The Bride of Willow Creek

by Maggie Osborne

  Snapping open her fan, she drew a breath and followed his lead. Peeking over the top of the fan, she fluttered her eyelashes in a parody of bottomless pity.

  “Oh my dear Mr. Holland. I’m afraid I have the most terrible news.”

  He took her gloved hand in his and pressed her fingers. “And what would this terrible news be, Mrs. Holland?”

  “It’s so dreadful, so distressing that I can hardly bring myself to tell you.”

  “Will I have to leave the county?”

  She nodded, eyes sparkling above the lace edge of her fan. “You’d better go home at once and start packing, because your pink underwear spent an afternoon on the clothesline flapping in the breeze for all the neighbors to see.”

  “I’m destroyed.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ll be a laughingstock. Men will sneer when I pass. Women will snicker.”

  They were both laughing when Sam handed her out of the carriage and onto a red carpet that ran from the street to the frosted glass doors of the new hotel. Pausing a moment, Sam tucked her arm in his and gazed into her eyes before leading her forward. Anyone watching would have assumed they were lovers.

  Enormous gilt-framed mirrors, lit by immense crystal chandeliers, reflected gleaming cherry wood and columns and floors of polished marble. Fountains of greenery filled every niche; magnificent bouquets perfumed the air.

  Angie and Sam passed through the receiving line. They congratulated Stratton Miles, the hotel’s owner, and murmured a word to his flushed, jewel-bedecked wife. Then someone took Angie’s cape, and they were free to join the crush of people thronging every room off the shining lobby.

  “Oh my,” Angie breathed, her eyes bright.

  A string quartet played near the grand staircase, and music from a larger ensemble could be heard wafting from the ballroom.

  “Champagne?” Sam asked, lifting two flutes from the tray of a passing waiter.

  “Champagne!” Almost giddy with a surfeit of sensation, Angie tasted the champagne, then wrinkled her nose and laughed at the tickle of bubbles in her mouth.

  What a strange and wonderful world it was. A few days ago she had been down on her knees bent over a washboard scrubbing Sam’s underwear, and now here she was surrounded by silks and satins and flashing earrings and stickpins, and sipping champagne while a handsome and exciting man with an interesting black eye smiled down at her.

  “Shall we tour the premises?” Sam inquired, extending his arm. “I’m told the upstairs gallery has paintings all the way from Europe.”

  “While we’re touring, keep an eye out for things we can take back as souvenirs for Molly and the girls.”

  They were interrupted a dozen times on the way to the grand staircase. Sam introduced her to wealthy mine owners, to powerful men who operated far-flung syndicates, to the mayor of Willow Creek, and to the governor of Colorado. It was almost a relief when he introduced her to Marsh Collins, his lawyer and an ordinary citizen.

  After Collins bowed over Angie’s gloved hand, Sam raised a suspicious eyebrow. “How much is this encounter going to cost me?”

  Collins smiled. “Well, we do have one small item of business.”

  “Which is?”

  “Whittier’s attorney says Whittier won’t sue if you agree to rebuild his house at no charge.”

  Sam swore and turned aside to stare across the lobby. “Tell him to sue. The fire was not my doing, and damned if I’ll go into debt for something that wasn’t my fault.”

  Collins nodded and Angie caught a whiff of the pomade slicking back his hair. “The good news is that the union is not going to sue you.”

  “Excellent!”

  “And so far Herb Govenor isn’t clamoring to have you arrested for assault and battery, and so far we haven’t heard from his attorneys.” Marsh Collins smiled at Angie. “Surely this charming lady isn’t the wife you intend to divorce?”

  Pink flooded Angie’s cheeks and throat, and she covered the lower part of her face with her fan.

  “Marsh, you ass. This is not the time to discuss a divorce.”

  Collins’s eyebrows rose. “Your plans have changed?”

  Anger stretched Sam’s jacket across his shoulders. “As I told you before, the divorce won’t happen until after Daisy’s surgery.” He took Angie’s arm and led her to the stairs. “You wanted to know who Marsh Collins is? He’s a lawyer with no office and no sense of timing.” At the landing, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Is talk about lawsuits and divorce going to spoil our evening?”

