Not giving him a chance to hold her chair, she rose quickly and walked to the door, leaving him to follow. Mrs. Finn watched them curiously as they passed the pastry counter. Mrs. Finn couldn’t have overheard anything they said, but she had lingered by the windows, observing angry expressions and gestures.
“Which way?” Angie asked, pausing in the street.
“Downhill.”
All the streets ran downhill from the depot, she had already noticed that. And she had noticed this was Carr Street, one block off Bennet, which appeared to be the main thoroughfare. None of the streets were paved. There were no lamps at the corners of the side streets. And if Willow Creek had a street crew, they should be reprimanded. Flies buzzed around mounds of horse droppings that appeared to have accumulated over a long period. Someone nearby was burning trash, and the pungent fruity odor pinched Angie’s nostrils.
Suddenly she missed Chicago with an intensity that was sharp and visceral. The small wooden houses on either side of Carr were shacks compared to the neat brick homes on the street where she’d grown to womanhood. Weeds and wildflowers ran rampant in yards where she was accustomed to seeing neatly trimmed grass and beds of cultivated flowers. In Chicago men didn’t wear long hair that made them resemble pirates from a bygone era. Bakery shops carried a larger selection than only croissants and frosted buns. Chicago was civilized and it was home. Tears of homesickness glistened in her eyes, and she decided she hated it here.
“This is it,” Sam announced in a flat voice.
They halted before a one-story structure smaller than the carriage house behind her home in Chicago. The only thing in the house’s favor was that it looked sturdy and didn’t appear quite as thrown together as the houses on either side. But the size dismayed her. They would be bumping into each other every time they turned around.
Slowly, she walked around the pile of luggage Albie Morris had dumped in the dirt yard and stood silently while Sam opened the door.
Outside, the planks ran vertically from ground to roof. Inside, the planks were placed horizontally. A pitched ceiling had been finished with canvas for weatherproofing.
A glance identified two bedrooms—thank heaven—opening off one main room that served as kitchen, dining room, and parlor. Leaving Sam to bring her things inside, Angie stood in the center of the room and looked around.
Flowered curtains at the window over the sink surprised her. As did a cloth on the table and the vase of dandelions. And the braided rug. These efforts to soften the bleak lines of stark necessity were unexpected, particularly in the residence of a bachelor as ruggedly male as Sam. Dust she would have expected; the tidiness she had not.
After fetching the last of her trunks, Sam walked past her to the sink. “This place isn’t a tenth of what you’re used to, but there’s inside water.” He indicated the pump handle at the sink. “And the walls are tight. There isn’t a square foot that isn’t insulated with newspaper this thick.” He indicated half an inch. “The stove burns evenly, and there’s a root cellar out back.”
His expression indicated that he expected her to say something. But what? What could she say about a three-room house that had little more to offer than shelter from the elements? Where did one bathe? Where did one sit in the evenings? How did the occupants get away from each other to enjoy a little privacy? She doubted he wanted to hear that if she had to live in this tiny primitive place very long, she’d go crazy.
The back door slammed open and two small girls spun into the room like miniature whirlwinds, their soiled and shapeless dresses flying around dirty, sagging stockings. They flung themselves at Sam.
“You’re home early!”
“A man left a pile of baggage outside but Mrs. Molly said we couldn’t touch anything.”
“Girls?” Sam smiled at them, made an awkward attempt to smooth down their flyaway tangled hair. “Girls! We have a guest.”
Now they spotted Angie and instantly went silent and shy, standing on either side of Sam, leaning against his legs. They inspected her with twin sets of gray eyes that had turned curious and wary.
“This is Angie. She’ll be staying with us for a while.” He lifted his head and met Angie’s wide eyes. “These are my daughters.”
Chapter 2
“This is Lucy. She’s seven.” Sam covered her golden head with his hand. “And this is Daisy, who is five.”
Angie’s mouth opened and closed, and she pressed a hand to her breast as if she couldn’t breathe. Sam guessed her breathlessness would pass in about a minute and she would start to fizz like a geyser building steam. Kneeling, he gazed at his girls, wishing they didn’t look so ragtag and flyaway today.