Twice a Bride (33 page)

He sniffed and glanced at the oven. “Apple pie?”

“Two, for the picnic tomorrow.”

“Your brother inv-vited me … to take photographs.”

She wanted to ask if he planned to bring his lady friend with him but refrained. It was best they keep their private lives just that—private.

Trenton looked at the envelope he held, then at her gooey hands. “I have more jobs for you and p-payment for the Johnstones’ portrait. Archie delivered it this morning. I was going to l-leave this with Miss Hattie, but she insisted I hand it to you myself.”

Willow looked past Trenton at Miss Hattie. Amusement danced in her landlady’s blue-gray eyes. “Yes, Miss Hattie is like that.”

Miss Hattie tittered. “I’ll clean the kitchen and watch the pies, dear. Why don’t you and Mr. Van Der Veer conduct your business in the parlor?”

“Thank you.” Willow faced Trenton. “I best wash my hands first.”

Trenton nodded. The sight of his warm smile warred with the memory of what she’d seen through the window. She soaped her hands and scrubbed them under running water until they were clean.

“Here you go.” He pulled the hand towel off the counter and handed it to her. “You did an excellent job on Mr. Johnstone’s nose.”

She giggled and dried her hands.

“On b-both of them.”

“Both of his noses?”

Trenton’s musical laugh followed her out of the kitchen and into the parlor. She sat in a wing-back chair, and he sat in the armchair, with only a side table between them.

She liked this man. Or at least she had until she’d seen him with another woman. She’d experienced jealousy, but it was more than that. He’d seemed a man of integrity, unlikely to be leading a double life. Until yesterday afternoon, she hadn’t seen or heard any evidence he was involved with anyone. His attentions toward her, including his visit this morning, would lead her to believe his interest in her may run deeper than mere employment. And yet she’d clearly witnessed an intimacy between him and that woman.

Trenton cleared his throat. “I knew you’d finish the p-painting early, and I thought you m-might bring it in yesterday afternoon.”

Willow rested her hands on the chair arms and looked at him. “I did.”

His brow creased.

“I was there. Outside the window.”

He swallowed hard. “You should’ve come in.”

“To interrupt you and look like a fool?” Her voice, louder than she’d intended, cracked on the last word.

“To rescue me.”

“You didn’t look like you needed rescuing.”

“Looks can b-be deceiving.” His gaze collided with hers. “So can f-first impressions. Remember?”

She recalled their first meeting, and her heart melted.

Trenton stood and paced the room. “Do you care to hear my story?”

“You don’t have to tell me, if you’d rather not.”

“B-but I do.” He met her gaze. “I want you to kn-know me.”

She wanted to know him better, especially if he hadn’t been guilty of what she’d imagined. “Yes. I’d like to hear it.”

“I came to Cripple Creek from K-Kansas. That’s where S-Susanna is from.”

“The woman in the studio?”

“Yes. She and I were betrothed, and we planned our wedding for last month.”

He was going to marry that young woman? She wanted to know why it had fallen apart, but it wasn’t her business to ask. Instead, she picked a piece of lint from the arm of the wing-back chair. After an uncomfortable pause, she looked at him.

“I learned S-Susanna wasn’t at all the w-woman I thought her to be,” he said, “and I b-broke the engagement.”

“And left Kansas.”

“Yes. R-rather abruptly.”

“She followed you here?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know until yesterday, when she showed up at the s-studio.” He looked at her, the anguish in his eyes confirming that he spoke the truth. “I sent her away.”

“I didn’t see that part.”

“Except to p-put her on a train b-back to Kansas this afternoon, I want nothing to do with … with Susanna.” The last phrase rushed out as one word. “You have to b-believe me.”

“Why does it matter what I believe?”

“I care that you kn-know the truth.”

She stood. “I have something I need to show you. Will you come with me?”

“Yes.” Bewilderment creased his brow.

She held up a finger and hurried to the kitchen to let Hattie know of her plans, then went up to her room. She swept her hair up and changed into a walk-about-town dress.

When she returned to the parlor, Trenton smiled and followed her down the porch steps. They walked the few blocks to the church in silence but for the street sounds.

As the steeple came into view, Trenton turned to her. “I was here Sunday before last.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“You looked for me?”

Her face warmed. “I did.”

“I sat on the bench in the foyer.”

Her first impulse was to giggle but she didn’t. “We don’t bite, you know.”

“I hadn’t been in a church for … since I was a boy.” He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. “My p-parents were ashamed of m-me … my stuttering. My m-mother took me to one speech therapist and th-then another. They had me p-practice saying the alph-phabet and read with marbles in my mouth. They even tried to s-scare it out of me. When those t-tactics didn’t work, my f-father talked to the p-pastor of the only church in town.”

“What did they expect him to do?”

He raked his hand through his hair, then met her gaze. “Rid me of demons.”

A sadness settled on her heart. “Your parents believed the stuttering was of the—”

“It was the worst day of my life.”

“It must have been awful!” Willow didn’t need to tell him Tucker was different. He knew it, or he wouldn’t have visited the First Congregational Church at all. “I would’ve hesitated to attend church too.”

She continued up the pathway toward the parsonage and knocked on the door. Nothing. She pulled a key out of her reticule and unlocked the door.

“Perhaps we should return another time,” Trenton said.

“They won’t mind we’re here. My brother likes you.”

“I’d like to keep it that way.” His easy grin chased away the sadness.

“You have nothing to worry about.” She opened the door and stepped inside. “Ida? Tucker?”

No answer. The chill in the house told her they’d been gone awhile.

“What I want to show you is in the parlor.”

