Daisy lowered a drumstick to her plate and her face tightened. “I don’t need a bath.”
“We use the laundry tub for baths,” Lucy said, wiping grease from her fingers. “Daisy doesn’t want to take a bath because she doesn’t want you to see her foot.”
“That isn’t true,” Daisy said hotly, her face turning red. Then her chin came up and her mouth turned down. “But I’m not going to take a bath!”
“If Daisy doesn’t have to take a bath, then I don’t either,” Lucy said, measuring Angie with a challenging gaze.
She might have guessed that it wouldn’t be as easy as Sam instructing them to mind her and them doing it. All along she had suspected they would defy her at some point, if for no other reason than to see what would happen.
“You don’t want to go to church tomorrow wearing a week’s worth of dust and grime,” she said in a pleasant tone, letting her gaze touch meaningfully on their evening-wild hair.
“We have to go to church?”
Lucy’s tone suggested that church was not a regular occurrence. A while had elapsed since Angie had last attended church herself. But she wasn’t five or seven years old and in need of spiritual and moral guidance. In her opinion, anyone who wanted to grow up and become Miss Lily required some serious pew-time.
“If I’m too dirty to go to church then I’ll stay home,” Daisy stated, staring down at her plate. “I’m not going to take a bath.”
Angie didn’t spot any compromise. Either they obeyed and got into the bathtub, or they learned that their will was stronger than hers.
“Where is the laundry tub?” Angie asked Lucy.
Daisy’s small fingers curled into fists. “I won’t do it.”
“It’s outside, under the kitchen stoop.”
“Would you fetch it, please?”
“You can’t make me!” Daisy whispered.
Usually Daisy looked to Lucy for guidance and loyally agreed with whatever Lucy proposed. That her refusal came with no reference to Lucy told Angie this was a serious situation. Daisy’s defiance went beyond a test of wills.
“Would it make you feel better if I promise not to look at your foot?” she asked while Lucy was outside.
A tear quivered on Daisy’s eyelash, then spilled down her cheek. “Please don’t make me.”
Although Daisy managed very well, there were signs of self-consciousness. Walking on the side of her foot, on her ankle, had the effect of making her shorter on the right side by about two inches. Daisy placed her weight on the short side when she stood still so her hem would drop and cover the special shoe she wore. Although Lucy pattered about in bare feet after supper, Daisy never did. Twice she had come home from school with reddened eyes as if she’d been crying, and Angie had wondered if other children teased or tormented her. But Daisy had refused to explain.
On the other hand, Daisy didn’t let her awkward lurching gait slow her down. She ran after Lucy without hesitation. She didn’t appear to avoid people. And there was no sense that Daisy expected special treatment or consideration.
Huffing and puffing, Lucy rolled the laundry tub into the kitchen. And then both of the girls stared at Angie with blanked expressions, waiting to see what she would do. Angie was curious about that, too.
“You both need a bath,” she said slowly, desperately hoping for sudden inspiration. “And you’re too young to shampoo your own hair.” She had to be here.
Daisy stared up at her with large pleading eyes, as if she wanted Angie to find a solution but didn’t believe there was one. This could end badly.
“All right. Here’s what we’ll do.” She drew a breath and wondered how a real mother would solve the problem. Probably not the way she was about to. “Tonight—this time only—we will each leave on one article of clothing. It can be whatever you chose. I’m going to leave on my shimmy.” The idea was appealing, actually. She wasn’t overjoyed at the thought of appearing naked in front of them either. Especially since she would have to sit in the tub with her knees upraised and that meant her top would be exposed.
When neither of the girls spoke, Angie summoned a bright voice and smiled at Daisy. “I suppose you’ll leave on your stockings.” She turned the smile on Lucy. “What will you leave on?”
“I think I’ll leave on my petticoat,” Lucy said finally.
“Excellent choice.” Going to the stove, she tested the water. Not too hot, not too cool. “I have some bath salts on the dresser in the bedroom. Daisy, will you fetch the bottle, please?”
