Ida couldn’t seem to move.
In fact, she could scarcely breathe as she took him in. Funny, standing here in this close proximity, he didn’t look like the criminal sort at all. But you could never tell with wolves, especially those so carefully disguised. She was a strong woman. She could overlook his attractions with little trouble.
Couldn’t she?
“I don’t believe we’ve officially met,” Mick said.
“I know who you are, Mr. Bradley,” Ida replied.
“And you are?” he asked, extending his hand.
Ida didn’t want to answer his question, and yet her hand clasped his and her mouth spoke the words. “Ida Mueller.”
“It’s a real pleasure, Miss Mueller,” he said, tipping his hat and holding on to her hand. For a moment, she was lost in his gray eyes, until Sophie cleared her throat, reminding Ida of her manners.
She quickly removed her hand from his.
JANICE THOMPSON
is a Christian freelance author and a native Texan. She resides in Spring, Texas, near her grown children and infant granddaughters. Her family is active in ministry, primarily writing, music, drama and evangelism. Janice started penning books at a young age, and was blessed to have a screenplay produced in the early 80s. From there, she went on to write several large-scale musicals. Currently, she has published more than thirty full-length novels and nonfiction books (most lighthearted and/or wedding themed). She’s thankful for her calling as an author of Christian fiction and knows the Lord has brought her to this point so that she can present stories that will change people’s lives. Romances come naturally to Janice, since she’s coordinated nearly a dozen weddings, including recent ceremonies and receptions for all four of her daughters.
Janice Thompson
Spring Creek Bride
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Who knows whether you have come to
the kingdom for such a time as this?
—Esther 4:14
In memory of my father, Billy Hanna—
a small-town man with a big-as-Texas heart.
Acknowledgments
To my agent, Chip MacGregor: You are a godsend. Thanks for believing in me and special thanks for finding just the right house for this story.
To Krista Stroever: Thank you so much for the opportunity to write for Steeple Hill Books. You helped make a long-term dream come true. I appreciate your patience with the process. You’re a true mentor.
To Louise Rozett, my line editor: Thanks for the spit-shine. You walked me through my first copy edit at a new company, and I’m so grateful.
To my wonderful critique partners, Kathleen Y’Barbo, Martha Rogers, Marcia Gruver and Linda Kozar: Thanks for falling in love with my hometown of Spring, Texas, with me! Here’s to lunch at Wunsche Brothers Café! Let’s meet there again…soon!
To the people of Spring, Texas (past and present): You have left your mark on my soul.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Spring Creek, Texas, 1902
Ida Mueller pressed a lock of unruly hair behind her ear and rounded the large dining table with a chipped serving bowl in hand. Chair legs scraped against the wood-planked floor as the rowdy lumber-mill workers rushed to sit down for another one of her home-cooked meals. She couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm.
“Smells good enough to eat!” one of the younger fellows joked.
Ida plopped a spoonful of crisp fried potatoes onto his plate and kept moving as she responded. “You’ve eaten at my table every day for nearly a year, Carl Walken, and you haven’t found reason to complain yet.” She reached up with the back of her hand and wiped a bit of perspiration from her brow.
His eyebrows lifted mischievously. “Ain’t just the food keeps me coming back.” A playful wink followed.
“Ya reckon?” Another of the men elbowed him.
Several of the fellows let out whistles and Ida felt her cheeks turn warm. She scurried to the opposite side of the room and continued on with the chore of feeding the work crew, trying to ignore their usual flirtatious ways.
“None of that now.” Her father’s stern voice rang out from the head of the table. He always knew how to keep his men in line, especially when it came to his daughter.
“Aw, Mr. Mueller,” one of the fellows groaned. “You never let us have any fun.”
“Better mind your p’s and q’s,” Ida quipped. “I’ve got a platter of Wiener schnitzel in the kitchen, but I’ve half a mind not to serve it.”
The men took to hearty grumbling and she returned to the kitchen for the cumbersome platter of meat. For a moment—just a moment—she leaned against the countertop and drew in a deep breath. The south Texas heat wrapped itself around her like a dressing gown.
On days like this, she missed her mama more than ever. Seven years as the woman of the house had scarcely proven Ida worthy of filling her mother’s shoes. Papa offered plenty of encouragement, but she struggled daily to keep up with caring for her home, her father and a crew of ravenous workers. And she fought to overcome the grief of losing the one person a girl depended on above all others—her mother. Oh, how she longed for what she could not have.
“I need you, Mama,” she whispered. Indeed, at nineteen, Ida found herself in need of a great many things that only a mother could offer. But she had to rely on Papa’s manly advice, and cope with the ever-present teasing from the lumber-mill workers, a daily reminder that she, a lone female, resided in a world of men.
