Schulze, Dallas (27 page)

“If my pulse is beating quickly, it’s because you make me so
angry,” she told him.

Bishop appeared unmoved and with a sound that could only be
described as a snarl of frustration, she spun around and wrenched open the
door. Slamming it behind her, she took off down the boardwalk, sure that steam
must be rising from her person.

She was almost to Bridget’s house when it occurred to her that
Bishop hadn’t agreed to a single thing she’d asked.

Lila’s temper was still simmering when she got to Bridget’s. She’d
never known anyone who could make her so angry with so little effort. With
nothing more than a lift of his eyebrow, Bishop could make her forget
everything she’d ever been taught about proper behavior. She’d gone her whole
life without ever striking anyone—although she had kicked Douglas in the shins
a time or two when he was particularly annoying—yet within a matter of weeks,
she’d tried to slap Bishop not once but twice. And the fact that she hadn’t
succeeded didn’t make her feel any better. If she was completely honest with
herself, she’d have to admit that she felt only regret at her failure.

She nodded a greeting to Mr. Fitch as she swept past his store.
His answering smile was almost shy, and Lila found herself remembering the
things Bishop had told her about him. If they’d come from someone else, she
would have thought them lies, but, while Bishop might be a despicable excuse
for a human being whose main purpose in life was to annoy her, she didn’t think
he was a liar. A fiend from hell perhaps, but not a liar.

Lifting her skirts a modest inch, she stepped off the boardwalk
onto the dirt, turning off the main street. Her mood had improved only
marginally when she let herself through the gate in front of Bridget’s house,
but she paused to admire the rosebush. A sprinkling of slender buds decorated
some of the canes, a promise of beauty to come. Somewhat soothed by the sight,
she continued up the walkway and knocked on the door. Bridget’s voice called
out from inside, inviting her to enter.

“I’m in the kitchen.” Lila made her way through the house, hearing
the sound of children laughing somewhere outside. The big kitchen was filled
with the rich scent of baking bread. Half a dozen finished loaves were lined up
on one end of the big oak table. Crisp, tan crusts peeked from beneath the
edges of flour-sack covers. An earthenware bowl sat in the middle of the table,
the dough it contained starting to press up against the towel that covered it.
Bridget was shaping another mound of dough into loaves, setting them in waiting
pans.

“Are you going into the bakery business?” Lila asked as she set
her reticule down and lifted her arms to unpin her hat.

“A bakery wouldn’t be able to supply this family,” Bridget said
without pausing in her work. “The way they eat bread, you’d think it grew on
trees. The Lord provides, Joseph tells me, but He’s getting a good bit of help
from me when it comes to feeding this family.”

“Men generally neither understand nor appreciate a woman’s point
of view,” Lila said, setting her hat on a chair.

Bridget glanced at her, one sandy red brow raised in question.
“Had words with the sheriff, did you?”

Lila flushed with embarrassment at having allowed Bridget to guess
as much. “I don’t know what gave you that impression,” she said stiffly.

“It’s a subtle thing,” Bridget said as she shaped the last of the
dough and set it into a loaf pan. Straightening, she wiped her hands on the
apron tied around her slender waist and gave Lila a considering look. “I think
it might have been the fact that your hair seems a mite redder than it did when
you left the little one here.”

“My hair?” Lila put her hand up to touch the carefully pinned
twist into which she’d confined the heavy mass that morning.

“I was thinking it might be a good idea to have a bucket of water
handy, just in case it actually burst into flames.” Her hazel eyes twinkled
with laughter.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lila said, torn between amusement and
embarrassment that she’d allowed her anger to show. In the best of all possible
worlds, a lady didn’t feel strong emotions but, if she
did
feel them,
she certainly didn’t reveal them. “My hair doesn’t look any different.”

“Maybe not,” Bridget conceded. “But there’s no denying the sparkle
of temper in your eyes. Had a tiff with him, did you?”

