The Bride of Willow Creek(115)

To spend the night in a noisy, smoke-filled saloon? No, that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to be locked in her arms, kissing her until they were both dizzy and wild with desire, kissing her until it felt as if he would explode or die if he didn’t love her with his body as hard as he loved her with his heart. He wanted to sleep with her in his arms, wanted to wake at dawn with the scent of her skin and hair beneath his nose. That’s what he wanted.

“I think the first train leaves at noon. I’ll pick you up at the hotel about ten-thirty.”

After closing the door of the cab, he nodded to the driver and watched everything that mattered to him roll away.



Angie spent the night curled in a corner of the sitting room sofa, crying and watching the hotel room door. If she willed it hard enough, Sam would come. He would burst through the door and tell her that he loved her and tell her not to go, that he and Daisy and Lucy needed her.

At two in the morning, she conceded that he wasn’t coming, and she moved to the chair beside the window. The rest of her life stretched before her like an endless road she didn’t want to travel. There was no place she wanted to go. No one she wanted to see.

Chicago was no longer home, but it was the only place she could think of to go. She had friends there. And Peter was a gentleman; he wouldn’t make things awkward for her. Perhaps they could still be friends. Bowing her head, she covered her face in her hands.

She loved Sam so much that it hurt her. Ten years ago her love had been romantic and idealistic. Now she loved with the intensity of maturity. She had seen Sam angry and disheartened and tired and cranky, and she had packed his lunch and washed his underwear and cleaned his house. And she still loved him.

She had stumbled around a ballroom in his arms, laughed helplessly on his shoulder, watched him run into a burning building, had seen the wetness in his eyes as he spoke to his daughter’s doctor. And she loved him.

She had stroked his body and knew the firm, smooth texture of his skin. She had looked into his eyes as he led her into the mysteries between man and woman. She had felt his naked heart beating next to hers and had wept with joy. And she loved him.

Angie wrapped her arms around her waist and bent over. She felt as if she were dying.



“I went by the hospital,” Sam said in the hansom cab. “They said Daisy had a bad night, but she was sleeping while I was there.”

“I went to the hospital, too. I must have just missed you.”

Faint purplish half-circles lay under her eyes, and her skin seemed tight on her cheekbones, as if she hadn’t slept. A strand of dark hair had worked loose from the coil on her neck and curled on her shoulder. God knew what she thought about his appearance.

At 9:00 a.m. a saloonkeeper had awakened Sam from about an hour’s sleep half-sprawled across a felt poker table. Breakfast had done little to quell the queasiness in his stomach and had done nothing for the headache pounding behind his forehead. He’d found a barbershop and paid for a shave and a haircut, but he looked only marginally better when he left the shop than when he’d arrived. His jacket and trousers were wrinkled and smelled of smoke and whiskey, his eyes were bloodshot, and his mood was foul.

“It’s a nice day,” Angie said, speaking into an uncomfortable silence. She kept her face turned to the window.

“Not too hot. Not too cool.” Is that all they had to talk about? The weather? “Why do you keep pushing at your skirt?”

She gave him a quick glance, then looked down at her lap. “I’m concerned that it’s a bit short and my stockings show.”

Sure enough, he could see the tops of her little boots and a half inch of white stocking. The sight infuriated him. Angie had arrived with enough luggage and clothing to stock a small shop. After six months with Sam Holland she was leaving wearing ill-fitting, donated clothing and carrying one small valise. Disgust closed his throat. If he’d needed further evidence that she could do a lot better than him, all he had to do was look at that half inch of stocking.

The drive to the depot seemed endless. He pulled a hand down his jaw. “I’m sorry I was late.”

Angie picked at her gloves, looking anywhere except at him. “I feel like I should say something about these months with you and your daughters. About . . .” She turned bright red then waved a hand. “No, never mind. Not that. But the rest . . .”

He thought he should say something, too, but nothing he wanted to say was appropriate.

“There’s one thing. . . .” She drew a breath and met his eyes. “I’m not mad at you and I haven’t been for a long time. What happened ten years ago was as much my fault as yours, more my fault.”