“We get bath salts?” Lucy brightened at once. “Mrs. Molly says bath salts are too expensive to waste on little girls, so she never lets us have any.”
Angie wiped out the laundry tub, then filled it halfway with warm water. “Occasionally a small extravagance makes a woman feel better. I suspect we can all use a little feeling better tonight. As soon as you’re undressed down to your stockings and your petticoat, you can stir the bath salts into the water.”
She made a point of not watching them undress and didn’t turn around until the scent of roses filled the kitchen. They had used a lot of her bath salts. “Who’s going first?”
“I am.” Daisy lifted her good leg over the rim and climbed into the water. “Oh, it smells so good!”
Angie gave her a washcloth and a cake of rose-scented soap. Molly was correct about the expense. But if Sam could afford beer and cigars, then she and the girls could afford bath salts and scented soap. She would explain that to him when the time came to replace her supplies.
Lucy kneeled beside the tub and wiggled her fingers in the water. “You look so funny wearing stockings in the tub.”
“You look funny wearing your petticoat and nothing else!”
Only minutes ago Angie would have wagered everything she owned that tonight would not end in giggles. Smiling, almost enjoying the moment, she asked if Daisy was ready for a hair wash. When Daisy seemed reluctant to get down to business, Angie reminded her that the water was getting cool and two other people were waiting for their turn.
Daisy ducked her head underwater and came up sputtering, rosy, and laughing. Her fine golden hair felt like silk beneath Angie’s fingers, and so did Lucy’s hair when it was Lucy’s turn to be shampooed.
Angie wrapped their hair in towels and sent them to their room to finish drying and get into their nightgowns while she popped into the cool water for a hasty wash. After toweling off and slipping into her wrapper, she ducked her head into the tub and reached for the shampoo.
When she was finished they sat beside the open oven door, letting the heat dry their hair.
Angie had seen Daisy’s poor twisted foot, of course. Her wet stocking had clearly revealed the inner and upward twist. And Angie had examined Daisy’s custom-made shoe. She’d felt her heart wrench in her chest, and she’d experienced a burst of hot anger.
How was it possible that Sam hadn’t saved enough for Daisy’s operation in five years? He could have sold his horse and his house and anything else of value that he owned. He could have robbed a bank. He could have done something.
The bath and the heat from the oven almost put the girls to sleep before their hair dried. Eventually Angie led them into their bedroom and pulled the covers up to their chins. For one uncomfortable moment they lay in bed staring up at her and she suddenly wondered if they expected her to kiss them goodnight. Before she could decide what to do, Daisy crawled out of the blankets, stood up, and threw her arms around Angie’s neck.
“Thank you,” Daisy whispered against her ear.
Angie had never been a mother or an aunt. Rose-scented hugs from a child were a new experience. Pleasant, but odd, too. Small arms around a person’s neck did strange things to the heart.
She forgot to have them say their prayers, but all in all she thought the evening had gone well. Disaster had been averted.
After draping the wet stockings, petticoat, and shimmy on the backs of the kitchen chairs, she put on a skirt and shirtwaist, pinned up her hair, and washed the supper dish
es while she waited for Sam to come home.
Chapter 6
Two lamps burned inside the house, which meant either that Angie had forgotten to put Daisy’s night-light in the sink and blow out the other lamp, or she was waiting for him. On the off chance that she was waiting, Sam didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried.
Quietly, he opened the kitchen door, looked inside, and stopped short. Angie sat at the table, looking as fine as a woman could look and smelling like summer roses. She wore a dark skirt and a crisp white shirtwaist that curved over her breasts and made him wonder why he hadn’t noticed her magnificent figure before. Actually, he had noticed. Not that he wanted to. Thinking about Angie’s body, which he did far too often, was as futile an exercise as wishing he could change the past.
“Sit down,” she said, starting to rise. “I’ll fix you a plate.”