When they reached the parlor, she added wood to the stove in the corner. The settee offered the most comfortable and direct view, but they were alone in
the room, and it wouldn’t be proper to sit together. Willow walked to the settee anyway. Standing behind it, she looked up at the first painting she’d done in Colorado—a landscape of Pikes Peak rising out of a bank of gray fog, tipped in pure white.

“Magnificent!” Trenton stood beside her.

“I painted my life story there.”

“You painted that?”

Willow nodded, praying for the right words. Even if he hadn’t darkened the sanctuary, he’d come to the church. Trenton Van Der Veer was seeking God, and she believed God was running toward him.

“I knew you were a gifted p-portrait painter,” he said, “but this is—”

“When my husband Sam died and the grief hit me, I felt as if I had slipped into a thick fog bank.”

His hand rested on the back of the sofa, his tender gaze fixed on her.

She drew in a deep breath. “I became so despondent that my father didn’t know what else to do but to have me committed.”

His eyebrows arched. “Y-you were institutionalized?”

“Yes.” If he thought less of her, she didn’t see it in his blue eyes.

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Willow held his gaze. “But I also want you to know
me
better.” She never thought she’d be eager to tell her story.

His smile gave her all the encouragement she needed, and she explained what she’d learned about melancholia, told him about Tucker visiting her every week even though she couldn’t remember or respond until she started receiving his letters from Cripple Creek.

“I never would’ve guessed you’d been through all that. You must’ve been so lonely.”

“Somehow I knew God was there, with me, through it all.”

“How did you know?”

“Even when I felt alone, I believed God’s promise to never leave me or
forsake me. I trusted that He would always meet my needs, and He has, even when I didn’t recognize His hand.” She glanced at the painting, then back at him. “The Lord’s presence and His grace transcend all circumstances. God was in the fog with me and helped me break through it. Nothing can separate us from the sacrificial love of Jesus the Christ. Not the death of a husband, a father, melancholia—”

“Stutters and stammers?”

She shook her head.

“B-broken engagements?”

“No. Not a sorely misguided preacher either.” She breathed another prayer for him. “God will use all our brokenness for good, if we’ll allow it. And for those who believe in Jesus and accept His love, there is no condemnation.”

“That’s what Tucker was saying about the p-passage in Romans that Sunday.”

She nodded, unable to press words past the tears clogging her throat.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly, his touch warming her heart. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She glanced at their joined hands, then into his glistening blue eyes.

Tucker and Ida appeared in the parlor doorway, their mouths gaping open. Trenton released her hand and stepped away, allowing for the proper space between them. But right now, it wasn’t her reputation camped on Willow’s mind. It was what she’d seen in Trenton’s eyes and felt in his touch.

“When the front door was unlocked, we figured it was you in here, Willow. Robbers wouldn’t use a key or leave the door open.” Curiosity laced her brother’s brown eyes.

Trenton shook Tucker’s hand. “Willow … we came to look at her painting.”

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Van Der Veer.” A wide smile accented Ida’s high cheekbones. Her sister-in-law was clearly amused by the surprise of finding the two of them together.

“Thank you. P-please, call me Trenton.”

Willow glanced at the landscape. “I wanted to tell Trenton my story, and I knew it would be easier looking at the painting.”

“Ah.” Tucker stoked the stove and glanced at her. “Was I one of the good guys?”

“Always.” She winked at her brother.

Ida removed her cape. “If you two haven’t had lunch yet, I hope you’ll join us.”

Trenton met Willow’s gaze. “I’d like to stay, but I have some business to attend to.”

Susanna
.

Willow nodded. The sooner he saw her on the train back to Kansas, the better.

“Another time then,” Tucker said.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Trenton said. “Thank you.”

Willow would like that too. This was her best Saturday in four years. Trenton was indeed the man of integrity she believed him to be. He knew her story, and he hadn’t cowered.

Run to him, Lord
.

M
eals with strangers, isolation, and a cold shoulder.

Susanna must have lost her mind to chase after a man who’d rejected her. She’d been just as desperate the day Helen walked in with the
Denver Post
as the day Trenton left her in Scandia with no prospects for a better future.

Trenton Van Der Veer was a bit eccentric with all his flasks and plates and saws, but still charming. A bit embarrassing at times with all the stammering, but a true gentleman with a talent that could take him—and her—into the homes of the upper tens in New York City. His connections with high society could gain her a spot onstage in one of the most prestigious opera houses in the country.

She hadn’t expected Trenton to welcome her with open arms, but neither had she thought he’d resist her persistent attentions. That he’d leave her … alone.

Susanna walked to the window. Sighing, she pulled the tattered curtain back and looked outside. Men, women, and children packed the streets, all of them going somewhere with someone or something. Sunlight touched everyone but her. She let the curtain drop.

He said he’d do some thinking and they’d talk today. He’d had all night to ponder. It was nearly ten o’clock, so where was he? She’d already telephoned his studio but received no answer.

Trenton had changed.

No doubt the fault of the widow Willow Peterson, his portrait painter. Trenton had flinched and backed away from Susanna when she touched his cheek, but not before she’d made sure the woman outside the window had gotten an eyeful.

Would a mere employee or casual observer have scampered off like that? Not likely.

Still, Susanna was no better off than before she arrived in town. She couldn’t just sit around waiting for the photographer and feeling sorry for herself. If Trenton preferred the more independent businesswoman-artist type, then she knew just how to put herself in the running.

Cripple Creek had at least one opera house. Her charms may not have worked on Trenton yesterday, but most opera house managers were men, and it wouldn’t hurt to try her luck on one.

She glanced from the potbellied stove to the tiny table, from the too-soft chair to the single bed. If she stayed here a minute longer, she’d need the undertaker.