Twice a Bride (31 page)

Hattie knew Boney. He wasn’t superficial. He had been living in dusty coveralls for more than a dozen years and didn’t slick up on a whim. He’d
known Etta and her late husband for several years. He and Etta were already friends, which could form a solid foundation for a marriage.

Hattie wagged her finger in front of him. “One bite of Etta’s sourdough bread rolls at the picnic, and you’ll be in love.”

“Then you ought to make sure Harlan gets a big dose of your fried chicken.” He laughed, and she joined him.

A silly thought. But as soon as he left, she’d head to the grocer and buy three of his biggest chickens.

S
usanna spritzed her neck with a rose-scented toilet water. She set the bottle on the tiny dressing table in her room and pressed her wrists into the spray. While camped in stage stops between Denver and Cripple Creek, she’d feared this day would never come.

She’d underestimated how long and dirty a six-day wagon ride between the two cities would be. Not to mention Mr. Johnstone’s dreariness. He could bore a laughing hyena. And it was just her luck the attorney decided to leave his carriage at home so he could deliver a wagon full of furniture to his parents.

Despite her fear that she’d die in a scratchy bedroll out in the middle of nowhere, he did finally deliver her to a boardinghouse in Cripple Creek. That was late yesterday morning, nearly thirty hours ago. After two hot baths, she was finally feeling clean and rested enough to make her debut in town.

Susanna pulled the calendar and fountain pen off her bedside table, noted her arrival, and circled today’s date. Friday, the fourteenth of October—the day she would reunite with Trenton Van Der Veer. She tucked a fresh handkerchief and a floral fan into her reticule, then lifted the purple hat off the bed. She used the pearl hatpins her father had given her last Christmas and pinned the hat in place, allowing for a flirtatious tilt. Adding a touch of rouge to her lips, she took one last glance at herself in the mirror. The purple dress she’d found in Denver was fitted perfectly and offered just the right balance between respectable lady and vixen. She pulled a golden curl down to frame her eyes, then
nodded. Her reunion with the prestigious photographer would be fully developed by sundown.

Descending the staircase at the Downtowner Inn, she practiced what she hoped would be a tantalizing gait. She’d telephoned a boardinghouse called Miss Hattie’s before leaving Denver, but the woman had no rooms available. This dive would have to suffice until she was able to move into a nicer place with Trenton.

The afternoon air was crisp, but the sun warmed her as she made her way to Bennett Avenue. The proprietor of the inn told her where she could find the Photography Studio, her first stop in town. Unlike Scandia, Cripple Creek’s main street boasted new brick and sandstone buildings with brightly painted factory storefronts. Among other shops, including a confectionary, she’d seen a millinery, a fashion designer’s shop, and at least two opera houses. The quaint little city would do until she was able to convince Trenton to pursue their dream of a studio in New York.

On First Street, she blew out a long breath and looked up at the wooden sign hanging over the boardwalk ahead of her: Photography Studio. She’d have to talk to Trenton about her ideas for a more creative business name. Something so trite would never do in a fashionable city like New York. But first things first.

Approaching the window in front of his shop, she fluffed the flouncing at her neckline and moistened her lips. Before she reached the door, a large framed sign propped in the window captured her attention: Portraits by Willow.

Susanna stared at it. Trenton had no doubt made the frame, but since when had he started offering painted portraits? And who was Willow?

She’d save the questions for later, after she’d melted his cold heart. She practiced an enticing smile in the reflective glass, then sauntered to the door. Locked. Then she noticed the slate board propped on an easel behind it.

I’ll return at 4:00 p.m
. Trenton’s handwriting—neat and tidy.

Susanna knocked anyway, just in case he was there, behind one of the two
closed doors on the back wall. No response. Just her luck that she’d gotten all gussied up for him, and he wasn’t even here. She sighed, then lifted her chin. She’d just have to return after four o’clock.

In the meantime, she’d find out who this woman was who apparently worked for Trenton. All she needed was a busybody. She’d seen the post office on Bennett Avenue. Perhaps someone there could point her in the right direction.

Returning to the main street, Susanna chided herself for not considering the possibility that she might have competition for Trenton’s affections. She hadn’t given the likelihood a single thought. Why would she? The newspapers back home prided themselves on reporting the desperate need for women in the West. Why, she’d even read advertisements asking women to travel to California or Colorado as mail-order brides. A dreadful thought.

If Denver was an indicator, the reports of an overpopulation of men were accurate. The city where Helen’s brother lived boasted a much higher percentage of men than women, and if the case here in Cripple Creek was any different, she had yet to see evidence of it. At least nine of the ten people she passed on the boardwalk or saw milling about were males.

Susanna glanced across the street at the post office. She’d cross at the next corner. She just knew she had nothing to worry about. Willow of Portraits by Willow was probably an ugly, old spinster with heaps of time on her hands for painting. Although her business name didn’t sound particularly spinsterish. If not a spinster, then Willow was most likely a hag who had come west to snag a husband. Either way, Susanna needn’t worry. Trenton was a man of culture and principles. He wouldn’t become romantically entangled with a defective or married woman.

