasted bell rang as she bolted through the front door. All he could do was watch the storm pass by the front window. Following her now would mean making a scene, sure to intensify the cyclone he’d created.

Instead, he carried the package to the counter and removed the string. As he carefully unwrapped the portrait, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Mrs. Gortner could have been standing there, looking straight at him. Mrs. Peterson—the widow—had captured the crook in the mine owner’s nose and the sparkle in her eyes. And all with flawless color and tone.

He hadn’t even looked at the portrait before she left. Hadn’t had a chance to tell her how pleased he was with her work, let alone pay her for it. He needed to make amends.

At the desk, Trenton unlocked the cashbox. He slid her payment into an envelope and put it into his coat pocket. Now for an apology gift. Flowers weren’t appropriate. Neither was a box of candy.

Ah. He knew what to get her. He looked at the wall clock: nine thirty. He had half an hour before his next sitting was scheduled to arrive. Ample time for a trip to the mercantile.

W
illow headed in the opposite direction of where the Flinn family lived on Pikes Peak Avenue. After that encounter with her boss, she wasn’t of a mind to meet a new client.

She couldn’t work for a man with such little regard for humanity. Mr. Van Der Veer couldn’t have surprised her any more if he’d climbed onto the rooftop and belted out a saloon song. Instead, he’d scolded her for talking to someone in need. He’d barked his rebuke like a mad dog. He’d probably never even talked to Mr. Baxter, and yet he’d called the man a
derelict. Riffraff
. She shuddered, thinking what the photographer might call her if he knew of her residence in the asylum. He had talent for capturing a person’s image, but his vision was distressingly shallow. He couldn’t see past his nose.

And in her shock and ire, she’d blurted out the truth. She was a widow. Alone, with no one to care what she did or didn’t do.

Turning onto Bennett Avenue, she stepped onto the boardwalk and looked across the street. The wooden sign for Carmen’s Confectionary swung in the breeze. A sweet wouldn’t improve the situation with her employer, but a piece of candy might minimize the bitter taste of anger souring her tongue.

Willow crossed the street behind an older woman and her five children. After dodging a wagon full of grimy miners, she made her way past an assay office and a barbershop. In front of the confectionary, she paused to admire two delectable trays of indulgences displayed in the window. One held an
assortment of frosted pastries. The other, an array of delicious-looking chocolates. She licked her lips and reached for the door handle.

“Welcome.” The rounded chin of the woman clerk barely cleared the counter.

“Thank you.” Willow breathed deeply, savoring the rich aroma. Her gaze settled on the glass display case. Cakes, pies, turnovers, and a colorful assortment of candies. Caramels, rock candy pops, taffy, lemon drops, root beer barrels, peppermint sticks, licorice bits, and more. Which one should she choose?

“You here about the sign, señorita?”

Willow had to concentrate to discern the question through the woman’s Spanish accent. She scanned the wall behind the counter. Posters hawked the latest in factory-made candies and syrups from the East.

“The Help Wanted sign in the window,” the clerk said.

Turning back toward the door, Willow saw the back of a chalk slate propped in the bottom corner of the window.

“I didn’t see it.”

“No matter.” The woman’s hand darted into the air above a tray of fudge. “I’m Carmen.”

“Willow Peterson.” She shook Carmen’s leathered hand, admiring her brown almond-shaped eyes, barely peeping over her ample cheeks.

“I’m looking for a young woman such as yourself to work the counter. Are you looking for a job?”

Willow had a job. If she still wanted it. “I might be.”

An hour later, after a stop at the library, Willow stepped onto Miss Hattie’s porch. The swing at the far end looked especially inviting. She pulled the pink cardboard box from Carmen’s Confectionary out of the fabric sack that had
held her lunch before she gave it to Mr. Baxter. She’d enjoy a piece of fudge before going inside.

She’d taken her first bite when the front door creaked open and Hattie poked her head out.

“I thought I heard someone out here.” Hattie stepped outside, her gaze settling on the piece of candy in Willow’s hand. “Mind if I join you?”

“On the swing? Or eating candy?”

“Both?”

Willow pulled a second piece of fudge out of the bag, handed it to Hattie, then glanced at the empty space beside her.

After seating herself, Hattie slowly raised the candy to her mouth and nibbled it. “Mmm.” Her blue-gray eyes widened. “Carmen’s?”

Willow nodded and bit off another sliver of fudge, letting it dissolve on her tongue. “I can’t say the candy is better than the root beer soda at Collins Pharmacy, but it’s a very satisfying match.”

Hattie rested her hand on the arm of the swing and looked at Willow. “With all you had planned for your day, I didn’t expect you until late this afternoon.” Brushing a gray curl back from her face, her landlady glanced at the bag on Willow’s lap. “Did you already eat your lunch?”

Willow sighed, remembering her boss’s bark. “I gave my lunch away.”

Hattie’s eyebrows arched.

“It’s a long story.”

“Mr. Sinclair and Cherise are making the rounds of the sisters’ houses today, starting with Kat’s. They’ll have supper with Vivian and Carter. So I’m a woman with nothing but time.” Hattie popped the last bite of fudge into her mouth.

Where to begin? Willow set the box of fudge on the side table and rested her back against the swing’s wooden slats. “I was nearly to the studio when I came across an unconscious old man slouched against the smoke-shop wall.”

“Baxter?”

Willow nodded.

“And you stopped.” A slight smile edged up Hattie’s face.

“I did.” Willow straightened. “If he was sleeping on the boardwalk, he obviously needed help. I wasn’t sure he was even breathing.”

“Not too many people would bother.”

“Including my employer.”

“Mr. Van Der Veer isn’t the charitable type?”

“Mr. Baxter was nice and respectful. He told me where I could find the Flinn family, and I gave him my lunch. When I walked into the office, Mr. Van Der Veer didn’t even look at the portrait I gave him. He’d seen me with Mr. Baxter and was too busy expressing his reproach.”

“Your employer scolded you?”

Willow couldn’t push the image from her mind: his jaw was rigid and his ears a bright red. “Practically spat the words at me.”

Hattie blew out a breath, lifting the wispy gray hairs at her forehead.

“I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry when he asked if my husband knew I was sociable with riffraff that I admitted my husband wasn’t here to care because he was dead.”

“What did he say to that?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t give him a chance to say any more. I said, ‘So much for Portraits by Willow’ and marched right out the front door.”