That was before his father had her committed to the Stockton State Mental Asylum.
During his most recent visit, just before he left for Colorado, an attendant had led Willow to the front porch. Tucker followed them out. He and his sister sat in white rocking chairs with a stone pot of red geraniums on the table between them. It may as well have been a six-foot tall stone fence.
“Willow, I received a letter from Mother yesterday.” Pausing, he studied her for even the slightest hint of a response. Nothing. Not so much as a blink. Her doctor had told him to use her name often and to mention the names of the people she loved. They all hoped using Willow’s name frequently might trigger a pleasant memory that could one day bring her back. So far, nothing he or anyone else had tried was working. Water therapy. Music. Work. Art.
Nothing.
Willow, her hands folded in her lap, had stared out at the lush garden, her rocker still. Tucker watched a gilded butterfly flit from one sunflower to another just beyond them. Before the tragedy, his sister would’ve recited the specifics of its species for him. Now the butterfly fluttered in her line of vision seemingly unrecognized. How could she look out at the world, and not see it? Not respond to any of it?
Tucker set the photo on the table and twisted the cap off the inkwell. Breathing a prayer for guidance, he dipped the quill in the ink and began this week’s one-sided conversation with his beloved older sister.
NINE
da stood in front of the full-length mirror in her upstairs room at Hattie’s Boardinghouse. In a slow twirl, she checked for any unruly threads or twisted seams in her clothing. She’d chosen a blue serge skirt and embroidered jacket for this afternoon’s meeting with Mollie O’Bryan. Vivian had suggested the dress while helping her pack for the move out West. Her youngest sister insisted the outfit would reflect business savvy without masking her femininity. If only Vivian possessed as much common sense as she did fashion sense. Ida hoped Aunt Alma was keeping a close watch on her.
Satisfied with her overall appearance, Ida returned to the wardrobe for the finishing touches. She pulled the mushroom-style hat with yellow silk roses off the top of the cabinet and carried it to the dressing table.
She sank onto the cushioned bench and reached for the jam jar where she kept her hatpins. She could scarcely look at her pins the past two days without thinking of the ice man—Tucker Raines. She let herself enjoy the memory of their first meeting as a smile tugged at her mouth.
He delivered ice to the boardinghouse wearing a preacher’s hat. His father was sick and sour. His mother looked and sounded frail. One minute, he came across as lighthearted with a clock-stopping grin. The next, dark storm clouds rolled in from out of the blue. Like Monday afternoon at Miss Hattie’s. Then there was the memory of yesterday afternoon and him escorting her muddy self back to the boardinghouse.
Ida wove a pin through the back of her hat. Why was she spending so much time thinking about him? The ice man was a curiosity, that was all. Certainly not someone she’d have business with, so she’d have to live without knowing the rest of his story. She had her own story to live anyway—a tale of inspiring success.
Once she’d fastened the hat to her head, she glanced at the stack of notebooks on her bedside table. She’d spent the better part of the morning reviewing her class notes. Proper correspondence formats. Bookkeeping methods. Telephone etiquette.
Confident she’d done all she could to prepare for her interview, Ida left the books where they sat and descended the narrow staircase. Halfway down, she found herself swaying to the tune of the sentimental ballad coming from the parlor. One of the three two-minute cylinders Miss Hattie had for her Edison Home Phonograph. Already, Ida had heard all three songs multiple times. When she achieved a modicum of success working with Mollie O’Bryan, she’d spend fifty cents and buy the woman a fourth cylinder.
Miss Hattie waltzed out of the parlor wearing a cropped tent dress. She met Ida at the bottom of the stairs, her warm smile creating soft folds at her ears. “You look nice, dear. And quite professional.”
“Thank you.” Ida tugged at the embroidered cuffs of her jacket.
“Since you are ready for your interview more than an hour early, might you have a few minutes to spare before you leave the house?”
