“Look, eat your eggs any way you want to, all right?”
“Well, thank you.” She beamed at him and then at the girls. “I’m overcome with gratitude that you’ll permit me to eat my breakfast in my own disgusting way.”
He glared at his daughters to silence any giggles that might encourage Angie’s sarcasm. They didn’t giggle, but their eyes danced and sparkled brightly. They gazed at him expectantly, as if it were his turn to say something to further their breakfast-table entertainment. He swore he wouldn’t say a word.
“I didn’t say you were disgusting. I said your plate is disgusting.”
She rolled her eyes. “Then don’t look at my plate.”
So calmly that it infuriated him, she spooned up a revolting mixture of yellow and white and put it in her mouth.
Sam threw down his napkin. Pounding nails was going to feel good today. “Girls, it’s time to go. Don’t forget your books and your tablets. I put your lunch buckets beside the door.” To Angie he said coldly, “They’ll be back about three o’clock. I don’t know what time I’ll get home. If the weather holds, I’ll go up to my claims after work and prospect until dark.”
She nodded and took a sip from her coffee cup, washing down the godawful mess she’d just swallowed.
“Are you going to walk us to the schoolhouse?” Lucy asked.
“Don’t I always?”
“Papa?” Daisy tugged at his belt loops. “Are you mad at us, too?”
That stopped him in his tracks. He drew a breath, then kneeled beside her. “I’m not mad at anyone,” he lied. “I’m sorry if I sound peevish. Sleeping on the ground is something I haven’t done in a long time, and I didn’t sleep well.”
In fact, he hadn’t slept much at all. After Angie went inside, he’d given her an hour in case she needed something and called to him, then he’d walked to town to discover who won the fight of the decade. The way his luck was running, it hadn’t surprised him to learn that he’d lost his five-dollar wager.
So he’d gone to the Gold Slipper for a few beers to lift his spirits, but the mayor asked if it was true that a good-looking lady had flattened him up at the depot. Then Otto Finn said he’d heard Sam had a wife staying at his place. Both men seemed to think his situation was hilarious and the story worth repeating to everyone in the Gold Slipper. Rather than stick around and make himself the butt of embarrassing jokes, Sam came home and crawled inside his tent to brood.
After he made sure the girls were outside and out of earshot, he leaned back into the house. “Are you going to be here when I get home?”
She had her back to him, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. “I don’t have anyplace to go. I’ll be here.”
“I was afraid of that,” he said, banging the door shut behind him. Wishful thinking had prompted him to hope that she’d come up with a different solution to their problem.
He wondered how long it would take before Laura’s parents learned that Angie was living in his house. Damn it anyway.
After Sam ducked outside, Lucy rushed back into the house to fetch the pencils she’d left on the table. Before she ran back to the door, she leaned close to Angie’s ear and said, “My mama never came to the table in her nightclothes!”
Angie waited until she heard the door slam before she sighed, then swallowed another taste of coffee and scanned the table. Already smears of egg were drying on the plates. Spilled milk soaked into the tablecloth in front of Daisy’s place. Bread crumbs and scattered bits of bacon marked where Lucy had sat. In the end, Sam hadn’t eaten the whites of his eggs. And she decided her own plate of uneaten breakfast did indeed look disgusting.
Rather than stare at the table, Angie sipped her coffee and gazed out the back door, which Sam had left open to clear the bacon smoke.
The scent of other breakfasts infused the morning air. Angie could identify scorched oatmeal, ham, bacon, the scent of bread fried in grease. From where she sat, she could see the top of Sam’s tent and a clear, cloudless spring blue sky.
At home on a fine day like this, she might have donned her floppy gardening hat and an old dress and worked in the vegetable garden out behind the kitchen. Or maybe she would have gone downtown to shop and enjoy luncheon at the Victoria Tearoom. Or perhaps she would have felt like dressing up in a light-colored spring ensemble and repaying a few calls.
Her reverie was so complete that she was startled to abruptly realize she’d been staring for a full minute at a woman peering inside the back door.
