The Heirloom Brides Collection (42 page)

Clara stared at her image in the round mirror hanging on the white plaster wall. Yes, perfect. Could that lovely, blushing woman—the one with stars in her eyes—truly be her? The tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, evidence that she was no longer a young girl, mattered not a bit. God had chosen her for Titus.

She nibbled her lip. “Maria, do you think I should wear the veil over my face instead?”

“Nä.” Maria cupped Clara’s cheeks and smiled. “No hiding today, dear Clara, not even behind a veil.”

Clara had no desire to hide. Not today, or any other day for the rest of her life. And why should she? She was loved unconditionally by God. Her father adored her, her new family-to-be had accepted her wholeheartedly, and Titus… She sighed, closing her eyes to envision his sweet face, sky-blue eyes, and wavy blond hair. Titus had pledged his life to her. She was no longer the girl who’d lost two beaus but the girl who’d gained the world.

“Hmm.” Maria pinched her chin the way Titus did when lost in thought. “You have the bouquet of cornflowers for your ‘something blue,’ your dress is the ‘something old,’ and the veil ‘something new.’ All we lack is ‘something borrowed.’ Unless you want your mother’s wedding dress to serve as the something borrowed as well.”

A giggle built in Clara’s throat and erupted on a breathy note.

Maria tipped her head, smiling although confusion puckered her brow. “What?”

Clara picked up the thick cluster of delicate blue cornflowers tied with a yellow ribbon and held it against her waist. “I’ll be meeting my ‘something borrowed’ at the front of the church in a few minutes.”

Maria’s confusion deepened.

Clara touched her arm. “My ‘something borrowed’ is the most important part of this wedding—it’s my groom.” Happy tears filled her eyes. “If you hadn’t loaned me your son, I’d still be holding myself away from everyone, shamed and lonely. Thank you for letting me borrow Titus. Even more than my ‘something borrowed,’ he’s my answer to prayer.”

Maria leaned forward and brushed a kiss on Clara’s cheek. “And you, my dear, are his.”

A light tap on the screen intruded. Papa peeked around its edge. “Clara Rose, your groom is waiting. Are you ready?”

Joy ignited in Clara’s breast. She dashed to him on silk-slipper-covered feet. “I’m ready, Papa.” She stepped confidently and eagerly into the life especially designed for her by the Master’s hands.

Mona Hodgson, Tracey Bateman, and Joanne Bischoff—thank you so much for the opportunity to work with you on this set. It has been a joy and pleasure.

Facebook friend Karen Beams—thank you for naming Rowdy!

Mom—thank you for letting me borrow some of your family names and your love for Minnesota.

My agent, Tamela—thank you for your support and encouragement at all times and in all ways.

Kaisyn and Kendall—thanks for giving Gramma giggle-breaks in the middle of writing this novella.

Finally, and most importantly, God—thank You for Your love even when we choose the wrong pathway and for Your patient guidance that brings us back on track. I couldn’t take two steps without You. May any praise or glory be reflected directly to You.

In 1966,
Kim Vogel Sawyer
told her kindergarten teacher that someday people would check out her book in libraries. That little-girl dream came true in 2006 with the release of
Waiting for Summer’s Return.
Since then, Kim has watched God expand her dream beyond her childhood imaginings. With over thirty titles on library shelves and more than a million copies of her books in print, she enjoys a full-time writing and speaking ministry. Empty-nesters, Kim and her retired military husband, Don, operate a bed-and-breakfast inn in small-town Kansas with the help of their four feline companions. When she isn’t writing, Kim stays active serving in her church’s women’s and music ministries, traveling with “The Hubs,” and spoiling her quiverful of grand-darlings. You can learn more about Kim’s writing at
www.KimVogelSawyer.com
.

Something Blue

Mona Hodgson

In loving memory of my granny Wilma Rose with gratitude for the cameo pendant watch she passed down to me

Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.
P
HILIPPIANS
3:13

Cripple Creek, Colorado
March 13, 1900

D
arla Taggart had no sooner stepped off the platform at the Midland Terminal Railroad Station than second thoughts set her heart to pounding. What had come over her that she believed returning to Cripple Creek was a favorable notion? Especially in the month of March.