  Being reminded that she shared this special night with a husband she wanted to be rid of certainly did nothing to elevate her spirits. But Marsh Collins had only been tactless. Angie hadn’t sensed any harmful intent.

  “No,” she said in a determined voice. “Nothing is going to spoil this evening.” She lifted her chin and made her fingers relax on Sam’s sleeve. “Let’s view those European pictures.”

  They rolled their eyes over some of the paintings, nudged each other while they stood before one by Monet. Most of the paintings impressed them as blurry and a waste of Stratton Miles’s money.

  It delighted Angie and restored her good humor to discover that she and Sam disliked the same smudgy paintings and admired the same realistic portraits. They would never purchase artwork for a shared home, but it pleased her to know they would have agreed on what to buy.

  Feeling a bit superior and pleased with themselves, they descended the staircase, vaguely aware that they made a handsome couple and pleased by that, too.

  “Would you care to dance, Mrs. Holland?” Earlier, Sam had filled her dance card, writing his name beside every set.

  “It would be a pleasure, Mr. Holland. But first I’d like to freshen my appearance.” She leaned to his ear. “I’m dying to see if the powder room is as ornate as everything else.”

  Entering the powder room was like stepping into a woman’s most lavish fantasy. The carpet, wall hangings, upholstered chairs, little footstools, and towels were all in shades of rose ranging from a deep rich maroon to the most delicate pale pink silk. Gilt-edged mirrors reflected lamplight positioned to be the most flattering to a lady. A half dozen rose-clad attendants saw to the ladies’ needs, providing hairpins here, stitching up a fallen hem there, scurrying to fetch this or that.

  Smiling and nodding to the ladies resting their feet in the luxurious parlor area, Angie glided toward an arch leading to the hand-painted sinks that someone had told her were imported from Italy.

  She was marveling at the wallcovering, wondering if it was silk or paper painted to look like silk, when she almost collided with Winnie Govenor.

  Tonight Winnie wore satin and tulle in a richly gleaming gray that complemented her eyes and hair. Diamonds glittered at her ears and wrist, and an arrangement of gray pearls ornamented her hair. She was as imposing and coldly distant as an ice queen.

  One glance told Angie that Winnie was about to serve up a crushing humiliation by cutting her dead before a roomful of watching women. Her face flamed scarlet and her heart sank.

  Chapter 13

  While Angie stood paralyzed, wide-eyed with dread, Winnie’s mouth thinned into an expression of contempt. She pulled her skirts to one side as if brushing Angie’s gown would soil or contaminate her. Then she swept past, eyes forward, icily aloof.

  A dozen women inhaled sharply, creating a hissing sound. One seldom witnessed a deliberate snub, not in the tight-knit mining district. The incident would be repeated and dissected at length over the next several days.

  Shock tingled along Angie’s spine. Never in her life had she been cut. Fire burned in her cheeks and she could hear her pulse thundering in her ears. The utter humiliation of being publicly insulted made her shrivel inside, made her wish the floor would open and swallow her. When she darted a quick glance toward the other women, most averted their eyes, but two or three gazed back with pity and embarrassment.

  The pity made her wild inside. She had to do som
ething or explode.

  Lifting her skirts, she strode toward the exit, catching Winnie Govenor’s arm as she reached for the latch.

  “Mrs. Govenor, it’s Angie Holland. I don’t think you recognized me.” Anger flashed in her dark eyes, but she kept her voice bright and pleasant as she pretended to misunderstand. “I’m not surprised. I looked quite different when we had tea together.”

  Winnie directed a cold gaze toward Angie’s fingers on her glove. “Remove your hand.”

  “In case we don’t have an opportunity to chat later, I wonder if you intend to visit your granddaughters before you and Mr. Govenor return to Colorado Springs.” Behind her, the parlor was so silent that Angie could hear the music outside the door. “If I know when you wish to see the girls, I can have them ready and waiting. I know how much they enjoy spending time with their grandparents.”

