The Bride of Willow Creek(32)

“Molly’s become a friend. She’s only trying to help.”

She stood, too, and suddenly they were only a foot apart. He inhaled the scent of roses on her skin and the starch on her shirtwaist. If he had lowered his eyes, he would have seen the rise and fall of her breasts and the narrowness of her waist.

Out of nowhere came the memory that he had kissed her three times. Twice on their wedding day. Once before then. Hard, passionate, closed-mouth kisses. The kisses of two inexperienced people scarcely out of childhood.

“Have you ever kissed anyone besides me?” he asked suddenly.

Scarlet flooded her cheeks. “Of course not!”

“That’s too bad.”

Discovering that he was the only man she had kissed drove home the wasted years. She was a twenty-six-year-old married virgin who’d never really been kissed. No wonder she was angry 90 percent of the time.

“Angie, I’m sorry.” He’d said it before, but this time he meant it. Life hadn’t treated her fairly. He shook his head. “We were so young, all those years ago. So damned young.”

The fight went out of her eyes, and she sat down abruptly. “How could we have believed that we were old enough to make a marriage?” A sigh lifted her breast and briefly she closed her eyes. “It’s late, Sam. Let’s not talk about the past. We’ll just get angry.”

He nodded and fought an urge to wonder what might have happened if she had come west with him all those years ago. Would they have been happy? On a night like tonight, would they have cast eager glances toward the bedroom door? Wasted thoughts. “Good night, Angie.” He’d reached the kitchen door before she called to him.

“Oh. I should remind you. Be ready to leave at ten-thirty.”

“Leave for where?”

“Church.” Looking over her shoulder, she lifted an eyebrow and ran her gaze over his denims and work shirt. “I imagine you’ll want to stop by the bathhouse first.”

Molly usually took the girls to church. When they went. But he could hardly beg off, not after Angie had all but accused him of neglecting his daughters. Immediately he understood there was no way he could spend Sunday morning up on Gold Hill working his claims. Cursing beneath his breath, he let the kitchen door bang shut behind him. And then turned around and went inside again.

“My suit and my good shoes are in your closet.” His closet.

She nodded. “I’ll set them out in the morning.”

“You’re changing things,” he said after a minute. He wondered if her hair smelled like roses, too. Wondered if the dimples on either side of her mouth deepened when she smiled. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if she ever smiled.

“I don’t mean to change anything.” He could swear that she was staring at his mouth with an odd expression. “I don’t like the idea of Laura and I’ll never respect her. I want to be clear about that. But when I look at the girls, I ask myself what she would have done, what she would have wanted. I think she would have wanted them to spend time with their father. I think she would have wanted them to go to church.”

He didn’t argue. Just turned around and went outside.

Sleeping in a tent was no hardship. Sam had lived in his tent during the years he’d wandered the west, seeking his fortune and his future. The musty canvas odor was familiar, a reminder of a lot of hopes and disappointments.

But he hadn’t had a house nearby during those years. Hadn’t owned a featherbed. Which his wife was enjoying without him.

Folding his hands behind his head, he stared up at the tent ceiling. He didn’t like having Angie back in his life, didn’t like the feelings of desire she aroused or the sense of inadequacy that he had believed he’d long ago overcome.

At odd times, he found himself conducting a silent dialogue with her father in which he explained that he might have prospered if he had settled down instead of seeking his fortune in the mining camps. But with his wife refusing to leave Chicago, he’d seen no reason to settle down. He’d been free to prospect for silver first, and now for gold. With nothing tying him down, he’d dreamed big dreams and he’d had the opportunity to chase them. He’d done well enough that he hadn’t lacked for necessities, but unfortunately he hadn’t prospered.

People said Gold Hill had already divulged most of its treasures, but Sam didn’t believe it. And the naysayers claimed the days of huge strikes were over. Sam didn’t believe that either. Only last month Mort Jablonski had sold his claim to one of the syndicates for eighty thousand dollars. It wasn’t a million, but the figure wasn’t to be sneezed at either, especially considering Jablonski’s ore didn’t assay at a high concentration.