Spring Creek Bride

by Janice Thompson

  He tried the first step on his own, using the crutches to lift his weight. Ida approached with a stern look on her face. “Oh, no, you don’t. You are not climbing those stairs by yourself.”

  “Would you mind helping me?”

  As she approached, the scent of verbena drew him in. Why did she have to smell like that, anyway? The scent bewitched him almost as much as the tiny bits of blue in her gingham dress that matched her eyes perfectly. Did she have any idea what that could do to a man?

  “Careful now,” Ida said as she took hold of him at the waist, her hand resting firmly on his back. She gazed up at him with a look that melted his heart.

  “I’m always careful.” He paused, taking in the color of her hair—the same color as wheat in the summertime. He reached with a fingertip to stroke it and she flinched at his touch, her eyes filling with tears. He gently lifted his hand.

  “D-do you still need my help?” she whispered.

  “I do.” He refused to move. Instead, as he felt her breath against his cheek, he drew her closer still and spoke softly. “I might go on needing it for some time.”

  “Mick.” She shook her head.

  “Shh.” He put a finger to her lips, then traced it along her cheek. Instead of pulling away, she closed her eyes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Ida looked at the ground. Mick leaned down to wrap her in his arms. He felt the trembling in her hands and wondered what she might be thinking, but didn’t ask. This wasn’t the time for talking.

  With his free hand he cupped her chin and she looked up into his eyes. Boldness took over, and he leaned down to press his lips against hers. To his great joy, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, and he wondered if he would ever be the same again.

  Seconds later, she slipped from his grasp, her face white as a sheet as she pulled away. “I-I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.” He whispered the words into her ear.

  The jangling of the bell at the door snapped him back to reality. Despite the sign, someone had come in unannounced.

  “Ida?” Sophie’s voice rang out from beyond the shelves.

  Mick tried to take a step up, but lost his balance. Ida steadied him.

  “Ida, are you here?”

  Ida’s face reddened. “I-I’m over here, Sophie,” she called out.

  He couldn’t help but notice the look of desperation in her eyes, as she stepped down onto the floor. For whatever reason, the whole thing made him want to laugh. With common sense taking over, he forced himself to stay calm.

  Sophie, who now stood directly in front of the stairwell, looked stunned.

  “Sophie, I was just…” Ida took a couple of steps in her friend’s direction and reached for the broom once again. “Just cleaning up,” she said, crossing away from Sophie.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Sophie watched Ida, and then looked at Mick. She grinned. “I’ll come back another time,” she said and made for the door.

  At this point, Mick began to chuckle. He plopped down onto the stair on his backside and began to ease his way up one step at a time.

  Ida, whose cheeks flamed crimson, continued sweeping, apparently unable to look at him.

  Not that he minded. No, indeed. She had given him plenty of attention already, and it had changed his life and his heart forever.

  Ida ran from the shop and didn’t stop until she reached the railroad tracks. The trembling in her hands hadn’t ceased since Mick swept her into his arms.

  Why hadn’t she pulled away? Why had she allowed herself to be so easily pulled into his web? She’d felt safe in his arms, safer than she would have dared dream.

  As she stepped over the tracks, ready to run the rest of the way home, the truth came barreling toward her, like a Great Northern out of control. Somehow, some way…she had fallen for Mick Bradley. Little by little, he had inched his way into her arms, and into her heart.

  How Ida would get this train to stop, she had no idea.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ida spent Saturday afternoon doing laundry. Her labors gave her plenty of time to think through the events of the day before. Though she tried to forget about how she’d felt in Mick’s arms, she couldn’t. Oh, how wonderful she’d felt with her head against his shoulder, how safe. And his kiss…

  In all her years, she had never known such sweetness. Why then did she feel so guilty? So frightened?

  As she did the wash, she pondered what it would be like to have a husband, someone whose clothes she would wash every Saturday and hang on the line to dry.

  Ida’s cheeks heated up at the very thought.

  She tried to focus instead on tomorrow’s picnic, making plans for what she would cook later this afternoon. Pies, naturally. And sausage sauerkraut balls, of course. Folks at the church would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t bring her staple. She would also bake several loaves of bread and a hefty cobbler.

  Not that she minded bringing so many items. Ida rather enjoyed the attention that went along with her cooking skills. Though she could barely admit it to herself, Ida now hoped to one day have a husband and children to cook for. She could picture it—little ones gathered around the table, clamoring for more of her home cooking.

  Ida swatted away a pesky mosquito as she pondered the idea. She’d never imagined herself married until recently.

  Until Mick Bradley.

  But she couldn’t possibly set her sights on him. He was, in every way, her opposite. And yet…

  As she recalled his most recent thoughts on the Bible, as she pondered his interest in her cooking, as she thought of his declining interest in building a gambling hall…she could almost see a glimmer of hope.

  Still, if such a miracle were to take place, the Lord would surely have to orchestrate every detail…which meant she had to back away and risk losing the one thing she suddenly realized she wanted more than anything else in the world.