  With those words, she reminded everyone present that she was caring for Winnie’s granddaughters, and she made Winnie Govenor appear small and petty. Winnie understood at once. Now it was her turn to flush crimson with embarrassment.

  “We intend to take our granddaughters to lunch on Saturday,” she said, her voice trembling with anger.

  “I’ll see that the girls are ready and dressed appropriately.”

  Both women nodded, then Winnie left the parlor and Angie passed through a wall of silence to enter the water closet. When she was certain she was alone, she pressed her fingertips to her forehead and let her shoulders slump.

  There had been no winner in her encounter with Winnie Govenor. Each had been publicly embarrassed. On the other hand, it must have shocked the daylights out of Winnie when Angie chased after her. A deep sigh expanded her chest. Her mother would have said such an unseemly response was due to the Italian half of her heritage. And maybe it was. The Italian side of her temperament prompted her to do things that the English side later regretted.

  Sam was waiting when she emerged from the powder room, a frown drawing his handsome face. “Winnie Govenor came out of there a minute ago looking as if she could spit nails. What happened?” A humorless smile curved his lips after he’d heard the story. “We’ve spoken to Marsh Collins and we’ve faced down the Govenors. Now the worst is behind us and we can enjoy ourselves.”

  Gratefully, she accepted his arm and let him escort her toward the ballroom. “You had a word with Herb Govenor?”

  “If I’d gotten close enough to have a word with Herb Govenor, there would have been another fight.” Sam’s eyes glittered. “We exchanged glares from a distance. I’m happy to say he looks as bad as I do.”

  If Sam believed he looked bad, then he was oblivious to the sidelong glances directed his way by the women they passed. There was something exotic about a tall, formally dressed man with a black eye and long shining hair tied at his neck. Angie considered calling Sam’s attention to the interest he garnered from the ladies—then decided against it.

  The ballroom blazed with mirrors and lights. Tall French doors had been thrown open to the cool evening breeze. Graceful couples circled the room to the sweetness of a lilting waltz, the ladies’ skirts swirling, diamonds flashing beneath the chandeliers.

  “Oh Sam. This is the grandest party I’ve ever attended!”

  His dark eyebrows rose. “I would have said you had attended dozens of affairs as grand as this one.”

  “Sam, my father wasn’t a robber baron. He was a bricklayer. My parents and I attended the masons’ ball and various fund-raising soirees; there were social evenings at the homes of friends, musical events or lectures hosted by my mother’s club ladies. But never anything as lavish or opulent as this.” To underscore her point, she added softly, “Despite what you insist on thinking, I grew up comfortably but in an ordinary household with ordinary parents.”

  “It didn’t look that way to me,” he said, gazing down into her eyes. “You were a beautiful princess living in a brick palace. One day I heard you playing the piano. And I promised myself that someday I would have a palace and a piano.”

  “And a beautiful princess?” she whispered.

  His eyes searched hers. “Do you miss having a piano?”

  “Sometimes. Pounding on piano keys is a better way to soothe a temper than chasing someone down the street throwing things at him.”

  Sam laughed and offered his arm. “Enough of the past. Shall we explore the terrace?”

  “If you like. But aren’t we going to dance?” The musicians were superb. Angie turned a longing gaze to the ballroom floor and the couples whirling in a kaleidoscope of music, color, and movement.

  “I have a confession to make.” Sam pressed her arm to his chest as they skirted the floor. “I’m a terrible dancer. I’d only embarrass you.”

  “But you filled my dance card!”

  “I didn’t want you to dance with anyone else.” He gave her a lopsided grin before he stopped a waiter serving champagne. “I know. That was unforgivably selfish.”

  Carrying flutes of champagne, they strolled through the French doors onto a stone terrace romantically lit by strings of Chinese lanterns. The perfume of carnations and dianthus wafted from dozens of pottery urns, and ornately carved benches invited one to sit and enjoy the music and a velvety evening sky.

  Angie smiled over the rim of the champagne flute. “So we’ve come to a dance with no intention of dancing?”

  “We’re going to dance,” he said, taking her champagne glass and his and placing them on one of the benches. “But not in front of a roomful of people.”

