“Let me go!” Ida pounded her fists into his chest. When his grip tightened, she blindly tried to stomp his foot.
Holding her as she squirmed, he called her insulting names that made her skin crawl almost as much as his touch did. He pushed her through the brush and into a clearing cluttered with bedding, hard hats, picks, and shovels.
Ida kicked his shins and dug at his ears with her fingernails. He snarled like a wounded badger and covered his ears, freeing her arm from his grip. Seizing the opportunity, Ida turned and ran toward town. The men’s sneers and retorts propelled her up the path. She heard at least two running after her for a few moments, but the sound soon fell away. Perhaps the heartbeat pounding in her ears had only drowned out their pursuing footfalls. She needed to press on.
As Ida came up over the rise, she tripped and landed face first in a surprisingly deep, offensively odorous puddle left by the recent rains.
Shivering from the cold water, she lifted her head to wipe her face with her sleeve. A snort startled her, and she looked up into the large snout of a drooling mule.
“That’s Sal, ma’am. And we’d be right pleased to help you.”
Ida looked past the mule at a wiry man with unruly gray hair.
“No, thank you.” She rose to her knees and studied him and his mule. Picks, shovels, and every sort of tool hung from the man’s animal. Another miner.
He spit a brown streak into the dirt behind him. “You need to know we’re not all the same, ma’am. When I saw you runnin’, I figured you come across those no-accounts down at the creek. Thought you could use a friend ’bout now.”
She could do with a friend, but …
He reached out his hand, giving her a chance to grasp it. Given her circumstances, she could fight him off if necessary once she was out of this mire. And the sooner, the better.
The miner gently lifted Ida out of the muddy mess. What a frightful sight she must be. She took some comfort in the fact that she didn’t know many people here yet, and those she did know were mostly family.
“Name’s Boney Hughes.” He pulled a canteen from Sal’s side and removed the cork. Then he pulled a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket. “You can rinse your face, if you like.”
Ida poured water onto the handkerchief and blotted her face. “Thank you, Mr. Hughes.”
The man winced. “Mr. Hughes would be my daddy, if he were alive. Folks ’round here call me Boney.”
His stare made her even more uncomfortable than she already was in her wet clothes. She needed to stop shaking.
“You look a lot like two sisters I know,” he said.
“You know my sisters?” Ida regretted the condescension she heard in her voice, but Boney didn’t seem the least bit offended by it.
“That’s it—you’re a Sinclair. You’ve got Kat’s darker hair. Nell’s blue eyes. And the same high cheekbones.”
“Yes, Miss Ida Sinclair.”
They moved to the side of the road to let a wagon by. When Ida looked up, she felt a sudden additional humiliation, as if this all hadn’t been enough. The wagon was emblazoned with Raines Ice Company and was being driven by Tucker Raines.
Could this day get any worse?
“Miss Sinclair, is that you?” Tucker leapt off the seat of the wagon, approaching them with a bluster she’d only seen before a fistfight. “What is going on here? What is this man—”
Ida raised her hand, waving the soiled kerchief. “Mr. Boney Hughes, I’d like you to meet Mr. Tucker Raines.”
Tucker stopped short, but maintained his fighting posture, his jaw tight. He regarded her muddy appearance.
“I did this on my own coming up from the creek,” Ida said, waving a hand over her dress. “Mr. Boney here assisted me.”
Relaxing his clenched fists, Tucker looked at her with skepticism etched in the creases in his forehead. “You went down to the camp?”
“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted some peace and quiet, and I like water.”
Tucker looked at Boney, the intensity gone from his brown eyes. “No personal offense intended, Mr. Hughes.”
“Call me Boney.” He shook Tucker’s hand. “None taken.”
Ida shivered, and Tucker glanced back at his wagon. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“Pardon me?”
Mr. Boney chuckled while Tucker shook his head. “I meant we need to see you home so you can change into dry clothing.”
