Two Brides Too Many (26 page)

Horse hooves slapped the slushy road, and the wheels on Hattie’s wagon groaned against the rocks. If it weren’t for the weight of Patrick’s things, she, Nell, and Rosita would have walked to church this Sunday morning and met Hattie there, but Hattie had insisted on picking them up at the cabin.

The Lord had given them a perfect day. Last night’s storm had
passed, and now pockets of white clouds floated in an azure blue sky. The sun warmed Kat’s back—a sweet sampling of summer. Her wool cape had remained on the hook inside the cabin, and she wore her crocheted shawl and bonnet this morning. Kat had endured her fill of bracing cold, and now the warmer weather gave her hope that this latest season in their lives would soon give way to a brighter one.

They’d spent their first night in a place Kat could call her own. She’d finished her application and writing sample for
Harper’s Bazar
, and she’d send them out in tomorrow’s mail. Rosita’s grandmother had been notified, and they expected Rosa Santos Lopez to arrive on the 11:00 a.m. train tomorrow. Everything seemed to be changing.

“It feels good to be going to church.” Nell’s smile lit her eyes, which rivaled the sky’s stunning blue.

Nodding, Kat took Nell’s hand in hers. She missed Ida and Viv, but having Nell here with her in this endeavor was a gift. And as long as she was counting gifts, she had to consider the opportunity to write for the prestigious magazine, although she didn’t want to think any more on the man who had brought it to her attention. Best to change the subject. She shifted on the seat to face Nell. “Do you think Judson will be at church this morning?”

“I was just wondering the same thing about Dr. Cutshaw.” Nell’s mouth turned up in a sly smile.

“Now that I think about it,” Kat said, “it’s probably still too soon for Judson to sit so long on a hard surface.”

Pink tinged Nell’s cheeks.

A chiming bell drew Kat’s attention to the white steeple atop a red brick building. Hattie pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse
and changing the rhythm of his hooves to a slow
clip-clop
. The First Congregational Church stood on a neatly manicured corner ahead of them. Men, women, and children poured out of wagons and carts and buggies, while others tied mules, burros, and horses to the hitching rail at the side of the building. Hattie parked off to the side of the road opposite the church.

As the sisters climbed out of the wagon, Nell tapped Kat’s shoulder. “There’s the answer to my question.”

Kat followed Nell’s gaze to the parking area at the church building, where Morgan stood beside his buggy. “He’s not alone.” Miss Darla Taggart stood beside Morgan, and they were deep in conversation.

“That woman definitely has her sights set on him.” Nell regarded Kat with a raised eyebrow, which didn’t help to dispel a startling twinge of jealousy.

“Dr. Cutshaw helped Miss Taggart and her father with a clinic for those wounded in the fire,” Kat said quietly.

“I don’t doubt his intentions.” Nell touched her arm gently.

And Kat didn’t doubt Darla’s either, but she couldn’t concern herself with that. She had no right to feel proprietary toward the man. Right now, she didn’t even like him much.

Nell lifted Rosita out of the wagon and twirled her twice, which brought on a round of giggles. Nell set her on the ground and looked at Kat, her chin lowered and an eyebrow raised. “He’s probably setting Miss Taggart straight as we speak.”

Kat stole another look at him to gauge his progress. Morgan saw her and waved, and Kat, caught off guard, returned his greeting. He gave her a bright summer day smile, and Darla Taggart scowled. It
didn’t matter. Kat had no interest in challenging Miss Taggart. If Morgan chose to be friends with her and to help the young woman with her humanitarian efforts, that was his business.

She had other business to tend to. As Kat glanced again at the wooden box, Hattie patted her cheek like a mother would. “You have no need to worry yourself about Miss Taggart. She’s a bee seeking honey, that one. She’ll move on.” Holding her hat on with one hand, she stood on her tiptoes and peered over the edge of the wagon at Patrick’s things.

“Hattie, what would I worry about? The doctor and I haven’t spoken a word to each other since his outburst Friday.”