“I know it’s early,” the woman said uncertainly, pointedly noting Angie’s wrapper and undressed hair. “I’ll just come back later.” She glanced down at a covered pan in her hand. “I’ll leave this and be on my way.”
“No, no. Please.”
Eyebrows rising, the woman straightened from bending to set the pan in the doorway. “It’s just bread. I thought you might not feel up to baking, this being your first day and all.”
“I didn’t mean that I didn’t want the bread. I meant, please don’t go.” Standing, Angie ran her hands over her wrapper and sighed. Her state of dishabille couldn’t be helped. She was making a bad impression on everyone today. “I’m Mrs. Sam Holland. And I’d guess you are Mrs. Molly.”
The woman smiled. “The very same. Mrs. Cannady Johnson.”
Molly Johnson looked to be in her early forties. As Lucy and Daisy had agreed, Molly was no beauty, but she was handsome in a way that drew attention. Lively, intelligent eyes were her best feature, Angie decided. She also had an erect carriage, well-shaped brows, and a wide smiling mouth. Anywhere else Molly’s cropped silver hair would have provoked a scandal, but the short no-nonsense style seemed to suit her.
“I apologize for still being in my wrapper, and the table . . .” Angie waved a hand. “And I apologize for daydreaming and not inviting you inside at once. The truth is, I’m not making a good beginning at much of anything.”
Molly laughed. “You don’t need to apologize on my account. I’m not one to stand on ceremony. I came over to say welcome and to help myself to a cup of your coffee if there’s any left. Now don’t trouble yourself, I know where the cups are.”
Quickly, Angie stacked the plates and put them in the sink. She would have pulled off the crumb-and-milk-stained cloth, but she couldn’t guess what shape the actual table was in. Meeting Molly flustered her because everything felt upside down. Molly should have called at the front door, and Angie should have had a parlor in which to receive her. Sitting at the family table with Angie in her bedclothes was excruciatingly improper and uncomfortable. But she noticed immediately that the situation also created a strange and immediate sense of intimacy.
Molly reinforced the feeling when she insisted that Angie call her by her first name rather than address her as Mrs. Johnson. As Angie could do no less, she, too, offered her first name. In a leap of etiquette that took her breath away, they jumped instantly from being strangers to being intimates.
“We’re neighbors,” Molly said, dismissing Angie’s discomfort. “Have been for a long time and will be for a long time more. So, the way I see it, there’s no sense being formal. That doesn’t fit my notion of neighborliness.” Molly dropped three lumps of sugar into her coffee cup. “Now. Here’s what I know already. Sam said you two ran off and got married ten years ago, but your father objected, didn’t think a carpenter was good enough for you, so Sam begged you to come west with him and make a fresh start, but you wouldn’t do it because you were young and under your father’s thumb. Do I have it right so far?”
Fascinated, Angie nodded.
“Now your family’s gone and you’re dead broke, so you came here looking to Sam to pay for a divorce but he can’t, so you got mad and walloped him up at the depot and had a big fight with him at the new pastry shop, and here you are. Stuck, as I figure it, both of you. Waiting for a divorce that ain’t going to happen anytime soon.”
“That’s the gist of it.”
“Here’s my story, the parts I’m willing t
o tell anyway. I was raised in Wisconsin, spent some time in Chicago, likely before you were born, and then spent some more time in Denver. That’s where I met Cannady Johnson and married him fifteen years ago. We came here a little before Sam did, about three years ago, so Can could do some prospecting. He ain’t found anything to speak of, but he’s too stubborn to give up, so I reckon we’ll be here until they plant us in the Mount Piscah cemetery. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but my only real regret is that I never had children. There.” She beamed at Angie. “Now we know each other.”
Angie blinked, then laughed. “Well, it’s a beginning.”
