Colorado Dawn (45 page)

Willow stifled a sigh and went back to studying her script. Her sister had a tendency to get stuck on a conversational waterwheel, turning and turning and pouring out the same cold, damp accusations. Protesting wouldn’t stop the flow.

“You’re not listening to me.” The brush collided with the tabletop, and Francine’s imperious eyes met hers in the three mirror panes—each from a slightly different angle and each pair of black-lashed daggers summing Willow up and finding her wanting.

“I’m trying to learn these lines so I’ll be ready for rehearsal.” She checked the enamel clock on the shelf. “It’s almost time.”

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. An actress”—Francine drew in a deep breath and spread one arm wide, jangling the bracelets on her wrist—“doesn’t ‘learn lines.’ She
becomes
the character.”

How many times had their mother said the same thing?

Francine rouged her lips. “You haven’t the faintest clue how to play Jane Eyre. Mother saw to it we had the best acting classes, diction and singing lessons; and anyone with an ounce of sense knows that I’m the better actress. Clement is just being difficult, giving you the lead.”

Willow held her tongue.

A knock interrupted the tirade. “Rehearsal.”

Willow thankfully closed the notebook containing her script and rose, letting her heavy silk skirt settle around her and making sure her posture couldn’t be caviled at. “Are you ready?”

“Of course.” Francine stood, checked her appearance once more, and swept out ahead of Willow.

Scooping up Francine’s notebook, Willow propped it on her hip with her own and headed to the stage. All the warning signs of a major storm were brewing, and she didn’t look forward to a rehearsal with Francine in this mood.

Though she was only a few moments behind everyone else in arriving, she could still feel the half-triumphant, half-accusatory glare Francine shot her way. Clement stood at his lectern marking up his script while several actors waited. Francine swept across the stage and seated herself in the most comfortable chair.

Philip Moncrieff sidled up to Willow. “You look lovely, my dear.” His oleaginous voice slid over her. “Clement seems to be of the opinion you and I need some more rehearsing in order to be fully prepared for opening night.” Turning his back to the director, he rubbed his hand down Willow’s arm. “I’d be happy to rehearse with you whenever you’d like. Especially our more tender scenes.”

Willow snatched her arm from his grasp and edged around him.

Clement tapped his pencil to get everyone’s attention. “I want to work first on act 2, scene 3. Philip, if you could watch your pacing here. You’re rushing a bit, and Francine, though you have a major part in this scene, it won’t do for you to obscure the leads. I need you to stay near the settee. You’re such a commanding presence and so lovely, you’ll draw too much attention away from Willow and Philip if you walk clear across the stage.”

Willow had to admire how Clement handled her sister. Through flattery and cajoling, he got her to do his bidding while making her think it was her idea the whole time.

The next three hours taxed Willow’s patience to the limit. Nothing she did satisfied Francine, though Clement encouraged her efforts and interpretation and praised her at every turn.

True to form, Francine hadn’t bothered to work on her lines much yet, relying heavily on the poor young girl who had the woeful job of being “on-book” for rehearsals, shouting out “Line!” at frequent intervals, and snapping her fingers until the girl supplied the next line.

Oddly enough, on the two occasions when Willow stumbled over a line, Francine supplied it perfectly without waiting for the prompt from the wings.

Still, things were coming together, and Francine Starr was too proud to go onstage for a performance without knowing her own part well. There would be crazed cramming, bouts of tears, and histrionics in the run-up to opening night, but she would appear serene and in command once the footlights were lit.

Clement finally called an end to rehearsal, and Willow sagged into a chair. Acting left her exhilarated and exhausted, a confusing combination that required solitude to sort out. While the rest of the cast and crew filed out of the auditorium, Willow let the ensuing quiet bathe her soul.

Her mind drifted to the place it wanted to be, back beside the stream talking to the extraordinary man who was never far from her thoughts these days. Though she’d returned to the creek twice in the last week, she hadn’t caught sight of him. Every time she walked through the hotel lobby or down the main street of Martin City, she searched for his face, but so far they’d not crossed paths again. She couldn’t get him out of her head, and the more she remembered his face, his voice, his laugh, and the way it had felt to be held in his arms, the more she longed to see him again, if only to confirm he was as truly wonderful as she’d made him out to be.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and before she could turn, a hand came down on her shoulder, clamping and kneading the base of her neck. “I thought I’d find you here. You’re tense. Let me help you.”

She shot out of her chair like she’d been snake bit, her script crashing to the floorboards and pages fanning and flapping. “Don’t, Philip. I don’t like you touching me.”

He laughed, and the predatory look on his face was such a contrast to the image she had in her mind of her gallant rescuer of a few days ago, she flinched.

“That’s because you’re such an innocent. Don’t you know that touch-me-not air you wear drives all men mad? It begs a real man to break down those icy walls and touch the fire he knows burns there.”

Ignoring his customary flair for the dramatic, she sought to cut him down once and for all. “You wouldn’t know a real man if he walked up and shook your hand. If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to complain to Clement.” This direst of threats didn’t even make him pause.

“If you do, he’ll assume we won’t be able to carry off our parts on stage as passionate and star-crossed lovers. He’s likely to bounce you right out of your role and put Francine in your place.” He spoke with such assurance, Willow wondered if he’d already broached the subject with the director. “I’ve worked with Clement a long time. He won’t remove me as Mr. Rochester, because”—Philip held up one finger—“I’m perfect for the role, and there isn’t anyone else in the troupe who can play the role, especially not three days from opening night. You, on the other hand, could be ousted like that.” He snapped is fingers. “Francine has your lines down perfectly. She’s practically salivating.”