“Dear, have you even seen each other since Friday?”

Kat shook her head. Hattie did make a good point, and now that she had seen him, Kat had no idea what she’d say to the infuriating man. His wave would indicate that he had forgotten about his frustration over her moving plans.

“Miss Hattie. Ladies.” The sound of the familiar baritone voice made them all turn. Dr. Morgan Cutshaw sauntered toward them, looking quite dapper in a brown suit and starched white shirt, but it was the smile that lit his grass green eyes that Kat found difficult to resist.

“Dr. Cutshaw.” Nell dipped her head in greeting.

“Good morning.” Morgan looked at each of them in turn. He smiled at Kat last, and his look lingered. She felt a flush rise into her cheeks. “The way you were studying the back of the wagon, I figured you might need a little help.”

“I’ve said it before, Doctor, but your timing is splendid.” Hattie gave Kat a squinty-eyed look, prompting her to speak next.

Kat straightened. “We’re fine. Thank you.”

“The three of us will go inside and find seats,” Nell said, glaring at Kat and motioning to Hattie, Rosita, and herself.

When they headed toward the church steps, Morgan looked over the edge of the wagon at Patrick’s belongings. His smile disappeared.

“Hattie said the church is collecting things for those in need. I brought Mr. Maloney’s things.” She cleared her throat. “They were in his cabin.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that. I don’t—”

“We moved into the cabin yesterday.” She raised her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. “And I don’t choose to discuss it any further.”

He removed his derby, a frown darkening his features like an afternoon storm. “Kat, I care what happens to you. That’s why I said what I did Friday.”

Kat didn’t answer, but she could see in his eyes that he was telling the truth and had strong feelings about her well-being.

“I had no right to be so adamant,” he continued. “You’re not a foolish woman. You didn’t make the decision lightly.”

“I didn’t.” She let her arms fall at her sides.

“I’m sorry for reacting the way I did.” Morgan touched his hand to her arm.

She lifted her chin a little higher. “Dr. Cutshaw, you were never asked to watch out for us…for me. I am quite cap—”

“Kat, I apologize for the sarcastic way in which I expressed my opinion,” Morgan interrupted, “but I won’t apologize for caring. And I know you are more than capable. I’m sorry if my words caused you to feel otherwise.”

Kat nodded, humbled by his tender honesty, and whispered, “I’m sorry too.”

“Apology accepted. Will you let me help you?” His smile had returned, and so had his dimple.

“Yes…thank you.” She gave him a slight smile.

Morgan lifted the crate out of the wagon as if it was as light as a hatbox, and turned toward the church. Inside the vestibule, he set the crate under a table by the door. As he did, the short, balding man Kat recognized from outside the café walked toward them with spectacles set low on a crooked nose.

“Welcome, Morgan. Ma’am.” After shaking Morgan’s hand, the man faced Kat and scooted his spectacles back up his nose. “I saw you in the carriage Thursday evening speaking with my Darla, but we didn’t meet. I’m Reverend Harold Taggart.”

Morgan removed his hat. “Pardon me, Reverend. This is Miss Kat Sinclair.”

“Welcome.” He extended his hand to her, and Kat shook it. “That was your sister I met, then, with Hattie Adams and the little girl.” He glanced at the box Morgan placed under the table.

“Those are things Miss Sinclair brought to contribute to those in need.”

Kat sighed, thankful Morgan had spared her the explanation.

“Much obliged, ma’am.” Reverend Taggart dipped his head. “After the service, I’ll make sure it all gets distributed.”

“I’d appreciate that, Reverend. Thank you.”

A piano played an introduction to “All the Way My Saviour Leads Me,” and then voices rang out from bass to soprano.

Morgan’s hand cradled her elbow and guided her into the sanctuary.
She scooted into the pew next to Nell, who had left enough space on the end for both Kat and Morgan.

A tiny woman with big sleeves held a hymnal and led the singing while Miss Taggart played the piano. Kat would rather hear Morgan play it, but hearing his baritone singing voice was joy enough right now.