“Mama, I don’t know how you did it.” She whispered the familiar words as she snatched up the plate full of Wiener schnitzel and headed back into the dining room once again.
As she came around the corner, Ida caught a glimpse of her uncontrollable blond hair in the elegant carved mirror that hung above the buffet. Frustrated, she reminded herself to deal with it after feeding the crew. How any of the men could find her attractive was a mystery, to her way of thinking.
Aunt Dinah would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t start taking better care of herself. Ever the proper lady, Ida’s best friend and confidant was of the notion that a woman should be able to handle a full day’s work, a brisk walk to town to help tend the family store and an hour’s Bible reading in the evenings, with time left over for necessary grooming. All in the hopes of acquiring the one thing Ida wasn’t sure she wanted—a husband.
Ida remained convinced she would never find a man who even came close to the one she held in the highest esteem—her papa. He was strong spirited, full of goodness and had a heart like a jewel. No, surely such a fellow did not exist. And if he did, he certainly didn’t appear to b
e seated at this table.
“Thinkin’ I’m hungry?” Carl asked. Ida looked down, shocked to see that she had placed five large slabs of veal steak on his plate.
“Oh, dear.”
Her father’s eyebrows arched as if to ask, Where is your head today, daughter?
She lifted three of the pieces of meat from Carl’s plate. “I knew you had a taste for my cooking, is all.”
With fork in one hand and knife in the other, the young man dove into the food. The others followed suit and the air soon filled with the sounds of chomping and cutting.
Her father cleared his throat quite loudly and Ida anticipated his next words.
“I don’t believe we’ve thanked the Almighty yet.” His voice deepened in reverence. “So you’ll be putting down those utensils, gentlemen, or there will be no dinner for you today. Or any other day, for that matter.”
They complied with sheepish grins, as always.
Ida noticed that her father’s German accent became stronger as his prayer began. “Almighty God, Maker of heaven and earth, we thank Thee for this, Thy bounty. For Thy goodness is everlasting, from generation to generation, and Thy blessings overflow. Be with each of these men today as they seek to serve Thee with their labors. Amen.”
“Amen,” the men echoed, then tore into their food once again.
Ida slipped away into the kitchen, anxious for another moment’s peace. Perhaps here she could think clearly. Once the dishes were done, of course.
She worked at a steady pace, allowing her thoughts to drift until a familiar shrill whistle signaled a train’s arrival. The afternoon run from Fort Worth came like clockwork at one-thirty, just as she finished the dishes. Some things could be depended on.
Others could not.
Mick Bradley peered out of the grimy train window and took in his first glimpse of Spring Creek, Texas. Not quite what he had pictured and a sure sight hotter. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dragged it across the back of his neck to remove the moisture. No point arriving in town looking like a vagabond. Not with so much at stake.
As the train crawled into the station, the porter approached, pocket watch in hand. “Just a few more minutes, sir.”
Mick nodded in his direction, but said nothing as he took in the sights of his new home. Off in the distance a large hotel with a freshly painted sign greeted him. Sellers Hotel. And to his right, The Harvey House. After locating a barbershop, he’d have to settle on one or the other.
A bustling mercantile appeared to be doing quite a good business. Shoppers scurried to and fro with packages, stirring up dust on the street. A couple of women were about, but for the most part, he only saw men. Hundreds of men.
Yes, the booming little town of Spring Creek must surely need his services.
Mick’s brow furrowed as he counted the saloons. He strained to see a bit farther down the street. Three? In such a small area? Their owners would be a source of contention, no doubt. Surely they would seek to complicate his plans to build a new gambling hall.
But he had encountered plenty of trouble when he opened his first place up North. These Texans couldn’t be any worse than Chicago’s most notorious, whom he’d handled with ease.
At that moment, two men took to brawling in the middle of the street, not twenty feet from the jailhouse. The taller, more muscular man clearly had the upper hand. A crowd gathered round, cheering them on. Before long, the two were on the ground, tussling. They went at it, cheek to fist, until one of them was knocked out. With such a large group about, Mick couldn’t tell which one had taken the fall, but it must surely be the smaller of the two. That’s how life was, after all. The boisterous crowd thinned as it declared a victor and the short man stood and raised his fist in the air with a triumphant shout.
Maybe these Texans weren’t going to be so easy after all.
The passenger in the seat next to him stood and gave a polite nod as the train came to a stop. Mick returned the gesture and rose to his feet. His back ached from sitting so long and his cramped legs begged for a good, long walk. How many trains had he boarded over the past several days? Somewhere between Illinois and Texas he’d simply lost count.
The next few months would give him plenty of opportunity to stay put, however. He had his work cut out for him. And before long, he would be the talk of the town.
Probably sooner rather than later.