  Sunday morning, the Fourth of July, dawned bright and clear. Ida found herself in a cheerful state as she prepared for the picnic. Usually she and Papa walked the half mile to the tiny wood-framed church, but they would take the wagon today, what with so many items to carry.

  Ida wore her favorite blue dress. She prayed it would stand up to the heat and the outdoor activities. Surely by day’s end the puff sleeves would be a bit deflated. Not that she cared, really. On days like this, when folks gathered together to enjoy one another’s company, no one much paid attention to such things.

  “Time to leave, Ida,” her father called.

  She went over a checklist in her mind. “I do hope I haven’t forgotten anything. It seems I always leave something behind.”

  Ida stepped up into the wagon to join her father, and they were soon headed toward the church.

  “Daughter, I would like to speak with you about something of a serious nature,” her father said as they made their way along the dusty road.

  “What is it, Papa?” Ida opened her mother’s lovely old white parasol to shield herself from the sun. She noticed that her father’s cheeks had turned pink, and wondered if perhaps the heat bothered him, too. “Are you not feeling well?” she asked.

  “Oh, I am very well. Indeed.” The edges of his mustache began to twitch.

  “What is it, then?”

  “Well—” he snapped the reins to encourage the horses to pick up speed “—I just wanted to tell you something while it’s on my mind. And I must confess, I have a lot on my mind this morning.”

  “What, Papa?”

  “Let me start by asking you a question.” He kept his eyes on the road. “How do you feel about the institution of marriage?”

  “M-marriage?” Ida’s heart quickened. Was he trying to marry her off? “To be honest, in my younger years I never pictured myself married, as most little girls do. I know I’m nearly twenty, but until recently I’ve never felt…” Instead of completing her sentence, she simply shook her head.

  “Never felt you ne
eded a man to sweep in and rescue you?” her father asked. “Like so many other girls?” He laughed. “Don’t think I don’t know about the plan you made after your mama passed on—never to marry. I’ve heard bits and pieces of it over the years. Truth is, I feel sure the Lord will one day bring just the right person into your life. If you are open to the idea, that is.”

  She drew in a deep breath and gave careful thought to her next few words, the sweetness of Mick Bradley’s kiss still lingering in her mind. “I am not opposed to the idea of marriage, overall.”

  “That’s good.” He turned to give her a smile. “Because I’ve decided to propose to Myrtle Mae.”

  “Wh-what?” Ida could hardly believe it. After all, Papa and Myrtle Mae had scarcely had time enough alone to consider the possibility of a romantic union, had they?

  Her father’s shoulders rose and his chin jutted forward. “I love her, Ida. And she loves me.”

  “But how do you know?”

  Papa laughed. “Oh, trust me, I know. I know what love looks like. What it feels like.” He reached to put his hand on his heart. “When you’re in love, everything suddenly makes sense. All the confusion fades away and in its place an undeniable peace settles in your heart.”

  By that definition, Ida would have to conclude she did not love Mick Bradley. Whenever she thought of Mick, peace scattered and confusion took hold. Any future she might have with the man was fraught with complications, no matter how she looked at it.

  “I plan to give her a ring at today’s picnic, one I secretly ordered from a catalog,” Papa said, grinning.

  “How did you manage that?” Ida asked, stunned.

  “Dinah helped me.”

  “So Dinah knows about this? A fine kettle of fish this is. My aunt knows before I do. Hardly seems fair.”

  Her father leaned over and gave her a playful peck on the cheek. “I’d like your permission, Ida, to propose to the woman of my dreams.”

  “Why, Papa, you’re a grown man. You certainly don’t need my permission to marry the woman you love.”

  “I might not need it, but it will comfort me to know we have your blessing.”

  “Myrtle Mae is a good woman. She will make you a fine wife. And you will eat well, what with both of us here to cook for you.”

  “And you are fine with that?” Her father gave her an inquisitive look.

  Ida laughed. “To be quite honest, I will be happy to have someone to share the responsibilities. Cooking for the lumber-mill workers is quite a challenge, I don’t mind saying. And with Myrtle Mae there to help, perhaps I can assist Dinah more. There is much work to be done at the store.”

  Her father slipped an arm around her shoulder. “I love you, Ida. You’ve grown into a fine woman, one I’m proud to call my daughter.” With a much softer voice, he added, “I’m sure your mother would have been so proud of you. You’re very much like her.”

  Ida blinked away the tears and clutched the parasol a bit tighter. “I often wonder what she would have thought of me.”

  As they approached the church, Ida’s father turned to her. “Pray for me today,” he whispered. “I surely hope I can do this.”

  “You can do it.” Ida gave him a pat on the back. “You’ve achieved so much in your life. No doubt you can handle the likes of one lone woman.”

  “Oh, I don’t know…” Her father gazed out at his bride-to-be. “Some women are enough to make you think you’ve married three or four.”

  “At least you’ll never be lonely,” Ida said with a giggle as the wagon drew to a stop. She looked out over the church property, noticing tables had already been set up outside for the picnic after the service. Several of the local women, Mrs. Weimer included, set food out on the largest one.