All the way my Saviour leads me;
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my Guide?

Kat felt her shoulders relax. Her Lord was leading her in His tender mercy. He was her Guide, and she could trust Him completely. If only she could do so without wavering.

Despite the distractions of Morgan sitting beside her and Miss Taggart looking out at them from the piano, Kat thoroughly enjoyed the service. When the minister closed the service with a prayer and they all stepped out into the aisle, Hattie clutched Kat’s forearm. “Are you and Nell still planning on coming for lunch tomorrow?”

“You can count on it. There isn’t much in my kitchen yet.” They would join Hattie at the boardinghouse after they met Rosita’s grandmother at the depot.

“Very good. We’ll all need a little cheering up about then.” Hattie bent down and kissed Rosita’s cheek, and quickly wiped a falling tear from her own cheek. “I’ll miss you, little one.”

When Kat looked up again, Morgan’s eyes met her own. “So…may I pick you up at five o’clock today? As we talked about on Friday?”

She nodded.

“How do I get to your place? I know it’s on Pikes Peak off from Florissant, but which place?”

Kat laughed. “I suppose that is an important detail.”

After she gave him directions, he placed his hat back on his head, tipped the brim toward her, and said, “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” She found herself caught by surprise at how she hoped the afternoon hours would pass quickly.

Hattie and Morgan said their good-byes and left. The minister greeted Kat, Nell, and Rosita again, and they headed down the steps. As they reached the edge of the building, Darla Taggart rounded the corner, turning toward them with her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched tight.

“Miss Taggart, I hope you enjoyed your supper the other night,” Kat said.

“Miss Sinclair.” She fairly hissed the greeting, then glared down at Rosita, ignoring Nell. “She doesn’t belong here.”

Kat knew she was referring to Rosita’s Mexican heritage, and that didn’t improve her opinion of the young woman. “She belongs here as much as I do.”

“That’s my other point.” Darla Taggart pursed her lips in a childish pout.

Looking out at the parking area, Kat watched Hattie wave at Morgan as he drove away from her in his coupé. Apparently, whatever he’d said to Miss Taggart hadn’t set well.

“Did your Dr. Cutshaw…”

He wasn’t
her
Dr. Cutshaw, but Kat was beginning to like the sound of it.

“…tell you he’s married?”

“What?” She took a step back.

“I believe you heard me.” Darla crossed her arms over her chest.

The acidic woman couldn’t be talking about Morgan. “Dr. Cutshaw married?”

“Just as I suspected.” Darla lifted her nose and looked down at Kat. “The man didn’t bother to tell you about his wife.”

He wasn’t. He couldn’t be married. He was different. He wasn’t like Patrick Maloney.

“Don’t listen to her.” Nell clasped Kat’s hand and tugged at her.

Kat moistened her lips, but her mouth had dried out, and she couldn’t manage any answer.

Just as well, since she felt herself wavering again and had no idea what to think, let alone what to say.

T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

L
ewis P. Whibley pulled out the shiny pocket watch he’d won last night. Why were watches such a popular wager and so much easier to win in a poker game than coin? Tipping the watch rim away from the sun glaring in through the window, he studied its porcelain face. Half past ten. The ride from Victor to Cripple Creek on the Midland Terminal Railroad had already been longer than the eternity his mother was always talking about, and the train had only left the depot seven minutes earlier.

Wham!

Squaring his shoulders, he glared at the kid sitting across from him. If the boy kicked his faro table one more time, Lewis would own a new pair of miniature cowboy boots and the runt would have sore ankles to go with his tender feet. He had never gotten away with such bad manners if his folks were anywhere around. You spare the rod, you spoil the child. His daddy had quoted it like it was Scripture. Could be, for all Lewis knew, and it’d do this boy’s father well to learn it.

“Mister, if you don’t want my son kickin’ that thing, stick it in the
baggage car where it belongs.” The boy’s stocky father sounded and looked like a bulldog. He sat in a seat diagonal to Lewis and peered at him over the top of a newspaper.