“Actually, I came to answer any questions you might have about Willow Creek. The town’s only about three years old. Has more saloons and parlor houses than churches or schools. If you live above Bennet Street you’re respectable or trying to be. If you live below Bennet, you’re either stone broke or no better than you ought. Same with Poverty Gulch up behind the depot. That’s the one place ’round here that you never want to go. There’s nothing up there but tents and cribs. The high-end parlor houses are on Myers Street, but you can walk there; lots of respectable women do. One thing you’ll appreciate, being from Chicago and all, a woman doesn’t need an escort here. You can walk alone anywhere you like with no fear of insult. Our men are proud of the fact that women are safe and revered in this district.”
Answering Angie’s occasional question, Molly continued talking, recommending the best grocer, the most reliable seamstress, the most meticulous butcher. In short order, Angie had a list of the merchants and deliverymen who would ensure that her new life ran smoothly and as cheaply as possible.
But the questions she wanted to ask had nothing to do with the town. Besides, it was too soon in her acquaintance with Molly to inquire about things that were none of her business. But a burning curiosity overcame any practical arguments.
“I guess you knew Laura.”
“I knew her well enough that you could have knocked me down with a whisper when Sam told me about you. I would have sworn to the Almighty himself that Laura Govenor was not the type of woman to set up residence with a married man. Even a married man with a wife who didn’t want him and refused to live with him.”
Pink heated Angie’s cheeks. Molly had only stated the truth, but it sounded so bald and stark and cold.
She let the moment pass and then said, “I regret that my presence is going to reveal that Sam and Laura weren’t respectably married.” Was that true? Not when it came to Sam. But for Laura? No, she decided that she didn’t care about Laura’s reputation either. But she did care that Lucy and Daisy would be exposed as illegitimate. They were innocent of wrongdoing and didn’t deserve the label they would now wear.
Thinking about it swamped Angie under a wave of guilt. The girls would never have been branded as bastards if she hadn’t popped up in Willow Creek. No, that wasn’t the way to look at it. Sam and Laura had flouted convention and now their sins were coming home to roost. Still, she felt bad about the girls.
“There’ll be talk for a few days, just because it’s interesting, then something else will come along. Someone else will get shot, get in bed, or get rich.” Molly shrugged. “In the end, no one cares about anyone but themselves.”
“Sam said much the same thing. But it’s hard to believe.”
“Up here your life is your own business and you can mess it up any way you want to.” Molly laughed. “ ’Course they’ll always be a few folks, like Laura’s parents, who hit a jackpot, then turn into hoity-toity society with a whole new way of looking at things. They aren’t going to be happy about you.”
“Laura has parents?” It hadn’t occurred to Angie to wonder if Laura might have family in the area.
“They live in Colorado Springs, in a house about the size of a palace.” Molly made a face. “Can knew Herb and Winnie Govenor when Herb drove a freight wagon and Winnie was selling pies out her back door. Now they live in a mansion and rub elbows with the swells down there in the Springs. The last time Winnie and Herb came to Willow Creek, Winnie walked right past Can without a nod or a fare-thee-well, like those days of selling pies never happened.”
“Wait.” Angie frowned. “If the Govenors are wealthy, then why haven’t they offered to pay for Daisy’s operation?”
Molly blinked as if shutters had come down over her gaze, then she stared at the schoolhouse clock and jumped to her feet. “Glory be, the morning is half over and I haven’t even made the bed yet.” Walking toward the back door, she offered the obligatory comments about meeting Angie—so nice and et cetera—and Angie returned the same polite remarks. At the door, Molly patted the sleeve of Angie’s wrapper. “I don’t mean to dodge your question . . . well, I guess I do. The thing is, it’s better if you hear about the Govenors from Sam.”
Later, after Angie had tidied herself and the house and had set about mixing, rolling out, and cutting strips of noodles, she thought about what she’d learned from Molly.
Lucy and Daisy had grandparents nearby. Which meant that Angie would probably meet the Govenors eventually. Dread made her stomach cramp. If the Govenors hadn’t known that Sam was married, they were in for a terrible shock. If they had known, they had kept the secret. Judging by Molly’s comments they would be horrified and scandalized to learn of Angie’s appearance, which exposed their daughter’s shameful choices.