“We ... disagreed,” Lila admitted uneasily.

“Don’t take it so much to heart.” Bridget tossed a towel over the
loaves she’d just shaped. “Your husband has kept himself pretty much to himself
since he came here so I don’t know him as well as I might, but he strikes me as
a man with a bit of a stubborn streak.”

“He has the temperament of a mule,” Lila said before she could
stop herself.

Bridget laughed. “The best of them do. It seems that strong men
are generally blessed with more than a small helping of will.”

“I think Bishop got more than his fair share,” Lila said.

“Could be.” Bridget set a cast-iron tea kettle on the stove. “I’ve
always found a cup of tea is a good way to soothe the temper after having a
run-in with one of the stubborn creatures. Is this the first time the two of
you have had words?”

“Not exactly,” Lila admitted uneasily. Bridget seemed so
matter-of-fact about discussing something Lila had been brought up to believe
shouldn’t even be mentioned.

“Well, it won’t be the last time,” Bridget said comfortably as she
got out cups and saucers. “My advice to you is to try not to take it to heart.
Every couple has their quarrels now and again.”

“My parents never spoke a single harsh word to each other.”

Bridget’s eyebrows lifted. “Did they love each other?”

“Very much!”

“Then they had their quarrels. They just kept it to themselves.”
She spooned tea into a sturdy brown china teapot. “Loving someone doesn’t mean
you agree with them on all things. In fact, I think the more you love someone,
the more likely you are to disagree with them. At least that’s the case with
Joseph and myself.”

Lila thought that she and Bishop were proof positive that a couple
didn’t have to be in love to disagree, but that certainly wasn’t something she
could tell Bridget, no matter how good a friend she was.

“You don’t always agree with him?” she asked, fascinated by this
glimpse into her friend’s marriage. She’d never seen her mother utter a word of
disagreement about anything her father said or did. And even if Margaret Adams
had
disagreed with him, Lila couldn’t imagine her admitting as much to anyone else.

“Always agree with him?” Bridget’s chuckle was rich with humor. “I
don’t even always agree with myself! My mother used to say I’d argue with St.
Peter himself. I don’t know about that but Joseph and I have had our fair share
of quarrels.”

“You have?” Lila tried to imagine the soft-spoken minister
quarreling with anyone but the picture wouldn’t come clear.

“Oh, well, I suppose if I told the strict truth, I’d have to say
that
I
quarrel and Joseph allows it. If I want someone to speak back,
I’d do just as well to be addressing myself to a piece of furniture.” Bridget
shook her head in apparent disgust. “The fact is, the man has the disposition
of a saint—a fine trait for a man of the cloth but a source of some frustration
in a husband. Not that I’d change a thing about him,” she added, as if the love
in her eyes hadn’t already made that clear.

While Bridget poured boiling water over the tea leaves, Lila
considered what she’d said. The idea that her parents might not always have
agreed was novel but, thinking about it, she thought Bridget was probably
right. Her mother had been a firm advocate of ladylike behavior, but she had
certainly not been an opinionless cipher. There must have been times when she’d
disagreed with her husband. They’d simply kept such disagreements private.

It occurred to Lila that she’d retained a somewhat childlike view
of her parents. She’d been relatively young when they were killed in a carriage
accident. At nineteen, she’d not yet begun to view them through an adult’s
eyes. When they died, her perceptions of them had been frozen in place and she
was still thinking of them as that nineteen-year-old girl.

“Now that we’ve agreed that men can be provoking creatures, tell
me how you’re settling in,” Bridget said as she removed the porcelain strainer
from the teapot and set it on a plate.

Before Lila could respond, there was a brisk knock on the front
door. Bridget clicked her tongue in annoyance. “That will be Sara. She said
she’d be coming to get young William about this time. As if the boy couldn’t
walk home on his own. As protective as she is, you’d think William was next in
line for the throne of England, with kidnappers lurking behind every bush,
ready to jump out and snatch him away.”

