The Bride of Willow Creek(12)

“I didn’t say Angie was prettier than Mama!”

“Well, she’s not!”

“Stop bickering. Your mama was pretty in her way, and Angie is pretty in her way,” Sam said, surprising Angie with his diplomacy. “Just as you’re pretty in your way, and you are pretty in your way. There’s no rule that says there can’t be a lot of pretty ladies in this world.”

“Mrs. Molly isn’t pretty,” Lucy said in a low voice. “But I don’t care. She’s nice.”

“I like Mrs. Molly, too.”

Angie heard Sam plant his boots on the step and stand. “That’s because Mrs. Molly is pretty on the inside. That’s the best kind of pretty there is. Now in you go. It’s time for bed.”

Hastily Angie returned to the box she’d set on the table and began sorting her toiletries. When the girls came inside, she straightened her shoulders and pasted a bright smile on her lips.

“Hello there.”

They said hello, but neither of them smiled. Thanks to Mrs. Molly no doubt, their faces were scrubbed and shiny clean, their hair brushed, and the dust had been sponged from their dresses.

Angie drew a breath and reminded herself they were just children; there was no reason to feel intimidated by their silence or solemn stares. “It’s been a long day full of surprises,” she said pleasantly, aware that Sam watched. “If it’s agreeable to you, we could wait until tomorrow to get acquainted.”

They didn’t indicate one way or another whether her suggestion was agreeable. They simply stared with unabashed curiosity and suspicion, as if she were an interesting novelty whose nature couldn’t be discerned at a glance. She might turn out to be good or bad. They would wait and see.

Sam stepped into the breach. “No dawdling. Wash your faces—”

“We washed our faces at Mrs. Molly’s.”

“And clean your teeth. Then into your nightgowns.” The pump handle squealed as he filled a basin, then hooked his boot around a small wooden step and pulled it close so they could climb up to reach the water and the soap he laid out.

Lucy was first. “Aren’t you going to heat the water?”

“Not tonight.” Sam glanced at Angie. “A splash will do,” he said, handing Lucy a towel. “Daisy? Your turn.”

Pretending not to, Angie observed the routine from beneath her lashes while she sorted her hairbrushes. Both girls were the spitting image of their mother, that was easy to guess. They certainly hadn’t inherited their whitish gold hair or gray eyes from Sam. Already she could tell that Lucy would be tall like Sam, while Daisy would probably be petite as Sam had said Laura was.

Clearly something was definitely and seriously wrong with one of Daisy’s feet. So wrong that Angie was astonished she hadn’t noticed at once. When Daisy stepped on her right foot, her shoulder sank a good two, maybe three inches. She walked with a lurching, rolling gait.

At the finish of the nightly preparations, Sam followed his daughters into their bedroom and listened to their prayers. Then Angie heard the squeak of bedsprings, shouted laughter and gasps and bogus pleas from the girls begging Sam not to tickle them. After a few minutes, Sam pretended to get angry when they wouldn’t sit still for their goodnight kiss, which finished the routine.

When he finally emerged, he closed the bedroom door, considered Angie a minute, then raised the lid of the ice box. “Do you drink beer?”

“Not usually, but tonight . . . yes, please.”

He opened two dark bottles of ale and beckoned her toward the kitchen door.

“Should we blow out the lamps?” Immediately the suggestion impressed her as foolish. The girls’ door was closed. The lamplight wouldn’t keep them awake.

“No. It scares Daisy if she has to get up for some reason and the house is dark.”

“You burn the lamps all night long?”

“Lamp oil is one of the few things that’s cheap.” He shrugged. “Before you go to bed, put one of the lamps in the sink and blow out the rest.”

The ease and understanding that he demonstrated with his daughters was a side of Sam Holland that Angie had never seen or thought to imagine. This morning, when she had stepped off the train, she wouldn’t have conceded Sam a single good quality or one admirable trait. But she reluctantly admitted that he seemed to possess a natural instinct for dealing with children. What a pity that his instincts didn’t extend to women.

After dropping a shawl around her shoulders, she followed him outside into the darkness and sat on a step below him so they would not accidentally touch. Down the hill and to the left, she saw the glow of gas lamps outlining Bennet Street; heard music from the saloons on Myers Street, an occasional shout that burst from the noise of traffic, and a low hum of people talking at too great a distance to be heard distinctly. The crowd noise had dissipated, so the fight of the decade must have been decided.