She was still thinking about Herbert and Winnie Govenor at half past three, when Lucy and Daisy ran in the front door and then stopped short when they saw the noodles Angie had hung to dry on every surface.
“We’re going down to the Old Homestead,” Lucy announced, picking up a noodle. She sniffed the strip of dough, then dropped it back on the curve of the chair top.
“Not yet,” Angie said pleasantly. “Before you run off to play, I want you both to clean up your room. I know this morning was a bit chaotic, but from now on I want you to make your bed before you leave for school.” She smiled at two sullen faces. “I’m sure that’s what you usually do anyway, isn’t it?”
“We don’t have to make our bed every day.”
As Angie had suspected, Lucy took the lead while Daisy hung back, standing on her twisted foot so that her hem dragged and covered the specially made shoe she wore. Her left hip jutted and her spine tilted awkwardly in a way that made Angie wonder if the stance was painful.
“No, you don’t have to, but proper young ladies do,” Angie said, holding her voice level. “And I seem to recall your father mentioning other chores, too.”
“We can’t dust. Not with noodles hanging on everything.” Lucy started toward the back door, pausing only to dump her books and tablet on the floor beside the coal shuttle. “Come on, Daisy. Let’s go.”
Frantically, Angie tried to think of the best way to handle outright disobedience. Give Lucy a smack as she was itching to do? Grab them before they dashed out the door and lock them inside?
“If you leave without cleaning your room, you will regret it.” Even to her own ears the threat sounded hollow. “You’ll be punished.” Better, but too vague. However, to threaten anything specific would send her skittering out on thin ice since she didn’t know Sam’s policies regarding punishment. Moreover, she could easily imagine herself striking a man, like Sam, but she couldn’t picture herself striking a child.
A burst of giggles suggested punishment was nothing to be feared in this house. They were out the back door before Angie darted forward and shouted, “Wait! I need to know where you’re going!”
Lucy looked back at her. “I told you. We’re going down to the Old Homestead.”
That sounded harmless enough. “All right,” Angie said angrily. “But be home in time for supper.” The first skirmish had gone to the general, Miss Lucy, who best knew the rule book. By tomorrow Angie would also know the rules, and next time they would engage on a level field. “Lucy? What exactly is the Old Homestead?”
“It’s the fanciest parlor house on Myers Street,” Lucy shouted b
efore their golden heads dropped below the crest that sheared off sharply toward Bennet Street. “It’s where the prettiest whores work.”
Chapter 4
Three pairs of furious eyes shot daggers at him. Sam felt as if he had walked through his front door to face a firing squad.
“Where have you been?” Angie enunciated emphatically as if each angry word were followed by an exclamation point.
“I told you I’d be late.” Passing the table where Angie and the girls sat, he walked to the stove and lifted the lid off a tall pot. The fragrance of beef stew and homemade noodles made his knees go weak. He couldn’t recall the last time a decent meal had been cooked on this stove. “After work I rode up to Gold Hill and checked a couple of my claims. One might have promise. We’ll see.”
“Papa, I have to talk to you!”
“So do I, Papa.”
“And so do I.” The exclamation points again.
“I figured. Can all this talking wait until I’ve had my supper?” Interpreting the collective silence as a yes, he ladled stew and noodles and a thick, rich gravy into a deep bowl. By rights, Angie should have served him as good wives did. But one glance at her arms clamped tightly across her breast, her pinched mouth and scowling eyes, and he’d known she wasn’t going to be doing any serving tonight. He sliced some bread, then carried his supper to the table.
Three grim faces watched him flick a napkin across his lap and salt his stew. Watched him spread butter across his bread. Watched him sink a spoon into the thick gravy. When he swallowed his first bite, his audience intently watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
He lowered his fork and suppressed a sigh. “All right. Who’s first?”
“We are,” Lucy insisted, shooting Angie a glare.
Daisy gazed up at him with solemn gray eyes. “We’re innocent, Papa.” She sounded suspiciously more like Lucy than herself.
The Bride of Willow Creek Page 5