Frustrated with the undercurrents, the petty squabbles and jealousy, and Philip’s slimy manipulation, Willow stooped and gathered her papers. “If you don’t leave me alone, she’ll get her wish. I’ll walk out of this production so fast your head will spin. And then where will you be? What do you think the critics will say, and the public?”

He flinched. The posters around town promised Willow as Jane Eyre, and there were two Denver critics already in town awaiting Friday night. A change in the lead role at this late date would spell disaster, and he had to know it.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Willow alone in the vast auditorium. As she tidied her papers and studied the chandeliers, the rows of seats, and the ornate balcony boxes, she realized she could walk away from all of this without a backward glance. If only she had some place to go.

Silas pinched the bridge of his nose and tried once more to get the meeting back on track. Committees were one of the most difficult parts of his job. While he knew the need for counsel and getting people involved in the decision making and running of the church, committees leeched time and energy, often created rifts where none would’ve existed, and taxed his patience.

His board of elders—both of them—and the deacons and deaconesses sat in the front two rows of pews, while he sat in a straight-backed chair before them. His Bible and the meeting itinerary lay on a small writing table at his elbow, and his watch lay open beside them, the hands creeping toward the top of the hour.

“Jesse, could you give us the financial report?” Money and the church. The combination made his stomach tighten. No wonder Jesus addressed money so often in His parables and teaching. No subject got believers worked up quite as quickly as cash…unless it was the lack of it.

Jesse Mackenzie shuffled a few pieces of paper and cleared his throat before launching into a detailing of expenses set against the tithes and offerings that had come in the last month. Silas fought to keep his mind on business as various ideas were put forth regarding acquiring an organ and whether to increase the giving to the China Inland Mission.

Inevitably, they reached the line item M
ARTIN
C
ITY
O
RPHANAGE
. Dissention abounded on this issue, and as he had feared, the center aisle divided the yeas from the nays.

“We’re not debating whether or not to help the new orphanage, but rather in what capacity. Mr. Mackenzie has the floor right now. There will be opportunity for discussion as soon as he presents his findings.” He gave this gentle reminder when Larry Horton and Beatrice Drabble scowled, and Beatrice looked set to start another diatribe on the orphanage. She set her mouth, reminding Silas of a mule his father had once owned, and crossed her arms, waiting her turn.

The discussion continued, and Silas listened with only half an ear. The rest of his attention drifted to the one thing he couldn’t seem to get off his mind.

The girl.

Once more he gave himself a mental kick for not at least getting her name. His search for her had proven fruitless over the past week. Not that he’d had a lot of time to devote to looking. Church business, sermon preparation, teaching his midweek boys’ class, visitation, an unexpected trip to a neighboring town—his duties filled his time, and until now he’d embraced them with eagerness.

But that was before he’d rescued an adorable sprite with lively gray eyes and a nose that tilted up at the tip just enough to save her from otherworldly perfection. Her grace and clear soprano voice, her laughter and the delightful way the color rose in her cheeks—he remembered every second of their encounter.

Not to mention the feel of her in his arms, and how his heart had raced with her head pillowed against his chest.

He dragged his mind away. A man had no right to let his thoughts dwell on a woman that way when they weren’t even courting.

Courting. He swallowed, and the hunger to know more about her, to find out if she was even free to be courted, tugged at him.

“I don’t see why you’re all so eager for one ministry to drain the resources of the church in this manner.” Mrs. Drabble’s voice cut across his thoughts and brought him back to the meeting at hand.

Jesse Mackenzie leaned forward and planted his elbow on the pew ahead of him, resting his cheek on his fist. “Mrs. Drabble, the board of elders brought this motion before the congregation months ago. You voted for it yourself. It’s our obligation as Christians to take care of widows and orphans.”

“I agree, but I voted yes assuming our contribution would be merely financial. Adding the orphanage to our missions giving is one thing. Expecting me to oversee volunteers, fund-raisers, and I don’t know what else…” She dabbed her neck with her lacy handkerchief. “It’s the windows all over again. People rush to say they want something done, and the work of bringing it about falls upon my shoulders.”

Mr. Meeker, who served alongside Jesse as a church elder, cleared his throat and offered as meekly as his name implied, “Mrs. Drabble, if I remember correctly, you declared if the church was going to be headstrong and insist upon having stained-glass windows, you were the only one of the congregation qualified to see the task done. You took over the entire project. We wanted to help you, but you said you didn’t need help.”

Her lips puckered, and her nostrils flared. “I was the only one who had experience with ordering materials from abroad. Of course I saw it as my duty to shoulder the burden once the board had rushed into the decision.”

Silas rapped the tabletop lightly. “Everyone, please, can we stay on the topic at hand? Mrs. Drabble, the windows are beautiful. You chose well, and we all rested more easily knowing the project was in your capable hands.” He shot Jesse a warning glance. Mrs. Drabble might be at times a chore, but she was one of the most capable and organized women he’d ever met. When she took on a task, it got done, and heaven help anyone who stood in her way. “That’s why we feel you are just the person to be in charge of the orphanage outreach. No one here could see to the needs of these poor unfortunates as well as you.”

A flush came to her cheeks. The wrinkles beside her eyes deepened, and she dabbed at her neck once again.

Her husband, a languid, quiet man, nodded and patted her hand. The Drabbles owned the largest mercantile in Martin City, supplying everything from canned goods to chandeliers.

“Beatrice.” Heads turned to Matilda Mackenzie, seated beside her husband. “If it will be of help to you, I’d be happy to assist. I’m in rather a unique position as both a board member of the orphanage and a deaconess of this church. Together I’m sure we can find a balance that benefits the orphanage and doesn’t tax the church’s resources, financial or physical, too much.”