Susanna was across the street and approaching the post office when a boy not much past puberty stepped out the door, carrying an armload of packages.

“Excuse me, sir,” she called.

He glanced behind him, then back at her, a shock of dark hair spilling over one eye.

“I was speaking to you, young man.”

Nervous laughter shook his gangly shoulders. “You’re new in town.”

“I am, but I have friends here.”

“My father’s the only
sir
in our family. I’m Archie.”

“Looks to me like you’re doing the work of a
sir
, Archie.”

He glanced at the packages. “Yes, well, among other things around here, I’m a courier.”

“A very important job.” She pressed a fingertip to her chin, tilting her head slightly. “Speaking of which, Archie, I understand you do a fine job delivering packages for my friend Trenton Van Der Veer, the photographer over on First Street.”

“Yes ma’am. Gotten real busy since Mr. Van Der Veer hired Missus Peterson and they started sending packages back and forth.”

Mrs
. Unless he’d hired someone else as well. “Willow Peterson?”

“Yes. Portraits by Willow—has a nice ring to it, don’t it?”

“It does.” Just as she’d suspected, his portrait painter was married. “They must keep you awfully busy running back and forth to her place.”

“Nah. Miss Hattie’s isn’t all that far.” He glanced up the hill behind her.

Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse
. The very one she’d called first for a room.

Why would a married woman take up residence at a boardinghouse?

Trenton signed the note and slid it into the package with the four photographs. Three people had commissioned portraits and one more wanted color added to the print. Hopefully, this person would be more agreeable with Willow than Mr. Flinn had been. If not, he’d cancel the job himself. The money was of far lesser value than her smile.

How anyone could be so rude to such a kindhearted woman was beyond his understanding. The image of Willow sitting at the counter in the ice-cream parlor sprang to mind. She’d looked so innocent and childlike sipping her creamy root beer. He’d like nothing more than to sit at one of those red tables with her.

Another foolish dream. He hadn’t given himself to daydreaming until Willow balked at his scolding and blurted out her marital status. Her ability to enjoy life in the wake of adversity drew him to her. That and her intelligence. And the dimples.

He’d hoped Willow would have finished the Johnstones’ portrait early and brought it in this afternoon. He’d rather hand the new photographs to her personally than send them by courier. She may have come by when he was out for his late lunch. He wound the string around the clasp on the envelope and looked at the wall clock: half past four. Probably too late to expect Willow to come by, but she’d no doubt appreciate knowing she had more work for next week. He’d take the package to her at Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse.

Trenton cleaned off his desktop and gulped the last of his lukewarm coffee. When the bell jingled on the door, he nearly choked on the sharp liquid.

Staring in disbelief, he stood. “Su-Susanna?”

She walked toward him, waggling from head to foot like a worm in rich soil.

“Why are y-you here?” he asked.

She took slow steps toward the end of the counter. “We had unfinished business when you had to rush off.”

Talk about a skewed perspective. “How d-did you f-find me?”

“Were you trying to hide?”

He walked to the potbellied stove at the far wall and lifted the lid. Good. The fire was out. “I wa-wasn’t trying to hide from anyone. C-Colorado wasn’t one of the s-states on your list.”

“Nor was it on yours.” She rounded the end of the counter and rested her long, slender fingers on its edge. “You’re a man of many surprises, Trenton.”

“Y-you don’t b-belong here.” And neither did he belong here alone with her.

She draped her long blond hair over her shoulder. “I belong with you.”

He leaned back, trying to regain some lost space, and glanced toward the door.

“Are you expecting Mrs. Peterson?”

How did she know about Willow?

Smiling, she looked at the sign in the window. Of course, the advertisement—Portraits by Willow. But her married name? It didn’t matter. Susanna needed to leave.

He let the lid slam shut on the stove. “Y-you and I … are no longer b-betrothed.”

“You never said that.”

“I guess I assumed you’d f-figure it out when I c-caught you k-kissing the cabinetmaker. Or, at the v-very least, when I d-drove off in my wagon and ne-never returned.”

“That was a peck on the cheek. We went to school together. I was just saying good-bye to him before you and I wed.”

“I heard w-what you said to him.”

“That only proves you can’t believe everything you hear.”

“Or that I c-can’t believe anything you s-say.” He grabbed his keys off the desk. “You have to l-leave.”

“Why? Because you are involved with a married woman?”

Feeling slapped in the face, Trenton scrubbed his cheek and drew in a deep breath. Susanna didn’t know him at all. How could he ever have entertained the thought of marrying her?

“N-not that it is any of your b-business,” he said, “b-but Willow is a w-widow.”

He hoped to at least see a hint of remorse, but it was amusement that brightened Susanna’s eyes as she took a step toward him.