Ida couldn’t afford to be late, but she had plenty of time, and this was her home until she’d achieved enough success to have her own built. “Yes, I’d like that. Let’s sit for a few minutes.”
The landlady captured her hand and pulled her toward the parlor. “You’ve been so busy since you arrived in town that we’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves for a visit.”
Hattie sat on one end of the sofa. Ida chose the wingback chair across from her and set her reticule on the sofa table between them.
“You met your brothers-in-law Monday night. What did you think of them?” Miss Hattie asked.
“I found them both quite likeable. Morgan still has a lot of the Boston way about him, while Judson is much less reserved but just as charming.”
“Did your sisters tell you I helped things along with both couples?”
“They did.” Ida didn’t need or want that kind of help. “Judson seemed very attentive to Nell. And Morgan and Kat appear to have a spark that suits them. I’d say my sisters have done very well for themselves.”
“You will too, dear.”
Clearly, the woman required a more direct approach. “I don’t want what my sisters have, Miss Hattie.”
“You want success in business.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why I’m here.” She met the woman’s attentive gaze. “Not to seek out a husband.”
“Who says you won’t have both?” Miss Hattie cocked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow above a thinly disguised grin. “You and the young Mr. Raines seemed to have a bit of a spark yourselves Monday afternoon.”
“I’d hardly call dropping a hatpin in his boot a spark.” She was only curious about him. Concerned about him was even more precise. She and her sisters were all alarmed by his abrupt flight from the parlor.
Her landlady had an endearing and motherly way about her, and since Ida’s own mother had passed many years ago, Hattie’s warmth felt good. Especially now, as she started her new life in Colorado. The matchmaking, however, she couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate.
“Ida, dear, you’ve only been here a couple of days, but I can already see you are bright and well studied, conscientious and professional. I’m sure Miss O’Bryan will see those qualities too.”
“I wish I knew more about the stock market and the mining business. I’ve heard she’s become quite involved in them.”
“That she has.” Miss Hattie looked down and fiddled with a button on her skirt.
Ida subdued a sigh and met her landlady’s gaze. “You don’t approve of Miss O’Bryan’s business dealings?”
“I don’t really know the woman past hello.”
“But you have reservations?”
“She sat at my table at the Women for the Betterment of Cripple Creek luncheon last month. I gathered Mollie may have her ducks lined up too tightly.”
Ducks?
“It’s something my mama would say.” Miss Hattie glanced at the ceiling as if she might glimpse heaven there. “It meant I needed to leave room for God to work out His own plans.”
“I see.” Ida chose to keep her own adage to herself—God helps those who help themselves. She hadn’t talked to God more than once a day, if that often, since her mother died. Had never really conversed with Him the way her mother had. But they’d read the book of Proverbs often enough in their family Bible readings for her to know that God didn’t favor sluggards.
Miss Hattie glanced at the mantel clock. “You best be on your way, dear.” She walked with Ida to the front door and opened it.
Ida looped the handle of her reticule over her left arm and stepped outside. Though she didn’t see a cloud in the sky, she knew last night’s pounding rain had replaced the dust on the roads with a
mud thicker than porridge.
Hattie waved at her from the front porch. “I’ll be praying for you, dear.”
Ida returned the woman’s wave and smiled. “I’ll be praying for you, dear.” Something her mother would’ve said.
At the corner, Ida turned down Third Street. She dodged a puddle and hoped her landlady prayed she’d find a way to avoid the mud and keep herself clean. At the bottom of the hill, she turned west on Bennett Avenue. Yesterday on their walking tour, Nell had pointed out Miss O’Bryan’s stenography firm, near the corner of First Street and Bennett Avenue.
Outside the narrow brick building, Ida pulled her mother’s pendant watch from her reticule and checked the time again. Miss O’Bryan’s wire stated a three o’clock appointment, and being anything but early wasn’t in Ida’s nature. She pulled the door open and stepped inside at ten minutes before three.
