The Bride of Willow Creek(2)

“Well, what did you expect?”

Since she was leaning forward and speaking through her teeth, furious enough to take another swing at him, Sam decided the prudent thing was to step out of range. “We’ll have time to talk about the past,” he said tightly. “But this isn’t the place. Where are you staying? At the Continental or the Congress?”

“I didn’t make any arrangements.”

“Then we have a problem.” His day was sinking from bad to disastrous. “The Morgan versus Fitzgerald fight is tonight and there isn’t a vacant hotel room in town.” Worse, he could see that his plans to attend the “fight of the decade” were fading by the minute.

She made a face of disgust. “Naturally I expected you to make the necessary arrangements after you received my telegram.”

Her scathing tone implied that even a low character like him should have been gentlemanly enough to see to her accommodations.

The spring day had begun cool and comfortable, but now Sam felt the sun on his face and back, as hot as the anger rising in his throat. “The time for expectations passed a long time ago, Angie. Coming here was your idea, not mine. I didn’t ask you to come, not this time.” He felt a kernel of satisfaction in seeing her jerk upright and blink hard. “Your father should have made your arrangements.”

“My father died six weeks ago,” she said sharply, scowling as if her father’s death was his fault.

Learning that Bertoli had died provided an additional petty sense of satisfaction. He’d outlived the bastard. His instinct was to spit and say good riddance, but he managed to restrain the impulse. However, he didn’t offer the obligatory and in his case hypocritical “I’m sorry.” Instead, aware they couldn’t stand here on the platform much longer without attracting attention, if they hadn’t already, he turned his mind to the problem of where she could stay. Unfortunately, he could think of only one place.

“I guess you’ll have to stay at my house,” he said finally, his reluctance plain.

“If that’s too objectionable, you could abandon me right here! Certainly you’ve done it before.”

She thought that he had abandoned her? Biting down on his back teeth, he stared in disbelief. One thing was already clear. He had been dead wrong to assume she hadn’t changed much. The Angelina Bertoli he’d believed he had known had been a sweet, compliant girl, a dimpled, smiling angel. Once upon a foolish time, he had believed that a cross word could not pass those lush kissable lips. He would have laughed and waved aside any suggestion that she might grow up to be snappish, waspish, or ill-tempered. At the same time he would have denied that he could ever feel this much bitterness toward a member of the fair sex. As recently as this morning, he’d assumed they would be cordially indifferent to each other.

Stepping away from her, he flagged down a passing wagon and offered the driver four bits to haul her luggage to his place. After a minute of haggling, he and Albie Morris settled on six bits. Neither the price nor Albie’s curiosity improved Sam’s mood.

Now the question became where to take her. They had to talk, but he didn’t want to do it at home. None of the saloons were fit for decent women. And with so many people in town for the fight, even respectable places would be crowded.

“Now what?” she asked, watching Albie haul her luggage to his wagon, one piece at a time. “Be careful with the trunks!”

“There’s a place on the way.” Molly Johnson had mentioned the opening of a new bakery and pastry shop. If he was lucky few people would be in a pastry shop midway between lunch and supper. Of course, if he were lucky this problem with Angie would have been solved years ago. If he were lucky, he’d be a rich man with no legal difficulties, no worries, and no Angie.

But so far he hadn’t been especially lucky. When they arrived at the pastry shop, without having spoken a single word during the downhill walk, he discovered Mrs. Finn owned the place, a detail Molly Johnson had neglected to mention. There was no question now. Tomorrow his name would flutter across a lot of tongues.

“Howdy,” he said, lifting his hat. Through the back windows he spotted some outside tables. Taking Angie’s arm, he started toward the French doors, but Mrs. Finn stepped in front of them.

“ ’lo, Mr. Holland. Haven’t seen you in an age.” A bright smile grazed past him and settled expectantly on Angie.

Hope evaporated that Angie could depart Willow Creek before anyone learned who she was. Sam had known the Finns too long to insult Sarah Finn by refusing an introduction.

Anger burned in his chest. Whatever Angie had to say—and he hoped he knew what that was—could have been said in a letter. She didn’t have to come to Willow Creek, didn’t have to dredge up old pain and resentments, didn’t have to place him in an awkward position in front of people he knew.