Twice a Bride (22 page)

“Scandia, correct?” Mr. Johnstone asked.

“Yes.” Susanna hated to admit having come from such an isolated place, but she had proven she had what it took to get out of there.

“And your family?”

“My parents and two younger brothers remain in Kansas.” She reached for her water glass. “How about you, Mr. Johnstone? Do you have family in Colorado?”

He patted his mouth with his napkin. “Please, call me Walter. I don’t have any family in Denver, but I do have a married sister who lives in Ouray with her family.”

She hadn’t heard of Ouray, but then, Colorado had never been the topic around her house. Until she’d read the article in the
Denver Post
.

“And my mother and father live in Cripple Creek,” Mr. Johnstone continued.

Susanna could have sworn she heard music. She pressed her back against the chair spindles. “Cripple Creek, you said?”

“Yes. It is south of here, about a day’s train ride.”

“What a small world this is, Walter.” She fixed her gaze on him. “I have a dear friend who lives in Cripple Creek. And you said your folks live there?”

Walter nodded like a mule pulling against his harness. “As a matter of fact, I plan to head that way on the seventh of October.”

Was she dreaming? Not much more than a week away. Susanna leisurely raised her finger to her face. Twirling a soft curl at her temple, she offered Walter one of her most welcoming smiles.

Perhaps she was closer to reuniting with Trenton than she’d given herself credit for.

Hattie startled, her heart pounding, her skin damp. She’d been dreaming, a nightmare.

She felt the bed. There were no babies here.

But there was a little girl upstairs. Cherise.

The child’s cries drifted from the room above Hattie, a sharp knife piercing her heart. Cherise was living a nightmare—motherless, fatherless, and alone in a foreign land.

Hattie sat up and folded her hands in her lap. She’d heard Cherise’s cries most every night the girl had been here. After Cherise finally left Mr. Sinclair’s side and went up to her room for the night, the whimpering would begin within an hour.

Tonight was different. Her room pitch black, Hattie stared toward the window. It was the middle of the night. No doors above her clicked open or shut. The poor child was alone.

Thankful for the electricity in her home, Hattie switched on the table lamp and pulled her dressing gown from the back of a chair. After lighting a candle lantern, she slid her feet into sheepskin slippers and climbed the stairs to the middle room, right off the second-story landing. The child’s cries weren’t as sharp now but still a steady sob.

Breathing a prayer, Hattie opened the door wide enough to hold the lantern in the crack. The little girl lay at the foot of the bed, curled in a ball, her bedcovers in a tangle. “Cherise, dear.”

“Mama.” She rolled over and peered at Hattie, her eyes red and her face wet.
“Je veux Maman.”

Hattie’s heart wrenched. She closed the door behind her and hurried to the bed. Of course the child wanted her mama. “It’s Miss Hattie.”

“Je veux Maman.”

“I know you do.” Hattie blew out the candle and set the lantern on the bedside table. “
Je suis ici, ma chère. Vous n’êtes pas seul
. Shh. Shh. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Letting her slippers fall to the floor, she reclined on the bed and held her arms out to the child. Soon Cherise clung to her, and their cries for mama and daughter blended, a prayer meant for the heart of God.

W
illow pinned a golden-brown hat on her head and glanced at the corner table and the gift Mr. Van Der Veer sent yesterday. He hadn’t said he was sorry for scolding her, but he’d included four new canvases with the payment for her first job.

She pushed the last hatpin through her curls, then walked to the corner and ran her finger across the white canvas. Its newness held such possibilities. Like a new life.

Had her new life as a portrait painter really ended before it had begun? If so, it was because of her pride. Mr. Van Der Veer wasn’t the first person to misunderstand her actions and motives, and he no doubt wouldn’t be the last.

She studied the Flinn photograph. A nice-looking family. The baby girl sat straight with a firm grip on a cloth bird. Willow’s eyes welled and her throat constricted. She and Sam had wanted children. The day she’d burst through their apartment door with news that her art was expected to win a ribbon at the fair, he’d assumed she’d brought him
family news
. He’d flashed her the brightest smile she’d ever seen. Oh, how she wished now that Sam had been right. That she had his child to love and keep her company.

Pressing her hand to her heart, she prayed aloud. “I will trust You, Lord.” Hearing herself echo her soul’s promise somehow comforted her deep down.

Willow returned the photograph to the table. She’d meet the family to note the coloring of their eyes and hair, then she’d speak to Carmen at the
confectionary. Standing at a candy counter wrapping packages of caramels or pastries and counting people’s money didn’t appeal to her in the least. She’d rather sell iceboxes. Her true preference was to capture the likenesses of the good people of Cripple Creek on canvas.

Hattie was probably right about Mr. Van Der Veer—he’d only meant to express his concern for her, even though it wasn’t his place to do so. Some women might view his gruff reprimand as a gallant act. She just wasn’t among them.

Misunderstandings can be misleading too
.

But she hadn’t misunderstood Mr. Van Der Veer. He’d made himself quite clear.

Did she want to work as a portrait artist badly enough that she could abide her boss’s apathy toward folks like Mr. Baxter? Could she weather his moodiness?

Willow retrieved her reticule from the bed. Her answer was yes. She liked the work, and most of it could be done right here in her room.

At the bottom of the staircase, Willow poked her head into the parlor, where Hattie sat with her feet propped on an ottoman. A Bible lay open on her lap. “Miss Hattie?”

Her landlady’s smile was warm.

