The Bride of Willow Creek(50)

She returned with a fistful of columbines which she shyly pushed into Angie’s hands without a word. Then she ran out the back door, shouting at Lucy to hurry up.

Angie blinked at the columbines she had planted in the front yard only this morning. An odd ache opened inside her chest.



Every third night, Sam took the midnight-to-morning watch at the Dryfus job. The difficulty was trying to stay awake during the wee quiet hours, particularly as he was beginning to feel the long hours and lack of sleep.

Smothering a yawn, he raised his lantern to examine the plasterwork on the reverend’s new parlor walls. Rafe had done a superior job. Neither Sam nor his men lived in splendid houses, but they knew how to build one, he thought proudly. And the reverend’s parsonage was quality all the way. It even had baseboards and rose-carved lintels capping the interior doors. Best of all, the finish work was nearly done. They’d start painting and complete the site cleanup early next week.

Relief made his shoulders slump, followed by a glimmer of optimism. After he handed the key to Reverend Dryfus, he’d call on three maybes and turn them into you’ve-got-the-job. Perhaps his fortunes had turned, and the worst of his troubles lay behind him.

Cheered, he stepped outside and walked around the house, moving carefully in the inky darkness. At this hour, no lights burned in the windows of nearby residences, and heavy clouds blotted the moon. He saw nothing suspicious near the house, heard no sounds out of the ordinary.

Reassured, he sat on the ground to eat a sandwich of butter and cheese. He propped his back against the rough bark of a cottonwood tree. Angie and the girls would be asleep, resting sweetly in their beds. Angie’s thick braid would lie on the pillow. Maybe she’d opened the top buttons of her nightgown. . . .

Sam woke with a start, blinking hard and cursing beneath his breath. Damn it all, he would have fired any man who fell asleep on watch, and now here he’d gone and done it himself. One minute he was listening to the quiet rustle of the leaves overhead and thinking about Angie, and the next thing he knew, he was pulling himself out of a sound sleep.

Lifting his pocket watch close to his nose, he tried to make out the time, but the darkness was too thick beneath the cottonwood. Cussing softly, he walked toward the window of the parlor where the light was better.

His eyes snapped open and a yawn died in his throat. Son of a bitch.

In three seconds flat he was through the front door and into the parlor. Smoke drifted near the ceiling, curled down to sting his eyes. Rags and paper and scrap lumber blazed in a pile in the center of the room.

Tearing off his denim jacket, Sam beat at the flames, scattering burning pieces across the bare parlor floor. Thank God the planks hadn’t yet been oiled. After ten long minutes, he had stamped or smothered all the flames. Coughing, he opened the windows and leaned his head outside to gulp deep breaths of cool night air while the smoke streamed past him.

The fire hadn’t been burning long. He couldn’t have missed the arsonist by more than a few minutes. His fist came down hard on the windowsill. If he’d been awake. If he’d caught the perpetrator. Then the worry and anxiety would have ended. No more wondering if anyone else would hire him. No more fear that he wouldn’t be able to feed his family. The girls would get a school far from the Old Homestead. The night watches would end and he’d have more money for Angie’s jars.

But he’d been asleep, dreaming about a kiss that wouldn’t be repeated. Damn, damn.

Furious and disgusted, he swept up the ash and debris and got down on his knees in the lamplight to examine the floor for damage. Then he climbed a ladder and inspected the smoke stains darkening the ceiling before he opened his watch beside the lantern.

If he worked like a demon, he could paint out the smoke stains before first light. He couldn’t repair the floor before his crew arrived, but he could remove the charred planks and make sure no evidence remained. No one needed to know the Dryfus place would have burned if he hadn’t awakened when he did.

Grimly, he assembled paint, brushes, and a cloth to catch any splatters. He positioned the lantern, then climbed up his ladder. Beginning tomorrow, he’d assign two men to the night watches.

But now he had an answer. He’d made discreet inquiries and not a single soul in the district held a grudge against Reverend Dryfus. In fact, one of the town councilmen had insisted, “The reverend is as universally liked and respected as you are, Sam.”

Well, someone out there did not like or respect Sam Holland. And Sam suspected he knew who it had to be. He couldn’t think of anyone else or any other reason. The question now was what to do about it.