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The Bride of Willow Creek(92)

By:Maggie Osborne


He had loved her ten years ago, and he loved her now.





Chapter 17

Everyone on Carr Street contributed to the success of Can and Molly Johnson’s gala celebration and going-away party.

The neighborhood women baked for three days, vying to outdo one another with their cakes, fruit pies, cobblers, and bread puddings. Wonderful scents wafted from every kitchen as favorite potluck dishes simmered or bubbled or baked.

Abby Mueller’s husband dug a fire pit in the Mueller backyard, lined the pit with rocks of similar size, and then chased everyone away while he laid a fire by his secret method, settled a pig in the coals to slow roast for two days, and covered the pit with a dome of rocks and dirt. Those who had savored Hugo Mueller’s roast pork in the past wandered by to inspect the dome and lick their lips in anticipation.

Tilly Morgan’s husband took up a collection for the kegs of beer that the men set up next to the bandstand Sam built. Days before the event Tilly started squeezing lemons, and her oldest girl went door to door soliciting sugar to make tubs of lemonade for the ladies and children.

Sam and Henry Church knocked together long tables to hold the food and built a dozen benches so folks could sit and rest their feet a spell during the dancing. They assembled sawhorses to barricade both ends of the block.

When the ladies weren’t cooking or doing housework or inspecting the men’s handiwork, they ran in and out of one another’s houses borrowing a smidgeon of baking powder or returning a cup of flour, comparing notes and checking last-minute details.

“The hardest part was keeping our guests of honor from contributing like everyone else,” Angie said, smiling at Sam as she tied his necktie. “I think Molly made Can a batch of molasses cookies just because she had to cook something or explode.”

Standing this close, she felt Sam’s warmth and the solid power of muscle and strength. She sensed the magnetic pull of his body and remembered the salty taste of his skin. For an instant she felt dizzy. Her fingers stumbled and she fought an impulse to step forward into his arms.

Sam gazed down with twinkling eyes as if he’d guessed what she was thinking. “It’s been a week since you came to my tent,” he murmured in a throaty voice. “I miss you.”

“Hush. We agreed to be circumspect,” she said, giving his tie a sharp tug.

“I miss kissing you and caressing you and licking that spot between your—”

“Sam Holland, you stop right now!” Then her eyes softened above fiery cheeks. “Soon.”

Over and over again she promised herself that making love to him was a learning experience, nothing more. And how fortunate she was to have Sam as her teacher. He seemed to know a great deal about the subject.

“You’re blushing,” he said, grinning down at her. “Whatever might you be thinking, Mrs. Holland?”

“Nothing I can say aloud when the girls will be running in the front door any minute.”

As if a mention became a summons, Lucy and Daisy ran inside, eyes bright with excitement. “We put our pies at the end of the table like you said. The table was one cloth short so we borrowed a table cloth from Dilly Crane’s mother.”

Daisy spun in a lurching circle, her golden hair flying like silk. “Are you really going to play the fiddle, Papa?”

“That I am. Will you fetch the case, please? But we have several fiddlers, so I won’t be playing all evening. You ladies save me a dance.”

Daisy’s excited smile altered to distress. “I don’t like to dance.”

“Well, you’re going to tonight,” Sam promised. “You can dance at the party or you can dance here in our kitchen after the party. But I’m going to dance with the three prettiest ladies and that includes you, Miss Daisy Holland.”

A smile of adoration lit her face and she laughed. “I’d rather dance after the party.”

“Well then, I think we’re ready. Shall we go see what good things there are to eat? I believe I’ll start with Angie’s famous beef noodle stew.”

“Me, too,” Lucy said loyally. Since the day she and Angie had talked, she’d developed a new attitude toward a lot of things.

“And me, too,” Daisy said.

They stood smiling at her, her handsome husband and his beautiful daughters. And Angie’s throat tightened at the thought of how amazingly different her life had become in so short a time.

There was no leisure in which to read a novel or compose long, amusing or informative letters home. A list of chores demanded every available minute; most of the time she felt she’d never catch up. And something always ached, either her knees from scrubbing the floor, or her back from bending over the sink and over her sewing, or her arms from carrying heavy baskets of wet clothing outside to the line.