The room was well-appointed, though devoid of people. Three burgundy armchairs sat empty at one side of the door. Two oak desks filled the center of the office while matching bookcases stood against the wall.
Muffled voices drew Ida’s attention to a closed door at the back of the room. She read the brass nameplate: Mollie O’Bryan. While she couldn’t hear what was being said, she did distinguish two voices—a woman’s and a man’s. Miss O’Bryan must have been with a client.
Ida admired the framed oil painting that hung over the armchairs and then sat down.
“You don’t think I’m smart enough to smell a rat?” The woman had apparently abandoned the notion of using hushed tones.
“I’m only telling you what I heard.” The man’s voice was steady and calm but loud enough to be audible from Ida’s position near the front door. “You don’t want to get tangled up in anything—”
“And just what would you have me do about such hearsay?”
Ida glanced toward the door. Perhaps she should wait outside. She didn’t need any strikes against her, and she doubted eavesdropping, unintentional or not, would sit well with Miss O’Bryan.
“It’s more than mere speculation, Mollie. He’s being investigated for embezzlement.”
“He’s a paying client who has already retained my services.” She paused. “Besides, you know that investigation isn’t conviction.”
“Give the money back. You can’t afford—”
“Right now I can’t afford to listen to you. This is a mining town. If I judged everyone’s moral character before serving them, I’d have no business.”
Ida rose from the chair. She shouldn’t be hearing this. But before she could step outside, the side door was flung open and she let out an audible gasp, like the one that had escaped her at the depot. A flawed tendency. She wasn’t being coddled by the comforts of Maine anymore, and it was time she learn to expect the unexpected. Especially since the unexpected seemed the standard here in Colorado.
The woman charging out of the office wore her auburn hair back in a tight chignon. However, it wasn’t the woman who captured Ida’s attention but the man standing in the doorway with a coat draped over his arm: Colin Wagner, her hero from the train.
Ida took slow steps toward the woman, who looked about her age—maybe a year or two older than her nearly twenty-two years. “Ma’am—”
“Miss Sinclair.” The gentleman’s warm smile did nothing to take the chill out of the scowl shadowing Miss O’Bryan’s face.
Ida gave him a tight nod. “Mr. Wagner.”
He smiled, then returned his attention to Miss O’Bryan. “Mollie, this is Miss Ida Sinclair.”
She’d intruded. At the very least, she’d caught her potential employer in a foul mood. “If this isn’t a good time, ma’am, I can come back later.”
“Call me Miss O’Bryan.” Miss O’Bryan’s features softened as she regarded Mr. Wagner with a sideways glance. “We have Mr. Wagner to thank for my lack of readiness for your arrival.”
“I didn’t mind waiting.” Ida would have gone on doing so if it would have spared her this unpleasantness.
“Colin here”—the woman waved his general direction—“is my legal counsel.”
He shrugged into his tweed coat. “And her friend.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, friendship hardly gives you the right to tell me who I should accept as a client and who I shouldn’t.”
Ida studied the royal blue Persian rug under her feet, wishing she could disappear beneath it.
“I merely shared information that could help you make an informed decision in regard to a questionable liaison. My obligation as your counsel and even more so as your friend.”
Miss O’Bryan’s grin helped to dispel the darkness from her face. “Your song and dance could help any politician win an election. Nonetheless, I appreciate your concern.” She straightened and her grin disappeared. “But the buck stops here, and I choose to take his bucks. Gladly.”
“Just watch yourself with him. I’d hate to see you taken advantage of.” Mr. Wagner turned his warm smile toward Ida and brushed the edge of his bowler. “Best of luck to you, Miss Sinclair.”
“Thank you.”
Miss O’Bryan waved, shooing Mr. Wagner away, and then spun toward her office. Ida followed her. The woman pointed her to a chair in front of her desk and closed the door behind them.
Ida had barely set her reticule on the rug at her feet and sunk into the cushioned armchair when Miss O’Bryan leaned back against the front of her desk. “So, Miss Sinclair, why do you want to work for me?”
