Too Rich for a Bride (31 page)

Hattie joined her against the door, slid her hand over Ida’s, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you really believe you can find answers by Tuesday?”

“I have to. My job depends upon it.”

It sounded like the assayer’s office in Colorado Springs was a good place to start her search for answers. First thing Monday morning.

THIRTY-FOUR

he day before Christmas, Tucker followed a nurse down the hospital corridor. He’d boarded the train in Cripple Creek that morning before dawn. At the depot in Colorado Springs, he’d taken the horse-drawn trolley to within a few blocks of the Glockner Sanitorium. Walking the last short distance allowed him to stretch his legs and steel himself for the greeting he expected from his father.

The nurse turned down a hallway that led to a glass door. “Our doctors believe fresh air is the best cure for tuberculosis.”

He nodded. “My mother’s letters said my father was tolerating the treatment well.” Just thinking about sitting outside for hours at a time in the last week of December caused Tucker to shiver and button his coat.

She met his gaze. “You’re a good son to see for yourself.”

And what was he going to see? The scowl that had greeted him at the hospital when he’d first arrived in Cripple Creek, or the resignation he’d witnessed in his father’s bedchamber?

When they arrived at the door, Tucker reached for the knob and swung it open. He and the nurse stepped out onto a wide terrace on the south side of the three-story hospital.

Tucker pulled the scarf at his neck tight. Delivering ice in below-freezing temperatures had sped his adjustment to winter in Colorado, but at
work he kept moving. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to last standing or sitting in one place, especially since he knew he could also expect a chilly reception from his father.

“Mr. Raines has a favorite chair.” The nurse shaded her eyes with a fleshy hand. “He’s usually easy to find out here.”

Men—mostly older—bundled in red wool blankets sat scattered across the portico like terra-cotta flowerpots.

“That’s him.” The nurse pointed to two men, one of whom was short with silver hair. “Your father is sitting with his friend Mr. Mercer.”

Both men sat at the front edge of the terrace with their feet propped on the railing. The bigger man resembled Tucker’s father, but he was laughing, not coughing.

Tucker strained to hear what he and Willow used to refer to as the
choo-choo chuckle
. Too much time had passed since he’d heard William Raines laugh, and the sound warmed Tucker’s soul, even if his nose was beginning to feel like a chip of ice.

The nurse cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go back inside for a meeting.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome. Family and visitors are an important part of the healing too.” She reached for his hand and shook it. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Tucker Raines.”

“Merry Christmas, ma’am.”

The nurse bobbed her head and turned to go back inside.

Tucker tightened his spine and drew in a fortifying breath.

Here we go, Lord. Please go before me
.

He was halfway to the railing when his father looked up, straight at him. William Raines didn’t turn away. Nor did Tucker see a scowl in his
father’s expression. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought his father was glad to see him.

“Tucker?” His father turned back toward the silver-haired man beside him. “Frank, I’d like you to meet my son, Tucker Raines.”

My son
.

Both men stood, his father easily four inches taller than his friend. The shorter man jabbed his hand at Tucker and shook hands with him. “Name is Frank Mercer, and you’re the preacher.”

Tucker looked at his father, who better resembled the man he’d known as a boy—laughing and looking proud to introduce him as his son.

“He was until three months ago when he came to Colorado to keep the ice business going.” His father sounded proud too.

“Your father’s been telling me all about you and your sister.”

“He has?” Tucker thought his knees would buckle. “You have?”

“Yes, I have. And I’m glad you came.”

Tucker was too and he wanted to say so, but the words were stuck in his throat.

Mr. Mercer pulled an empty rocker over from the corner. After all three of them were seated, his father’s friend looked up at Tucker, a smile in his eyes. “Folks around here call me Pastor Frank.”

“A pastor?” Tucker directed the squeaky question at the larger of the two men.

His father nodded. “Frank lives here in Colorado Springs.”

Quick, soft footsteps on the concrete behind them turned their attention back toward the door. His mother fairly raced toward him, a smile owning her face.

Tucker stood and embraced her. She wasn’t shaking and his father hadn’t coughed once.

“Did you notice?” his mother whispered in his ear. “Your father has changed.”

Nodding, Tucker motioned for her to take his chair.

His mother sat down. “I’m so glad you came.” She glanced at her husband. “We both are.”

“We’ve been talking about you.” His father placed his hand on her knee. “About both of our children.”