“I’m on my way out now.” Willow stepped inside the cozy parlor. “I’ll see the Flinns, then go talk to Carmen. I intend to continue my work with Mr. Van Der Veer. I thoroughly enjoyed painting Mrs. Gortner’s portrait.”

Hattie smiled. “That’s good news. You are too good at what you do to let a misunderstanding stand in your way. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather drive my buggy up to the Flinns’ place?”

“No, thank you. The walk will do me good. My father was fond of saying, ‘Walking time is thinking time.’ ”

“Indeed, it is, and praying time.” Hattie stroked her Bible. “Chapter twenty-one of Proverbs has me doing both. I’ve been guilty of giving Mr. Sinclair more than one haughty look.”

Willow’s heart winced. She remembered her own haughty response to Mr. Van Der Veer yesterday. She’d certainly been guilty of a prideful heart.

After a quick wave, Willow stepped out the front door, thankful for her time on the porch with Hattie yesterday. Fudge and confessions. Willow covered a giggle with her hand. She’d obviously mismatched Miss Hattie and Boney. Far more sparks flew between her landlady and Mr. Sinclair.

By the time Willow turned onto Pikes Peak Avenue, her breath puffed and her side ached. She paused at the corner and looked out over the valley. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains stood majestic in the distance. A breathtaking view. Smiling, she slowed her breathing and looked up the road. The fourth house on the left was a fairly new log cabin with a modest porch.

At the front door, Willow tapped the wooden knocker and glanced at the flour sack curtains in the window. No movement. Perhaps she should have sent the Flinns a message that she’d be calling on them.

Suddenly the door whooshed open and a man built tall and skinny like a telephone pole stood before her. Where were the wife and child? Had she misunderstood Mr. Baxter’s directions? She should have given more credence to Mr. Van Der Veer’s concerns. Had she put herself in harm’s way coming up here alone?

Willow pressed her reticule to her side. “Mr. Flinn?”

His face void of emotion, the man nodded.

“I’m Mrs. Peterson, the owner of Portraits by Willow.”

He furrowed his brow. “We don’t want any.” He shook his head and started to close the door.

“I’m the person Mr. Van Der Veer hired to colorize your family photograph.”

The slight woman in the photograph appeared from behind the door. “A woman painter?”

“Yes ma’am.” Willow had thought about having special calling cards made but hadn’t been to see the printer yet. “I apologize for calling without invitation, but—”

Mrs. Flinn stepped forward. “Don’t you worry none about that.” Her smile didn’t reach her pine-bark brown eyes. “I’m Myrna Flinn.” She shook Willow’s hand, then pulled her over the threshold. “Missus Peterson?”

“Yes. Please call me Willow.”

The one-room cabin housed a ticking potbellied stove, a couple of worn armchairs, and a braided rug. The little girl from the photograph sat in a wooden highchair beside a rough-hewn table.

“This here’s our girl, Ruby,” Myrna said.

Ruby held a spoonful of what might have been oatmeal above a shallow tin bowl, and Willow guessed her to be less than two years old. She smiled at the child, noting the little girl’s aqua blue eyes and creamy skin tone.

“Please, won’t you sit for a spell?” Myrna pointed to one of the two chairs at the table.

“Thank you.” Willow seated herself, but the woman of the house didn’t sit. Instead her husband slid into the chair across from Willow.

Standing behind him, Myrna glanced at her sparse kitchen area and met Willow’s gaze. “I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”

“No, thank you. I won’t keep you long.” Leaving her reticule on her lap, Willow folded her hands on the table and met Mr. Flinn’s steely gaze. “As I said, Mr. Flinn, I’ll be colorizing the photograph for you. I wanted to meet your family so I could do justice to the hair and eye colors for each of you.”

He huffed. “It figures that dandy would hire a woman to do a man’s job.”

Willow reared her head as if she’d been struck, but she kept her tongue quiet. She’d let Mr. Flinn keep the job of slinging insults. Still standing behind her husband, Myrna worried her bottom lip.

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Somethin’ wrong with you too that you don’t have a problem workin’ for a man that can’t even talk proper?” Mr. Flinn sneered. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how the man spits and sputters his words like a simpleton or somebody that’s afraid of his own shadow.”

Willow had found Mr. Van Der Veer to be quite intelligent and his studio more organized than her armoire.
Barks. Spits
. Both were words she’d used to categorize Mr. Van Der Veer’s speech, and both were products of his stammering, not anger.

“S-s-s-sit st-st-st-still.” Mr. Flinn snickered. He sounded like a snake, and she’d had enough of his poison.

Willow stood, wishing she’d accepted a glass of water so she could throw it at him. “You would fault a man for stammering? I’d think long and hard on that, Mr. Flinn. Smug self-righteousness is an actual weakness, a very ugly one indeed.” Choking the handle on her reticule, she regarded the trembling woman beside the highchair. “Good day, Myrna.” She let herself out, her hand shaking as she clicked the door shut.

Willow looked over her shoulder at every turn to see if the insufferable Mr. Flinn had followed her. The walk down the hill, fueled by ire and fear, went much more quickly than her ascent. Whether her anger was righteous or not, she was furious. How could that sweet woman live with such a hateful man?

Turning right onto Bennett Avenue, she heard someone calling her name. She jumped, even though it was a woman’s voice and a familiar voice. Her sister-in-law walked toward her.

“I’m on my way to the telegraph office. Saw you round the corner.” Ida gave her a quick hug. “Are you coming from the boardinghouse?”

“I wish that were the case. I wouldn’t mind starting this day anew. The whole week, in fact.”

Ida raised a thin eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scowl on your face. Have you been tangling with a vermin?”