The Bride of Willow Creek(3)

Grudging every word, he introduced Sarah to Angie, then clenched his teeth and hesitated before he said, “And this is Mrs. Holland, my wife.”



Mrs. Finn’s look of astonishment told Angie that no one in Willow Creek knew Sam was married. The information spoke volumes. Everyone in her life knew she was a wife without a spouse, but Sam had avoided that particular humiliation. She gripped her handbag so tightly that her knuckles whitened inside her gloves.

“My, my,” Mrs. Finn breathed. Her startled expression turned to fascination as she studied Angie. “We have a wedding to celebrate.”

“I’m afraid not. Our tenth anniversary was yesterday.” If her reply embarrassed Sam, all the better.

Mrs. Finn’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened to the size of saucers. Very satisfying. Angie hoped that Mrs. Finn was a gossip and that Sam’s deceit would be widely broadcast.

“Bring Mrs. Holland a cup of coffee and one of those flaky things,” Sam said gruffly, waving a hand toward the pastry counter. “We’ll be outside.”

His hand on her arm was none too gentle when he jerked her toward the doors. So he was angry. Good. So was she, angrier than she had imagined she would be.

In fact, shortly before her father died, she had told Peter De Groot that she never thought about Sam anymore, that she forgot about him for years at a time. And it was true. She only recalled Sam when he wrote her father a rare letter notifying them that he had changed his address.

Until she stepped on the train departing Chicago for Denver, she had genuinely believed that her anger and pain had drowned in tears many years ago. But fresh resentment had grown with every click of the iron wheels, culminating in that appalling moment when she had drawn back her fist and hit him. That she had done such a thing scalded her cheeks with embarrassed heat.

She would have sworn on the family Bible that she had set aside that old promise long ago, that she would never humiliate herself by committing such an unthinkable act. She couldn’t believe that she had actually struck him. In public. Or that she had enjoyed it so much and wished she could hit him again. Thank heaven her mother wasn’t alive to hear about this.

“Was it necessary to tell Mrs. Finn our business?”

Oh yes. She wished she could hit him again. “Is our anniversary supposed to be a secret?”

Sam rocked back on the legs of his chair, staring out at the town, which sprawled steeply downhill in a ramshackle collection of small houses, shacks, and tents. Few trees shielded the buildings from the sun; most of the aspen and spruce had been cut to build houses and shore up mine shafts. The lack of trees and any attempt at prettification gave the place a raw new look of uncertainty as if permanency was by no means guaranteed. The surrounding mountain peaks also impressed Angie as daunting. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing patches of snow in April. Dropping her gaze, she inspected Sam’s stony profile.

Since he balanced his hat on his knees, she had a good look at his long dark hair. Men didn’t wear long hair in Chicago, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. The single long curl at his neck made him look roguish and foreign. Adding to her feeling of meeting a stranger was the age in his eyes and lining his tanned face. He’d remained frozen in her mind at eighteen. Back then, he’d worn a mustache that she had thought very handsome. Now he was clean shaven and she could see the definition of his lips.

Oddly, she found this tanned, exotic-looking stranger secretly appealing. That thought was too disturbing to allow. She did not want to think about the shape of his mouth, or the width of his shoulders, or the chiseled angles of his profile, or the rich timbre of his voice, or anything else that might be remotely admirable or attractive.

Lowering her head, she pushed a finger at the croissant Mrs. Finn had placed before her. “I want a divorce, Sam.”

He nodded, holding his gaze on the valley. “I figured. I’ve been expecting this for years.” Not looking at her, he reached for his coffee cup. “You’ll hear no argument from me. Go ahead and get one.”

Blast his hide, he wasn’t going to make this easy. She pressed her lips together and fought to control an outburst of temper and old grievances.

“I would have begun proceedings and then notified you by post, except I need your help. Actually, I need you to pay for everything.” This was not the moment to let pride block her path. Still, begging assistance was so hard that she couldn’t speak above a whisper. “I can’t afford to hire an attorney, nor can I support myself while I’m awaiting the final resolution.” Back in Chicago her father was rolling in his grave because she’d admitted her near destitution and made a plea for Sam’s assistance.