Now he noticed that she’d set a place for him at the table. He covered his eyes, drew a breath, then looked at her. “I ate supper at the Bon Ton.” After almost a week of going to bed hungry, he’d figured she was never going to leave him any food, so, resenting it, he’d spent fifty cents he hated to spend and he’d bought himself a big meal. Naturally, this would be the night she decided to relent and feed him.
That was the thing about women. The minute a man believed he could predict their behavior, they changed their way of doing things and cut the ground out from under him.
“We need to talk, Sam.”
That was another bad sign. Nothing good ever came out of a conversation that began: We need to talk.
“Is that coffee still hot?”
“Warm.”
She didn’t look as if she intended to pour him a cup, so he helped himself, then returned to the table, concentrating on the scent of the coffee instead of roses. “What’s on your mind?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
Her hair was glossy brown in the lamplight and looked as silky as a child’s. A few tendrils floated loose around her face, softening her strong features. He tried not to think of her as beautiful. He thought of her as irritating. But, in fact, there were moments when he glanced at her and felt his breath catch. Moments when he realized that he missed making love to a woman, having a woman in his life.
“It’s almost eleven,” he said, frowning at the schoolhouse clock.
“Since I’ve been here, you’ve come home in time to say goodnight to your daughters only twice.” Disapproval furrowed her brow. “Do you think it’s right that you spend only an hour at breakfast with your children?”
“Are you tired of taking care of them?” Just once, he wished they could have a conversation that wasn’t adversarial.
“That isn’t fair,” she said stiffening. “It isn’t me they want to see at the end of the day.”
She had a point. “If I could, I’d spend more time with them, but I work ten hours on the job, then work on my claim. Afterward I go to the Slipper or one of the other saloons to catch up on the news.”
“You think sitting in a saloon is more important than your children?”
Anger flushed his face. “Nothing is more important than my daughters. Everything I do is focused on making money to get Daisy the surgery she needs. Even sitting in the saloon. That’s where I learn about new strikes, if any are near my claims, and where costs are heading, and which syndicates are buying, and if claim jumpers are in the area. You don’t know mining, so you’ll have to take my word for it. This information is vital.”
“Your daughters need you,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard a word he said. “Isn’t that vital?”
“Damn it, Angie, I’m doing the best I can. I can’t be in two places at once. And I’m never going to find my jackpot if I keep banker’s hours. As much as I wish things were otherwise, that’s how it is.”
“Molly Johnson says you used to get home earlier than you do now.”
“Did Molly also mention that until recently the days were shorter and darker than they are now?” He returned her steady stare. “I can work later because it stays light longer. Plus, with you here, I don’t have to get home before the girls’ bedtime.” He didn’t like having to explain himself or having to account for how he spent his time. That was one of the many negatives about having a wife. He would do well to remember more of the negatives.
“I don’t mind taking care of your daughters. I’m willing to earn my keep while I’m here. But I don’t like paying for the privilege. That wasn’t our agreement.”
“What are you talking about?”
She told him about buying provisions and paying the iceman with her own money. Earlier in the week she had offered him every cent she had toward Daisy’s surgery. Now she resented spending a couple of dollars for food and ice. If he lived to be a hundred, Sam would never understand the female mind.
“All right,” he said, speaking between his teeth, “I certainly don’t want you to spend any of your money.” Reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew his Saturday pay packet. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. This time.” Leaning back in the chair, she studied his pay envelope with a thoughtful expression. “Would it be fair to guess that you don’t handle money well?”
“What?” The woman was a font of insults.
She shrugged. “I’m basing this observation on how little you’ve saved toward Daisy’s operation.”
The comment stung, and badly. She didn’t need to remind him how far he was from the amount he needed. Her father’s words echoed in a dark corner of his mind. You’ll never amount to anything. In a manner of speaking, she’d just said the same thing. Pride and fury stomped across his chest and pinched his expression.
A dozen acid responses burned on his tongue, but he held himself to saying, “Where is this leading, Angie?”