  “I have a feeling you’re being modest. You’re probably a wonderful dancer,” she said as he slipped his arm around her waist and took her hand in his.

  He paused, waited a beat, then frowned in concentration and stepped forward. “One two three, one two three, one two three.”

  Angie’s father had excelled at dancing, and so did Peter De Groot. Both men moved from set to set with seemingly effortless grace. In fact, it had been during a waltz that Angie first suspected that Peter viewed her as more than a friend. She had seen something in his gaze that made her suddenly and acutely aware of his arm around her waist and his hand holding hers.

  She wanted that tingly awareness with Sam. In a perfect world they would have executed a flawless waltz across the flower-scented terrace, gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes, lost in a private reverie of enchantment. Her cheeks would flush with the intimacy of his touch; his gaze would soften with tenderness as he held her in his arms.

  “One two three, one two three.”

  “Sam, wait. Your one-two-three isn’t lining up with the music’s one-two-three.”

  They stopped moving and he tilted his head to scowl at the stars. “Why don’t they play a polka? No one cares if a man misses a step during a polka.”

  He hadn’t been modest. He was truly an awful dancer. “Let’s begin again,” Angie suggested. They adjusted their grips on shoulder and waist. “All right, one two three, one two three.”

  Sam trod hard on the toe of her slipper, which made her stumble and groan. Apologies spilled from his lips.

  “It’s all right, no harm done,” Angie lied, wiggling her toes inside her slipper. Very likely none of her toes were broken, but they hurt. “Let’s try one more time.”

  They paused for a beat then set out again. This time Angie tripped on the rough stones of the terrace floor. If Sam hadn’t caught her to his chest she would have toppled backward and fallen flat.

  “Damn it, I’m just not good at this.”

  Put a hammer in his hand and Sam could build anything. Give him a pick and shovel and he could dig a mine halfway to China. He could fight, he could cook, he knew how to tickle little girls and make them laugh. He could kiss a woman and make her knees melt. But when it came to dancing, he was hopeless.

  There was something charming about discovering a confident man’s weakness. Something appealing about his rare helplessness.

  Angie didn’t have time to explore these thoughts as she was clasped a
gainst Sam’s body, her heart beating against his chest, her breath mingling with his. The moment might have been romantic except her toes throbbed painfully and she was lopsided, still trying to find her footing on the rough stone floor. The clumsy results of their blundering attempt to waltz struck her as funny and she giggled, then laughed.

  Sam set her firmly on her feet then stepped back and raised an eyebrow over his black eye. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Yes!” And she couldn’t stop. One two three, one two three. His grim count rang in her mind, sounding hilarious. “You were right. You’re absolutely the worst dancer that I ever—”

  “Well, here’s something I am good at.”

  Catching her by the waist, he swung her into his body and his mouth came down hard on hers.

  She tasted champagne and heat. She was less innocent than she’d been the last time he kissed her. Her lips parted and she leaned into the solid power of his muscled chest and tight thighs. Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck, and she gave herself to the sensations his lips and tongue aroused in her.

  Kissing Sam was like . . . like being electrified by a golden tingle that tightened her scalp and raced through her body, awakening every nerve ending. Time slowed, allowing her an acute awareness of each small adjustment, every tiny nibble and taste. His kiss made her aware of her own body in a way she had never experienced before. She felt the breathless rise and fall of her breasts, felt a moist weakness spread between her thighs. His kiss created an odd sense of urgency that made her crave something more.

  They broke apart only when a man cleared his throat followed by a woman’s soft laugh. Blushing furiously, Angie turned her face aside and brushed at her skirts. Ridiculously, she felt as if they’d been caught doing something shameful and wrong.

  When she slid a look toward Sam, he was grinning and his blue eyes twinkled in the light of the Chinese lanterns. And then they were both laughing helplessly, leaning on each other, laughing and wiping their eyes. They had jumped apart like illicit lovers caught in the most damning of guilty circumstances. But the couple who interrupted them would only have seen a man stealing a kiss beneath the starry skies.