  Ida looked around, anxious to see if Dinah had arrived yet.

  And more anxious still to see if Mick had come with her.

  Not until she heard his voice offering to give her a hand did Ida’s heart rest. She looked down into his sparkling eyes, and eased her way down from the wagon…landing squarely in his arms.

  From the moment Ida Mueller landed in his arms, Mick Bradley committed to attending church every Sunday morning. He would be right here, waiting for her with the same rush of joy that flooded through him now.

  Of course, he’d do a better job of assisting the petite beauty if he could throw away the crutches once and for all. As it stood right now, he could barely handle both at once.

  Mick released his hold on Ida and reached to grab a flailing crutch. She quickly slipped her arm around his waist.

  “Careful now.”

  He didn’t want to be careful. No, Mick wanted to toss caution to the wind, wrap her in his arms and kiss her squarely on the lips, right here in front of her father and all these fine church folks.

  On the other hand…He looked up into Mr. Mueller’s concerned eyes and stepped back, gripping his crutches a bit tighter. Perhaps waiting would be a better option. Mick took note of Ida’s blue dress and smiled. How would he ever stay focused on the service with her in that dress? “Will you sit with me?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know.” She continued walking, not looking his way. Was she nervous? Worried about what folks were thinking?

  Sure enough, he noticed the stares of others nearby and wondered if they could see into his heart. If so, they surely knew he must sit next to this woman or die trying. He continued easing his way along on the crutches, wishing he could be rid of them forever. Would this leg never heal? If not, would she even look twice at him?

  “I suppose it would be proper, as long as Papa joins us,” Ida whispered back.

  He reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. She squeezed back then released it quickly.

  As Mick reached the door of the building, Reverend Langford met him with a handshake. “So glad you could join us. Welcome.”

  Mick offered an abrupt nod. After skimming through that Bible Dinah had left on his bedside table, there were a number of things he’d like to discuss with his reverend friend. Perhaps they could wait until a later date. Likely, Reverend Langford would come by for a visit one day this week, anyway. Then, in the privacy of his room, Mick could ask the primary question that had bothered him all week—or most of his life, depending on how you looked at it. If God loved him as much as the Bible said He did, why did He allow the tragedies of the past few weeks? The fire. The attack. His injuries.

  And why had God allowed his parents to be taken from him at such a young age? Surely the Almighty could have prevented their deaths. Instead, He’d left a young boy alone in the world without anyone to tend to his needs except his brother, and strangers. A more merciful God would’ve kept his parents alive, right?

  Pushing aside all such morbid questions, Mick allowed Ida and her father to help him up the stairs. He entered the tiny building with its rough-hewn pews and looked around, surprised at what he saw. “This is nothing like the churches in Chicago.”

  “Oh?” Ida gave him a curious look.

  He shrugged. “I only remember the church my mother took me to as a child, and it was all stained glass and steeples, that sort of thing. The pews were polished to perfection. This place is—” he glanced around, taking note of the small, plain space “—very homey.”

  Ida smiled. “It’s not that we’re opposed to fancy buildings. I saw a few in Houston, and they were quite breathtaking.” She looked around the room with a smile. “But I grew up in this little church and it suits me just fine.”

  As they sat in a pew near the front, Mick wondered what his mother would’ve thought of this place. He somehow felt she would love it here.

  Two women came in and looked down their noses at Mick. He heard one of them whisper, “What’s he doing here, anyway?” The other one quieted her. “Shush, Cora. Maybe the Lord wants to do business with him.”

  Had the Lord brought him here to perform some sort of business transaction? A feeling of discomfort slithered over Mick. What was it about churchgoers,
anyway—always trying to get folks to change their ways. What made them think their way was best?

  Before he could think about this any longer, Myrtle Mae sat at the piano and began to play a hymn, one he vaguely remembered from childhood. He couldn’t seem to recall the words, but the melody…

  Mick closed his eyes and could almost see himself, a youngster of six or seven, standing with his mother’s hand tightly clasped in his own, singing.

  Ah, yes. As the residents of Spring Creek rose and began to sing “Tell Me the Old, Old Story,” Mick opened his eyes and listened with interest, the words coming back to him in full force.

  Tell me the old, old story of unseen things above, Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love. Tell me the story simply, as to a little child, For I am weak and weary, and helpless and defiled.

  He looked over at Ida, watching as she sang the words in a voice as clear as any angel could boast. Like the songwriter, Mick understood feelings of weakness and weariness. The past few weeks had taken their toll. Every inch of his journey had worn him down a bit more. And despite his best attempts to appear strong, he felt completely helpless, just as the song said.

  And now, as he attempted to stand, his heart reacted to the haunting melody. It reminded him far too much of his mother—a memory he couldn’t bear, the pain of her loss still so deep. The parishioners carried on.

  Tell me the story slowly, that I may take it in, That wonderful redemption, God’s remedy for sin.

  Tell me the story often, for I forget so soon; The early dew of morning has passed away at noon.

  Tell me the same old story when you have cause to fear