“I am good with finances.” The color had risen in her face, too. “Judging from what I’ve seen so far, I think we might save faster if I managed the money.”
The sheer gall of her suggestion flabbergasted him. Yes, he knew men who handed their pay packets to their wives. But he didn’t know his wife, had no idea if she was frugal or extravagant. Couldn’t guess if she’d pay some debts and ignore others. Or waste a week’s wages on a hat from Paris, France.
“I managed the household after my mother died, even after Papa reduced the funds several times. And I did it well.” When he didn’t say anything, she rushed on. “Here’s how I’d manage our money.”
“Our money?” He flat could not believe what she was saying. Since when had his money become her money, too? From what she’d said in the last minutes, she appeared to think there was her money and “our money.” He hadn’t heard any reference to his money. By God, she had brass.
“I’d set up a ledger with a list of creditors and see that everyone got paid. Then I’d portion out what was left. I’d put aside funds for provisions, emergencies, saloon money for you, a bit for me and the girls, some toward Daisy’s operation, and a little for the divorce.”
She had thought about this, and she had worked out a reasonable-sounding plan. That halted his furious response and gave him pause.
Sam pulled a hand through his hair then down across his jaw. If he stripped out his pride, if he took a long, hard, honest look at his strengths and his weaknesses, if he really didn’t care whether she respected or approved of him—then he had to concede that he probably didn’t manage money as well as some did.
The thought that tipped the balance was: If allowing Angie to manage the money hastened Daisy’s operation, then he should hand over his pay packet and be grateful. No matter how much he hated the idea. And he hated it.
He turned the envelope between his fingers, reluctant to give it up. Laura had never asked for his pay packet. But Angie was as different from Laura as peas from pudding.
“I don’t know about this,” he said finally.
“The only way you’ll know is if we give it a try.”
It wasn’t like he’d be surrendering his manhood.
With one or two exceptions, all the married men he knew gave their pay packets to their wives. Women had a knack for managing money. At least most of them seemed to. Or their husbands believed they did. Of course he didn’t know about Angie, except for what she claimed.
“I suppose we could try your plan,” he conceded slowly, grudgingly. He reminded himself that he would do it for Daisy. “For a week or two. See how it works.”
“Good!” Her dark eyes narrowed and flashed in the lamplight. “You won’t regret this.”
Hell, he regretted it already.
“You should probably pay your crew. I wouldn’t be comfortable doing that.”
He managed not to roll his eyes. “I’d be a laughingstock if my wife paid my men. I should tell you though, I’m paying a lot of overtime right now and will be for several weeks.”
She held out her hand and reluctantly he placed his pay packet on her palm. Damn. In less than a week she’d taken over his house, his daughters, and now his money. What he had left was a tent in the backyard. And a lot of heated thoughts about a woman who detested him that kept him from sleeping.
“Are we finished?” he asked, scowling.
She tucked the envelope in her skirt pocket. “Every morning, you interrogate the girls. You ask them questions designed to discover how I’m treating them.” Her chin came up. “I feel like you’re looking over my shoulder, judging everything I do or say to them.”
“You’re damned right I am. I don’t have much choice; I have to leave my daughters in your care. But the fact is, until I know you well enough to know you aren’t going to mistreat my girls, you’re right. I’m looking over your shoulder and judging everything you do.”
Offense stiffened her shoulders. “I’ve never been a mother, but I certainly know enough not to mistreat a child!”
“Then we won’t have a problem.” To be fair, she hadn’t done anything to make him think she might treat his girls harshly. “Look,” he said in a softer voice. “I’m all the family that Lucy and Daisy have. I’m their father and their champion. I stand between them and the rest of the world. It’s my job to protect them. I’d be remiss if I wasn’t looking over your shoulder.” A vision of a soft rounded shoulder flashed through his mind. Pale smooth skin leading to . . . Sam gave his head an impatient shake. These thoughts tended to take him completely by surprise.
The Bride of Willow Creek Page 8