For a woman who intended to avoid entanglements with men, she was doing a poor job of it.
“My wagon would make short work of getting you to the boardinghouse.” Tucker regarded her muddied hat brim, then her mud-soaked boots before continuing. “Besides, it’d be much more pleasant than walking up the hill looking and feeling like … that.”
Good point. Ida pushed a wavy strand of hair back from her face. “I accept your offer for a ride. Thank you.” She turned back to Boney. “And thank you for your help.” He’d been right—men weren’t all the same.
“My pleasure, little lady.” Boney removed his short-billed canvas hat and slapped it against his leg, creating a cloud of dust around him.
Tucker cupped her elbow and helped her up onto the wagon seat.
She hated being dirty … and indebted to a lawyer, a crusty miner, and now an ice man. But showing up at Hattie’s with a man at her side would be the worst. Her landlady’s reputation as a matchmaker worried her.
So much for her determination to not give the woman any bait for fishing.
Tucker swung up to his perch on the ice wagon. Ida Sinclair sat on the far edge of the seat, straight-backed and proper, staring straight ahead. She obviously wasn’t going to allow the indignities of lecherous miners, a mud bath, and climbing onto an ice wagon in such shape to soil her spirit. While Miss Sinclair closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, his respect for her grew roots and so did his desire to protect her. Sensing that would be impossible, he snapped the reins and clicked his tongue, signaling the horses forward.
As the wagon lurched up Bennett Avenue, he wanted to tell her she’d been foolish to take such a risk going to the creek—a woman alone. But she’d come from Maine with no concept of the personal danger that awaited her here in the West.
“Miss Sinclair, you are no longer in the genteel society of Maine.” The late afternoon activity of carts, mules, and pedestrians on the street commanded Tucker’s attention as he continued. “You need to be mindful of the fact that here in Cripple Creek there are a whole lot more men than there are women. Fact is”—he held his hand up, his fingers spread—“I can count on one hand the, uh, respectable single women in town and still have fingers left.”
His speech had no sooner run the course of his breath when regret tied a knot in his chest. She had discovered all of that for herself, and didn’t require a lecture from him. Expecting her to tell him so, he braced himself for her well-deserved wrath and looked her direction.
Instead, her lips sealed, Miss Sinclair worried the hem of her mud-encrusted cape. The tears streaming down her face caught his breath and wrenched his heart. A scolding for stating the obvious would have been easier to withstand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, guiding the horses up Third Street. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She sniffled and shook her head. “It’s not your fault. You were right—I was foolish.”
Had he actually said that? “You’re new here. You didn’t know they camp down there.” Tucker shifted the reins to his left hand. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out to her. “You’re safe now,” he said.
Nodding, she accepted the handkerchief and blotted the muddy rivulets on her face.
“I’ll have you home soon.”
“Miss Hattie will think I’ve been wallowing with pigs.”
He formed a fist around the reins just thinking about those pigs.
“Next time you want some peace and quiet by the water, consider sitting at the stretch of creek on my father’s prop
erty. Down Second Street off of Warren Avenue. Second cabin on the left. I put a bench down there for just that purpose. No miners.” He pulled up on the reins in front of the yellow boardinghouse and brought the wagon to a stop. “I’ll help you down.”
Silent, she slid the handle of her reticule over her wrist and gathered her soiled skirt with her left hand. “That won’t be necessary.”
Tucker hurried around the back of the wagon anyway, just in time to watch Miss Sinclair’s foot slip off the bottom step, her boot still coated with slick mud. Her hand held fast to the grab bar as her feet dangled inches from the ground.
Her forehead pressed against the wood siding, and a sigh of resignation escaped her lips. “If you insist on helping me down, Mr. Raines,” she said, her words muffled, “I suppose I could oblige you.”
