The Bride of Willow Creek(112)

“We’ll take our mind off worrying by having a lovely dinner at the hotel,” she said. “And then, we’ll sleep on a bed as soft as a cloud. The hotel has beds stuffed with goose feathers.”

“What is our bed at home stuffed with?” Lucy asked, interested.

“I don’t know, something stiff and crackly. But you’ll sleep like an angel tonight.”

Raising her head, she met Sam’s eyes, and he knew the night ahead would be as long and sleepless for her as it would be for him. With all his heart, he wished they could hold each other and find comfort in each other’s arms.

But he had vowed not to touch her again.

Pride stopped him from acting on his longing. He didn’t want her in his bed because she understood his worry and pitied him. Worse, he suspected her heart had turned toward Chicago. It made him wild inside when he remembered that she was destined to be another man’s wife.

Turning a brooding stare to the window, he chewed a fingernail and promised himself not to forget his vow no matter how deep his need for her.

He reminded himself again while he was having a drink in their sitting room, listening to Angie and Lucy laughing and splashing in the hotel room’s bathroom. When they emerged, wearing wrappers, their hair swathed in white towels, he inhaled the scent of roses, a fragrance he would always associate with Angie.

“Papa?” Lucy halted on her way to the bedroom she and Angie would share. “Are you mad about something?”

He caught her under the arms and swung her in the air, then brought her close to his chest in a hug. “Just tired. Come on, I’ll towel your hair and comb it, then tuck you into bed.”

When he returned to the sitting room, Angie was seated beside an open window, letting the cool night air dry her long hair. If Sam had been a painter, he would have painted her as he saw her now: eyes closed, head turned to one side, drawing her fingers through long strands of damp hair. A hint of cleavage showed at the opening of her wrapper and made him swallow hard. The intimacy of seeing her with her hair down, wearing a wrapper, her feet bare, created an ache behind his ribs.

“Autumn is in the air,” she said, opening her eyes. “The trees are starting to change color.”

She had come to him in the spring like a bright leaf that would fly away in the fall.

“Would you like a drink? It might help you sleep.” If he stared at her another minute, he would embarrass them both by trying to kiss her.

“Thank you.” She smiled and shook back her hair. “It’s funny. I didn’t used to like beer; now I prefer it and wish we had some.” When he lifted an eyebrow, she shook her head. “No, don’t ring for any. Whatever is on the cart will be fine.”

“I thought I’d tell you my plans,” he said after giving her a splash of whiskey. “When I arranged for Daisy’s surgery, I also contacted an agent here in the Springs and asked him to find a house I can rent for the duration of Daisy’s recovery. The doctor says he’ll need to change her cast twice a week. When the doctor says Daisy is ready, I’ll buy a small place in Denver. I spoke to Can and my first job will be the Johnson mansion. My prospecting days are over. Whatever my future holds, I’ll find it in the building trade.”

Angie looked down at her folded hands. “And now you want to know my plans.”

“If you’d like to tell me.” He tried to look as if he didn’t really care. Tried to pretend that a clock wasn’t ticking in his head, counting down the minutes left to them.

“I’d like to stay a day or two until we know for certain the operation was successful and that Daisy is doing well.”

“Daisy would like that.” This conversation tore his heart out.

“I might as well leave from here.” Shifting on her chair, she gazed out the window at the night sky. “Everything I need to travel, I have with me.” After a pause, she drew a breath. “I’d like to stay in touch with the girls, Sam. I’d like to write them occasionally, if you don’t mind.”

He hesitated, thinking what it would do to him when the letters started arriving from Mrs. Peter De Groot. On the blade of the knife plunged into his heart would be written her father’s words: You’ll never be successful, you’ll never amount to anything.

“I have no objection,” he lied.

“Well,” she said after a lengthy silence. Standing, she placed her empty glass on the cart, then looked at him with an expression he couldn’t read. When she finally said goodnight and turned away, he would have sworn tears glittered in her eyes.

He dug his fingers into the arms of the chair and made himself stay seated until he heard her close the bedroom door, then he bent forward and dropped his head in his hands.