Her past.

Adjusting her grip on the handle of her green floral satchel, Darla flexed her toes, then forced one laced-up bootie in front of the other to the edge of Bennett Avenue. She only needed to remain in town long enough to take care of unfinished business and to see if she had a future here.

Darla waited for a wagon and its team of mules to pass, then crossed the main road through town and stepped onto the brick walkway in front of a millinery shop. She’d left Cripple Creek in the middle of the rebuilding process that followed two devastating fires in ‘96, and she took a moment to look at how the city had changed. Rows of tidy brick buildings and cobblestone sidewalks showed the city’s beautification efforts. Empty flower baskets hung from electric streetlamps, anticipating the arrival of spring. Pulling her mantle collar up on her neck, Darla hoped her favorite season held new life for her as well.

A minimal amount of time would be required to walk the extra blocks to the First Congregational Church and the parsonage that harbored the secrets of her failings. But she couldn’t do anything about it right now. It was best she start with the boardinghouse and plan to entertain other endeavors when she was refreshed and rested.

At First National Bank, Darla started up Fourth Street and turned left onto Golden Avenue. Brick-lined flower beds full of budding irises framed the walkway in front of Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse, still a bold yellow with white trim. Some things hadn’t changed. As Darla took slow steps toward the expansive porch, she couldn’t help but hope some things had. She hadn’t exactly endeared herself to the woman who had behaved like a mother to the Sinclair sisters. A mother hen, actually. The image her imagination conjured made her giggle.

A tinny but lively orchestral piece poured out of the open window to the left of the door. Darla doubted she’d be heard over the music, but she reached for the brass knocker anyway. The porter would arrive soon with her trunk, and she was in desperate need of a bath and a clean ensemble. After nearly a week on one train and then another, she also craved rest.

Following her third knock, the song faded and the door swung open. Miss Hattie stood on the other side of the threshold. “I hope you haven’t been waiting—” Her blue-gray eyes widened with recognition. “Darla Taggart?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Darla’s words hung in the chilling air.

“What are you doing here, dear?” Miss Hattie tucked a gray curl behind her ear. “I mean to say—”

“I have a reservation for a room.”

“Here?”

“Yes, ma’am. I telephoned.”

“When?”

“Starting tonight.”

A nervous titter escaped Miss Hattie. “I meant, when did you telephone?”

“Oh, of course.” Darla rested her satchel on the porch railing and reached for the clasp. “Two or three weeks ago, I think it was. I wrote it down.” She’d tucked the note into her handbag. “I spoke to a man.”

“You spoke to my husband?”

“You’re married?”

“Yes. It was well after you left town. Thanksgiving Day in ‘98, to be exacting.”

Darla glanced at the golden band on Hattie’s ring finger. She’d left in the fall of ‘96. And now it seemed everyone was married but her.

At the sound of footfalls, Hattie glanced over her shoulder. A rather dapper gentleman wearing a gray, single-breasted coat and trousers appeared in the doorway, tapping his earlobes. “My ears are burning.”

Hattie wagged her finger at him. “That’s because Miss Taggart and I were talking about you.”

“All good things, I hope.” He smiled at Darla. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Miss Taggart, you say?”

Darla nodded in unison with Hattie.

“A Miss Taggart telephoned for a room. Are you that young lady?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“You didn’t write it in the book.” Hattie sounded like an unhappy schoolmarm.

“Oh dear.” He smoothed the blue cravat tucked into his vest. “She called on a morning I was sitting Vivian’s twins. I’m afraid this grampy wasn’t thinking clearly and forgot to record the reservation.” He shifted his attention to Darla. “My deep apologies for the mix-up, miss.”

“Apologies accepted.” Darla rubbed the tension knot forming at the base of her skull. “Do you have a room available?”

Hattie’s gaze darted to her husband. “Uh. Yes. We do.”