Swallowing his laughter, Tucker planted his hands on her waist. He lifted her off the wagon and set her on the ground. He’d helped his sister from a wagon many times, but holding on to Miss Sinclair weakened his knees. And as he released her, he found himself hoping to see her again soon … at the bench by the creek.
SEVEN
uesday evening a steady rain tapped on the cabin’s tin roof in rhythm with Kat’s flow of words. She added the period to her last sentence, capped her jar of ink, and smiled down at her fifth article for Harper’s Bazar.
Although Harper’s Bazar was predominately a fashion magazine, in her column Kat wrote stories about real women in the West. This month she’d written about a young woman in Victor who had lost her sister and brother-in-law to disease and had taken in her five nieces and nephews. Writing for such a prestigious magazine still seemed like a dream to Kat.
However, life with the man who stood at the washstand in the corner was the most unbelievable dream. Morgan caught her gazing at him and gave her one of his dimpled smiles that made her grateful she was seated. The man had an uncanny ability to sweep her off her feet with one tender glance. Although she looked forward to the completion of their new home and having more elbow room, she would miss the closeness this one-room cabin afforded them.
Morgan set his razor next to the basin. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He took slow, exaggerated steps toward her. “You just had to write another story about your charming husband, didn’t you?”
Kat giggled. The man was impossible. He’d heard all about her trip to Victor and the interview.
Impossibly irresistible.
Morgan sat across the table and laced his fingers with hers. “Do you plan to write a story about Ida?”
“Perhaps. Or a story about Mollie O’Bryan. A western businesswoman would no doubt be of interest to my readers.”
“You know I’m partial to industrious women of independent means.” He winked. “But I fear your sister may not know what she’s getting into.”
“Working for Miss O’Bryan?”
He nodded. “And the men who dominate the mining and investment companies here.”
“She’s the ‘big sister,’ remember? I think she’ll keep those fellows in line and do just fine. Besides, if she does run into any bullies, she has at least one noble brother-in-law who can offer her counsel.”
He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Mrs. Cutshaw, I do believe you have me right where you want me.”
“Ready to lose at a game of checkers, are you?”
“I’ll do my best”—he pushed his chair back and stood—“but I may not be able to stop myself.”
Kat smiled. She was already a winner, and this man the prize.
“We’ll see. I’ll put these things back in my trunk while you get the board.” Kat stacked her writing materials and rose from her chair. She’d taken only a few steps when the room began to spin and her insides started to convulse.
Morgan rushed to her side and handed her a tin bowl. Fortunately, she didn’t have to use it. When the gagging subsided, Kat straightened and drew in a deep breath.
Her husband, looking as pained as if he’d just smashed his finger, guided her back to the chair at the kitchen table and knelt in front of her. “Feeling better?”
She gave him a slow nod. She felt better, but she didn’t know how long it would last. Her body had been at odds with her since the moment she’d raised her head off the pillow that morning.
“Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you?” Morgan asked.
“You’ve eaten what I’ve eaten.” Kat shrugged. “Nell and I spent much of the day giving Ida a walking tour of town, and then she was here with me this afternoon. Too much excitement, I suppose.”
The creases in his brow told her he wasn’t convinced. “Have you noticed any other changes?”
“It was nothing. Really.” She raised herself from the chair to prove it. “I feel much better now.”
He stood beside her, his hands open as if he expected to have to catch her.
Now that she thought about it, she had made more trips to the outhouse the past couple of days. And she’d felt like a newborn calf on wobbly legs today.
Newborn calf.
Kat’s mind raced, trying to remember. The last one began the day before she’d received the August issue of Harper’s Bazar with her third story printed in it. That was August 10. This was September 29.
She pressed her hands to her abdomen.
“You missed it?” Morgan’s voice had suddenly gone flat.
She nodded. He’d been through this before.
“You’ve been feeling a little queasy for the past few days?”
She nodded again.
“More frequent visits to the room outside?”
Another nod.
Tears pooled in his green eyes. “Our house may be ready none too soon.”