“His father does own the Bank of Paris,” Lila pointed out in a dry
tone. “Perhaps she’s concerned that, as heir to the Symthe fortune, William is
at risk.” Bridget snorted with laughter as she circled the table. “That’s
probably it. The Smythe fortune.” She paused beside Lila, lowering her voice as
if afraid Sara might be able to hear her through the entryway and door that
separated them. “If gambling weren’t a sin, I’d bet you two solid bits that her
name is plain old Smith and not a single ‘y’ in sight.”

Lila chuckled as Bridget left the kitchen. She was fortunate to
have met Bridget. Her friendship had made everything much easier than it would
have been otherwise. Sniffing the air, she thought that maybe the time had come
to repay a bit of that friendship. When Bridget and Sara entered the room, Lila
was just setting the first loaf of bread from the oven on a thick towel she’d
placed on the table.

“They were starting to smell a little brown,” she said as she
pulled the second loaf from the big oven and set it down.

“I’d forgotten all about them!” Bridget exclaimed. “Thank you. Of
all the silly geese! How could I forget them when I’m standing not three feet
from the stove? Here, let me do that. You don’t want to spoil that pretty
dress.”

She hurried forward and took the folded towel Lila had been using
as a hot pad. “Since it seems I’ve already put you to work, perhaps you
wouldn’t mind getting out a cup for Sara and pouring us all some tea.”

“Perhaps we should repair to the parlor,” Sara suggested. Though
her tone was polite, there was no mistaking the distaste in her eyes as she
glanced around the kitchen.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather we stayed here. That way I can tend
to my baking.” Bridget set the last loaf pan on the table. “And it’s easier to
keep an ear out for the children,” she added, nodding toward the back of the
house where their voices could be heard. “Of course, here I am assuming you’ve
time for tea, Sara. Do you need to be taking William and rushing home?”

Lila wondered if she was the only one who heard the faintly
hopeful note in the question. But Sara’s sense of her own importance was too
great to allow her to entertain the idea that her company was not devoutly
desired.

“I can stay for a short while,” she allowed graciously. Taking a
lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule, she pulled a chair out from the
table and dusted off its seat before sitting down. “William has his piano
lesson this afternoon but we’ve a little time before that.”

“Is there someone in town who teaches piano?” Lila asked, thinking
Angel might enjoy lessons when she was a little older. While Bridget was
sliding new loaves into the oven, she got out a cup for Sara.

“I am teaching William,” Sara said. “Unfortunately, we do not have
anyone in Paris capable of teaching the finer arts. Not that a piano teacher
would, have much work here since I own the only piano in town. Franklin had it
brought up from Denver when I expressed concern that William was not getting a
well-rounded education.”

“How nice for William,” Lila said politely.

“I think it’s important for children to have contact with the
finer things in life, don’t you? Just because we’re living on the frontier is
no reason to forget that we are civilized people. And music is one of the
hallmarks of civilization, don’t you agree?”

“I’m quite fond of music.” Lila set Sara’s cup in front of her.
For one wistful moment, she allowed herself to consider how undignified the
other woman would look with a lap full of hot tea. “I’m sure William
appreciates the effort you’ve gone to on his behalf.”

“You know, it’s not strictly true, Sara, to say that you’ve the
only piano in town.” Bridget shut the oven door and turned, wiping her hands on
her apron. “There’s a piano in the Red Lady Saloon.”

There was a moment of dead silence. Sara could not have looked
more offended if she’d just discovered a dead mouse in her teacup. Lila glanced
at Bridget and then looked quickly away, afraid that she’d laugh out loud at
the look of innocence on her friend’s face.

“I certainly wouldn’t know what might be in such a place,” Sara
said tightly.

“I should think you might have heard it when you walked by,”
Bridget suggested as she sat down at the table.

“I make it a point to cross the street to avoid places of that
sort.”