Ida swallowed hard against the suffocating space between them. “You’re a successful businesswoman.”
“And you want to be one.”
Ida straightened, clasping her fingers in her lap. “Yes, ma’am, I do.” She needed this job, and apparently, she had to prove herself worthy of this woman’s mentorship. “Miss O’Bryan, you have a reputation as a business tycoon. You are highly successful in many aspects of enterprise and commerce. I am a capable secretary and assistant with varied office skills. You’ve seen my resume. You have the letter of recommendation from the director of the school of business.”
Pausing for a breath, Ida held the woman’s gaze, focusing on the sparkle in her green eyes rather than on her raised brow. “What you don’t know is that I am just as set on success as you are, and I won’t be thwarted by self-important men who think they know anything and everything better than we do.” Ida scooted to the edge of the chair. “I want to work for you because I think you and I could make a good team.”
Mollie strolled around her desk and sat in the plush high-back chair. She pulled a folder from a file drawer and slapped it down in front of her. “That, Ida Sinclair, is exactly what I wanted to hear. You’re hired.”
Ida blew out a breath. “Thank you, Miss O’Bryan. I promise to make the most of this opportunity.” She’d fretted over a review of office procedures and protocols for an interview that consisted of a couple of rhetorical questions and her passionate response?
“For now, you and I are it.” Mollie glanced at her diamond-studded wristwatch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to leave for an appointment with what Mr. Colin Wagner would call a questionable client.” Shaking her head, she pulled a ledger from the top drawer and stood. “You’ll start tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp. Work until half past five with a thirty-minute break somewhere in the middle.”
Ida rose from her chair and followed her new employer out both doors and into bright sunlight.
“Until tomorrow.” Mollie set off at a brisk pace.
Ida didn’t bother to stifle her giggle. Figuring out why Miss Mollie O’Bryan might have trouble maintaining an office staff required no stretch of the imagination.
Fortunately for Ida, she wasn’t timid. She’d been surprised by the woman’s candor, but she could work with it. Truth be known, she found Miss O’Bryan’s frankness rather refreshing. She’d learn a lot from her and she wouldn’t have to waste a moment wondering what was on her employer’s mind.
Neither would anyone else within
earshot.
TEN
ucker shifted in the small armchair and realized he had no trouble imagining how a horse might feel being stuffed into a teacup. He’d tried to anticipate the banker’s questions and concerns and was prepared to address them.
His mother had managed to pry the financial ledger from his father’s hands just two days before they left for Colorado Springs. At her insistence, his father agreed to trust Tucker with all of their “business dealings,” which turned out to be a thinly disguised wording for “debts.” If he’d known then what he knew now, Tucker wouldn’t have accepted the book.
At least that was what he told himself.
Until his stop at the post office this afternoon to mail his letter to Willow, he hadn’t known his father was behind on the payments for his sister’s care. When Tucker opened the envelope from the asylum, he expected a progress report, hoping for good news. Instead, he’d received a statement and an ultimatum demanding payment for the past three months. He needed to start turning a profit—and soon.
He and Otis had spent most of Monday afternoon talking about the requirements for expanding the business. He’d added a list to the ledger, along with the estimated costs.
This has to work.
Mr. Updike settled into the leather chair on the business side of the mahogany desk. He lifted a folder from the top of a tall stack to his left. The sleeves on his herringbone suit jacket had obviously been tailored for someone with longer arms and a taller torso. When he set the closed file down in front of him, only his fleshy fingers extended beyond the cuffs. He gazed up at Tucker over the top of wire-rimmed spectacles “Mr. Raines, correct?”
“Yes sir.” Tucker set his father’s ledger on the edge of the desk. “I am Tucker Raines. Again, thank you for adding me to your afternoon schedule today.”
“You’re new here in Cripple Creek.”
Mona Hodgson Page 7