Her eyes were wet too. A baby should’ve been wonderful news. A pregnancy would’ve been cause for celebration for Nell. But Judson had never lost a wife and unborn son in childbirth.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be silly.” Morgan laced his fingers in hers and drew her hand to his lips. “A baby is good news, Kat.”
She wanted to believe him. But more than anything, she hoped he believed it.
EIGHT
ucker lifted the pitchfork from a nail in the wall of the hayloft where his father stored sheaves of hay and straw. He breathed in the earthy scents of leather, hay, wet horses, and manure, feeling more at home out here in the barn than he did in his father’s house. How was it that he reached hundreds of strangers for Christ every year in camp meetings but couldn’t so much as nudge his own father?
Or help Willow?
He’d asked why time and again, and God hadn’t been forthcoming with so much as a hint.
Tucker jabbed the pitchfork into the haystack. “Here you go, fellas.” He tossed a meal of hay down into the stalls for Trojan and Titan.
He’d been so certain God had called him to the ministry. He felt most at peace when he was preaching. He glanced down at the ice wagon.
Had God changed His mind?
Tucker descended the ladder from the loft and looked around. The barn was no bigger than necessary to house two ice wagons, five or six horses, and a small tack room where his father kept extra ice hooks, picks, and saws.
Although Tucker didn’t much like his current circumstances, he knew he had to do all he could to save the business and see to his parents’ needs.
And to Willow’s.
His responsibilities meant convincing the banker that the Raines Ice Company was a good investment; that if he had the funds to build the business, he was capable of doing so. He’d stopped by the First National Bank on the way to the depot that morning and set up an appointment for three thirty that afternoon. In the meantime, he’d write his Wednesday letter to Willow and then head to the post office. Two weeks had passed since his meeting with Willow’s attendant, so a report could arrive in today’s mail.
The prospect spurred him into action. He retrieved his five-pound block of ice from the wagon and let
the canvas flaps close.
“See you later, fellas.” Tucker shut the barn doors on his way out and walked the twenty-foot path to the square-cut log cabin. His father’s property consisted of the modest dwelling, the barn, and an outhouse on an acre with a creek running through the back of it.
Tucker climbed the two steps up to the back door and stomped his muddy boots on the rag rug just inside the kitchen. He crossed to the small icebox and set the block of ice in the top of it.
Until eleven days ago when he boarded the train in Stockton, he’d been living in a parsonage. He had his own room in the basement, but spent most of his free time with the Hutchinson family of six who lived upstairs. Before that, while attending seminary in San Francisco, he’d shared a rented room with three other students, and he’d spent his first six nights in Cripple Creek sleeping in the hayloft with the horses and a crusty barn owl for company.
Now he had the whole house to himself and didn’t much like it. Too quiet and settled, with a coldness that had nothing to do with the room temperature.
Tucker set the ice tongs by the door and moved into the sitting area. The knotty pine side tables were devoid of any family photos. The day the fishermen found Willow in the river was the day his father found having children too much of a burden.
Embarrassment. Shame. Grief. Loathing. All were gripping reactions to the sorrow dividing his family. Tucker understood that reality and yet was powerless to change it.
After Tucker added a lump of coal to the parlor stove, he went to the smaller of two bedchambers. He lifted his leather bag onto the bed and unbuckled the straps. He’d removed his clothing and hung it in the wardrobe Monday evening, but he hadn’t touched the few whatnots he’d packed. This was as good a time as any.
Tucker pulled out his writing box and carried it to his mother’s plank table. He opened the lid to the box and lifted the picture frame off the stationery. He studied the watercolor portrait as he did every Wednesday. In it, Willow’s green eyes sparkled like polished emeralds in a full-face smile. His finger traced the image of her, pencil and sketch pad in hand, while his heart remembered happier days when they went to the river together. He and Sam fished while his sister sat on the grassy banks drawing whatever struck her fancy.
Mona Hodgson Page 6