The word
change
didn’t begin to describe what had happened with his father. You could
change
your clothes.
Change
hairstyles.
Change
where you lived. What he saw in his father was a total transformation.

Thank You, Lord
.

Pastor Frank stood. “I have some more visiting to do, if you’ll excuse me.”

Tucker met the man’s gaze. His spirit swam in the peace he saw in the blue eyes of his father’s new friend. “Thank you.”

Pastor Frank nodded. “My pleasure. Hope you can stay long enough for a chat later.”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas.” His mother reached up and squeezed his hand. “I’m taking your father home to your aunt Rosemary’s for the night. She’d be thrilled to see you. She has an extra bed in the sewing room. Can you spend the night?”

He hadn’t planned on staying more than an hour or two. Hadn’t expected to want to stay over, let alone be invited to.

Tucker nodded. “Looks like we’ll have that chat, Pastor Frank.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you when I’ve finished my rounds. Perhaps over supper.” Pastor Frank regarded Tucker’s mother with a slight bow. “Laurel.”

Before walking away, he exchanged joyful gazes with Will Raines.

Tucker lowered himself into the chair beside his father. “I received a letter from Willow this week. She wrote it herself.”

“She’s well enough to write?” His mother scooted her rocker around. Tucker did the same to form a circle.

“She wrote one to you and Father too.” Tucker reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out the envelope and handed it to his father. “It came yesterday.”

The changed man ran a finger over the swirled penmanship, then brushed a tear from his face. Tucker couldn’t remember ever seeing his father cry. Not even a hint of it.

“What did our Willow say?” His mother stacked her hands over her heart. “Open the envelope, Will.”

His father pulled out the single piece of stationery and set the envelope on his lap. He cleared his throat, looked from his wife to Tucker, and then began to read.

Dearest Mother and Father,

Where do I begin?

I’ll begin by saying I love you and I miss you.

Tears streamed down his father’s cheeks in rivulets. “How can she ever forgive me?”

“You forgave me.” Tucker looked straight into his father’s eyes for the first time in more than two years.

“Sam’s death wasn’t your fault. And neither was Willow’s inability to cope with it. I was so wrong. I’ve treated my”—he clasped his wife’s hand, keeping his gaze fixed on Tucker—“our children so badly.”

“I forgive you, Father.” They weren’t just words. He’d had several weeks of hoisting blocks of ice and sitting alone in his father’s house to think and pray.

“Thank you, son. Sam was right.”

“Sam?” Tucker glanced at his mother, hoping to see an answer written on her face, but he only saw the adoring look she focused on her husband.

“Sam came out to the icehouse the day before he died.” His father paused. “Said he knew why I didn’t understand about your commitment to the Lord, your wanting to be a preacher.”

“He did?” Tucker blotted the fresh tears in his eyes.

His father nodded. “Sam said it wasn’t time. Said there is a time for everything—that my understanding would come in time.”

A time to weep, and a time for choo-choo chuckles
.

His father began to read again, his voice soft with emotion.

I’m sorry. I know I put you through so much with my illness.

That’s what the doctors here are calling my acute melancholia—a mental illness.

But I am improving every day.

His mother whimpered and sniffled, her hand on her husband’s leg. He continued reading, apparently drawing strength from his wife—and his Lord.

I will see you soon.

Tucker’s mother gasped and cupped her face. “Will, she said
soon.”

His father’s eyes glistened again, and he nodded. He trailed his finger down the page as if to find his place.

Tucker said there is much to sketch in Colorado. Majestic mountains. A creek. Birds.

I regret I won’t be there in time for Christmas. My doctor says he wants to wait a few more weeks. Then he expects to release me.

In the meantime, please know I love you and I am counting the minutes until we are together again.

Tucker met his father’s tender gaze. “Merry Christmas, Father.”

“Merry Christmas, son.” As the older Mr. Raines stood, his arms open, Tucker knew God had answered prayers he hadn’t had the strength to even hope for, let alone utter.

THIRTY-FIVE

da gazed out the parlor window. Her sister’s new two-story house sat on a hilltop with generous views of the winter white town and surrounding mountains. Another eight inches of snow that morning had added weight to the tree limbs and thickened the white blanket on the ground. From where Ida stood at the piano, she had an unobstructed view of Carr Avenue and the walkway that led to her sister’s front door.