Darla’s shoulders sagged. “But you don’t have a room for me.”

The husband’s silvering eyebrows formed an arc above his blue eyes. “If we have a room available, why wouldn’t we have a room
for you
?”

Darla sighed. “Because of Kat Sinclair and her Dr. Cutshaw, is my way of thinking.”

The man straightened, his shoulders square. “Because of Kat? I don’t understand.”

It hardly seemed proper for him to use Mrs. Cutshaw’s given name. Terribly familiar, even for the husband of Kat’s former landlady.

Hattie tugged the sleeves straight on her purple floral shirtwaist. “Miss Taggart used to live in Cripple Creek. At the parsonage.”

“Ah, the former parson’s daughter?”

“Yes.” Hattie moistened her lips. “For a time, she and Kat were interested in the same man.”

An understatement where Darla was concerned.

The older woman patted her husband’s woolen-clad arm, then looked up at Darla. “Miss Taggart, I’d like you to meet Mr. Harlan Sinclair.”

Sinclair.
Darla’s mouth went dry. In only the time it took a hen to cackle, things had gone from bad to worse. Hattie had married Kat’s father. Pulling her satchel from the railing, Darla heaved a sigh. “I’ll make other arrangements for lodging.”

“That won’t be necessary, dear.” Hattie swatted the air. “That was then, and this is now. We believe in fresh starts, don’t we, Mister?”

“We do.” Mr. Sinclair’s smile didn’t make it to his eyes, but they held more curiosity than anything else.

After a quick nod, Hattie met Darla’s gaze. “Much has changed in the past three or four years.” She arched her eyebrows as if she’d meant her statement as a question.

“Yes, ma’am, it has. I have.”

“Good. Then it’s only water under the bridge, and I say we don’t tarry in it. No need to soak good stockings.” Hattie took a backward step and waved Darla inside.

Darla’s feet didn’t oblige. Apparently, second-guessing her decisions related to Cripple Creek was forever to be her path. She hadn’t come to cause trouble, but she couldn’t promise that her presence wouldn’t be troublesome, especially if she didn’t get to her diary before someone else did. These two seemed none the wiser. Maybe it hadn’t been discovered.

Darla knew why she’d chosen Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse—its proximity to the new hospital, as well as its location up on the Hill and its creature comforts. But could she feel comfortable here knowing Mr. Sinclair, Morgan Cutshaw’s father-in-law, lived under the same roof? Knowing that he knew she’d been a thorn in his daughter’s side, even if he didn’t know any of the embarrassing details? Or at least didn’t know them yet.

“Please, Miss Taggart”—Mr. Sinclair took the satchel from Darla—“do come in.”

It seemed too late to make other plans, so Darla set her concerns aside and followed Hattie inside. Oak wainscoting lined the entryway. Her gaze settled on a painting that featured a peaceful stretch of a river. That was what she needed to find. A place that held peace for her. She doubted Cripple Creek could ever be that place, but if she got what she came back for, maybe—

“I must say, Miss Taggart, as the father of four daughters, I’ve never known a woman to travel so light.” Thinly disguising a grin, Mr. Sinclair tipped his head toward Hattie. “Present company included.” Her landlady tsked at her husband, wagging her finger at him.

Darla smiled. Mr. Sinclair was a likable man and seemed well suited to Hattie. “Trust me, my father wouldn’t count me among any who travel light. I expect the porter to arrive at any moment with my trunk.”

“In the meantime, I’ll make us some tea.” Hattie stopped at the open doorway into the parlor. “We have lots of catching up to do, dear. I want to hear all about your time in Philadelphia. Oh, and your family… I want to hear about them, too.”

“Missus.” Mr. Sinclair paused, apparently waiting for Hattie’s undivided attention. “Perhaps we could allow Miss Taggart to see her room and give her a few moments to settle in before the interrogation?” He winked at his wife, then smiled at Darla. “I remember that long train ride. I couldn’t wait to get my legs under me and freshen up a bit.”