Too Rich for a Bride (14 page)

“That fear has paid me a visit, but I choose not to let fear rule my thoughts.”

“You make it sound easy to choose not to be afraid.”

Morgan slid off the chair and knelt in front of her. “When I decided I could be married again, I surrendered my past and my future to God. You and our family are the new thing God is doing in my life. We can trust Him.”

Nodding, Kat vowed to read Isaiah 43 again that evening before crawling into bed. In the meantime, she couldn’t take her eyes off the man God had brought through the wilderness, to her. “You’re pleased we’re having a baby?”

“I’m overjoyed. I can scarcely wait to have a miniature
you
running around our new house.”

“A girl? What if it’s a boy?” She held her voice steady while her emotions ricocheted off the wall of her heart. “Would you be all right having a boy?”

“Absolutely. But”—his smile gave way to a grimace—“I’d be a little concerned about you.”

“Me? I will trust Him too.”

“You’re saying you could handle having a miniature Morgan underfoot?”

Kat giggled and tapped him on the nose. “I hadn’t thought of having a little boy in quite that way, but now that you mention it.” Grinning, she traced his knee-weakening smile with her finger. “It’s no wonder I love you so.”

“And I, you, Mrs. Cutshaw.”

The thrilling sound of her new name still hung in the air as she bent and kissed him. Too bad he had to work this afternoon.

A knock at the door spoiled the moment.

Morgan stood. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Were you?”

Kat grabbed their soiled plates from the table and rose from her chair. “Would I have kissed you like that if I were?”

Morgan fanned himself and grinned. “An unexpected guest with extremely poor timing.”

Kat felt her cheeks blush as she carried their dishes to the cupboard, then joined Morgan at the door.

Ida shifted her weight from one foot to the other, listening to the porch boards creak beneath her. She was about to try the tarnished brass knob when the cabin door whooshed open.

Morgan and Kat stood side by side, their eyes wide and their mouths turned up in smiles the size of desktops. “It’s your sister,” Morgan said.

Why was he stating the obvious? And why was Kat’s face carnation pink? They both were behaving as if she’d just caught them with their hands in the cookie … 
Newlyweds
. Ida dropped her gaze to a gap between two boards beneath her feet.

“Oh dear.” Warmth raced up Ida’s neck and over her tensing jaw, promising to make her face a much deeper shade of pink than Kat’s. It seemed just weeks ago they were fussing over a checkers tournament in their parlor in Maine. How was it possible that two of her younger sisters were married? “It seems I’ve chosen a poor time for a visit. I’ll go.”

“Please stay. We’re glad to see you.” Sounding sincere, Morgan stepped back from the doorway.

Ida glanced at Kat, who nodded, looking as happy as Ida had ever seen her.

“Morgan’s right—we’re glad you’re here.” Kat gripped Ida’s mantle and pulled her inside.

When the door clicked shut behind Ida, she looked up at her brother-in-law. “I didn’t expect you to be home this afternoon.”

“I’m not,” Morgan said.

Kat giggled. “He is, but not for long.”

“Only long enough to have a cup of coffee with my wife and my new sister-in-law.” Morgan reached for Ida’s wrap and hung it by the door. “That is, unless you’re in a hurry for a private conversation with your sister.”

Ida shook her head and stepped fully into the warmth of the room. “Are you sure I’m not intruding?”

“Don’t be silly.” Kat’s voice had a lilt to it. “You’re always welcome here.”

“But you might want to wear bells next time.” Mischief danced in Morgan’s eyes while his smile showed the dimple Kat had written about.

Kat swatted his arm. “Quit with that nonsense, Mr. Cutshaw.” She looked at Ida, then at the table where a saltcellar and a peppermill framed a vase of daisies on a blue gingham cloth. “We just finished our supper. Have a seat.”

Ida seated herself at one end of the table while the couple pulled three blue mugs from the cupboard and filled them with steaming coffee. They seemed so happy. Positively juvenile in their love for one another. A sudden twinge of something that felt like longing tightened Ida’s chest.

She squirmed in her chair and scolded herself. She didn’t need what her sisters had. She was different, with entirely different plans.

Morgan set the mugs on the table, then pulled a chair out for Kat before he sat down opposite Ida. “Kat told me you started your job last week.”

“Thursday.” Ida lifted her cup, breathing in the aromatic scent of hot coffee. In the likelihood that Morgan shared Miss Hattie’s concerns about her new employer, Ida began forming a list of conversation topics that had nothing to do with her job.
Doctoring in a mining camp. What he missed about Boston. How construction on their new home was progressing
.

“And how do you like working for Mollie O’Bryan?” His question seemed innocuous enough.

“I’ve only worked for her for two days, but already I’ve learned more than I did in a month of classes.”

Morgan nodded. “That’s how I felt working with Doc Hanson my first week here.”

“It’s a vastly different atmosphere in Cripple Creek,” Ida said.

Morgan swallowed a gulp of coffee. “More intense.”

