The Bride of Willow Creek(33)

He rolled on his side and closed his eyes. During most of his prospecting years, he’d wanted to find his fortune. Now he needed to find it. Needing made a big difference. There were nights he couldn’t sleep because he heard the summer ticking away.

And there were nights like tonight when he couldn’t sleep because the scent of roses filled his nostrils and his mind teased him with flashing black eyes and dimpled cheeks and lips just begging for a real kiss.



The girls came out their room looking neat and tidy but wearing calico dresses and untrimmed straw hats. Both girls wore their scuffed everyday shoes.

Angie narrowed her eyes, drawing her gloves through her hand. Was this another challenge? Or a rebellion? They had made their reluctance plain; they were not enthusiastic about attending church. And they resisted doing whatever she wanted them to do.

While she was considering, Sam entered the back door, muttering and tugging at his necktie. For an instant, Angie forgot about Lucy and Daisy and stared at him. Lord A’mighty, he was a handsome man. She’d thought he couldn’t look much better than he did wearing his denims and the flannel shirts that made his shoulders look a yard wide. But seeing him in his Sunday suit reminded her of the man she had married.

Except he didn’t wear a mustache now, and the maturity in his face made him more interesting. Time had exaggerated the stubbornness firming his jawline, had deepened the intensity of his gaze. He carried himself with confidence, as if he didn’t expect to encounter anything he hadn’t seen before or couldn’t handle. If Angie had met him today, she would have guessed he was a successful businessman, a bit ruthless, a bit calculating. And in need of a haircut.

When she realized they were staring at each other, she cleared her throat self-consciously and touched a hand to the brim of her hat before she returned her attention to the girls.

“Please go back and put on your Sunday dresses,” she said pleasantly but firmly.

“We don’t have Sunday dresses,” Lucy answered, looking more offended than Angie would have believed a seven-year-old could look.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I check.” Marching past them, she entered their room, not believing Lucy’s claim for a minute. Jerking open an old armoire, she peered inside, then scanned the room. Angry, she rushed back to the kitchen and planted her fists on her hips. “They do not have Sunday dresses!”

Sam blinked, then studied his daughters. “They look fine to me.” Lucy and Daisy beamed at him.

“Aside from the hats, they look like they’re dressed for school! It’s outrageous! Unacceptable.”

Finally Sam appeared to register that Angie was wearing her navy spring suit and enough petticoats to give the skirt a fashionable drape. She was not wearing one of her everyday dresses. A frown pleated his brow, and he turned to his daughters. “Why didn’t you tell me that you needed Sunday dresses?”

Angie noticed Lucy wringing her hands, and tears welled in Daisy’s eyes. She rounded on Sam. “This is not their fault!”

His eyes narrowed into slits of cold blue. “I’m not implying that anyone is at fault. Merely that I wish I’d known they needed new dresses.”

“All you had to do was—” Angie stopped the accusation. Her father had never noticed her clothes. That had been her mother’s responsibility. But Lucy and Daisy had no mother. And clearly Sam hadn’t given a minute’s thought to the difference between everyday dresses and Sunday dresses. Part of her blamed him for sending his daughters off to church in their school clothes, but the larger part of her grudgingly understood how it could happen.

“Well,” she said, tight-lipped. She beckoned the girls into her bedroom. “Let’s see if we can find something to spruce you up a little.”

“We look fine,” Lucy said, lifting her chin. “Papa said so.”

“Yes, you do,” Angie responded after a minute. “But for church you want to look extra-special nice.”

She rummaged in her accessory drawer, hoping to find something suitable for children.

“Here. This lace collar will look very smart with your dress.” To her gratification, Lucy’s eyes widened and she stroked a finger over the lace. “Tie it around your neck.”

Daisy gazed at her with damp eyes. “Are you fighting with Papa? I don’t like it when you fight.”

It hadn’t occurred to Angie that the tensions simmering between her and Sam might upset the girls. Guiltily she considered the tears floating in Daisy’s gray eyes.

“It’s just that I forgot that men don’t know about women’s clothes,” she said, patting Daisy’s small shoulder. Her reassurance was awkward because she was a novice at dealing with children. But every day she learned something new. Today’s lesson was to save any disagreements with Sam for a private moment. “Let me have your hat.”