Chapter Two
The afternoon journey to town provided Ida with an opportunity to think about the day ahead. She didn’t mind the walk, though the late-spring heat continued to fold her in its sticky embrace. Her skirts, dusty and ragged on the ends, twisted about her ankles as she moved along the tiny, jutted road that connected the lumber mill with Midway, the town’s main street.
She looked both ways before crossing the tracks, contemplating the barreling locomotives and the havoc they’d brought with them. Somehow it all seemed exaggerated in the heat. She tugged at the neckline of her dress, and a trickle of perspiration rolled down her back.
Surely Aunt Dinah would scold Ida for her appearance. Ah, well. Nothing Ida could do about that. Nor did she care to. If living among men gave her a tomboyish appearance, so be it. There were worse things, to be sure.
As she made her way from the tracks to town, Ida struggled with the usual attentions from the railroad men. Many let out a whoop or a holler as she passed by The Harvey House, and still more as she eased her way past Sellers Hotel, which happened to be known for a bit more than rooms to let.
As was her custom, she ignored the men, keeping her mouth shut to avoid giving them a serious tongue-lashing. She would gladly tromp through mud, splashing dirt upon her gingham skirt if she thought it would cause them to turn their irksome attentions elsewhere. Let her hair remain mussed. Perhaps then they would focus on their work and not on her.
“Come on, Ida,” one of the fellows chided. “Just one glimpse into those perty blue eyes. They melt me like fresh-churned butter.”
She kept her eyes on the ground and continued walking. The irritating fellow reeked of alcohol and pipe tobacco, and his work clothes were in serious need of washing. His scent, coupled with the overpowering smells coming from the nearby livery stable, almost brought her stomach up into her throat. Add to this the foul odor from the outhouses and the lingering stench of cigar smoke and one could scarcely stand it.
Yet this seemed to be her lot in life. Ida longed for a quieter, more genteel existence that did not include such aromas. If only Spring Creek could return to its former state—a quaint town with good, wholesome neighbors who greeted one another with pleasant hellos.
“C’mon, honey,” the man pleaded, oblivious to her thoughts. “Can’t ya give me a wink or somethin’? Some sign that I stand a chance with ya? I’ll die if you don’t.” An exaggerated groan followed, one meant to get the attention of others nearby.
She willed herself not to look up. Why encourage him?
“Aw, yer killin’ me.” He doubled over and fell onto the road, eliciting a roar of laughter from the other men.
Ida managed to maintain her sense of dignity and simply kept walking.
She made the turn onto Midway and peered up long enough to gauge the distance. If she could just make it beyond the Wunsche Brothers saloon, the jailhouse, the barbershop and the bank, she’d be fine. I can do this.
A minute later, she reached the overgrown lot next to the mercantile and breathed a sigh of relief. Just twenty more paces and she’d be in the store. Dinah would be waiting, as always. Probably with pursed lips, but waiting, nonetheless.
The clock above the bank sounded two piercing gongs. Why is it I can never arrive at a place on time?
Ida picked up the pace and ran head-on into one of the men. With her cheeks flaming, she looked up at the fellow, ready to give him a piece of her mind for not watching where he was going. Why were these railroad men so careless?
Words failed Ida as she took in the handsome stranger with his polished good looks. Sh
e’d certainly never seen a man like this before, with such a finely tuned air about him.
Tall and sturdy, the stranger wore a fancy suit and big-city shoes—no cowboy boots like the rest of the fellows. His expression gave the appearance of dignity and confidence, unlike so many of the railroad men. Surely this man didn’t work for the Great Northern, though he’d likely traveled in style aboard one of the nicer cars, from the looks of him. Yes, this was a man with money.
Perhaps he was a banker. Or better yet, a preacher, come to convince the wayward menfolk they were in need of repentance. Then again, he could be a socialite, headed toward the Houston area. Many well-mannered men had passed through Spring Creek on their way to other locations. Oh, if only they would stay and put down roots. They would balance out the bad with some good.
“Pardon me, miss.” The gentleman spoke with a deep, rich voice. He tipped his hat, all politeness and charm, then gave a gracious bow. “My fault entirely.”
Ida stammered in response, mumbling a few twisted-up words that amounted to little more than gibberish. He gave her a curious look and paused, likely to see if she might try again.
Ida managed, “Oh no, please don’t apologize. I take the blame solely upon myself.” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she spoke, noting his remarkable gray eyes. Remembering her manners, she quickly added, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to run you down.” His sandy-colored curls drew her eye up. My, but he was a tall fellow. Stately, even.
He flashed a warm smile. “Oh, you can run me down anytime you like.”
Stifling a smile, she shifted her gaze to his tailored suit and spiffed-up shoes. In all her years, she’d never seen a man with such a handsome wardrobe. Only in catalogs had she seen such finery. Up close, it was a little intimidating.
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