“Exactly.” Everything about the town felt larger than life—at least, life in Maine. Miners. The other women. And the stockbrokers and investors she was already meeting in her work with Mollie.

Kat returned her cup to the table and straightened, her gaze solemn. “Some people in town don’t like Mollie O’Bryan.”

Ida wrapped both hands around her cup, letting the warmth in. So it was her own sister who would join Miss Hattie in protesting her job. “I doubt anyone is liked by everyone. And I expect that’s especially true of a woman shattering the constricting mold of what a woman can and can’t do.”

Morgan looked at Kat. “You can certainly relate to that. You’re a woman writing stories for
Harper’s Bazar
. Stories about business-minded, independent women. That isn’t exactly traditional either.”

“But I’m not doing it in the business district on Bennett Avenue.” Kat rose from her chair and plopped back down. “I’m sorry. I know this job is important to you. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

Morgan rested his hand on Kat’s but looked at Ida. “Pregnancy can set a woman worrying about those she loves.”

“You needn’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I may not be qualified to offer you business advice, but …” Kat raised an eyebrow and her lips thinned in a smile.

“But that’s not going to stop you.” Ida returned her sister’s smile.

“Just be careful. That’s all I ask. Not everyone approves of Miss O’Bryan’s business practices.”

“I will.” Ida repressed a sigh. She and Mollie seemed the only ones who understood that success required taking risks. Ida could only hope her family would come to understand and accept that as well.

FOURTEEN

n Sunday, Tucker lifted a stoneware mug to his mouth and breathed in the rich aroma before taking a long gulp of his coffee. An early morning swath of light striped the side of the bare wood planks of the barn. Titan and Trojan grazed in the pasture, their tails lazily swatting flies. A marmot chirped down by the creek. Lowering the position of his feet on the porch railing, Tucker watched a black-billed magpie hop across the golden grasses out behind his folks’ house. The peaceful scene fed his soul and defied the chaos of two hours ago.

Just after five o’clock that morning, the sound of splintering wood had woken Tucker. By the time he’d dressed, lit the lantern, and gone outside to investigate, pieces of barrel lay strewn across the yard, mingled with bruised apples and a trail of imposing bear prints. The draft horses snorted and kicked the confines of their stalls, still mad about the intruder. Tucker had fed the bruised leftover apples to the horses and then stacked the scraps of wood in a corner of the barn.

Yesterday, someone from the Blue Front Grocery had delivered a barrel of apples his mother had ordered before she knew she’d be moving to Colorado Springs. Unfortunately, the shipment arrived too late for his mother, but just in time for the ravenous bear.

Tucker swallowed the last of his coffee and set the mug on the wooden table beside the roughhewn rocker. He glanced at the Bible in his lap. The embroidered bookmark his mother had made him lay across the last several verses of 1 Corinthians 15. He’d read the passage at least a hundred times. Five times before every sermon he’d preached on it. Some folks referred to it as the
death passage
. All the talk about corruptible and incorruptible, mortal and immortality. To him, it was a passage for life.
Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting?
Promises he clung to, praying for a glimpse of that victory here and now. Clinging to hope to assuage the loss that
did
sting.

He still missed Sam. But he grieved the absence of his sister even more. In some ways, losing Willow to melancholia cut deeper than physical death. Why couldn’t his love for his sister be enough to bring her back?

A raven squawked, and Tucker returned his gaze to the pastoral scene before him. He drew in a deep breath and considered the essence of the closing verses. Again. And he prayed for strength. Again.

I give thanks to God who gives me the victory through my Lord Jesus Christ. I need to remain steadfast
.

He’d preached this message just last month during a camp meeting in Bakersfield. Preaching about steadfastness had been the easy part.

Unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord
.

His labor in the camp meetings? His labor with Willow? His labor for his father? The last time Tucker preached a sermon on this passage, he’d suggested that man’s will is the location for the toughest job yet to be done. Was that the labor God was calling him to in Cripple Creek?

Tucker lowered his feet from the railing and bent over his Bible, head bowed.

The golden aspen leaves quivered in the light breeze while the sun warmed Ida’s back. She couldn’t have asked for a more glorious morning for her wagon ride with Miss Hattie. Her landlady’s mare gently clip-clopped across Golden Avenue to the First Congregational Church. Following the service Ida and her sisters and brothers-in-law would gather in Nell and Judson’s home for a traditional Sinclair Sunday-afternoon supper and checkers tournament.

Autumn Sundays definitely topped her list of favorite days, but her first two working for Mollie O’Bryan had come in a close second. Some folks might find her new employer’s matter-of-fact tone and rapid recitation of tasks off-putting and intimidating, but Ida found it energizing and her image of the ideal job.

“You seem especially chipper today, dear.” Miss Hattie’s hair formed a ring of silver around the edges of the ball-crowned chiffon bonnet she wore.

“I
feel
chipper.” Ida watched a squirrel scamper up an oak tree alongside the road. “Like a squirrel who has found a tree bursting with acorns, and all she has to do is gather them.”